And his aunt repeatedly dubbed him "Dunce."
But, "Give him a chance," said his father, Joi.
"His head is abnormally large for a boy."
But his aunt said, "Piffie! It's crammed with bosh!
Why, he don't know the rivers and mountains of Gosh,
Nor the names of the nephews of good King Splosh!"

In Gosh, when a youth gets an obstinate look,
And copies his washing-bill into a book,
And blackens his boot-heels, and frowns at a joke,
"Ah, he's getting sense," say the elderly folk.
But Sym, he would laugh when he ought to be sad;
Said his aunt, "Lawk-a-mussy! What's wrong with the lad?
He romps with the puppies, and talks to the ants,
And keeps his loose change in his second-best pants,
And stumbles all over my cauliflower plants!"

"There is wisdom in that," laughed the father, Joi.
But the aunt said, "Toity!" and, "Drat the boy!"
"He shall play," said the father, "some noble part.
Who knows but it may be in letters or art?
'Tis a dignified business to make folk think."
But the aunt cried, "What! Go messing with ink?
And smear all his fingers, and take to drink?
Paint hussies and cows, and end in the clink?"

So the argument ran; but one bright Spring day
Sym settled it all in his own strange way.
"'Tis a tramp," he announced, "I've decided to be;
And I start next Monday at twenty to three . . ."