If I were to pick out the happiest time of my life, I should name the first few days of the summer vacation after the district school was out.  
In those few rare days all thoughts of restraint were thrown away. For months we had been compelled to get up at a certain time in the morning, do our tasks, and then go to school. Every hour of the day had been laid out with the precision of the clock, and each one had its work to do. Day after day, and week after week, the steady grind went on, until almost seemed our natural state. It was hard enough through the long fall and winter months and in the early spring; but when the warm days came on, and the sun rose high and hot and stayed in the heavens until late at night, when the grass had spread over all the fields and the leaves had covered all the 255twigs and until each tree was one big spot of green, when the birds sang on the branches right under the schoolhouse eaves, and the lazy bee flew droning in through the open door, then the schoolhouse prison was more than any boy could stand.
 
In the first few days of vacation our freedom was wholly unrestrained. We chased the squirrels and into the thickest portions of the woods; we roamed across the fields with the cattle and the sheep; we followed the ways of the , clear to where it joined the river far down below the covered bridge; we looked into every fishing-pool and swimming-hole, and laid our plans for the summer campaign of sports just coming on; we circled the edges of the pond, and lay down on our backs under the shade of the willow-trees and looked up at the chasing clouds, while we listened to the water falling on the wheel and the hum of the grinding mill. In short, we were free children once again, left to roam the fields and woods to suit our and wills.
 
But even our liberty grew in a little while, as all things will to the very young,—and, for that matter, to the very old, or to anyone who has the chance to gain freedom and monotony. So in a short time we thought we were ready to do some work. We wished to work; for this was new, and therefore not work but play.
 
When I told my father of my desire to work, he seemed much pleased, and took me to the mill. But I noticed that as we left the house he put a small thin book in the pocket of his coat. Later in the day, I found that this was a Latin grammar, and that he had really taken me to the mill to study Latin instead of work. I protested that I did not want to study Latin; that I wished to work; that school was out, and our vacation-time had come; and that I had studied quite enough until the fall term should begin. But my father insisted that I ought to study at least a portion of the day, and that I really should be making some progress in my Latin grammar. Of course the district school did not teach Latin; the teacher knew nothing about Latin, and, indeed, that study did not belong to district school.
 
I argued long with my father about the Latin, and begged and protested and cried; 257but it was all of no avail. I can see him now, as he gravely stood by the high white dusty desk in the little office of the mill. Inside the desk were the account-books that were supposed to record the small transactions of the mill; but these were rarely used. The was taken from the hopper, and that was all that was required. Even the small amount of book-keeping necessary for the mill, my father scarcely did,—for on the desk and inside were other books more important far to him than the ones which told only of the balancing of accounts.
 
My father stands beside the dusty desk with the Latin grammar in his hand, and tells me what great service it will be to me in future years if I learn the Latin tongue. And then he tells me how great my advantages are compared with his, and how much he could have done if only his father had been able to teach him Latin while he was yet a child. In vain I say that I do not want to be a scholar; that I never shall have any use for Latin; that it is spoken only by foreigners, anyhow, and they will never come to Farmington, and I shall never go to visit them. I ask my father if 258he has ever seen a Latin, much less talked with one; and when he tells me that the language has been dead for a thousand years, I feel still more certain that I am right. But he persists that I cannot be a scholar unless I master Latin.
 
It was of no avail to argue with my father; for fathers only argue through courtesy, and when the proper time comes round they cease the argument and say the thing must be done. And so, against my and my will, I climbed upon the high stool in the little office and opened the Latin grammar, while the old over my shoulder and taught me my first lesson.
 
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 each is ground fine between the great turning stones. All around, on every bag and 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 259through the flume, before it tumbles on the wheel. The hopper is filled with grain, the wheat is , the water keeps falling over the great wheel, the noise of the turning stones and moving pulleys fills the air with a constant whir............