Our good teacher, however, who had taken pride in our progress, would not let us lose all that we had learned from him.

Books he could not lend us, because he had none himself; but he could, and he did, write us out a beautiful "copy" apiece, which we could repeat over and over, from time to time, and so keep our hands in.
I wonder that I have forgotten the graceful sentences of my "copy"; for I wrote them out just about countless times.

It was in the form of a letter, written on lovely pink paper (my sister's was blue), the lines taking the shape of semicircles across the page; and that without any guide lines showing.

The script, of course, was perfect--in the best manner of Isaiah the Scribe--and the sentiments therein expressed were entirely noble.

I was supposed to be a high-school pupil away on my vacation; and I was writing to my "Respected Parents," to assure them of my welfare, and to tell them how, in the midst of my pleasures, I still longed for my friends, and looked forward with eagerness to the renewal of my studies.