School Archives

November 6, 2008

60th BIRTHDAY a teacher you can't get away with turning 60 years old quietly....and you can't refuse what students do for you.

Thank you, Third Graders for your wonderful posters all over the room and hall. And thank you for the announcement at Lower School meeting.


Thank you for my wonderful hat that I got to wear all day.


And thank you for the fantastic "chicken cake!"


All kidding aside, it was a wonderful day and who wouldn't want loving attention from 24 excited individuals?

February 12, 2009


This has been a busy week at school, and a rewarding one for me.

All students (from grades 1-8) have been participating in the annual MacLane poetry recitation, a 54-year tradition. Our third graders did a beautiful job and I was full of enormous pride for one of my students in particular. Upon stepping up to the microphone, nerves overtook one child and she descended into a fit of the giggles. As her fellow students joined in, her uncontrollable giggles turned into horrified sobs. She covered her face with both hands and burst into tears. We told her she could try again after the rest of the class and so she sat, on stage, struggling to compose herself as the remainder of the class proceeded with their recitations. She didn't have much time...only three students performed after her and yet she rose, approached the microphone again and in front of almost 150 people, took a deep breath and recited her poem. When she was done, the room erupted with cheers and applause. I will never forget the transformation of her face as she received not only the admiration from the audience but a standing ovation for her heroic effort. And I will always remember the courage this nine-year old child showed. It was a remarkable moment.


So...during this week of the Poetry Recitation at school, I thought it might be good for my third graders to dip their toes into the pool of poetic words and meaning. No disrespect, Shel Silverstein and Jack Pretlutsky, but I wanted my kids to start thinking about poetry as being more than just slapstick and giggles.

One of my students chose to recite Old Ironsides by Oliver Wendell Holmes. Perfect! So I made copies and we went through it as a group, step by step, going over vocabulary, a wee bit of symbolism and then talking about the heart of the poem - allowing the magnificent Constitution (built in 1979 with a hull 7" thick that caused cannon balls to bounce off her sides!) to go to her watery grave in battle rather than be retired and dismantled. The kids got it.....round one!

Today, I decided to try it again with another favorite poem chosen by one of my students for the poetry recitation about 9 years ago...Lincoln by John Gould Fletcher. Today I shared only the first three stanzas with students and half way through them, they "got" the simile, the comparison of Lincoln to a tall, lonely pine tree. I found the poem on line and discovered it was longer than I knew. Here it is in its entirety....a poetic tribute to a great President.

Lincoln by John Gould Fletcher (1886–1950)

LIKE a gaunt, scraggly pine
Which lifts its head above the mournful sandhills;
And patiently, through dull years of bitter silence,
Untended and uncared for, starts to grow.

Ungainly, labouring, huge,
The wind of the north has twisted and gnarled its branches;
Yet in the heat of midsummer days, when thunderclouds ring the horizon,
A nation of men shall rest beneath its shade.

And it shall protect them all,
Hold everyone safe there, watching aloof in silence;
Until at last one mad stray bolt from the zenith
Shall strike it in an instant down to earth.


There was a darkness in this man; an immense and hollow darkness,
Of which we may not speak, nor share with him, nor enter;
A darkness through which strong roots stretched downwards into the earth
Towards old things:

Towards the herdman-kings who walked the earth and spoke with God,
Towards the wanderers who sought for they knew not what, and found their goal at last;
Towards the men who waited, only waited patiently when all seemed lost,
Many bitter winters of defeat;

Down to the granite of patience
These roots swept, knotted fibrous roots, prying, piercing, seeking,
And drew from the living rock and the living waters about it
The red sap to carry upwards to the sun.

Not proud, but humble,
Only to serve and pass on, to endure to the end through service;
For the ax is laid at the roots of the trees, and all that bring not forth good fruit
Shall be cut down on the day to come and cast into the fire.


There is a silence abroad in the land to-day,
And in the hearts of men, a deep and anxious silence;
And, because we are still at last, those bronze lips slowly open,
Those hollow and weary eyes take on a gleam of light.

Slowly a patient, firm-syllabled voice cuts through the endless silence
Like labouring oxen that drag a plow through the chaos of rude clay-fields:
“I went forward as the light goes forward in early spring,
But there were also many things which I left behind.

“Tombs that were quiet;
One, of a mother, whose brief light went out in the darkness,
One, of a loved one, the snow on whose grave is long falling,
One, only of a child, but it was mine.

“Have you forgot your graves? Go, question them in anguish,
Listen long to their unstirred lips. From your hostages to silence,
Learn there is no life without death, no dawn without sun-setting,
No victory but to him who has given all.”


The clamour of cannon dies down, the furnace-mouth of the battle is silent.
The midwinter sun dips and descends, the earth takes on afresh its bright colours.
But he whom we mocked and obeyed not, he whom we scorned and mistrusted,
He has descended, like a god, to his rest.

Over the uproar of cities,
Over the million intricate threads of life wavering and crossing,
In the midst of problems we know not, tangling, perplexing, ensnaring,
Rises one white tomb alone.

Beam over it, stars,
Wrap it round, stripes—stripes red for the pain that he bore for you—
Enfold it forever, O flag, rent, soiled, but repaired through your anguish;
Long as you keep him there safe, the nations shall bow to your law.

Strew over him flowers:
Blue forget-me-nots from the north, and the bright pink arbutus
From the east, and from the west rich orange blossom,
And from the heart of the land take the passion-flower;

Rayed, violet, dim,
With the nails that pierced, the cross that he bore and the circlet,
And beside it there lay also one lonely snow-white magnolia,
Bitter for remembrance of the healing which has passed.

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