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"What's your first name?" "Ellen." "Oh, land! I know who you be. You read that essay at the high-school graduation. I was there. Well, I shouldn't think you would want to be called miss if you feel the way you said you did in that." "I don't want to," said Ellen. The girl gave a swift, comprehensive glance at her as her fingers manipulated the knots.
I suppose now, if she had a daughter she'd prevent her from associating with Sue, and Ivy, and Peggy, as well as all the other high-school girls whose mothers actually allow them to go to dances with us boys, and even cheer the Scranton players in a rattling good baseball game."
When Uncle Christopher and Mark returned to Bangor, the latter began to attend school regularly; not a grammar-school, nor a high-school, nor a school of any kind where books are studied, but a mill-school, where machinery took the place of books, where the teachers were rough workmen, and where each lecture was illustrated by practical examples.
She had seen him at all the parties of the high-school pupils which she had attended, and had gone coasting on his double-runner with other girls a number of times. And no Sunday passed that he didn't seek her after service and walk home with her. He was strangely silent to-night. His first shyness having worn off, he had since always had plenty to say.
Center High School, the city's only at a time when half a million souls beat up like sea around it, a model and modern institution that was presently and paradoxically to become architectural paragon for what to avoid in future high-school buildings, was again within street-car distance, except on usually bland days, when Lilly and Flora Kemble would walk home through Vandaventer Place, the first of those short, private thoroughfares of pretentious homes that were presently to run through the warp of the city like threads of gold.
Charlotte did not care about a college course, but she had planned for two years to go to a school of design, for she was a promising young worker in things decorative. As for Jefferson, sixteen years old, captain of the high-school football team, six feet tall, and able to give his brother Lansing a hard battle for physical supremacy, his dearest dream was a great military school.
"In figgeral language; for I don't reck'lect jest the exac' date when she did r'a'ly eat crow; 'twas a good many years ago, 'n' I wouldn't have her hear of it neow for nothin'. I'm natch'ally ashamed o' them ongodly tricks neow 'nd besides, it 'u'd lay harder on her stommick 'n a high-school grammar." "I won't tell her," I said. "I'm hardly acquainted with her, anyway."
In that year there was not a single world's best record held by an American amateur, and high-school boys of to-day could in most, though not in all lines, have won the American championship twenty-five years ago.
There was another world with reachable prizes and much to feed upon. He must wear medals, metaphorically, and eat his fill, in time. The high-school is really the first telescope through which a boy so born and bred looks fairly out upon this planet.
In the short half term of his high-school training he had already forged ahead of his class when he attained the maturity of working papers. He was plunging eagerly brilliantly, in fact into a rapid translation of the Iliad, fired from the very first line by the epic of the hexametered anger of Achilles, and stubbornly he held out against the working papers.
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