When the teacher read to us out of a big book with many bookmarks in it, I sat rigid with attention in my little chair, my hands tightly clasped on the edge of my desk; and I painfully held my breath, to prevent sighs of disappointment escaping, as I saw the teacher skip the parts between bookmarks.

When the class read, and it came my turn, my voice shook and the book trembled in my hands.

I could not pronounce the name of George Washington without a pause.

Never had I prayed, never had I chanted the songs of David, never had I called upon the Most Holy, in such utter reverence and worship as I repeated the simple sentences of my child's story of the patriot.

I gazed with adoration at the portraits of George and Martha Washington, till I could see them with my eyes shut.