"Now," he said, "you must learn to read and write, together. There are
twenty-six letters, and of each there is a big one and a little one.
The big ones are only used at the beginning of a sentence--that is
where, if you were talking, you would stop to take breath and begin
afresh--and also at the first letter of the names of people, and
places.
"The first letter is 'A'. There it is, in that horn book, you see. It
looks like two men, or two trees, leaning against each other for
support; with a line, which might be their hands, in the middle.
"Now, make a letter like that, on your board. The little 'a' is a small
circle with an upright, with a tail to it; you might fancy it a fish,
with its tail turned up.
"Now, write each of those, twelve times."
So he continued with the first six letters.
"That will be as much as you will remember, at first," he said. "Now we
will begin spelling with those letters, and you will see how they are
used. You see, it is a mixture of the sounds of the two: 'b a' makes
ba, and 'b e' be, 'c a' ca, 'da' da, 'd e' de, and so on. Now, we will
work it out."
Oswald was intelligent, and anxious to learn. He had been accustomed,
when riding, to notice every irregularity of ground, every rock and
bush that might serve as a guide, if lost in a fog, and he very quickly
took in the instruction given him; and, by the time the convent bell
rung to dinner, he had made a considerable progress with the variations
that could be formed with the six letters that he had learned; and the
friar expressed himself as highly satisfied with him.
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