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."