p into anoting titces in a sunbeam; filling invisible ledgers ing sums. lemen, and ricead of affs.—I cannot say. And of course, ts t come to me later,  day, in my cs surface. But I see t it is dark, and kno it is silent—indeed, its substance is tance of ter or like wax.

    Sruggle, it o itself, and I will drown.

    I do not .

    I cease struggling at all, and surrender myself to its viscid, circular currents.

    t is t day, perion. But next day, at

    eigutors me  a desk and a stool for me close to ting finger on ool is  and t of my single and finally groience er all; and to be free of a desire to ty often.

    Still, t o o e, to se moves silently upon paper, and a green-so save my eyes.

    t s, of smouldering dust: a curious smell—I so e it!—th.

    My self is of t tedious kind, and consists cext, from antique volumes, into a leat is filled my job is to render it blank again ask, more tter I am made to copy: for tion, groo tear; and t of a smudge on a leaf of text, or tearing paper, is more ts of t I fear most as a cres of past lessons, imperfectly erased.

    I call t I am not taugo recite, softly and clearly; I am never taugo sing. I never learn t am scead in tcley, silk. I learn inks; tting of pens; tyles and sizes of founts: sans-serif, antique, Egyptian, pica, brevier, emerald, ruby, Pearl. . . t is a c. For te.

    But I learn quickly. turns. I am made small re-soled slippers, a goiff as t, but of velvet. I am alloo take my supper in