IN 
 
 OLD SCHOOL DAYS 
 
 WILL CARLETON 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 J. MONTGOMERY FLAGG 
 

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THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 From the Library of 
 GERTRUDE WEIL 
 
 1879-1971 
 
IN 
 OLD SCHOOL DAYS 
 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2012 with funding from 
 
 University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/inoldschooldaysOOcarl 
 

 _..-,..- 
 
 His world was just in the seat ahead. 
 
IN OLD SCHOOL DAYS 
 
 BY 
 
 WILL CARLETON 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY 
 
 1907 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY 
 
 MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY, NEW YORK 
 
 Published October, 1907 
 
 ^4// Rights Reserved 
 
List of Illustrations 
 
 Page 
 
 His world was just in the seat ahead. — Frontispiece 
 
 Whose soul crept up in her shapely hand. 6 
 
 Sweet glad voice in the star-flecked gown ! 1 2 
 " But hardly would touch my proffered arm." 24 
 
 1 learned that the soldier in far Algiers, 
 
 Had not the dearth of a schoolgirl's tears. 28 
 
 "Ah, maid with the blood-red branch of bloom!" 38 
 
List of Illustrations 
 
 Page 
 
 When even a child, you had the art 
 
 To stir to its depths the schoolboy heart! 40 
 
 Of rustle of paper and rasp cf pen. 44 
 
 He is simply doing the best he can. 58 
 
 "Now will you be good? Director has come." 60 
 
 And words from district fathers tell 
 
 How "things would appear to be going well." 72 
 
 Crowned in her master's delighted gaze. 74 
 
IN 
 OLD SCHOOL DAYS 
 
f\ star-strown skies of the old school clays! 
 ^^^ Creep into the Twentieth Century's gaze, 
 Like some dear dreamily treasured rhymes, 
 And give us a glimpse of quaint old times, 
 
 

 When one "academy," long and wide, 
 Was full of classes unclassified; 
 All in one rude leviathan room, 
 Hacked out of the forest's hardened bloom. 
 
 
'Twas there the books in their sheets of white, 
 Slept chill and still through the lonely night; 
 'Twas there those heralds of progress lay, 
 Half-used and abused through the livelong day. 
 
O dull-hued benches, with bodies unclad 
 
 In paint or varnish — what treasures you had! 
 
 At one of you sat the little maid 
 
 Whose brown eyes lurked in her blonde hair's shade; 
 
 Whose soul crept up in her shapely hand, 
 
 At things that she could not understand. 
 
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 Whose soul crept up in her shapely hand. 
 
O little girl with the hair so soft, 
 O little girl with the yearning eyes 
 
 And rosebud mouth! I have prayed full oft 
 You might grow happy as you grew wise! 
 
How little you knew what later you knew, 
 Before the studies of life were through! 
 How many the tasks that would yet remain 
 To puzzle your heart, as well as brain! 
 
"School's called!" for the hand-bell's shrilling shout 
 
 Is sending abroad its jerky din; 
 And soon from the regions all about, 
 
 The rough-clad "scholars" come rambling in 
 
(What had not courted the stove's hearth-shine, 
 And lingered around till the stroke of nine, 
 Or lurked outside, with that spirit of war 
 That good souls foster while they abhor, 
 And battled each other to and fro, 
 With bullets and cannon balls of snow). 
 
They stamp white dust from their leathern heels, 
 They stow on the shelves their basket-meals; 
 Then all are waiting, noisily still, 
 The clank of the educational mill. 
 
Perchance if the Teacher loves The Book 
 (As 'tis to be hoped he may) there rise 
 
 Prayer, reading and hymn, which humbly look, 
 And surely should reach, to the pure good skies. 
 
O Sweet glad voice in the star-flecked gown! 
 
sweet glad voice in the star-flecked gown! 
 
 1 have heard the cantatrice' tones creep down, 
 Acoustic jewels drifting along 
 
 Like crumbs from the angels' tables of song; 
 

 And she drew a fortune (or every note, 
 And she was a goddess — to the view: 
 
 But rally that school, and I'll get a vote 
 That you were the thrillinger of the two! 
 
This university-in-a-room, 
 Has freshman students with childhood-bloom, 
 Who con the letters that long have clung 
 Together in words of the English tongue 
 
They toddle down, with worry and fret, 
 The cellar-stairs of the alphabet; 
 Their travel is trapped by many cares: 
 Full oft they stick on the jagged stairs 
 That run through every fancy and use, 
 From Shakespeare-splendors to Mother Goose. 
 
Right loud is their tone of triumph heard, 
 When, joining two letters, they coin a word! 
 And loud does the paean ring, indeed, 
 That crowns the announcement, "We can read!" 
 
And "We go up," and "In we go", 
 <\nd "He is out", and "It is so", 
 And "Ah, he was", and "Oh, ho ho", 
 Are primitive words: but we may call 
 Them not so different, after all, 
 
From longer ones that the grown folk use 
 In telling their ancient and modern news. 
 (How much is printed, of good or ill, 
 But those same words are its essence, still?) 
 
Then older reading-classes must find 
 And tell Short Stories of how mankind 
 Deserved alternately praise and scorn, 
 Long ere Columbian tribes were born. 
 
Of battle-banners in blood unfurled, 
 And gospels preached to a sinful world; 
 Of beautiful deeds in kindness done, 
 And cruelty such as brutes would shun; 
 
Of poverty starved in pangs untold, 
 
 And banquets eaten on plates of gold; 
 
 Of lyrics of love in sweetness sung, 
 
 And fierce philippics that bite the tongue; 
 
Humility lifting Heaven's own latch, 
 And pride just Satan himself could match; 
 Of heroes praying for Joshua's sun, 
 And cowards glad when the fight was done; 
 Of birth-born struggles and dying breaths, 
 Of clans' uprisings and nations' deaths: 
 
What was there the human race concerned, 
 That properly under an eye could pass, 
 
 Some something of which could not be learned 
 Somehow and somewhere in the reading-class? 
 
 
" But hardly would touch my proffered arm." 
 
Not only lessons of brain were conned, 
 But those in the heart and soul beyond. 
 Ah little dame with the haughty air, 
 
 How chary you were of every charm! 
 You let me walk with you here and there, 
 
 But hardly would touch my proffered arm. 
 

 
 I said, "Is it worth the daily price, 
 
 To win a beautiful toy of ice, 
 
 A pretty freak of the frost-king's art, 
 
 A brain and a soul with famine of heart?" 
 
How little I knew that you lay and cried 
 
 Yourself to sleep, when you just had learned 
 
 That little Casabianca died, 
 
 While even the air about him burned, 
 
Because he was loyal, sure and game, 
 And trusted the father that never came!. . 
 Not till together through flower and vine 
 We gazed at Bingen upon the Rhine, 
 I learned that the soldier in far Algiers, 
 Had not the dearth of a schoolgirl's tears! 
 
: 
 
 I learned that the soldier in far Algiers, 
 Had not the dearth of a schoolgirl's tears. 
 
Gray walls rougn-plastered were yet clad o'er 
 With maps that numbered the half a score; 
 And they for our little world were guide 
 And friend, in the far-off world outside. 
 
Long rivers were through rich valleys strung, 
 
 And opulent cities hung and clung 
 
 As flies to this richly tinted wall, 
 
 Like Babylons fearing they soon might fall; 
 
 Rough lakes and oceans were tossed in view, 
 
 And mountains slumbered in beds of blue. 
 
Once, just in the dream of a summer day, 
 
 A boy sat musing a minute away 
 
 And stared at the world, with eyes thought-dim, 
 
 That hung on the wall, and beckoned him, 
 
 This lad who thirsted to win a name, 
 
 To scenes of luxury, pride and fame. 
 
But he turned his back to the chart, instead: 
 His world was just on the seat ahead, 
 With cheeks that mocked at the roses' bloom, 
 And slim feet sandalled with leaf-perfume. 
 
The heart of the dreamer is now appalled: 
 The "Class in Arithmetic!" is called! 
 The multiplication-table song 
 Is chanted in accents loud and long, 
 And fierce assertions loud justified, 
 That never on earth could be denied. 
 
Or up to the board" young victims walk, 
 And trace the troubles of life in chalk: 
 And dollars and cents, and pounds and pence, 
 And buyings and sellings in sums immense, 
 Are traced in elephantine affairs, 
 As if the pupils were millionaires. 
 
There's not a figure in all the ten, 
 But is made to lie, again and again, 
 While poor old 1 'neath hammers of fate, 
 Is shattered to fractions small and great. 
 
With honest effort and covert guilt, 
 
 From roof to cellar the "sums" are built; 
 
 And faces have all a delighted look, 
 
 If but their "answers" confirm the book, 
 
 No odds with what efforts strained and feigned, 
 
 Those final figures have been obtained. 
 
 
Sometimes there are figures upon the sly, 
 Not meant for the teacher's watchful eye: 
 Cartoons and effigies may appear 
 That soon will appeal to the lengthened ear. 
 
And e'en in the days when his art is sold, 
 And publishers band his pencil with gold, 
 Association may cross the track, 
 And cause our artist to rub his back 
 At thought of a supplementary stroke 
 From the master himself, to shift the joke. 
 
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 'Ah, maid with the blood-red branch of bloom !" 
 
And there was the girl with fingers of white, 
 Who never could make the "sums" come right, 
 But who in the grasses could always see 
 Most four-leaved clovers, instead of three. 
 
Ah maid with the blood-red branch of bloom! 
 Your beauty lighted the humble room, 
 As when to the toiling miner's sight 
 A diamond floods the cave with light. 
 
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 When even a child, you had the art 
 To stir to its depths the schoolboy heart! 
 
When even a child, you had the art 
 To stir to its depths the schoolboy heart! 
 You knew not when and you knew not how, 
 But laurels waited your broad white brow. 
 
1 saw you stand in the limelight's glare, 
 The Chief of the Nation welcomed you, 
 
 And princes of brain and heart were there, 
 And homage given that well was due: 
 
 
Ben Hur's great wizard from out the West 
 Became your honored and honoring guest; 
 The king of a realm in the sultry East 
 Proclaimed you fairest of all his feast; 
 
But never you looked more queenly and bright 
 Than robed in your schoolgirl gown of white, 
 Still dreading the mathematic hour, 
 While quaffing the breath of a God-made flower! 
 
 
 
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 Of rustle of paper and rasp of pen. 
 

 Clear decks for writing! — is born a sound 
 Of rustle of paper and rasp of pen; 
 
 Precepts that are more or less profound, 
 Are written and written and written again. 
 

 
 
 And Honesty stated once more we see 
 With best of policies in accord, 
 
 And Perseverance is claimed to be, 
 We think absurdly, its own reward. 
 
 I 
 
 II 
 
 
 

 'When money is lost then nothing is lost" 
 
 We read and write it — and disbelieve: — 
 We think of the silver dime that cost 
 
 The search of an hour, and a month to grieve. 
 
 
"When health is lost, then something is lost", — 
 We read and write and we know 'tis true: 
 
 On beds of woe we have rolled and tossed, 
 With medicine-bottles in painful view. 
 
 

 "When character's lost, then all is lost," — 
 We read and write, and the thought is new: 
 
 We wonder and wonder, with hands close-crossed: 
 But later we know that the copy was true. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 Scrawl on, my boy! you are twining strands 
 To clasp you with other hands and lands; 
 Perhaps the successors of this steel pen 
 May prick to the hearts of women and men. 
 
 
 
 

 Its nibs may not work together right, 
 
 Your inkstand maybe "froze up" last night, 
 
 And blots on person and desks and page 
 
 May throw the master into a rage; 
 
 But every station, life has a knack 
 
 Of reaching at length, if we keep the track. 
 

 O Lindley Murray! be strong and brave, 
 And do not go wriggling within your grave, 
 When 'mid much ungrammatical din, 
 The "Class in Grammar" has started in! 
 

 O authors of note now safely dead, 
 Each keep in his mildly remembered bed, 
 With clay-wrought mattress and marble posts: 
 Send not to these youths your indignant ghosts 
 For trying to reach your diction's heart, 
 And tearing the woof of the lines apart! 
 
Nouns, pronouns, adjectives, adverbs, verbs, 
 
 Are plucked from the garden of your best powers, 
 
 And strung together and dried like herbs, 
 
 That once were hailed as blossoming flowers. 
 
 
Or when in the "Speaking-pieces" time, 
 The callowy boy disputes your rhyme, 
 And makes your measures to jolt and creak, 
 And mangles your words in his nervous cheek, 
 
Or when at the close of tempest-shocks 
 Of euphony wrought by your utmost care, 
 
 He breasts it all with meekness that mocks, 
 And fondles an anti-climax there. 
 
 
Yawn, Patrick Henry, and take your pills; 
 
 It is but the way that the others do. 
 Sleep sweet, O lad of the Grampian Hills: 
 
 Your name is Norval — and Dennis too! 
 
But do not flout this miniature man: 
 He is simply doing the best he can, 
 And maybe better than you, O sage, 
 Could have carried it off at his tender age. 
 
 
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 He is simply doing the best he can. 
 

 
Now will you be good? — Director has come, 
 To give you some lore where books are dumb; 
 He offers you more advice sincere, 
 Than you will work up in a calendar year; 
 
He tells you how to be grand and true, 
 And do as no doubt he did not do; 
 He names advantages you possess, 
 And seems to blame you that he had less. 
 
 
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 "Now will you be good? Director has come." 
 

 With homespun oratorical art, 
 
 He takes you all to his yearning heart. 
 
 He tells you to build direct and sure 
 
 On strong foundations that must endure; 
 
 You'd think from the facts he loves to state, 
 
 He never had made a slip to date. 
 
Be kind, O students, nor telegraph 
 From desk to desk the derisive laugh: 
 For many of you will some day be 
 In many matters, the same as he! 
 
O old-school days! I would linger long. 
 In fact and fancy and prose and song, 
 Among your shadows and your delights, 
 Your windowed mornings and candled nights! 
 Such as spelling-bouts, where, wild and tame, 
 From other regions strong rivals came: 
 

 From districts hostile strown all about, 
 With mental cartridges loaded in words, 
 And maids with titters like twitters of birds, 
 
 The home-guard spellers to put to rout. 
 
 
Soon many a champion in the fight 
 Fell never to rise again that night. 
 With what a bitter and deadly frown 
 The etymological chiefs went down! 
 
And maybe before that frown was lifted, 
 The scene of the battle of words was shifted, 
 And in the open forgathered foes, 
 And "blowing" was turned to business blows. 
 
"Last-day-of-school!" when at last it came, 
 We all were glad — and we all were sad: 
 
 You know life never is just the same 
 When anything goes that once was had. 
 

 Though boulders of pain the memory-view-- 
 Yet pleasure-rivulets filter through; 
 And often before they cease to grow, 
 They cover the rocks 'twixt which they flow. 
 
 
 
O glad, sad day! how many have heard 
 That long significant compound word, 
 "Last-day-o'-school", and have not met 
 Some brooding shadows of vain regret? 
 
A semester, nearly, on leaden wing, 
 Has greeted Autumn, Winter, and Spring; 
 But (all things earthly soon passing by) 
 It is given a day in which to die. 
 
 
No wide alarum or grand display 
 Attends this long, significant day: 
 No "sheepskin's" Latin, wordily wise, 
 To pull the wool o'er admiring eyes; 
 

 But all is done, in sadness or mirth, 
 As if 'twere the last time on this earth. 
 With new indulgence is heard each' class, 
 And schoolchild-blunders allowed to pass, 
 Strange silences running in and out, 
 And pathos lingering all about. 
 

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 And words from district fathers tell 
 How "things would appear to be going well." 
 
The afternoon may have bits of song, 
 
 And poems and essays short and long, 
 
 And words from district fathers to tell 
 
 How "things would appear to be going well"; 
 
 And once when the day had glimmered away 
 
 With only the half of an hour to stay, 
 
The maiden who some few years before 
 Had raised her pretty and dimpled hand 
 
 At sound of the unaccustomed lore 
 
 She (womanly) yearned to understand. 
 
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 Crowned in her master's delighted gaze. 
 
Now rose, with a subtle innocent grace, 
 And love-locks lurking about her face, 
 And golden tresses and silver tongue, 
 
 And mid the applause's thrilling storm, 
 And the white gown that closely clung 
 
 So justifiably! to her form, 
 
With valedictory honors crowned 
 (Though not by that name of classic sound), 
 Crowned, in her Master's delighted gaze, 
 Herself the Queen of the Old School Days. 
 

 
 IN 
 
 OLD SCHOOL 
 DAYS 
 
 s— &2>. 
 
 WILL 
 CARLETON 
 
 
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