I dreamed I stood in a studio and watched two sculptors there.  The clay they used was a young child’s mind and they fashioned it with care.  One was a teacher – the tools she used were books and music and art.  One was a parent with a guiding hand and a gentle, loving heart.

Day after day the teacher toiled with a touch that was deft and sure.  While the parent labored by her side and polished it smooth o’er.  And when at last their task was done, they were proud of what they wrought, for the things they had molded into the child could not be sold or bought.

And each agreed they would have failed if they had worked along.  For behind the parent stood the school and behind the teacher, the home.