Oh, I have been a boy myself, and I have been to school
And I have suffered punishment for breaking many a rule;
I've worn the brand of mischief and been written down as bad,
So I could reconstruct the scene—the teacher and the lad,
The swift avenging punishment, the stern and angry glance,
The blot of shame upon a boy sent home without a chance.
I did not stop to ask the lad his little tale to tell,
There was no need of that because I knew the story well—
"She never gave a chance to me!" that sentence held it all.
A hundred times I'd lived the scene in days when I was small,
A broken rule, a teacher vexed, hot rage where calm belonged,
A guilty judgment blindly made—a youngster sadly wronged.
I still can see that little chap upon his homeward way,
"She never gave a chance to me," I still can hear him say,
And so I write this verse for him, and all the girls and boys
Who shall their tutors now and then disturb with needless noise.
Be fair, you teachers of our land, in every circumstance;
Don't let some little fellow say he never had a chance.
Down the Lanes of August
Down the lanes of August—and the bees upon the wing—
All the world's in color now, and all the song birds sing;
Never reds will redder be, more golden be the gold,
Down the lanes of August, and the summer getting old.
Mother Nature's brushes now with paints are dripping wet,
Gorgeous is her canvas with the tints we can't forget;
Here's a yellow wheat field—purple asters there—
Riotous the colors that she's splashing everywhere.
Red the cheeks of apples and pink the peaches' bloom,
Redolent the breezes with the sweetness of perfume;
Everything is beauty, crowned by skies of clearest blue;
Mother Earth is at her best once more for me and you.
Down the lanes of August, with her blossoms at our feet,
Rich with gold and scarlet, dripping wet with honey sweet.
Rich or poor, no matter, here are splendors spread—
Down the lanes of August, for all who wish to tread.