there is nothing else left for her to teach, she teaches us manners. She
looks us over, and holds up a warning finger smilingly. She is so sweet
and gentle.

I don't wonder that you think it extraordinary that all these fine
teachers, who are the best in Harvard College, should teach us; but the
reason is, that the Agassiz's have built a new house and find it difficult
to pay for it, so their friends have promised to help them to start this
school, and by lending their names they have put it on its legs, so to
speak.

The other day I was awfully mortified. Mr. Longfellow, who teaches us
literature, explained all about rhythm, measures, and the feet used in
poetry. The idea of poetry having feet seemed so ridiculous that I thought
out a beautiful joke, which I expected would amuse the school immensely;
so when he said to me in the lesson, "Miss Greenough, can you tell me what
blank verse is?" I answered promptly and boldly, "Blank verse is like a
blank-book; there is nothing in it, not even feet," and looked around for
admiration, but only saw disapproval written everywhere, and Mr.
Longfellow, looking very grave, passed on to the next girl. I never felt
so ashamed in my life.

Mr. Longfellow, on passing our house, told aunty that he was coming in the
afternoon, to speak to me; aunty was worried and so was I, but when he
came I happened to be singing Schubert's "Dein ist mein Herz," one of
aunty's songs, and he said, "Go on. Please don't stop." When I had
finished he said:

"I came to scold you for your flippancy this morning, but you have only to
sing to take the words out of my mouth, and to be forgiven."