ly way. One boy of
fifteen hated writing essays, and when I began the five minute essay
game he sat and read a book. After a time I gave out the subject
"Mystery," and I saw him look up quickly with flashing eyes.

"Phew! What a ripping subject!" he cried, "I must have a shot at that!"

His shot was promising, and he continued to make shots, until some of
his essays were praised by the class. Then one day he came to me.

"I don't know anything about stops and things," he said, "and I want
you to tell me about them."

This is my ideal of education; no child ever learns a thing until he
wants to learn it. That lad picked up all he wanted to know about
stops in half-an-hour. He was interested in stops because he wanted to
write better essays. I need hardly say that he had listened to
hundreds of lessons on stops during his school career.

* * * * *

To-morrow I return to London, and to-night I went over to say good-bye
to Dauvit.

"Aye, dominie, and so ye're gaein' back to London!" he said.

"I don't want to leave this lazy life, Dauvit," I said, "but I must go
back and start my school."

"It'll cost ye some bawbees to gang to London," put in Jake Tosh.
"Penny three ha'pennies a mile noo-a-days I onderstand."

"A shullin' a mile for corps," remarked the undertaker.

Dauvit chuckled.

"So ye'll better no dee in London, dominie," he laughed.

"And that reminds me of Peter Wilson, him that passed into the Civil
Service and gaed to London. He came hame onexpectedly wan mornin' and
his father he says: 'What in a' the earth brocht ye hame in the month
o' February, Peter? Surely ye dinna hae a holiday the noo?'

"'No,' says Peter, 'but I had a cauld and I thocht I was maybe takkin'
pewmonia, and, weel father, corpses is a bob a mile on the railway.'"

"Dauvit," I said, "I don't care where I am buried."

"Is that so?" asked Jake in surprise. "What's become o' yer
patriotism, dominie? I canna onderstand a man no wanting to be buried
in his ain country. For my pairt I wudna like to be buried ony place
but the wee kirkyaird up the brae there."

Dauvit grunted.

"What does it matter, Jake, whaur ye're buried?"

"Goad," said Jake, "it matters a lot. The grund up in the kirkyaird is
the best grund in Scotland. It's a' sand, and they tell me that yer
corp will keep for years in that grund."

Dauvit laughed, but the others seemed to take Jake's preservation
argument seriousl