Passing Breezes

In a way, I hope my classroom is a “breezy” place this year. It’s a stretch, but I hope the students leave the room each day feeling a little refreshed, a little enlivened, the way they might feel if some short-lived breezes had just blown past them on a stuffy day. I must admit that it’s hard to imagine them feeling that way after spending 48 minutes making their way through a multifaceted and perhaps exasperating English lesson, but don’t the best breezes sometimes blow just when we’re working the hardest, and doesn’t a breeze often feel the best just after some strenuous labor? I thought of this today after noticing some tall grass by the interstate bending in the breezes of passing cars. The grass, you might say, “felt” the gusts going by – was influenced by them – and perhaps something similar might happen in 9th grade English. Some of the words we say in class to each other, and even the thoughts we think, might, unbeknown to us, be like evanescent winds in our lives, occasionally shaking us or our classmates like small pick-me-ups in a bustling school day. Perhaps, if a student occasionally leaves my classroom with a smile, it might be the smile of someone who’s just been silently freshened.

"The Deerslayer"

Oil painting by Stephen Magsig

In Chapter 17, Chingachook rescues Hist from the Huron camp, but Deerslayer (now called Hawkeye by the Hurons) is captured. One of Hurons, Rivenoak, tries to get Deerslayer to betray his friends, but, in a dignified and long explanation, her replies that it's impossible for him to treat friends that way. I was thinking about irony as I read this chapter (actually the book is filled with ironies) -- especially the irony of a so-called "savage" acting with greater dignity and respectfulness than many a supposedly "civilized" white person. Hetty, too, appears in this chapter -- ironically, a mentally handicapped person who has more wisdom and good sense than most of the "non-handicapped" characters.

Summer's heat has returned. After a cheerfully chilly morning, this afternoon has warmed up to close to 90. In the coolness of the morning, I enjoyed splitting wood for about 30 minutes, and then retired to the luxurious shade of the birch trees for some writing and reading. Now, at 4:00, it's hard to slip away from the heat of almost-September.

Something Reassuring

Listening to the filter bubbling away in my grandson’s aquarium this morning was a soothing experience, sort of like coasting on sounds, like being lulled along while the rest of the world dashes after something or other – and it made me more determined than ever to provide a similar sort of reassuring atmosphere in the background of our earnest work in English class this year. I don’t have an aquarium in the classroom, but perhaps the overall serenity that I try to maintain with my students can be a kindly setting for our minds and hearts as we study stories and poems. My students and I always try to avoid raised voices, sudden movements, and eruptions of any kind – sort of like strong but unruffled rivers – and maybe that will make it easier, this year, for all of us to be as constantly put at ease as I was this morning, listening to the melodies of Noah’s small filter in the next room.

Old Logs and Teenagers

Yesterday, working in the woods, I rolled over what looked like an entirely lifeless log, only to discover swarms of minuscule creatures crawling every which way, and it reminded me of my sometimes lifeless-looking classroom. Truly, a visitor to my room at a given time might see what appears to be unresponsive and even comatose teenagers sitting around a table, close on the borders of daydreams and slumber. I assume this happens in most teachers’ classes, but I know it does in mine – the occasional silent descent of tediousness and lassitude. If my classroom were a log in the woods, a casual observer might assume that all life had long ago left it. However, it’s good for me to remember the seemingly lifeless log spilling over with secret energies yesterday, because my students, even at their most sluggish, are part of the everlasting activity of the universe and are constantly engaged in mental and emotional pursuits. True, they are often not the pursuits I would wish for them to undertake during English class, but they are definitely pursuits -- the ceaseless quests that all of our minds and hearts engage in all of the time. My job, it seems to me, is not to “activate the thinking” of my students (to use a common pedagogical phrase), but perhaps to simply redirect it. The kids are constantly thinking and feeling, even under the lulling umbrella of sleepiness, and my only hope is to steer their thoughts and feelings in fresh directions. There are great comings and goings happening inside them while we’re in class; hopefully, I won’t pass mindlessly by and miss them.

"The Deerslayer"

oil by Takeyce Walter

Chapter 16 was an exciting one, filled with the adventures of the rescue of Chingachcook's betrothed from the camp of the Hurons. I especially enjoyed this description of Deerslayer's love of the forest, which again portrays him as a sensitive and spiritually minded person: 

    "We have written much, but in vain, concerning this extraordinary being, if the reader requires now to be told, that, untutored as he was in the learning of the world, and simple as he ever showed himself to be in all matters touching the subtleties of conventional taste, he was a man of strong, native, poetical feeling. He loved the woods for their freshness, their sublime solitudes, their vastness, and the impress that they everywhere bore of the divine hand of their creator. He seldom moved through them, without pausing to dwell on some peculiar beauty that gave him pleasure, though seldom attempting to investigate the causes; and never did a day pass without his communing in spirit, and this, too, without the aid of forms or language, with the infinite source of all he saw, felt, and beheld."

"The Deerslayer"

In Chapter 15, Cooper clearly and dramatically describes Hutter, Hurry, and Chingachook going off in search of Mingo scalps, and also portrays a touching scene in which Judith tells Deerslayer (now sometimes called Hawkeye) that she longs to live in a settlement, and Deerslayer responds by eloquently describing his love for the open forest. There's much fine imagery here, as well as many graceful sentences.


Painting by Tim Gagnon
http://gagnonstudio.blogspot.com

Today Jaimie and I helped Luke move into his new townhouse in Worcester. It was a difficult day for Luke for many reasons, but having us there with him was a help, I think. Jaimie, especially, was a strong and loving brother and friend, showing both leadership and compassion throughout the day. Luke has a beautiful place to live now as he starts on a fresh adventure in his life.

I had a wonderful time with Jaimie, Noah, and Ava at the Brooklyn Agricultural Fair. We saw cows swaggering around with their young caretakers, rows of soft bunnies, chickens and roosters of amazing colors, and enjoyed a fine lunch under a tent, where we chatted with an elderly couple from the area. The old gentleman told us of milking the family cow before breakfast, and having his youngest daughter wait for the warm milk for her morning cereal.

Great Branches

I love to consider how many ideas unfold during one of my English classes, and I often compare the process to the unfolding of the seeds of trees. In a 48-minute class period, it’s possible that something like 45,000 ideas come to life in my classroom (assuming a new idea every moment by each of us), and each of those ideas, no matter how we might judge their usefulness, is a seed that instantly starts to sprout. Surely we don’t notice the sprouting, or have even the faintest sense that the ideas are beginning to grow, but grow they do, each of them in their own way, speedily and impressively or slowly and secretively. No idea dies away and disappears forever; like seeds, they stay in minds (ours or those we’ve shared them with) and slowly but surely start to send out shoots. It’s wonderful to think of this, especially when I seem to be teaching a tedious and utterly undistinguished lesson. I carry on as best I can, remembering that, no matter how poorly I’m performing as a teacher, ideas are dropping around me by the hundreds – dropping, staying, and waiting (perhaps for years) to start some roots. Some of those ideas, I assure myself, are constructive and useful, and will eventually grow and give out great branches. It’s very possible – and I’m quite serious – that ideas planted in my modest English classes are now, years later, standing in some former students’ lives like stalwart trees to lean on and take shelter under. It would be nice if I could convince myself that all these fully grown ideas were originally sown by me, but the truth is they might have been sown by a song the student was thinking of during class, or a passing observation by a classmate, or even by a bird coasting past the classroom while we discussed a story. After all these years, it’s doesn’t matter to me who plants the ideas, just as long as they’re planted – and it always comforts me to realize that they surely are, each day, by the thousands.

Today more sunshine slowly spread across the yard, until now, at 6:00 pm, the sky is clear and a bright western sun is bringing the day to a close. It's been a good one -- some happy times with my grandchildren, some inspiring reading, a little slow and patient writing, and more fun with the kids. I am a very fortunate man.

"Barn at Sunset", pastel by Nita Leger Casey, 

http://gingerbreadartstudio.blogspot.com/

A Good, Last-minute Reminder

I find it weird (and wonderful, I guess) that, after more than four decades of teaching, and on the eve of starting another school year, a single book can create a small storm in my mind about what makes a good teacher. I’m talking about Teach Like a Champion by Doug Lemov, which I’ve been immersed in this afternoon and which, in just a few hours, has gently shaken up both my deep-seated and systematized teaching theories and my carefully planned curriculum for the coming year. I feel sort of like the captain of a ship who wonders, a few days before embarking on an expedition, if he needs to significantly refurbish his boat. I’m sure I’m exaggerating a bit, but the truth is, this book has caused me to reconsider some of my beliefs about teaching. I’m not going to toss out my teaching style or curriculum in these last few days before school starts, but I am going to consider cutting back on the various trifles and trumpery I sometimes employ and simply stay focused on teaching a straightforward and solid lesson each day. Lemov reminds me that being a champion teacher doesn’t depend on how many “exciting” gimmicks I use or how much “fun” the students have, but only on how much the students learn and how good they feel about their learning. It’s a message I might have missed all year were it not for this rousing, call-to-arms book that was brought in the mail yesterday.

"The Deerslayer"

Chingachook and Judith Hutter on the Castle

In Chapter 15, which I read on this first slightly sunny day after days of rain, Deerslayer works out a negotiation with the Mingos for the release of Hutter and Harry. The dialogue was excellent, I thought, and once again the characters seemed very believable.

Here is a favorite quote from the chapter. Deerslayer is speaking to Judith Hutter:

"I don't know whether a white man ought to be ashamed, or not, to own he can't read, but such is my case, Judith. You are skilful, I find, in all such matters, while I have only studied the hand of God as it is seen in the hills and the valleys, the mountain-tops, the streams, the forests and the springs. Much l'arning may be got in this way, as well as out of books; and, yet, I sometimes think it is a white man's gift to read! When I hear from the mouths of the Moravians the words of which Hetty speaks, they raise a longing in my mind, and I then think I will know how to read 'em myself; but the game in summer, and the traditions, and lessons in war, and other matters, have always kept me behind hand."

Yesterday a slight bit of sunshine showed itself after almost four days of steady clouds and rain. I think millions of people in this part of the world were smiling with relief and happiness. Actually, though, I sort of enjoyed the gray and wet days. They brought a sense of slowing down and peacefulness and staying indoors and settling my life down a bit.

Oil painting by Tom Brown http://tombrownfineart.blogspot.com/

Bringing Down a Boundary

In my teaching this year, I’m hoping to eliminate at least one troublesome boundary. In any classroom, of course, there must be the usual beneficial boundaries between adult and child, as well as the requisite boundaries between proper and improper behavior, but I’m hoping to do away with the make-believe boundary between the people in the classroom – the imaginary fence my students and I seem to see between each one of us. Jimmy’s over here, and he feels separated from Julie over there, and they both see boundaries between each of them and all the others (including me) in the classroom. It’s as though each of us believes we’re on our own personal island, separated by concealed barriers from everyone else. This year I want to help us better understand that, when you’re doing the cheerful work of sharing thoughts and feelings (which is what teaching English is basically all about), there are simply no boundaries. Jimmy’s idea, once he shares it in class, crosses all pretend boundary lines and becomes part of all of us. His idea is now our idea, which means that, in a strange and wonderful sense, his life is now our life. Even unspoken thoughts know no boundaries, as Julie thinks about Tom’s idea and thus, in a small way, becomes part of Tom’s life, and Tom wonders why Annie doesn’t like the poem they’re discussing, and therefore finds a part of Annie inside him. There’s entirely too strong a feeling of isolation in the world today, and I don’t intend to add to it in English class. When people come together to read and write with truthfulness, the false boundaries, of necessity, break down, and the thinkers and speakers become one. Trouble is, the kids usually don’t realize they’re in such a wide-open, boundary-less place in English class, but I hope to change that this year.

"The Deerslayer"

I continue to be impressed with Cooper's ability to create very interesting characters. Hetty Hutter is quite fascinating to me -- full of suprising thoughts and statements. In this chapter, she makes some almost Buddhist-like remarks, and what she says sounds oompletely real and true. Cooper also creates interesting but believable twists in the plot, like Hetty's returning to the Castle with a young Iroquois.

Unfoldment

A dictionary doesn’t give much help in understanding what it means to say that something unfolds, but I’m sure I will see one indisputable meaning of the word each day in English class this year. As has happened so often in the past, most of the students will surely come to my classroom, more often than not, with minds folded up and shut away somewhere – thoughts and dreams and wonderings and hunches all tucked together and out of sight. It’s as if they don’t trust school to be a place where their most prized thoughts will be appreciated, so they cuddle them close and carry on as dutiful students without them. They sit in my room and smile and make insightful statements, but the real treasure of their thinking and feeling lives is folded away inside them. Luckily, though, there’s something about English class – not the perfectly ordinary teacher, for heaven’s sake, but simply the material at hand -- that always brings about some slow but sure unfoldment. Is there a classic short story that doesn’t have at least one sentence that will unroll some portion of a student’s heart? Will a carefully selected poem not always prompt at least a little straightening out of the tangles in a teenager’s thoughts? Can kids write paragraphs about a powerful feeling they have and not sense some small unfurling inside? I’ll be watching all year for this unfoldment – this almost irresistible tendency for feelings and thoughts to open out when wholehearted words are written or read.

"The Deerslayer"

On my Kindle, I stopped reading at location 3177, just after a long chapter in which Cooper carefully described the opening and searching of Hutter's old chest. I found it interesting that the author took so much time to describe this relatively unexciting event -- and he did a fine job of it. I've always thought that one sign of a good writer is the ability to make the most commonplace events and scenes seem extraordinary -- and Cooper did that here.   

"The Deerslayer"

I just finished Chapter 12, and am very impressed with the writing style of this chapter. Cooper is not always a great writer, but in this chapter his writing ranks very high on my list. It's clear, direct, and also very smooth and easy to enjoy. I also liked his continued references to Deerslayer's utter honesty. It's beginning to make him, perhaps, a very memorable character for me. His sincere and simple praise of Judith when she was wearing the dress from her father's trunk was impressive, indeed.

Scattered Beauty

Walking in the disheveled late-summer woods yesterday was a good way to remind myself at the start of the school year that some of the best writing and reading – and teaching -- occasionally has a scattered look to it, a sense of messy loveliness, a feeling of things falling apart but doing it quite necessarily and marvelously. As hard as I looked, I could see no orderliness in the woods – no perfect patterns, no unblemished designs – and yet all seemed utterly perfect, just as student essays sometimes show a strange kind of muddled elegance. The jumbled rightness among the sticks, leaves, vines, stones, and trees in the woods also reminded me of the peculiarly enjoyable disorder I occasionally see in my students’ interpretations of literature – their ideas that seem to make no scholarly sense and yet shine with a sincere and useful light. It started me thinking about some modifications I might make in my overly attentive approach to tidiness and order in my teaching. I try to always arrange my lessons with as much precision as possible, and will probably continue to do so, but I realized yesterday that I also need to allow for some inspired “scattering” every so often. The universe, it seems, works that way, dispersing its wonders with wonderful impulsiveness and caprice, and maybe I must learn to let go a little and occasionally allow English class to just do what it wants to do. There may be messiness and even the beginnings of mayhem, but, like the cluttered but beautiful woods yesterday, there might also be something similar to splendor.

Trusting the Universe

I wait thy breath, Great Parent, that my strain

May modulate with murmurs of the air,

And motions of the forests and the sea,

And voice of living beings, and woven hymns

Of night and day, and the deep heart of man.

-- Shelley, in “Alastor: Or, the Spirit of Solitude”

I hope this doesn’t sound pretentious or thoroughly starry-eyed, but this year I’m going to try to remember that my “strain”– my daily words to my students – can do what Shelley describes in the above passage. I hope I can keep in mind that my words come not so much from a little mind inside my skull, but from the infinite numbers of ideas, words, events, and scenes that have nurtured that mind over the course of my lifetime. Even when alone, I’ve never lived truly alone in this world, but always surrounded and refreshed by the grand universe itself, and the words I say to

my students simply spring from that universe in all its immensity and mystery. Shelley says “Great Parent”, by which he may mean what some people call God, but for me it’s simply the cosmos that extends far and forevermore and makes my worries about what I’m going to say to my students seem very small and silly in comparison. The universe has given me limitless gifts for years and years, and it is these gifts that, in turn, give the gifts of my words to the students. I needn’t worry what to say in class any more than raindrops need to worry how to fall. I’ll continue to plan my lessons with great care, but I must then trust that my words will speak with the genuineness and strength of the universe that formed them.

THE SHOUTING OF LARGE FONTS

When I’m reading on my Kindle, I sometimes like to use the large -- even extremely large – font, and yesterday it occurred to me that it might be helpful to do something similar with my students now and then. With the big font size, the words sort of wake me up as I read, as if they’re strongly standing on the page and shouting, “We are special! Listen up!” It’s hard to be a blasé, slapdash reader when the sentences seem to strike out at you with their enormous words. Even a comparatively wearisome sentence in The Deerslayer (most of which I love and am rereading) can be a small prize for a reader when the letters stand shockingly tall on the page. I’ve never done it before, but this year I might, for instance, show a passage from A Tale of Two Cities on the whiteboard, and raise the font size way up. The opening sentence might work well for this. I can picture the 9th graders looking up at these 3- or 4- or even 6-inch words:
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was …”
Perhaps those famous words, now striding like giants across my classroom board, might surprise the students into suddenly realizing why they have roused so many readers over the years. Of course, the kids and I have to go back to the more modest fonts for most of our reading, but an occasional look at great words in great sizes might make their significance seem to shout out to us.

Coasting Now and Then

Long ago, when I fell into a period of nonchalance and indolence in my teaching, an assistant principal accused me of “coasting” (he was right, and I felt ashamed), but now, years later, I see that there is actually a constructive form of coasting. Back then, my coasting consisted of simply not giving enough quality time to my work, but now I find that occasional coasting actually brings benefits to both my students and me. Because I’ve come to accept the fact that no one can work at a high pressure, high speed pace all the time, I’ve learned to occasionally refresh myself and the students with some restful coasting. If an assistant principal stopped in at such a time and asked what’s happening, I might say, “Something very important. We’re all coasting for two minutes.” When I coast on my bike after climbing a long, steep hill, I’m reviving and restoring myself, gathering fresh energy for the next climb, and a similar thing happens in English class. If I can’t climb hills for 48 consecutive minutes, why should I expect my teenage students to stay engrossed in my English lesson for a full class period? After a wearing climb, bike riders roll downhill for awhile, taking healthy breaths and bringing some buoyancy back to their bodies, and now and then my students and I do something not too different for two minutes – slouching in our chairs, even resting our heads on the table, even standing outside in the inspiring sunshine. That’s coasting, and it makes the draining journey through an English class period a little less of a grind, and maybe even – who knows? – a little more fun.

Happy to Be Passed

Early this school year, I’m going to tell my students that I’m pleased to be passed so often, both by drivers and readers. I will tell them that I almost always drive in a measured and restful way, which means I spend most of my road time seeing cars speed past me. I find driving to be a fairly soothing experience, partly because I can usually notice a number of interesting sights along the way, and partly because it gives my mind a chance to slow down and settle – so I’m never in a hurry to finish a drive. True, I occasionally arrive at my destination a few minutes late, but the pleasurable and sometimes inspiring ride always seems to justify it. I only hope the speedy drivers who pass me find as much satisfaction in racing on the roads as I find in dawdling along in peace. I’m also going to tell the students that I’m an easy-going and sometimes rambling reader. I read most books the way I drive cars – unhurriedly and observantly, always alert for special sightings along the way. I’m often reminded that most of my friends read much faster than I do, and thus finish far more books in a given time, but it doesn’t worry me that I would be passed by countless readers as I hang around the pages of a novel, turning them slowly and dotingly. I never understood the importance of speed-reading, but I don’t dismiss it; some readers and drivers enjoy rushing along, and others – like me – enjoy a more relaxed pace. Will I encourage my students to read slowly? Of course not. They must gradually develop their own favorite paces and methods in their reading, and of course there are different speeds for different assignments. I’ll just tell them about their slow-driving teacher who also drives through books like he’s looking for bright highlights on every page.

A Classroom Called Hopeville

I’m thinking of making a sign to hang on the door of my classroom this year:

HOPEVILLE

The Home of 8^th Grade English

and a Nice Place to Visit

For years I lived in a town called Hope Valley, and now I live near a state park called Hopeville Pond, so maybe it’s fitting that I use the word “hope” in the name for the little classroom where a few teenagers and an old-time teacher gather round for a while each day. I hope, perhaps naively, that it is a nice place to visit – a place for kids to drop in on their eventful journey through the school day to get some literary refreshment and a few infusions of hope for the rest of the day. Lord knows the students, and all of us, need never-ending supplies of hope in these seemingly frenzied and desperate times, and perhaps my modest English class can do its part in that endeavor. If someone asked my students about their strongest feeling as they left my class, I would be thrilled if they replied, “Hopeful”. To be sure, finding hope in English class shouldn’t be that difficult. Every story, even the darkest, has hope shining somewhere in its sentences, and the students could be sent on a search for it. Plus, there are countless lines and small phrases in the finest poems that are almost prayers of hope, and a single strong sentence in a student essay, if highlighted and praised, could carry a message of hope not only for that student, but for the entire class as well. A teacher could do worse than send the students off with the wind of hope at their backs. I must continue to be a demanding and sometimes stern teacher, but I must also remember to give “the thing with feathers” (as Emily Dickinson described hope) a happy home in my classroom.

Countless Varieties of Walking (and thinking, reading, writing, etc.)

My son was telling me today about the countless distinctive gaits of people walking on the busy sidewalk beside his house, and we agreed that there’s a helpful analogy about teaching somewhere in that observation. (He’s a third-grade teacher.) He described a man who walks like he’s in a state of complete tranquility, and another who stares absorbedly at every car as it passes him. There are bouncing walkers, flimsy walkers, rusty-machine-like walkers, and stiff and steadfast walkers – and Jonah says there seems to be no repetition whatsoever. Each strider comes along with his or her matchless style and inimitable aura of uncommonness and significance. As we enjoyed lunch together, we talked about the fact that each of our students is as unique as those incomparable walkers. We also admitted that, unfortunately, their uniqueness is often – maybe very often – hard for we teachers to notice. Buried as I sometimes get in the minutiae of standards and lessons and goals, it’s easy to see my students as just a group of average, everyday kids, instead of irreplaceable human beings each carrying a universe of unparalleled traits. Like the walkers passing my son’s house, my students (and all students, and all people) do everything in a rare and extraordinary manner, whether it’s walking, reading, writing, thinking, or even just raising their arms or smiling at someone or glancing out the window or breathing in and out. Trouble is, I’m often (maybe usually) too preoccupied with my teaching duties to notice the individual marvels sitting in my classroom. Perhaps I need to do what Jonah occasionally does – just sit and watch. He’s a painter as well as a teacher, so he watches to learn about shapes and forms and motions, and maybe I need to watch to learn about the immeasurable varieties of youthful life that pulsate before me as I go about my teaching tasks.

Uncovering Stone Walls

This morning, as I was clearing underbrush from the woods around the house, I uncovered an old stone wall, and it reminded me that I would be uncovering some young students starting in a few weeks. It’s taken me many years to realize that that is, in fact, my main job as an English teacher – to uncover the multi-layered and already enlightened young human beings that lie beneath the sometimes hard-boiled exteriors my students show in the classroom. Of course, part of my task is to show them some helpful concepts and skills, but those will be helpful only if the wise interior lives of the kids can be brought out in the open. Like the old stone wall I discovered today, there’s already something priceless in each of my students that needs to be revealed – a fresh and unsullied kind of understanding and, yes, sagacity. The poet William Wordsworth, in his “Intimations Ode”, seemed to understand what happens to some kids as they grow up and “[s]hades of the prison-house begin to close / [u]pon” them – shades pulled down by the various confining notions and practices of our culture. It happens mostly, I think, because we simply don’t believe children can be wise on their own – that, to use Wordsworth again, they don’t bring any “clouds of glory” with them in their youth, but must be taught to be wise by adults. I’ve seen it differently for many years – seen teenagers take me into the heart of poems, teach me truths about writing, show me new secrets about novels. Certainly I’ve taught them valuable things (I hope) from my advantageous adult perspective, but from the fresh and shining perspective of youth, my students have been my teachers as well. Perhaps that’s why I hope to uncover the wealth of wisdom they already possess – so I can be their student as well as their teacher.

Waiting Patiently for the Goldenrod Kids

When I passed a field overflowing with goldenrod on the way to school today, they called to mind the many late-blooming students – I sometimes think of them as ‘goldenrod kids’ – I’ve taught. These are the students who are silent and inconspicuous for most of the year, but who, when the days are wandering down toward summer, start to show some small signs of blossoming. It may just be an observation or two spoken softly during a literary discussion, or a wise and stylish paragraph in an essay, or even a single written sentence that shines, all of a sudden, with the student’s irreplaceable wisdom. It may not even happen during the student’s time in my class; years later, the bashful boy or girl may return as a flourishing, full-fledged student of life, with a family, a hard-earned fortune, and a substantial fund of happiness and satisfaction. I love those golden flowers that flow across the countryside just when we think summer is slipping away, and I love those students who surprise me with their good sense and sophistication long after their classmates have blossomed. I must remember, this year, to be patient. The students in my English classes will come into flower in their own impressive way and at their own particular time: some early, strong, and steady; some late, reserved, and, for that reason, perhaps more handsome than any. I delight in discovering asters and violets shyly standing in the woods in September, almost as much as I love learning from kids who bud and bloom when the applause is almost over.