Resounded the feet of his pupils, whenever their heels struck the floor.
There was little Tom Timms on the front seat, whose face was withstanding a drouth;
And jolly Jack Gibbs just behind him, with a rainy new moon for a mouth;
There were both of the Smith boys, as studious as if they bore names that could bloom:
And Jim Jones, a heaven-built mechanic, the slyest young knave in the room:
With a countenance grave as a horse's, and his honest eyes fixed on a pin,
Queer-bent on a deeply laid project to tunnel Joe Hawkins's skin.
There were anxious young novices, drilling their spelling-books into the brain,
Loud-puffing each half-whispered letter, like an engine just starting a train.