"Must I go all over my French
Grammar again? O dear! I do hate it so!"
"If you will tell me something you like, Connie, instead of something you
don't like, I may be able to give you advice. Is there nothing you are fond
of?" I continued, finding that she remained silent.
"I don't know anything in particular--that is, I don't know anything in the
way of school-work that I really liked. I don't mean that I didn't try
to do what I had to do, for I did. There was just one thing I liked--the
poetry we had to learn once a week. But I suppose gentlemen count that
silly--don't they?"
"On the contrary, my dear, I would make that liking of yours the foundation
of all your work. Besides, I think poetry the grandest thing God has given
us--though perhaps you and I might not quite agree about what poetry was
poetry enough to be counted an especial gift of God. Now, what poetry do
you like best?"
"Mrs. Hemans's, I think, papa."
"Well, very well, to begin with. 'There is,' as Mr. Carlyle said to a
friend of mine--'There is a thin vein of true poetry in Mrs. Hemans.' But
it is time you had done with thin things, however good they may be.
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