Another chap who might have been own brother to the nawseous Mr. Boon crackt his slate on his desk and scrumbled the bits on the floor.
[34] “Sir,” he cried, “my poem is too fair for the eyes of the herd.”
The teacher pluckt his beard harder greatly taken by this swanky touch, and was going to give the prize to that chap until of a sudden Mr. Withersq sprang airily forward crying in a pulpit voice: “Read mine!”
He had wrote:—
Horse that never gallops,
Mere bakers horse, half horse
And half mare,
You belong to a baker,
You draw a cart with bread
Down the blank streets.