One of these seems to be designed for a college degree; another is an efficiency pocket; another a discipline pocket; another a pocket for methods; another for professional spirit; another for loyalty to all the folks who are in need of loyalty, and so on.  I really do not know all the labels.  When I was examined for a license to teach they counted my pockets, and, finding I had the requisite nineteen, they bestowed upon me the coveted document with something approaching eclat.  In my teaching I become so bewildered ransacking these pockets, trying to find something that will bear some resemblance to the label, that I come near forgetting the boys and girls.  But they are very nice and polite about it, and seem to feel sorry that I must look after all my pockets when I’d so much rather be teaching.

Out in the willow thicket I can go right on with my work without so much care or perplexity.  Why, I don’t need to do any talking out there, and so have time to do some thinking.  But here I do so much talking that neither I nor my pupils have any chance for thinking.  I know it is not the right way, but, somehow, I keep on doing it.  I think it must be a bad habit, but I don’t do it when I am grubbing willows.  I seem to get to the bottom of things out there without talking, and I can’t make out why I don’t do the same here in the school.  Out there I do things; in here I say things.  I do wonder if there is any forgiveness for a schoolmaster who uses so many words and gets such meagre results.

And then the words I use here are such ponderous things.  They are not the sort of human, flesh-and-blood words that I use when talking to neighbor John as we sit on top of the rail fence.  These all seem so like words in a book, as if I had rehearsed them in advance.  It may be just the town atmosphere, but, whatever it is, I do wish I could talk to these children about decimals in the same sort of words that I use when I am talking with John.  He seems to understand me, and I think they could.

Possibly it is just the tension of town life.  I know that I seem to get keyed up as soon as I come into the town.  There are so many things here, and many of them are so artificial that I seem unable to relax as I do out there where there are just frogs, and moon, and chickens, and cows.  When I am here I seem to have a sort of craze for things.  The shop-windows are full of things, and I seem to want all of them.  I know I have no use for them, and yet I get them.  My neighbor Brown bought a percolator, and within a week I had one.  I had gone on for years without a percolator, not even knowing about such a thing, but no sooner had Brown bought one than every sound I heard seemed to be inquiring:  “What is home without a percolator?”