“No more Latin,
No more French,
No more sitting on a hard wood bench.”
—both chorally and antiphonally chanting it.
Yet, in spite of every encouragement, the Spring term lasted immeasurably and the Summer vacation melted. It was the kindred difference of experience respectively presented by a bowl of hot ginger tea and an equal bulk of ice-cream.
In other ways time was extraordinary. We used to play with it: “Now is now. But now that other Now is gone and a Then is now. How did it do it? How do all the Nows begin?”
“When is the party?” we had sometimes inquired.
“To-morrow,” we would be told.
Next morning, “Now it’s to-morrow!” we would joyfully announce, only to be informed that it was, on the contrary, to-day. But there was no cause for alarm, for now the party, it seemed, had changed too, and that would be to-day. It was frightfully confusing.
“When is to-morrow?” we demanded.