Strong in body, alert in mind, Clara Barton grew up, never free from shyness unless she was busily at work. “The only real fun is doing things,” she would say. She helped milk and churn, she learned to drive a nail straight, to deal with a situation efficiently, with quick decision. When she was eleven David was seriously injured by a fall from the roof of a new barn, and was for two years an invalid. At once Clara took charge, her love and sympathy expressed in untiring service. In a moment she was changed from a lively child, fond of outdoor sports, to a nurse calm and cheerful, full of resources, no matter how exacting the doctors’ orders were, no matter how much David was suffering. The sickroom was tidy and quiet. Clara was clear-headed, equal to every emergency, always at her post, nothing too hard for her to do well and promptly, if it would make her brother more comfortable. For those two years she had not even one half-holiday, so her apprenticeship was thoroughly served. “That child’s a born nurse,” the neighbors would say. And the doctors, agreeing, praised her tenderness and patience. Years later thousands of men echoed David’s words when he spoke of her loving care. But these two years made her more sensitive and self-conscious. Her shyness and unhappiness made her a real problem to her mother. “Give her some responsibility,” advised a wise family friend, “give her a school to teach. For others she will be fearless.” Far ahead of girls of her age in her studies, at fifteen Clara Barton put up her hair and lengthened her skirts and went to face her forty pupils. “It was one of the most awful moments of my life,” she described it long afterward. “I could not find my voice, my hand trembled so I was afraid to turn the page. But the end of that first day proved I could do it.” Her pluck and strength won the respect of the big rough boys, who tried her out on the playground and found she was as sturdy as they. That school was a great success, and for sixteen years she taught, winter and summer. In Bordentown, New Jersey, no school was possible, she heard, because of the lawless children who ran wild on the streets. The town officials were convinced it was hopeless, no use to make the experiment. Here was something to be done, it challenged her! “Give me three months, and I’ll teach for nothing,” she proposed, her eyes flashing with determination. In a tumbledown old building she began with six gamins, each of whom at the end of the day became an enthusiastic advertisement for the new teacher. At the close of the school year she had an assistant, six hundred children on the roll, and a fine new building was erected, the first public school in the state. For Clara Barton had a gift for teaching, plus a pioneer zeal.