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.
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