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He was a little man with a little brush mustache and perpetually in a terrible temper. The boys used to drive him crazy.

What did he teach?

Science. Imagine teaching these little ruffians science. There was a closet in the back of his room with flasks in it, Florentine flasks--you know, flasks with long necks. And the favorite occupation in the school was to break the key on that lock, and we would all pee into these Florentine flasks. And every time he'd come into class, he'd find these flasks filled with the urine of nasty little boys. Then he would start lecturing and screaming. And he'd send pupils out of the room. He kept a little book. He'd say, “There are four green checks against your name. Go to your prefect,” and we would go marching triumphantly out of the room. He must have been crazy. But to this day when boys from P.S. 10, now men of 70 years old, meet, they imitate Mr. Birch and then we scream with laughter. I'll never forget Mr. Birch. I was one of his pet hates because I was always doing tricks in the school, always causing some kind of commotion.

Was there anybody at the school who--?

--started inspiring us?

Yes, exactly.