I
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.
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 their
brain,
Loud-puffing each half-whispered letter, like an engine just starting its
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! could such things be done with
the fist!"
There were two knowing girls in the corner, each one with some beauty
possessed,
In a whisper discussing the problem which one the young master likes 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 scene all he could.