The Republican journal., 1907-10-03
cB1LpHOOD's MEMORIES.

Bringing memories OF my cnll0nOOQ,
And ! live again that time.
It's bright and sunny morning,
In the early part of May,
We are starting for the sch00lhouse,
For the school begins today.
We have got our books together,
Pencils, writing book and rule,
For we find our own utensils,
AS ours is a district school.
The dinner pail is ready,
Mother fills it without fail,
can see the fiat top cover
OF that three quart dinner pail.
We are starting in good season,
Dressed in sch0olclOthes plain and neat,
For we want to get there early,
As we have to choose seat.
We see other children going,
And we hasten on with Zest,
For we've learned how true the adage,
That the early bird fares best.
Down across the bridge we hurry,
Turn the curve with feet so light,
Straight ahead little distance,
And the schoolhouse comes in sight.
Just low, white painted building,
But when viewed with childish eye,
Seems most imposing structure,
As it stands against the sky.
When at length its doors we enter,
And with eager steps and looks,
Find the best seats not all taken,
Make our choice and leave our books.
Other children now are coming,
With their laughter and their noise,
And it gets to be quite lively
With so many girls and boys.
Suddenly, a voice arrests us,
Like second Paul Revere,
As it shouts 1.-THE teachers coming
Down the road, she's almost here"
All, those magic words "the teacher"
How they thrilled us in that day,
And we learned the lesson early,
Life has work as well as play.
We are filled with awe and wonder,
As she steps up to the desk,
Little dreaming that she's feeling
Half as frightened as the rest.
can hear that bell aringing,
As it rang in days of yore,
can see her arm aswinging
As she stands there in the door.
All, what fears that sound has Weakened,
Like some noise from out the dark,
Fastening forward the belated,
To escape that dreaded mark.
There were many half-told secrets,
The last slide We loved SO well,
All SO rudely interrupted
By the ringing of the bell.
We sit very straight this morning
Folded arms and quiet feet,
While she takes the names and ages
Going round from seat to seat.
Then the lessons are appointed,
Soon the recess, next the noon,
Which gives respite from our studies,
Never comes a bit too soon.
Oh! the good times and the frolics
That were crowded in that hour,
To describe their joys and pleasures,
No one ever had the power
From the stream back of the schoolhouse,
To the great rock in the field,
Who could e'er describe the wonders
Or their many charms reveal?
IT'S not strange with such surroundings,
That Our minds would sometimes roam,
And that we should not fee! sorry.
When twas time to start for home.
Twas pleasant road in summer,
AS it led beside the stream,
And no doubt has Oft been travelled
BY us all in happy dream.
In a place just off the roadway,
The blue flag we'd often get,
And in pleasure of possession,
What cared We if # ct are wet.
And such handsome red crab apples
Since those days I've never found,
Where we'd call and ask permission,
For those lying on the ground.
The request was always granted,
And think We'll ever fee,
A certain grateful love for her
Who granted our appeal.
On the bridge we pause moment,
The views too fine to pass it by,
And we watch the running water
With re Elections from the sky.
When the rise in road we've mounted,
We can see the house and lane,
And we see old Snyder waiting,
Glad to welcome us again.
What care we for yexing problems,
Worldly troubles all have flown,
All, if now they would but vanish,
As they did when we reached home.
The dinner pail is empty,
But for this we do not care.
For suppress almost ready,
And we're hungry as bear
Oh, how good those suppers tasted,
10 myself and younger brothers,
And we thought there was no cooking,
Ever tasted quite like mothers.
The boys now change their school clothes,
10 help with evening chores,
And sounds Of song and laughter
Float in through open doors.
When the work and play are over,
AND the evening prayer we've said,
With the kiss she's just impaired,
Mother leaves us tucked in bed.
Margaret Moore Watt.
CHE schoolhouse spoken of in this poem
in Frankfort, Maine)
TFIFPHONF TAIkS