Not one of those thirteen children had ever seen a sling; so, of course, the rest of the afternoon had to be devoted to making one out of an old shoe. The next morning they all had slings, and before I arrived one of the boys had become expert enough to kill a woodpecker. “God” had been nothing but an oath to them before; “Christ” was a little more familiar; but I resolved to stick to the Old Testament. The girls were interested in Judith, and understood her, too, but I was obliged to suppress the profanity that was hurled at Delilah when I told the story of Samson. That these tales produced a definite result was proved in the case of little Sammy Sullivan. After recess, on a certain Thursday, everyone came in but Sammy. When I asked where he was they all giggled, so I went outside to find him, carefully locking the door behind me in order to keep my scholars from departing in a body. I had not gone far when a something made me realize that Sammy was not out there. There was no brush, and fifty feet away I saw a slight motion among the trees. Stalking him from the back, I heard weird sounds, and there, stuck up against a yellow-pine tree, was a small boy’s cap, and standing off from it, with a sling, was the boy himself, taking careful aim at this imaginary adversary. Sammy was fighting over the battle of David and Goliath and fighting it like a male, but the flood of oaths that came rippling from his rosy lips would have shamed Satan himself. Learning is acquired in various ways—at times, better outside the schoolhouse than within. I tiptoed away, never letting him know that I had seen him, for I felt that Sammy was getting his education.