Cheaper by the Dozen

by a school system geared for children of simply average parents.
    Dad made periodic surprise visits to our schools to find out if and when we were ready to skip. Because of his home-training program—spelling games, geography quizzes, and the arithmetic and languages—we sometimes were prepared to skip ; but never so prepared as Dad thought we should be.
    The standard reward for skipping was a new bicycle. None of us used to like to jump grades, because it meant making new friends and trailing behind the rest of the class until we could make up the work. But the bicycle incentive was great, and there was always the fear that a younger brother or sister would skip and land in your class. That would be the disgrace supreme. So whenever it looked as if anyone down the family line was about to skip, every older child would study frantically so that he could jump ahead, too.
    Mother saw the drawbacks. She knew that, while we were advanced for our age in some subjects, we were only average or below in some intangibles such as leadership and sociability. She knew, too, that Dad, who was in his fifties, wanted to get as many of his dozen as possible through school and college before he died.
    As for report cards, members of the family who brought home good grades were feted and rewarded.
    "Chip off the old block," Dad would crow. "Youngest in his class, and he brings home all A's. I used to lead my class in the fifth grade, too, and I was always the one picked to draw the turkey on the blackboard come Thanksgiving. My only bad subject was spelling. Never learned to spell until I was a grown man. I used to tell the teachers that I'd be able to hire a bunch of stenographers to do my spelling for me."
    Then he'd lean back and roar. You couldn't tell whether he was really bragging, or just teasing you.
    Children who brought home poor grades were made to study during the afternoon, and were tutored by the older ones and Mother and Dad. But Dad seldom scolded for this offense. He was convinced that the low marks were merely an error of judgment on the teacher's part.
    "That teacher must not know her business," he'd grumble for Mother's benefit. "Imagine failing one of my children. Why she doesn't even have the sense to tell a smart child from a moron."
    When we moved to Montclair, the business of enrolling us in the public schools was first on the agenda. Dad loaded seven of us in the Pierce Arrow and started out.
    "Follow me, Live Bait," he said. "I'm going to enjoy this. We are going to descend upon the halls of learning. Remember, this is one of the most important experiences of your life. Make the most of it and keep your eyes and ears open. Let me do the talking."
    The first stop was Nishuane, the elementary school, an imposing and forbidding structure of dark red brick. At its front were two doors, one marked "Boys," the other "Girls."
    "Frank, Bill, Lill and Fred—this is your school," said Dad. "Come on, in we go. No dying cow looks. Hold your shoulders straight and look alive."
    We piled out, hating it.
    "You older girls, too," said Dad. "We may as well make an impression."
    "Oh, no, Daddy."
    "What's the matter with you? Come on!"
    "But this isn't our school."
    "I know it, but we may as well show them what a real family looks like. Wonder if I have time to run home and get your Mother and the babies."
    That was enough to cause the older girls to jump quickly out of the car.
    As we approached the door marked "Boys," the girls turned and started for the other entrance.
    "Here, where are you girls going?" Dad asked.
    "This is the girls' door over this way."
    "Nonsense," said Dad. "We don't have to pay any attention to those foolish rules. What are they trying to do here, anyway? Regiment the kids?"
    "Hush, Daddy. They'll hear you."
    "Suppose they do. They're going to hear from me soon enough, anyway."
    We all went in through the door marked "Boys." Classes already were in session, and you could see the children watching us through the open doors as we walked down the corridor to the principal's office. One teacher came gasping to the doorway.
    "Good morning, Miss," said Dad, bowing with a flourish. "Just a Gilbreth invasion—or a partial invasion, I should say, since I left most of them at home with their mother. Beautiful morning, isn't it?"
    "It certainly is," she smiled.
    The principal of Nishuane was an elderly lady, almost as plump as Dad, and much shorter. She had the most refined voice in the Middle Atlantic