The only subject I’m not sure about is math. Anyway, all we can do is wait.
Until then, we keep telling each other not to lose heart.
I get along pretty well with all my teachers. There are nine of them, seven men and two women.
Mr. Keesing, the old fogey who teaches math, was mad at me for the longest time because I talked so much.
After several warnings, he assigned me extra homework. An essay on the subject “A Chatterbox.”
A chatterbox, what can you write about that? I’d worry about that later, I decided.
I jotted down the assignment in my notebook, tucked it in my bag and tried to keep quiet.
That evening, after I’d finished the rest of my homework, the note about the essay caught my eye.
I began thinking about the subject while chewing the tip of my fountain pen.
Anyone could ramble on and leave big spaces between the words,
but the trick was to come up with convincing arguments to prove the necessity of talking.
I thought and thought, and suddenly I had an idea. I wrote the three pages Mr. Keesing had assigned me and was satisfied.
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