“I went to the school-house the first evening,” she said, “and nobody came. I went the second and there was nobody there. I went the third, fourth and fifth and still no pupils. I said, ‘I’m going to be like Bruce and the Spider, I’m going to try seven times,’ and on the seventh night when I got to the school-house I was greeted by three pupils. Before the term closed I had enrolled sixty-five in my moonlight school and taught twenty-three illiterates to read and write.” This, like all the stories, was modestly told. No mention was made of the day by day visits to the homes of illiterates, the long walks, the hours on horseback, the earnest persuasion, the chill of disappointment when waiting at the school-house alone. The Scotch determination was revealed in the words, “I said I’m going to be like Bruce and the Spider, I’m going to try seven times.” The twinkle of humor in her eye was at the recollection, no doubt, of the schemes and designs by which she had outwitted those illiterates and brought them into the school. One youthful teacher was inclined to apologize for the few she had enrolled and said, “I didn’t have as large a school as the others--just four--but they were in earnest, and I did my best with them, and told them I would teach as long as one of them would come,” and then she added with an evident thrill of pride, “but I taught a preacher to read and write, and that was something, wasn’t it?” There was no lack of interest or enthusiasm on the part of the volunteer teachers or their pupils, but there was a pitiful lack of suitable text-books and school material for adults, which was voiced many times during the institute as chief of their handicaps. The little newspaper with its reading lessons and drills, a simple copy book, arithmetic taught from the day-school text, these, supplemented by whatever knowledge the teacher could impart or could draw from the community, constituted our supply.