“The birds and beasts don’t go to school;
I guess ’t would make them mad to;
They wouldn’t pass an hour in class.
But just suppose they had to!
How funny it would be to see
The desks all full of scholars,
With fins and claws and hoofs and paws,
Skin coats and brown fur collars!
“How strange ’t would seem to happen by
And hear the teacher saying,
‘The kitty-cat geography
Must be kept in from playing;
And once again I tell you plain
That I shall give a rapping
To the very next first-reader owl
That I discover napping.’
“The crabs would write in copy-books,
Such crawly, scrawly letters;
The bees would have a spelling-bee
And buzz among their betters;
And monkeys chatter French and squeak
In Greek the live-long day,
To scare the class of infant lambs,
Who only know B-A.
“They’d send giraffes up to the board
To figure slowly, each,
Problems in higher branches
That they could never reach.
And here and there and everywhere,
No matter who played fool,
They’d straightway clap a paper cap
Upon the youngest mule.
“A looker-on might feel, perhaps,
A little consternation,
To see the bear philosophy
Arise for recitation;
And pupils all, and teacher, too,
Would pale a bit, perchance,
When the elephants came up to do
Their calisthenics dance!”
“But,” Amos persisted, “if they don’t go to school, then how on earth did they learn how to talk?”