CHAPTER IV.
A Village School.
I should like to tell you something about the school
my father-in-law kept. It was held in a little dark
room at the back of the house, and there were a dozen
or so boys of about six to twelve, who came daily,
as soon as it was light, and studied till dusk. They
brought their own desks and stools, paid for their own
ink and pens and books, and gave a little to the teacher,
either in money or farm produce. They were mostly
farmers' boys, and in the busy season often had to
help at home; so their education proceeded slowly.
Their chief work was to learn by heart long strings of words, of the meaning of which they knew nothing. They began with the three-character classic, and went on to the works of Confucius and Mencius. But what they learnt was of little good; for they repeated the sentences like so many parrots, and with just as much understanding of the meaning.
Then there was writing—following a copy set by the teacher, with a brush pen and ink rubbed on a stone slab. That was all. No geography, or arithmetic, or history; it was dull indeed. Then, too, there was no discipline to speak of; for the teacher was often under the influence of opium, so the boys did as they liked.
The biggest boy in the school was called "Seven Pounds," because he weighed that when he was born.
