“Work,” I replied; “solid work.”
“I knew you would say that,” Adelaide answered. “I have felt dissatisfied all this year with Madame’s course of instruction. If it were not that I really must see my mother and have some home life, I would go to Bryn Mawr. I positively crave some good solid study. Madame’s curriculum makes me think of the course of study Aurora Leigh pursued.” Adelaide took down her favourite blue and gold volume from its companions in the “poets’ corner,”—a set of shelves,—and read with comments:
“I learnt a little algebra, a little
Of the mathematics; brushed with extreme flounce
The circle of the sciences, because
She misliked women who are frivolous.
I learnt: The internal laws
Of the Burmese Empire; by how many feet
Mount Chimborazo outsoars Himmeleh.
I learnt much music, such as would have been
As quite impossible in Johnson’s day
As still it might be wished—fine sleights of hand
And unimagined fingering, shuffling off
The hearers’ soul through hurricanes of notes
To a noisy Tophet.”
“And here you are, Tib.”
“And I drew costumes
From French engravings, nereides neatly draped,
With smirks of simpering godship. I washed in
From nature, landscapes (rather say washed out),
Spun glass, stuffed birds, and modelled flowers in wax,
Because she liked accomplishments in girls.”
“No,” I interrupted, “I will not have you malign Professor Waite. His teaching at least has been thorough, and I feel that I have received very valuable training in my art.”
“Then I suppose that by solid work you mean that you will devote yourself to art this summer, and camp under a sketching umbrella in front of every picturesque nook you can find.”
“Art will have to wait until winter,” I replied. “I mean that I shall cook for the farm hands during haying season, and let mother go off for a visit to her sisters in Northfield, where she can attend the Moody meetings, and I shall get all the preserving done before she returns, too.”
“You are just lovely, Tib,” Milly replied, giving me a hug. “And now won’t you be surprised when you hear what I am going to do. Father says he is going to superintend my education for a while. He sent me a squib from one of the papers about the sweet girl graduate:
‘She talks with tears about her mates and quotes from ancient lore.
She says the Past is left behind, the Future is before.
Her gown is simply stunning, but she can’t subtract or add,
Oh, what an awful humbug is the Sweet Girl Grad!’