By the end of the third class, my words sputtered, thoughts wandered, legs ached and enthusiasm waned. Teaching high school students is hard work, requiring mental, physical and creative prowess. I learned that teaching is not for the faint-hearted or dull-witted. Teaching requires nimbleness of feet, mind and speech; a fondness for children; and thick skin.

It wouldn't hurt to have the encyclopedic knowledge of Carl Sagan and wry wit of Woody Allen.

It also helps if the students take notes, listen, do their homework, read, speak up and possess a passion to learn.

As legislators work to meet a June 1 deadline for revising the state's "Robin Hood" school finance system, the community should take inspiration from a different medieval character. The goal should be creating Merlin magic in the classroom.

How do we make the "have-not" students of North Side High School equal in academic excellence to the "have" students of Highland Park High School?

The answer: good teachers motivating good students to learn. We must believe that economically disadvantaged students possess the brain power to learn well.

Marva Collins of Chicago believed it so. She had taught in the City of Big Shoulders' schools for 14 years before leaving to create the Daniel Hale Williams Westside Preparatory School.

Collins had been frustrated by the public schools' attitude toward inner-city children. Her school took a handful of them, many who had been considered impossible to educate, and gave them wings.

Collins wrote slogans daily on the blackboard: "Character is what you know you are and not what others think you are." "He who eats my bread does my will." "Speak the speech trippingly on the tongue."

Jaime Escalante of Los Angeles challenged his students at Garfield High School to find the ganas, or desire, to master calculus and pass an Advanced Placement exam in the subject. He had them stand as he quizzed them on their understanding of the formulas. Escalante led his students to the proof that they were smart.

Collins and Escalante knew that the magic lay in the transfusion of a passion for learning and respect for children's ability to learn.

We can build palatial schools with shimmering labs in the bowels of the barrio, but if teachers fail to inspire learning, we've built castles of false hope. We've deceived the community and robbed the poor.

At career day at North Side, soldiers in fatigues, architects, code enforcers, day care owners, writers and other professionals stormed the classes. In the classroom to which I was assigned, Spanish teacher Juliet Wells introduced me as someone who "lucha con sus palabras," or fights with his words.

The students didn't appear impressed. But I was, as I observed the large cards of conjugated regular and irregular verbs along the tops of the walls, Spanish-language newspapers, a map of the world with Spanish-speaking countries highlighted, illustrations of historical events in Latino culture, photographs of Latino heroes. A walk into the classroom was a trip to Hispano-land where the Spanish-language virus was contagious.

More important, Wells moved gracefully among the students, encouraging them to ask questions, volunteer to read aloud and stay alert.

She is a Fort Worth native who attended the University of Texas at Austin and worked as a journalist for several years before changing careers. She seemed to possess the characteristics of a good teacher; she was enthusiastic, challenging, prepared, encouraging, accepting of cultural diversity, smart and fluent in Spanish.

I picked the closest student to stand and read aloud one of my columns. My upbringing in a family of big mouths makes it difficult to accept the silence of Latino lambs. As he read haltingly in heavily accented Spanish, I thought that I had made a mistake and possibly embarrassed the student. But he plugged away, stumbling, grappling with words until he got them trippingly out.

I asked for volunteers after that.

Wells thanked me for my presentation and was especially pleased that I had chosen the first student. "He never reads," she said.

"Oh," I said, glad that I hadn't apologized.

Perhaps I've unleashed a literary lion. Perchance, I inspired.