Mr. Pony

My new Group 10 students, the highest level in the camp and arguably one of the most difficult to teach, has decided to call me Mr. Pony in an unexplainable act of utter weirdness. My Group 8, a class that I had dreaded for the entire two-week run of the last fortnight, is now filled with kids intent on learning. The draw in fevered silence for 15 minutes while I marvel at their strange, horror movie willingness to study. I put on my mean face when chastising children and surprise myself when they start to cry. The scallywags and devils from the first two weeks have gone, and in their place are meek, studious children. I warily watch these kids, waiting for the day of their revolt, when they throw books out the window and perform an unexpected coup d'etat, replacing monitors with the adolescents and English Class for Archery. They love some Archery.