Can I ever forget the time I began to study Latin? Outside of the little door stands the hopper full of grain; a tiny stream is running down the centre, like the sands in an hourglass, and slowly and inevitably each kernel is ground fine between the great turning stones. All around, on every bag and bin and chute, on every piece of furniture and on the floor, lies the thick white dust that rises from the new-ground flour. Outside the windows I can see the water running down the mill-race and through the flume, before it tumbles on the wheel. The hopper is filled with grain, the wheat is tolled, the water keeps falling over the great wheel, the noise of the turning stones and moving pulleys fills the air with a constant whir. My father leaves the mill at its work, comes into the little office, shuts the door, and tells me that _mensa_ is the Latin word for “table.” This is more important to him than the need of rain, or the growing wheat, or the low water in the pond. Then he tells me how many different cases the Latin language had, and exactly how the Romans spoke the word for “table” in every case; and he bids me decline _mensa_ after him. Slowly and painfully I learn _mensa_, _mensæ_, _mensæ_, _mensam_, _mensa_, _mensa_, and after this I must learn the plural too. And so with the whirring of the mill is mingled my father’s voice, saying slowly over and over again, “_mensa_, _mensæ_, _mensæ_, _mensam_, _mensa_, _mensa_.” I stammer and stutter, and cry and mutter, and think, until I can scarcely distinguish between the whirring of the mill and the measured tones of my father’s voice repeating the various cases of the wondrous Latin word.