gently and wisely to teach and explain
and never thinks my questions silly, and Morris says he has been and is
his continual inspiration. And we are only two out of the many whom he
stimulates. He says we are his recreation. Dull scholars are his hard
work. Morris is never dull, but I can't do anything with geometry; he
outstripped me long ago. He teaches me and I do the best I can. He has
written on his slate, 'Will you play crambo?' Crambo was known in the
time of Addison, so you must know that it is a very distinguished game.
Just as I am about to say 'I will as soon as this page is finished,'
father yawns and looks up at the clock. Mother remarks: 'It is time
for worship, one of the children will read, father.' So while father goes
to the door to look out to see what kind of a night it is and predict
to-morrow and while mother closes her book with a lingering, loving sigh,
and Morris pushes his books away and opens the Bible, I'll finish my last
page. And, lo, it is finished and you are glad that stupidity and
dullness do sometime come to an abrupt end.

"FRIEND MARJORIE."

* * * * *

"_In the Schoolroom, Jan_. 23, 18--.

"MY BLESSED MOTHER:

"Your last note is in my breast pocket with all the other best things
from you. What would boys do without a breast pocket, I wonder. There is
a feeling of study in the very air, the algebra class are 'up' and doing
finely. The boy in my seat is writing a note to a girl just across from
us, and the next thing he will put it in a book and ask, with an
unconcerned face, 'Mr. Holmes, may I hand my arithmetic to somebody?' And
Mr. Holmes, having been a fifteen-year-old boy himself, will wink at any
previous knowledge of such connivings, and say 'Yes,' as innocently! It
isn't against the rules to do it, for Mr. Holmes, never, for a moment,
supposes such a rule a necessity. But I never do it. Because Marjorie
doesn't come to school. And a pencil is slow for all I want to say to
her. She is my talisman. I am a big, awkward fellow, and she is a zephyr
that is content to blow about me out of sheer good will to all human
kind. But, in school, I write notes to another girl, to my mother. And I
write them when I have nothing to say but that I am well and strong and
happy, content with the present, hopeful for the future, looking forward
to the day when you will see me captain of as fine a ship as ever sailed
the seas. And won't I bring you good things f