I see now that I never had a chance against the enemy. They could point to what they called faults ... Johnnie didn't know his History, Lizzie did too much sketching, Peter wasn't deferential. I could point to nothing. I had abolished fear, I had made the school a place of joy, I had encouraged each child's natural bent ... and the village smiled scornfully and said: "We ken nae difference." I found myself worrying over the opinions of small men who are of no importance in the world of ideas; stupid fools led me into taking up an eternal position of defence. And I fumed inwardly, for I am not always a ready talker. But now I am able to smile at the men who baited me a few weeks ago. They don't count. In the great world beyond the hills there are people who take the large broad view of education, and some day education will really be a "leading forth" not a "putting in." * * * I met Macdonald to-night, and I asked him how things were doing. "I'm in the middle of prizes," he said wearily, "and if there's one thing I detest it's prizes." I began to think that I had misjudged Macdonald. "Excellent!" I cried, "we agree for once! What's your objection to prizes?" "They're such a confounded nuisance." "Granted," I said. "That's all I have against them. You never know how you are to distribute the things." "Why do you object to them?" he asked. I sat down on Wilkie's dyke and lit my pipe. "I object to them on principle, Macdonald. They're tips, that's what they are." "Tips?" "Yes. I give a porter tuppence for seeing my bicycle into the van; I give Mary Ritchie a book for beating the others at reading. I tip both." "I don't see it." "The porter shouldn't get a tip; his job is to look after luggage. Mary's job is to read to improve her mind." "But," said Macdonald, "life is full of rewards." "I know." Here Peter Mitchell strolled up. "We're talking about prizes," I explained. "Life is full of rewards of all kinds, but the only reward that matters is the joy in doing a thing well. If I write a poem or paint a picture I'm not writing or painting with one eye on royalties or the auction room. I sell my poem or picture in order to live ... in a decent civilisation I wouldn't require to sell it to live, but that's by the way. My point is that prizes are artificial rewards, just as strapping is an artificial punishment." "Goad!" said Peter Mitchell, "do ye mean to tell me that Aw wasna thinkin' o' the reward when I selt my powney last Saturday?" "Competition is a good thing," said Macdonald. "Look at running and sports and all that sort of thing." "I admit it," I said, "you like to beat your partner at golf. But my contention is that the prize at the end is vulgar; the joy is in being the best sprinter in the country. After all you don't glory in the fact that Simpson took seven at the tenth hole; your glory lies in the thought that you did it in three.