Oh horse of the daily baker
What brings bread,
I prefer your litel rolls
With hot butter.
Have you your blinkers
Because of a secret
Or to keep the oats ears from your wet eyes
When you munch in your nosebag?
Why is that
Oh horse?
and left it at that.
The other pupils were scratching away on every side and she began to
have douts and very likely as not she ought to have gone to a lower
class but the teacher had guest by the air of her hat that she knew
more than she did.
“Isn’t this a go?” whispered Mr. Withersq to her. “I cant half write
poems, Selia, you just wait,” for he guest he had put his foot on the
road to success.
“How perfect dear Harold” she whispred a bit madly for she had made a
mess of it herself. “You can indeed shine before the duchesses and
perhaps that will do the trick. You wont forget me then will you, dear
Harold?” For she was if anything even keener than him to get on, and
did not want to be left behind, for though she knew how the millions
helpt she guest there was more to it than that.
“Bring up your slates my poor clods of pupils,” cried the teacher
looking vext.
Two girls in gowns of patterns like chair covers swooned off, which
was very successful and nicely done.
“That’s the emoshun,” a snaky-faced chap whispered behind his hand to
Selia.
Another chap who might have been own brother to the nawseous Mr. Boon
crackt his slate on his desk and scrumbled the bits on the floor.
“Sir,” he cried, “my poem is too fair for the eyes of the herd.”
The teacher pluckt his beard harder greatly taken by this swanky
touch, and was going to give the prize to that chap until of a sudden
Mr. Withersq sprang airily forward crying in a pulpit voice: “Read
mine!”