When twelve o'clock was counted out,
The joy and strife began,
The shut of books, the hearty shout,
As out of doors we ran.
Sunshine and showers who could withstand?
Our food and rapture they;
We took our dinners in our hands
To lose no time in play.
The morn when first we went to school—
Who can forget the morn
When the birch whip lay upon the clock
And our horn-book it was torn?
We tore the little pictures out,
Less fond of books than play,
And only took one letter home
And that the letter ‘A.’
I love in childhood's little book
To read its lessons through,
And o'er each pictured page to look
Because they read so true.
Posted by Arborfield at 7:57 am