My sister prepared a neat little writing-book for me, and told me
not to make a mark in it except when she was near to tell me what
to do. In my self-sufficient impatience to get out of "pothooks
and trammels" into real letters and words I disobeyed her
injunction, and disfigured the pages with numerous tell-tale
blots. Then I hid the book away under the garret eaves, and
refused to bring it to light again. I was not allowed to resume
my studies in penmanship for some months, in consequence. But
when I did learn to write, Emilie was my teacher, and she made me
take great pains with my p's and q's.
It is always a mistake to cram a juvenile mind. A precocious
child is certainly as far as possible from being an interesting
one. Children ought to be children, and nothing else. But I am
not sorry that I learned to read when so young, because there
were years of my childhood that came after, when I had very
little time for reading anything.
To learn hymns was not only a pastime, but a pleasure which it
would have been almost cruel to deprive me of.
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