The district school-master was sitting behind his great book-laden
desk,
Close-watching the motions of scholars, pathetic and gay and
grotesque.
As whisper the half-leafless branches, when Autumn's brisk breezes
have come,
His little scrub-thicket of pupils sent upward a half-smothered hum;
Like the frequent sharp bang of a wagon, when treading a forest
path o'er,
Resounded the feet of his pupils, whenever their heels struck the
floor.
There was little Tom Timms on the front seat, whose face was
withstanding a drouth;
And jolly Jack Gibbs just behind him, with a rainy new moon for a
mouth;
There were both of the Smith boys, as studious as if they bore names
that could bloom:
And Jim Jones, a heaven-built mechanic, the slyest young knave in the
room:
With a countenance grave as a horse's, and his honest eyes fixed on a
pin,
Queer-bent on a deeply laid project to tunnel Joe Hawkins's skin.
There were anxious young novices, drilling their spelling-books into
the brain,
Loud-puffing each half-whispered letter, like an engine just starting
a train.
There was one fiercely muscular fellow, who scowled at the sums on his
slate,
And leered at the innocent figures a look of unspeakable hate,
And set his white teeth close together, and gave his thin lips a short
twist,
As to say, "I could whip you, confound you! if sums could be done with
my fist!"
There were two pretty girls in the corner, each one with some cunning
possessed,
In a whisper discussing a problem: which one the young master liked
best!
A class in the front, with their readers, were telling, with difficult
pains,
How perished brave Marco Bozzaris while bleeding at all of his veins;
And a boy on the floor to be punished, a statue of idleness stood,
Making faces at all of the others, and enjoying the task all he could.