The Old Reading Class.

Will Carleton.

I cannot tell you, Genevieve, how oft it comes to me—

That rather young old reading class in District Number Three,

That row of elocutionists who stood so straight in line,

And charged at standard literature with amiable design.

We did not spare the energy in which our words were clad!

We gave the meaning of the text by all the light we had;

But still I fear the ones who wrote the lines we read so free

Would scarce have recognized their work in District Number Three.

II.

Outside, the snow was smooth and clean—the winter’s thick-laid dust;

The storm, it made the windows speak at every sudden gust;

Bright sleigh-bells threw us pleasant words when travelers would pass;

The maple-trees along the road stood shivering in their class;

Beyond, the white-browed cottages were nestling cold and dumb,

And far away the mighty world seemed beckoning us to come—

The wondrous world, of which we conned what had been and might be,

In that old-fashioned reading class of District Number Three.

III.

We took a hand at History—its altars, spires and flames—

And uniformly mispronounced the most important names;

We wandered through Biography, and gave our fancy play,

And with some subjects fell in love—“good only for one day;”

In Romance and Philosophy we settled many a point,

And made what poems we assailed to creak at every joint;

And many authors that we love, you with me will agree,

Were first time introduced to us in District Number Three.

IV.

You recollect Susannah Smith, the teacher’s sore distress,

Who never stopped at any pause—a sort of day express?

And timid young Sylvester Jones, of inconsistent sight,

Who stumbled on the easy words and read the hard ones right?

And Jennie Green, whose doleful voice was always clothed in black?

And Samuel Hicks, whose tones induced the plastering all to crack?

And Andrew Tubbs, whose various mouths were quite a show to see?

Alas! we cannot find them now in District Number Three.

And Jasper Jenckes, whose tears would flow at each pathetic word

(He’s in the prize-fight business now, and hits them hard, I’ve heard);

And Benny Bayne, whose every tone he murmured as in fear

(His tongue is not so timid now: he is an auctioneer);

And Lanty Wood, whose voice was just endeavoring hard to change,

And leaped from hoarse to fiercely shrill with most surprising range;

Also his sister Mary Jane, so full of prudish glee.

Alas! they’re both in higher schools than District Number Three.

VI.

So back these various voices come, though long the years have grown,

And sound uncommonly distinct through Memory’s telephone;

And some are full of melody, and bring a sense of cheer,

And some can smite the rock of time, and summon forth a tear;

But one sweet voice comes back to me, whenever sad I grieve!

And sings a song, and that is yours, O peerless Genevieve!

It brightens up the olden times, and throws a smile at me—

A silver star amid the clouds of District Number Three.