doomed to disappear with the march of improvement.

One Friday afternoon we chose up and spelled down, and the next
Friday afternoon we spoke pieces. Doubtless this accounts for our
being a nation of orators. I am far from implying or seeming to
imply that this is anything to brag of. Anybody that can be
influenced by a man with a big mouth, a loud voice, and a rush of
words to the face - well, I've got my opinion of all such.

Oratory and poetry - all foolishness, I say. Better far are
drawing-lessons, and raffia-work, and clay-modeling than: "I come
not here to talk," and "A soldier of the Legion lay dying at
Algiers," and "Old Ironsides at anchor lay." (I observe that these
lines are more or less familiar to you, and that you are eager to
add selections to the list, all of them known to me as well as you.)
That children, especially boys, loathe to speak a piece is a fact
profoundly significant. They know it is nothing in the world but
foolishness; and if there is one thing above another that a child
hates, it is to be made a fool in public. That's what makes them
work their fingers so, and gulp, and stammer, and tremble at the
knees. That is what sends them to their seats, after all is over,
mad as hornets. This is something that I know about. It happened
that, instead of getting funny pieces to recite as I wanted to,
discerning that one silly turn deserves another, my parents,
well-meaning in their way, taught me solemn things about: "O man
immortal, live for something!" and all such, and I had to humiliate
myself by disgorging them in public. The consequence was, that
not only on Friday afternoons but whenever anybody came to visit
the school, I was butchered to make a Roman holiday. Teacher was
so proud of me, and the visitors let on that they were tickled half