In the Courts of Memory 1858-1875. | Page 3

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."
"And I hope you will forget," I said, penitently.
"I have already forgotten," he answered, affectionately. "How can one be angry with a dear little bird? But don't try again to be so witty."
"Never again, I promise you."
"That's the dear girl you are, and 'Dein ist mein Herz'!" He stooped down and kissed me.
I burst into tears, and kissed his hand. This is to show you what a dear, kind man Mr. Longfellow is.
[Illustration: THE FAY HOUSE, CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS]
CAMBRIDGE, _June, 1857._
If you were here, dear mama, I would sing, "Oh, Wake and Call Me Early, Call Me Early, Mother Dear," for I am to dance the quadrille on the "Green" on Class Day. To be asked by a Harvard graduate to be one of the four girls to dance is a great compliment. All the college windows are full of people gazing at you, and just think of the other girls, who are filled with envy fuller than the windows!
Aunty is "pestered" (as she calls it) to death by people wanting me to sing for their charities. Every one has a pet charity, which it seems must be attended to just at this time, and they clamor for help from me, and aunty has not the courage to say "no." Therefore, about once a week I am dressed in the white muslin and the black shoes, which is my gala get-up, and a carriage is sent for me. Then aunty and I are driven to the Concert Hall, where, when my turn comes, I go on the platform and sing, "Casta Diva," "Ah, non Credea," etc., and if I am encored then I sing, "Coming Thro' the Rye."
I am sure every one says that it is a shame to make me sing, but they make me sing, all the same. I enjoy the applause and the excitement--who would not? What I do not enjoy is being obliged to sing in church every Sunday. Dr. Hoppin has persuaded aunty to let me help in the choir; that is, to sing the Anthem and the "Te Deum," but it amounts to my doing about all the singing. Don't you think this is cruel? However, there is one hymn I love to sing, and that is, "Shout the Glad Tidings, Exultingly Sing." I put my whole heart and soul in this, and soon find myself shouting the "glad tidings" all alone, my companions having left me in the lurch.
We laughed very much at aunty's efforts in the Anti-slavery movement (just now at its height), when all Massachusetts has risen up with a bound in order to prove that the blacks are as good as the whites (if not better), and should have all their privileges. She, wishing to demonstrate this point, introduced Joshua Green, a little colored boy (the washerwoman's son), into the Sunday-school class. The general indignation among the white boys did not dismay her, as she hoped that Joshua would come up to the mark. The answer to the first question in the catechism (what is your name?), he knew, and answered boldly, "Joshua Green." But the second question, "Who made you?" was the stumbling-block. He sometimes answered, "Father," and sometimes, "Mother." Aunty, being afraid that he would answer, "Miss Fay," had him come to the house during the week, where she could din into him that it was God who made him and all creation. "Now, Joshua, when Dr. Hoppin says to you, 'Who made you?' you must answer, 'God, who