The Secret School
“She began with her reader, focusing on sections she had not read before. She studied grammar and tried to memorize passages, working in particular on "A Psalm of Life," a poem by Longfellow. In the morning she parsed sentences in her head as she milked Bluebell. At the breakfast table she did math problems, her eyes glued to her textbook.
Though her father frowned at her, he said nothing.
As she and Felix drove to school she recited the Longfellow poem: "Tell me not in mournful numbers—Brake,... clutch!
Life is but—Not so hard!—an empty dream— For the soul is dead that slumbers—Brake!
And things are not—Brake, clutch!—what they seemLife is real!—Brake!—Life is earnest!
And the grave—Clutch!—is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest—Brake!
Was not—Brake! Clutch!—spoken of the soul.
"We're here!" In school, right after the morning exercises, Ida stood before the class.
"Anyone know where Herbert is?" "Working, probably," Charley said.
"I need to know," Ida said, "if our school is still secret.MoreLess
Though her father frowned at her, he said nothing.
As she and Felix drove to school she recited the Longfellow poem: "Tell me not in mournful numbers—Brake,... clutch!
Life is but—Not so hard!—an empty dream— For the soul is dead that slumbers—Brake!
And things are not—Brake, clutch!—what they seemLife is real!—Brake!—Life is earnest!
And the grave—Clutch!—is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest—Brake!
Was not—Brake! Clutch!—spoken of the soul.
"We're here!" In school, right after the morning exercises, Ida stood before the class.
"Anyone know where Herbert is?" "Working, probably," Charley said.
"I need to know," Ida said, "if our school is still secret.MoreLess
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