My little boy is to go to school.  
We can't keep him at home any longer, says his mother. He himself is glad to go, of course, because he does not know what school is.
 
I know what it is and I know also that there is no escape for him, that he must go. But I am sick at heart. All that is good within me revolts against the .
 
So we go for our last morning walk, along the road where something wonderful has always happened to us. It looks to me as if the trees have crape wound round their tops and the birds sing in a key and the people stare at me with earnest and sympathetic eyes.
 
But my little boy sees nothing. He is only excited at the . He talks and asks questions without stopping.
 
We sit down by the edge of our usual ditch—alas, that ditch!
 
And suddenly my heart triumphs over my understanding. The voice of my clear conscience through the whole well-trained and which is to give the concert; and it sings its solo in the ears of my little boy:
 
"I just want to tell you that school is a place," I say. "You can have no conception of what you will have to put up with there. They will tell you that two and two are four. . . ."
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