y are not the kind that write). In English class this
afternoon we had an unexpected written lesson. This was it:

I asked no other thing,
No other was denied.
I offered Being for it;
The mighty merchant smiled.

Brazil? He twirled a button
Without a glance my way:
But, madam, is there nothing else
That we can show today?

That is a poem. I don't know who wrote it or what it means. It was
simply printed out on the blackboard when we arrived and we were
ordered to comment upon it. When I read the first verse I thought I
had an idea--The Mighty Merchant was a divinity who distributes
blessings in return for virtuous deeds--but when I got to the second
verse and found him twirling a button, it seemed a blasphemous
supposition, and I hastily changed my mind. The rest of the class was
in the same predicament; and there we sat for three-quarters of an hour
with blank paper and equally blank minds. Getting an education is an
awfully wearing process!

But this didn't end the day. There's worse to come.

It rained so we couldn't play golf, but had to go to gymnasium instead.
The girl next to me banged my elbow with an Indian club. I got home to
find that the box with my new blue spring dress had come, and the skirt
was so tight that I couldn't sit down. Friday is sweeping day, and the
maid had mixed all the papers on my desk. We had tombstone for dessert
(milk and gelatin flavoured with vanilla). We were kept in chapel
twenty minutes later than usual to listen to a speech about womanly
women. And then--just as I was settling down with a sigh of
well-earned relief to The Portrait of a Lady, a girl named Ackerly, a
dough-faced, deadly, unintermittently stupid girl, who sits next to me
in Latin because her name begins with A (I wish Mrs. Lippett had named
me Zabriski), came to ask if Monday's lesson commenced at paragraph 69
or 70, and stayed ONE HOUR. She has just gone.

Did you ever hear of such a discouraging series of events? It isn't
the big troubles in life that require character. Anybody can rise to a
crisis and face a crushing tragedy with courage, but to meet the petty
hazards of the day with a laugh--I really think that requires SPIRIT.

It's the kind of character that I am going to develop. I am going to
pretend that all life is just a game which I must play as skilfully and