In the spring of 1868, Uncle Babe Greer, papa's youngest brother, decided
he'd try teaching school.  He had a house of his own, a log cabin he had
built to live in, but his wife died before they moved into the house, about
a year earlier, and it had not been used.

His brothers, Papa and Uncle Gill, both had children who needed to be in
school and there were several neighbors' children, too, I think about 20 in
all, who would go to school, and there was no teacher, so he decided he
would do what he could.

I stayed at Grandma's and went with Uncle Babe and the school house was on
the east side of the Brazos, near Mr. Phelp's, Uncle Babe's father-in-law's
home.

I really don't remember much about this school, except some of my own
performance.  I am rather sure I was in a class by myself and had recited
the last lesson in the Third Reader and he turned me back to the beginning and
told me to learn the Punctuation marks.

I knew them by heart, as we used to say, so I laid my book on the bench and
sat down on it.  Made it as conspicuous as I possibly could that I was not
studying.

Presently Uncle Babe said "Sallie, you'd better study that lesson," after a
little while, waiting for me to get to work.  He said, "Sallie, if you
don't know that lesson, I'll whip you."

I thought I just knew that wasn't so, he was joking.  Uncle Babe wouldn't
whip me.  That was unthinkable.  We had lived in the same home most of my
life up to then.  He had stayed in our home and gone to school in Ft. Graham
or we had lived in Grandma's home, and he had never even threatened to whip me.

No, Uncle Babe wouldn't whip me.  That was unthinkable.

When he called me up to recite the lesson, I pretended I did not know a comma
from a period; just tangled my definitions as foolishly as I could.

He still gave me another chance, sent me back to my seat to learn my
lesson.

Still I did not open my book, just sat there and looked around and he
called me up again, this time really agravated [sic] with me.  When I played silly
again, he decided he had to whip me, even if he did not want to so he used
the switch and he was not over-tender about it.

Then he sent me back to my seat to learn that lesson: after I had my howl,
I really was shocked that he DID WHIP ME, and I think he was a little surprised
himself, he called me up again, and I hadn't ever opened the book during
the whole proceedure [sic], I spanged [?] away, and recited that lesson on
punctuation like one saying his A. B. Cs.  And Uncle Babe said "Well!  Why
didn't you do that at first?"

I said "You said you'd whip me, and I didn't think you would."

"Well!  I am glad I did," he said and I was rather glad to know he had the
grit to do as he said.  I had more respect for him after that: knew I could
depend on him to do what he said.

In the fall after my spring round with Uncle Babe, mama heard of a spinster,
a Miss Penix, who thought she would like to try being a governess, so she
employed Miss Penix.  She could no more get Effie to learn her letters than
I had and she could not teach me anything about arithmetic.

I learned the multiplication table very promptly after I got a book and
wanted to learn division, so I could use my slate and pencil and get on
into my book.

I think Miss Penix did not know much more about Division than the man who
applied for a certificate while I was still in school.  When Simon Lumpkin,
who was a member of the examining board, asked this man.  "What is
Division?"he said "It is the act of running one number through an other."  Simon
said, "Well!  What sort of a hole does it make?"

In those days, anyone who received Free School money, must have a
certificate in the county he taught in and lawyers and business men around the county
site usually served as examiners, assisted by a convenient teacher most of
the time.