John saw that this troubled the good old Hermit, whom he loved better every day, and he tried to imitate his teacher’s gentle voice and manner and his soft tread.  The little tumbler was himself light as a feather, and graceful as the deer, his new-found sister.  He was quick to learn and naturally gentle, though his cruel life had made him careless and rough.  Soon he had made friends with all the Hermit’s pets, so that they knew and loved him almost as well as they did the master of this forest-school.

In his green doublet and hose, clumsily patched with pieces of gray serge from the Hermit’s own cloak, John rambled about the wild woods, looking like one of the fairy-folk of whom legends tell.  Often he went with the wise old man, who gave him lessons of the forest which he knew so well.  John learned to steal on tiptoe and surprise the ways of the wood-folk,—­the shy birds and the shyer little brothers who live in the moss and mould.  He grew wise in the lore of flowers and herbs, and could tell where each one grew and when it blossomed, and which ones, giving their life-blood for the sake of men, could cure disease and bring comfort to the ailing.  At night they watched the moon and the far-off, tiny stars.  These, too, became friends, many of them known to John by name.  He loved each one, for the Hermit said that they also were his brothers and sisters, like the birds and beasts and fishes; all being the children of that Father who had made this beautiful world to be the home where all should live together.

But the book of Nature was not all that John studied in these days.  He learned to read also the written language of men, and studied the wise and holy words which have kept goodness before men’s sight since knowledge began.  Until now John had never opened a book or held a pen.  But the Hermit taught him wisely and well, and soon he was in a fair way to become a scholar.

A busy life he led, what with his studies indoors and out and his duties about the hut,—­for the Hermit taught him to be deft in all tasks, however simple and homely.  John could cut up firewood or cook a porridge with as happy a face as he wore when he played with Brutus or sang the morning hymn of praise at the good Hermit’s side.

One thing his teacher would not have him forget.  He must practice his tumbling every day.  For the Hermit said, “No skill once learned will ever come amiss, my son.  You spent years and suffered hardly to gain this agility.  It seems to me not frivolous nor undignified, but a beautiful thing, to keep one’s body lithe and graceful even as are the free-natured animals.  Then practice, John; and some day even this skill may not come amiss.”

So the boy practiced daily in front of the cabin.  He danced and tumbled; he turned somersaults and stood on his head; he leaped with a pole and swung nimbly as a monkey from the limbs of the overhanging trees.  And the circle of animals watched him gravely, marveling no doubt at the strange antics of their brother; but, being now used to his voice and manner, neither annoyed nor shocked by anything which he might do.