A-Naughty-Biography and other poems

by Mrs. Enoch Taylor

SCHOOL LIFE.

One Monday morn in early Fall

We made the nearest school a call,

To ascertain if they would take

A pupil willing to forsake

All mischief and frivolity,

And strictly stick to A, B, C.

The teacher showed a little doubt—

She saw how I began to pout;

I did not like the busy looks

Of slates and pencils, chalk and books—

I felt I’d much prefer to be

A stranger to my A, B, C.

I knew more now, at any rate,

Than many children did at eight,

Then why should I, that was so smart,

Go learning lessons all by heart?

I showed my feelings in my face,

And aunty, vexed at my disgrace,

At once enrolled my naughty name

Upon the future book of fame.

I then and there began to climb

The hill of science; oh! the time

It took to teach me how to do;

But I fought it out, and struggled through.

The teacher seldom suited me—

Indeed, we never could agree;

Her notions always seem so queer,

I wondered why they put her there;

And aunty, too, was odd as she,

Both seemed to be opposed to me.

I felt if ever I grew big,

I’d love to give them both a dig.

At times my patience would give out;

You couldn’t play a bit without

At once, she’d raise an awful fuss—

A little laugh would make a muss.

You couldn’t talk in any peace,

But you’d be told at once to cease,

And look upon your book or slate,

Or be kept in till awful late,

You even couldn’t turn around,

No matter what the sight or sound

That made you want to look behind—

You might have just as well been blind,

Or deaf and dumb, for all she cared—

She always kept you kind of scared.

No matter what you had to say,

She’d surely look another way,

And talk and teach, and teach and talk;

Slate and pencil, book and chalk;

Were ever at her finger ends—

I wonder she had any friends.

Indeed, she hadn’t many there,

Except the good girls round her chair.

They seemed to think her very nice;

I wished they’d taken my advice,

And never mind a word she said;

They soon would found, what motive led

Her to appear so sweet to them,

And that she wasn’t such a gem.

She had a special spite at me,

The reason why I couldn’t see;

She’d scold me soundly every day,

Whether I would work or play;

And then she’d often keep me in,

For just a little bit of sin,

That no one else would scarcely see—

She was just as mean as mean could be.

If it hadn’t been for family pride,

I think I’d left that school or died;

But aunty thought it best to stay,

And she nearly always had her way.

So there I was for one long year,

And then I left without a tear.

I’d learned to read and write and spell,

Indeed, they said I studied well.

My failing was behaving bad,

At least that’s what the teacher said;

But she was always saying things,

And telling tales that trouble brings.

I’ve left her class, I’m glad to say—

I’ll try a new one now to-day.

Alas, a-lack-a-day—ah! me,

I fear we too will disagree;

There’s much that’s new I want to know,

And ask the girls if they will show

Exactly how the things are done,

Besides we want a little fun,

Just to cheer us as we learn—

The teachers are so stiff and stern,

I wouldn’t be one for a farm—

They do the children so much harm;

Though aunty said to-night at tea

That’s what she’s going to make of me.

I don’t know what I’ve ever done

To her, indeed to any one,

That I should suffer such a fate,

Or learn a trade I love to hate.

I tell you what, when I get big,

You’ll see me dance a different jig;

I won’t be sober, staid, and stern,

And try to make the children learn.

Poor little things, I’ll let them be,

Remembering how it was with me.

Just worry, lecture, preach, and scold,

Enough to make a young one old.

At school and home I had no rest,

Was always getting blamed or blest,

And mostly too without a cause,

Just for breaking little laws,

That never should, by rights, been made,

Nor never would by Bessie’s aid.

So, thus my early life was spent,

From class to class I yearly went;

Each teacher seemed to be my foe,

And quite content to have me go;

But still I had my share of fun,

In spite of all the scolding done.

In tricks and pranks I took delight,

And misbehaved with all my might;

In tact and lessons I excelled,

Or I should long since been expelled.

The merits that I got to-day

To-morrow’s marks would wipe away.

But, at the end of every term,

Remorse and resolution firm

Would fill me with a new desire;

But “all the fat was in the fire”

The minute mischief crossed my way,

Which it, alas! did every day.

Thus school life, with its hopes and fears—

At least the first short seven years—

Was drawing nearly to a close,

When, all at once, the question rose—

What should next be done with me.

The teachers gladly did agree,

That I should try my luck and leave—

The high-school might my name retrieve.

So I studied hard, both night and day,

(But leisure took for fun and play),

Till testing time, with questions hard,

Brought me my happy hope’s reward.

I did not pass with honors high—

I guess you know the reason why;

But still I passed, and was content,

And to my laurels proudly went,

And talked as big and looked as wise

As those that got the highest prize;

And felt it was a happy school,

Possessing such a precious jewel.

So, at the age of green fourteen,

I felt as proud as any queen.

A new leaf I resolved to turn,

And study hard and laurels earn;

I stood quite high for one so young,

And could I only held my tongue

I might have been almost a star,

But mischief would my merits mar;

For what I gained by work and tact,

I’d loose by some rebellious act:

I sacrificed myself to fun—

My ablest efforts were undone

By some wild freak or fractured rule,

That put me down a dot in school.

I soon began, as heretofore,

To find the teachers quite a bore,

In interfering all the time—

Indeed it seems a chronic crime,

To be officious and prevent

The pleasures that were my intent.

They so delight in being dry

And dull and stiff. I wonder why?

They looked with frowning doubt and dread

On every thing I did and said.

At times they’d give a sickly smile

At my peculiar wayward style;

But in a moment they would be

A-pointing morals all at me.

As we were taught full forty things,

With names as long as corset strings,

And teachers stern and dignified,

I future punishment denied.

I felt we had our troubles here,

And naught to come was aught to fear.

Away into the quiet night

I’d pore and ponder by the light

That poets call the “midnight oil,”

Some crooked problem to uncoil,

Or draw a map, or parse a verse,

Or write an essay, which was worse,

Or worry with celestial globes—

The very thought my bosom probes

With recollections full of woe.

What good is it for us to know

That Mars has belts or Saturn rings—

A thousand other different things?

That don’t concern this world at all,

Nor never have since Adam’s fall.

Then scanning Milton through and through

Is what I did despise to do;

Nor did I care a single dime

If all his blank verse had been rhyme,

Or was awry or wrong in rhythm,

Or had it been with him—in Heaven.

That Paradise was lost I knew—

I never doubted it was true;

Then why extend the dreary tale,

To worry pupils—maid and male?

Mythology and classic lore

Is such an everlasting bore.

The other poets we’d dissect,

And try their metre to correct—

And murder many of their lays

So sadly that it would amaze

The sainted soul, could it but know

The scandalous scanning done below!

Then algebra, with x and z,

Would always vex and puzzle me,

And make me wish that each equation

Was in the sea, with mensuration.

I’d sigh and cipher for an hour,

And long for calculating power

To get the cube root or the square,

Or puzzle out the proper share

That A and B would have to get

In value either gross or net.

Then hunting rivers, lakes, and bays,

And telling all their different ways

Of rising, flowing, and their end,

Or with what waters they may blend;

And all their lengths and widths and size,

And what each state or town supplies,

Of products, imports, exports, ores

That yearly pass its special shores.

Ah me! the mountains I would climb

To find the height, and what a time

I’ve had with longitudes and poles,

Enough to try poor pupils’ souls—

And tropics, latitudes, and zones,

That gave me geographic groans.

And then we had to daily tell

The capitals and towns as well,

Of territories and of states,

And give in full the different dates

Of settlements and civil wars,

And then we’d have five minutes pause,

Before our history began.

Thus our daily duties ran.

We never knew an hour’s peace;

For if we weren’t in Rome or Greece,

Discussing troubles old and stale,

Some insurrection to bewail,

We’d have our massacres at home,

To fill our hearts with bygone gloom,

Rebellions, riots, rows, and wars,

Breaking all the country’s laws;

But then that was so long ago,

I hardly think we need to know

All those troubles that are past,

It’s bad enough to know the last.

And then I think it’s really vile

To take us through the British isle,

And worry o’er her wars and woes,

Her usurpations, overthrows,

Her kings and queens both killed and crowned.

We’ll never get a single pound,

For all our interest in their fate,

No matter how large their estate.

I’m tired now of history.

I’ve learned it all, and can not see

Why we have to know so much

About the English, French, and Dutch,

And all these men of ancient times,

Their virtue, valor, and their crimes.

We have as many of to-day

As we can well their traits portray.

Then why go back to ages past

To get our heroes for a cast?

Or worry o’er the wars of yore,

When we can have them at our door,

Green and fresh, of recent date,

In our own land, indeed our state?

What trials teachers do invent.

They never seem to be content

Without a torture of some kind

To agitate the pupil’s mind.

And as for rest or idle hours,

The very thought their temper sours.

But study early, study late,

Things you like and things you hate;

Study hard and study long,

Whether you are weak or strong.

I tried my best to keep my brain

Healthy, sound, and free from pain;

I never had it suffer aught

From exercise of weighty thought.

All extra care and overwork,

My great ambition was to shirk;

To save the tissues of my mind,

I’ve always been somewhat inclined!

I’d study just to struggle through,

But not enough to make me blue,

Nor any recreation miss,

Which now I think accounts for this

Entire health which is my boast,

That over study might have lost.

In moderation thus I went

From grade to grade, and was content.

In tricks and trifling, mirth and fun,

Was always passing number one.

The teachers vexed at every turn,

And wanting me to leave or learn,

Would often help me gladly through

Their special class into a new,

Thus hoping then and there to find

More occupation for my mind,

And for themselves relief and rest.

How little my adieus distressed;

For those bereft of such a prize

Looked coolly on with driest eyes!

Once or twice I skipped a grade,

And cast the good girls in the shade,

Thus rid that teacher most entire

Of all the mischief I’d inspire;

’Twas less in learning than in luck,

Together with my tact and pluck,

That helped me prematurely through,

But that is nothing odd or new.

I gushed as much at my advance

As though it was no game of chance,

And never hinted in the least,

As honors on me so increased,

’Twas troubled teachers pushing me

To get me through thus rapidly.

So thus, for two years and a half—

I think of it, and have to laugh—

I spent the chequered, closing days

Of school life, with its blame and praise,

Till all at once the president,

On my departure firmly bent,

Informed me I must now begin

My graduating bays to win.

He seemed quite glad to have me leave,

Indeed, there’s no one seemed to grieve

About my going at this date,

So I resolved to graduate.

My parting essay now I write,

And try sad feelings to excite.

I use the most pathetic strain,

As though I’d willingly remain

To share those sweet scholastic joys

That leaving school at once destroys.

I tried to make their bosoms sigh

For blessings now about to fly.

But, ah! alas, what cool content

My phrases to their faces lent!

I sadly spoke of happy scenes

Of school life, with its hopes and dreams,

Of patient teachers, just and kind,

And wondered if we’d ever find

In life again, such friends as these,

(And, aside, I thought) as hard to please.

I really felt it was a time

When I should utter thoughts sublime,

But no one seemed to be disposed

To feel the slightest discomposed;

Nor could I hear a sob or sigh,

Or see a single moistened eye!

Each teacher that I left behind

Seemed reconciled and well resigned

To hear my valedictory read,

And every parting word I said

Gave pleasure, I could plainly see,

To all the high-school faculty.

That day in June I’ll ne’er forget,

Their happy faces haunt me yet.

So eager, anxious, and content,

To lose a light, ’twas only lent.

I felt their hearts were made of stone,

To be so glad when I was gone.

Our president, so mild and meek,

So happy was, he scarce could speak;

He said my welfare was his aim,

But now my farewell was the same!

So I hurriedly my parchment drew,

And bid the happy school adieu.

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