were many villages in France that did not even boast of a school, and in some, where there was a schoolmaster, either he knew nothing, or he had some other occupation and could give little attention to the children confided to his care.
This was the case with the master of our village school. I do not mean to say that he was ignorant, but during the month that I attended his school, he did not give us one single lesson. He had something else to do. By trade he was a shoe-maker, or rather, a clog maker, for no one bought shoes from him. He sat at his bench all day, shaving pieces of beech wood into clogs. So I learnt absolutely nothing at school, not even my alphabet.
"Is it difficult to read?" I asked, after we had walked some time in silence.
"Have you got a hard head?"
"I don't know, but I'd like to learn if you'll teach me."
"Well, we'll see about that. We've plenty of time ahead of us."
Time ahead of us! Why not commence at once? I did not know how difficult it was to learn to read. I thought that I just had to open a book and, almost at once, know what it contained.
The next day, as we were walking along, Vitalis stooped down and picked up a piece of wood covered with dust.
"See, this is the book from which you are going to learn to read," he said.
A book! A piece of wood! I looked at him to
