to death, but I knew better. I could see the other scholars look
at one another, as much as to say: "Well, if you'll tell me why!"
Even in my shame and anger I could see that. But there is one
happy memory of a Friday afternoon. Determined to show my friends
and fellow-citizens that I, too, was born in Arcadia, and was a
living, human boy, I announced to Teacher: "I got another piece."

"Oh, have you?" cried she, sure of an extra O-man-immortal
intellectual treat. "Let us hear it, by all means."

Whereupon I marched up to the platform and declaimed that deathless
lyric:

"When I was a boy, I was a bold one.
My mammy made me a new shirt out o' dad's old one."

All of it? Certainly. Isn't that enough? That was the
only distinctly popular platform effort I ever made. I am proud
of it now. I was proud of it then. But the news of my triumph
was coldly received at home.

I don't know whether it has since gone out of date, but in my day
and time a very telling feature of school exhibitions was reading
in concert. The room was packed as full of everybody's ma as it
could be, and yet not mash the children out of shape, and a whole
lot of young ones would read a piece together. Fine? Finest
thing you ever heard. I remember one time teacher must have
calculated a leetle mite too close, or else one girl more was in
the class than she had reckoned on; but on the day, the two end
girls just managed to stand upon the platform and that was all.