 | Young folks' centennial rhymes |  |
THE PRINTER-BOY TRAMP.
“The Printer-boy Tramp” was Benjamin Franklin, who afterward became
one of the greatest philosophers and statesmen of his time, and one
of the most faithful patriots of the Revolution. When a boy, he paid his
first visit to Philadelphia, in search of work, as a printer, which trade he
had learned. His best clothes were in his trunk, which had not yet arrived;
he had only a single dollar in his pocket; but he was not discouraged,
and set about finding employment as soon as possible. Feeling
hungry, he stepped into a baker's shop, and bought three large loaves
of bread. With a loaf under each arm, and one in his hand, he proceeded
up the street, eating his breakfast on the way, and never noticing the queer glances that followed him.
As he passed the house of Mr. Read, the daughter of Mr. R. was
standing at the door, and is supposed to have said the words in the
poem. She afterward became the wife of Franklin.
“The Printer-boy Tramp” was Benjamin Franklin, who afterward became one of the greatest philosophers and statesmen of his time, and one of the most faithful patriots of the Revolution. When a boy, he paid his first visit to Philadelphia, in search of work, as a printer, which trade he had learned. His best clothes were in his trunk, which had not yet arrived; he had only a single dollar in his pocket; but he was not discouraged, and set about finding employment as soon as possible. Feeling hungry, he stepped into a baker's shop, and bought three large loaves of bread. With a loaf under each arm, and one in his hand, he proceeded up the street, eating his breakfast on the way, and never noticing the queer glances that followed him.
As he passed the house of Mr. Read, the daughter of Mr. R. was standing at the door, and is supposed to have said the words in the poem. She afterward became the wife of Franklin.
As queer a looking one he is as one would want to meet.
His face is full of thought and dirt—his brow's a savage scowl;
He has a wise expression on, as solemn as an owl.
His hair has not been combed to-day—that's easy understood;
But there's something in his eye, mother, that's sensible and good.
He perches it upon his head with very little care;
His shoes are rough, and bear the marks of many a dusty mile;
He's any thing but a success, considered for his style.
But there's something in his air, mother, like one born to command.
Close underneath each of his arms he hugs a loaf of bread!
He does not mind the difference 'twixt a dining-room and street,
But from a loaf that's in his hand continues still to eat.
The boys they wink and laugh at him; the people smile and stare;
But there's something in his way, mother, that says he does not care.
I still can see him, in my mind, with his three loaves of bread.
How awkward and how rude he was!—I wish I knew his name.
Of course, I do not care for him, so shabby and so queer;
But there's something in my heart, mother, that wishes he were here.
| Young folks' centennial rhymes | |