Clarksville weekly chronicle. (Clarksville, Tenn.) 1873-1890, 1877-06-09
A New version Of the Ratchet Story.

Apropos of Academy week, W,
print below an Academy exercis,
of four years ago. Henry Smitl
was then small enough to get hi
schooling among the Academy
girls, and the subjoined very anus
ing poem was written for him Il
speak at the commencement by oul
accomplished and good natureC
fellow-citizen, the Hon. Jno. f
House. Henry spoke it out like {
little man, and theapplause did due
honor to both the author and
speaker. Our readers will equally
appreciate it at its temperance:
You'd scarce expect one of my size
To meet the gaze of a thousand eyes
And if, by chance, my foot should slip,
Just hold me level and let me rip.
Tall oaks from little acorns grow
But then, the acorns had to go slow,
And feel the rustic of many a breeze,
Before they grew to be great big trees.
This making of speeches is tolerably tough,
But I'm broth of a boy and up TO snuff
All great orators had to begin,
So, III roll up my breeches and just wade in
If get into water over my height,
I'll swim to the shore or sink out of sight
The theme I've selected your thoughts to
employ
Is a story I've read of good little boy.
Who told the truth always, regardless OF
Ever since he was large enough to put ON
his breeches.
His father had bought him a nice little
No boy in the country had one that could
match it.
Thus armed and equipped with his weapon
He went out to see how his hatchet would
do.
Now the old man had planted favorite
And pruned it and nursed it, expecting to
see
Its branches bend, some day, under the
OF as beautiful apples as man ever ate.
And roaming about one bright summer
Chopping on everything that came in his
His fathers young apple tree George did
espy,
the chips fly.
Next day as the old man was walking about,
He saw that his apple tree had gone up the
He swelled till his boiler had very near
And some people think the old gentleman
cursed,
But this is not so, for he soon ascertained
That he couldn't do it justice, and never
complained.
Knew who had been chopping his nice
apple tree.
George looked at the tree and the marks of
the Ratchet;
He saw he was freed and thought may be
he'd catch it.
To make a flank movement on the old
man:
81 did it father-I can't tell lie
Your dutiful son far sooner would die"
The old man surrendered-he caught up his
In g gHi' ofdelight and a transport of joy;
And 1t seemed as his bosom with gratitude
The old fellow was glad that his tree had
been killed.
George. grew up to manhood; the trumpet
To far distant regions has sounded his
name :
And wherever has flowed the stream of his
1t has borne on its bosom this apple tree
story.
But he never reported the mischief, you see,
Till the old man discovered the death of
And had the dead aOoOd on him, plain as
your nose
W men Nv do SAFER ny the pain JTuJn 10
disclose.
Had he added a lie to the mischief he'd
done,
He knew that his father would whip him,
like fun.
There was really no place for falsehood to
stick,
And he came down with the truth, like
thousand of brick.
fe straight7jacket parents, accustomed to
whip
Your dear little boys, for each trivial slip
Whenever you will the experiment try
And, instead of the truth, they will tell you
a lie.
Now the father of George, be it said to his
praise,
Made allowance for boys and their rollick-
ing ways,
And preferred that his tree should wither
and die
Rather than George should tell him lie.
Where's the boy that loves truth and its
value so weighs,
That he'll wade through a fiOgging to tell it
always?
AS sure as there's truth in my scattering
verse,
Such remarkable boys are remarkably
scarce.