I knew, in my youth, a French village far up among the Cevennes Mountains, where the one cultivated man of the place, saddened by the unlovely lives of the peasants around him and by the bare walls of the village school, organized evening classes for the boys.  During these informal hours, he talked to them of literature and art and showed them his prints and paintings.  When the youths’ interest was aroused he lent them books, that they might read about the statues and buildings that had attracted their attention.  At first it appeared a hopeless task to arouse any interest among these peasants in subjects not bearing on their abject¹ lives.  To talk with boys of the ideal, when their poor bodies were in need of food and raiment, seemed superfluous²; but in time the charm worked, as it always will.  The beautiful appealed to their simple natures, elevating and refining them, and opening before their eager eyes perspectives of undreamed-of interest.  The self-imposed task became a delight as his pupils’ minds responded to his efforts.  Although death soon ended his useful life, the seed planted grew and bore fruit in many humble³ homes.