I don't count chickweed.

By the time the weeds is up, I know the word, I've larned fifteen this spell!" and he glanced proudly at his tattered spelling-book as he tugged away at a mammoth root of pusley, which stretched its ugly, sprawling length of fleshy arms on every side.
Hilda watched him for some moments, many new thoughts revolving in her head.

How many country boys were there who taught themselves in this way?
How many, among the clever girls at Mademoiselle Haut-ton's school, had this sort of ambition to learn, of pride in learning?
Had she, the best scholar in her class, had it?
She had always known her lessons, because they were easy for her to learn, because she had a quick eye and ear, and a good memory.

She could not help learning, Mademoiselle said.

But this,--this was something different! "What is your name ?" she asked, with a new interest.
"Bubble Chirk," replied the freckled boy, with one eye on his book, and the other measuring a tall spire of pigweed, towards which he stretched his hand.
"WHAT!" cried Hilda, in amazement.
"Bubble Chirk!" said the boy.