 | The Triangular Society |  |
A COUNTRY SCHOOL-HOUSE.
I see a picture in the air;
A country school-house, low and square,
With plain pine desks and dusty floor,
And whittlings all about the door;
A boyish teacher, young but wise,
With gentle face and kindly eyes—
And, faltering through her lessons there,
A little girl with yellow hair.
A country school-house, low and square,
With plain pine desks and dusty floor,
And whittlings all about the door;
A boyish teacher, young but wise,
With gentle face and kindly eyes—
And, faltering through her lessons there,
A little girl with yellow hair.
How shy she was! what real distress,
What conscious sense of awkwardness
Burned in quick color on her cheek,
When came her dreaded turn to speak!
How kind he was! his ready aid
Assured her timid soul, and made
The path of study plain and sweet
Before her hesitating feet.
What conscious sense of awkwardness
Burned in quick color on her cheek,
When came her dreaded turn to speak!
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Assured her timid soul, and made
The path of study plain and sweet
Before her hesitating feet.
How long, how long ago it seems!
Like some fair vision seen in dreams,—
That cool bright autumn time of yore,
When he, a bashful sophomore,
With cheek that changed from pale to red,
Taught to a puzzled yellow head—
His youngest pupil, in whose eyes
Not Solomon was half so wise—
Within that country school-room's walls,
The mysteries of decimals.
Like some fair vision seen in dreams,—
That cool bright autumn time of yore,
When he, a bashful sophomore,
With cheek that changed from pale to red,
Taught to a puzzled yellow head—
His youngest pupil, in whose eyes
Not Solomon was half so wise—
Within that country school-room's walls,
The mysteries of decimals.
Alas, alas! to what intent
That labor over rate per cent.,
And toil at compound interest,
By one with nothing to invest?
Whose only venture, was, in truth,
The vague, sweet hope, the faith of youth,
Which early dwindled to its end,
Nor paid a single dividend?
That labor over rate per cent.,
And toil at compound interest,
By one with nothing to invest?
Whose only venture, was, in truth,
The vague, sweet hope, the faith of youth,
Which early dwindled to its end,
Nor paid a single dividend?
No school-girl now his peace disturbs
By tremulous tilts at nouns and verbs—
Alas, how fast the years have flown!
Now he has children of his own,
Tall boys in college, girls in trains;—
His busy heart no more retains
The features of that child of ten,
Who made a hero of him then,
Than Sandy River keeps, this hour,
The face of some wild meadow-flower,
Which grew and blossomed, shy and low,
Beside it, twenty years ago.
By tremulous tilts at nouns and verbs—
Alas, how fast the years have flown!
Now he has children of his own,
Tall boys in college, girls in trains;—
His busy heart no more retains
The features of that child of ten,
Who made a hero of him then,
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The face of some wild meadow-flower,
Which grew and blossomed, shy and low,
Beside it, twenty years ago.
Yet it is more than many gain,
In this estate of change and pain,
To be forever set apart
The hero of a thankful heart,
Within that temple undefiled,
The grateful memory of a child;—
To hold, in spite of time and space,
So sacred and secure a place
As with a truth that naught can dim,
Her womanhood still keeps for him.
In this estate of change and pain,
To be forever set apart
The hero of a thankful heart,
Within that temple undefiled,
The grateful memory of a child;—
To hold, in spite of time and space,
So sacred and secure a place
As with a truth that naught can dim,
Her womanhood still keeps for him.
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