Quotes About School

Most of us learn about money from our parents. So what can poor parents tell their child about money? They simply say, "Stay in school and study hard.

To be successful in the B or I quadrant requires financial intelligence, systems intelligence, and emotional intelligence. These things cannot be learned in school.

If you want to learn to work for money, then stay in school. That is a great place to learn to do that. But

Diana: Gilbert told Charlie Sloan that you were the smartest girl in school, right in front of Josie. Anne: He did? Diana: He told Charlie being smart was better than being good looking. Anne: I should have known he meant to insult me.

Anne had brought her slate down on Gilbert's head and cracked it—slate not head—clear across.

And then - thwack! - Anne had brought her slate down on Gilbert's head and cracked it - slate not head - clear across.

She and Diana talked so constantly about it all day that with a stricter teacher than Mr. Phillips dire disgrace must inevitably have been their portion.

There was nobody else — there never could be anybody else for me but you. I've loved you ever since that day you broke your slate over my head in school.

Anne was welcomed back to school with open arms. Her imagination had been sorely missed in games, her voice in the singing and her dramatic ability in the perusal aloud of books at dinner hour.

don't you be too sure your name won't ever be written up. Charlie Sloane is DEAD GONE on you. He told his mother — his MOTHER, mind you — that you were the smartest girl in school. That's better than being good looking." "No, it isn't," said Anne, feminine to the core. "I'd rather be pretty than clever.

Grown-ups didn't seem to realize that for me, as for most other schoolboys, it was easier to keep silent than to speak. I was a natural oyster.

Down a long road through the woods a little boy trudged to school, with his big brother Royal and his two sisters, Eliza Jane and Alice. Royal was thirteen years old, Eliza Jane was twelve, and Alice was ten. Almanzo was the youngest of all, and this was his first going-to-school, because he was not quite nine years old.

She could not think what it would be to teach school twelve miles away from home, along among strangers. The less she thought of it the better, for she must go, and she must meet whatever happened as it came. Now Mary can have everting she needs, and she can come home this next summer, she said. Oh, Pa, do you think I - I can teach school? I do, Laura, said Pa. I am sure of it.

This year the teacher was a slim, pale young man. His name was Mr. Corse. He was gentle and patient, and never whipped little boys because they forgot how to spell a word. Almanzo

Then Father said: "If the teacher has to thrash you again, Royal, I'll give you a thrashing you'll remember.

He kissed me for a long moment, holding my shoulders, perhaps to keep me from pressing my whole body against his. Then he tried to lift my bag. My God, he said. What happened? I found out one may check out twenty books at a time from the school library.

Out on the street I felt lost wandering around without my child. I felt I ought to wear a pin that said: I have a child in school at the moment.

Principal Principal: Where's your late pass, mister? Errant Student: I'm on my way to get one now. PP: But you can't be in the hall without a pass. ES: I know, I'm so upset. That's why I need to hurry, so I can get a pass. Principal Principal pauses with a look on his face like Daffy Duck's when Bugs is pulling a fast one. PP: Well, hurry up, then, and get that pass.

I make it through the first two weeks of school without a nuclear meltdown.

My English teacher has no face. She has uncombed stringy hair that droops on her shoulders. The hair is black from her part to her ears and then neon orange to the frizzy ends. I can't decide if she had pissed off her hairdresser or is morphing into a monarch butterfly. I call her Hairwoman.

The same boys who got detention in elementary school for beating the crap out of people are now rewarded for it. They call it football.

I flip ahead in the textbook. There's an interesting chapter about acid rain. Nothing about sex. We aren't scheduled to learn about that until eleventh grade.

I stand in the center aisle of the auditorium, a wounded zebra in a National Geographic special, looking for someone, anyone to sit next to. A predator approaches: gray jock buzz cut, whistle around a neck thicker than his head. Probably a social studies teacher, hired to coach a blood sport.

I watch some kids ask the cafeteria ladies to sign their books. What do they write: Hope your chicken patties never bleed? Or, maybe, May your Jell-O always wiggle?