at love of knowledge which has
remained with me ever since as a constant spur to study.

Her method of teaching may be of interest to some, who desire to train
children with the least pain, and the most enjoyment to the little ones
themselves. First, we never used a spelling-book--that torment of the
small child--nor an English grammar. But we wrote letters, telling of the
things we had seen in our walks, or told again some story we had read;
these childish compositions she would read over with us, correcting all
faults of spelling, of grammar, of style, of cadence; a clumsy sentence
would be read aloud, that we might hear how unmusical it sounded; an
error in observation or expression pointed out. Then, as the letters
recorded what we had seen the day before, the faculty of observation was
drawn out and trained. "Oh, dear! I have nothing to say!" would come from
a small child, hanging over a slate. "Did you not go out for a walk
yesterday?" Auntie would question. "Yes", would be sighed out; "but
there's nothing to say about it". "Nothing to say! And you walked in the
lanes for an hour and saw nothing, little No-eyes? You must use your eyes
better to-day." Then there was a very favorite "lesson", which proved an
excellent way of teaching spelling. We used to write out lists of all the
words we could think of, which sounded the same but were differently
spelt. Thus: "key, quay," "knight, night," and so on; and great was the
glory of the child who found the largest number. Our French lessons--as
the German later--included reading from the very first. On the day on
which we began German we began reading Schiller's "Wilhelm Tell," and the
verbs given to us to copy out were those that had occurred in the
reading. We learned much by heart, but always things that in themselves
were worthy to be learned. We were never given the dry questions and
answers which lazy teachers so much affect. We were taught history by one
reading aloud while the others worked--the boys as well as the girls
learning the use of the needle. "It's like a girl to sew," said a little
fellow, indignantly, one day. "It is like a baby to have to run after a
girl if you want a button sewn on," quoth Auntie. Geography was learned
by painting skeleton maps--an exercise much delighted in by small
fingers--and by putting together puzzle maps, in which countries in the
map of a continent, or counties in the map of a country, were always cut
out in their proper sha