In playing odd and even: knucklebones
Are nothing to him. Why, he hardly knows
The door o’ the Letter School. And yet the thirtieth
Comes round and I must pay—tears no excuse.
His writing-tablet, which I take the trouble
To wax anew each month, lies unregarded
I’ the corner. If by chance he deigns to touch it,
He scowls like Hades, then puts nothing right
But smears it out and out. He doesn’t know
A letter, till you scream it twenty times.