I remember that there was a fine orchard of rare pears near the schoolhouse, and against it we made many a foray, sacking the best trees with unsparing hands. On one occasion, my friend Bill accompanied me thither, eager to load his pockets with the ripe, yellow fruit that swung so temptingly on the high branches. He commenced the assault with a big stone, which he hurled with all his strength against the thickest of the enemy; but, alas! its return to earth proved nearly fatal to his scull, upon which it descended with great effect, and left a scar upon it that has not disappeared even to this day.
But I cannot better describe our master’s good temper, and the estimation in which he was held even by the very rudest of our number, than by recording his virtues in verse.
That good old man hath slept
In his grave this many a year,
And many a storm hath wept
O’er his dust the wintry tear;
And many a spring-time flower,
And many an autumn leaf,
Have bloomed and faded o’er him,
In their existence brief.