JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER IN SCHOOL-DAYS Still sits the school-house by the road, Within, the master's desk is seen, The charcoal frescoes on its wall; The feet that, creeping slow to school, Long years ago a winter sun Lit up its western window-panes, It touched the tangled golden curls, When all the school were leaving. For near her stood the little boy Her childish favor singled: His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled. Pushing with restless feet the snow The blue-checked apron fingered. He saw her lift her eyes; he felt "I'm sorry that I spelt the word: Because," the brown eyes lower fell, Still memory to a gray-haired man He lives to learn, in life's hard school, THE BAREFOOT BOY Blessings on thee, little man, 5 10 With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; Prince thou art, Only is republican. the grown-up man Let the million-dollared ride! Oh for boyhood's painless play, Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine, |