So Ben and his brothers they grew very good,
They never stole nothing, not even their food!
But lived upon pickles, and peanuts, and paint,
And when asked, “Are you hungry?” replied, “No, we ain’t;
But we’ll take, if you’ll give it, a wee bite of soap!”
And now they’re all dead, and in heaven, I hope.
With a final, hysterical giggle, Ernie dropped back into her seat.
Miss O’Connell stood looking at her.
“What possessed you,” she asked at last, “to write such a composition as that? Have you no respect for your teacher? have you no respect for your school? have you no respect for me? Miss Horton, you may mark Ernestine a failure in her conduct and her English, too. She will remain after school, and rewrite her composition along more conservative lines. The class may now proceed with its studies.” And Miss O’Connell swept from the room.
Well, Ernie had had her little joke. Poor child! it was all she could do to blink back the mortified tears as she felt Mary Hobart’s sympathetic hand in hers, and divined instinctively that the thoughts of every girl in the room were busy with her shattered record.