How We Tried to Whip the Teacher.
By Eugene Hall.
I wuz a boy of seventeen, ungainly, dull an' tall,
Ez green ez euy gozlin', but I tho't I know'd it all.
I went to school at Piano. I chopped up wood an' chored,
For Zephaniah Wilkinson to pay him for my board.
One day Philetus Phinney. another boy in school,
About ez rough an' raw ez I-about as big a fool-
Jist hinted in a private way, 'twould be a right smart feature,
An' giv' us lots o' glory, if we'd up an' lic' the teacher.
We wouldn't ask no better fun than jist to make him climb;
We'd hev a long vacation an' a whopper of a time.
The teacher he wuz sickly-he wuz not ez big ez I-
I knew that we could bounce him if we didn't half but try,
Fur any one lookin' at him would a said on sight,
Ther' wuzn't eny sand in him an' not a speck o' fight.
His hands they wa'n't accustomed much to hangin' on to ploughs,
To hoin' corn, to cradlin' wheat, or milkln' twenty cows;
Philetus said he'd use him for a mop to mop the floor,
An' when he begged an' hollered that we'd h'ist him out the door.
We told the boys at recess o' the plot that we had planned
They said if we couldn't down him they'd lend a helpin' hand;
But big Philetus Phinney, he wuz tickled ez could be,
To think that they tho't a snip like that could lick a chap like he ;
If I'd kick the bucket over, he'd make the teacher danceHe'd flop him in the water, he'd mop it with his pants.
We heard the school-bell ringin', we scrambled in pell-mell;
I run ag'in' the water-pail, on puppus, an' I fell;
I struck upon a stick o' wood, I badly raked my shin,
The water swoshed upon me, an' it wet me to the skin.
The scrawny little teacher, why I he bounded from his chair.
He took me by the trousers, and he held me in the a'r,
Then round an' round, an' round an' round, he whirled me like a top,
An' when I seed a thousand stars he sudden let me drop;
He took me an' he shook me, till I tho't that I should die,
He swished me with his ruler till my pants were nearly dry.
While big Philetus Phinney he wuz just too soar'd to laugh.
He let the teacher thrush me till I bellered like a calf.
An' all the other fightin' boys, with white an' frightened looks,
Sot shakln' in the'r very boots an' ras'lin' with the'r books;
An' oh, how hard they studied-not a feller spoke or stirred--
They didn't dar' to whisper or to say a single word.
Whar' is that little teacher that giv' me such a scar't
He still, is peaked lookin'-he's settin' over thar'-
And tho' he's nearly seventy, an' sickly yit, I vow,
I'd hate to hev him git those hands o' his'n on me now.
He taught me one great lesson by that floggin' in his school:
That a braggart an' a bully ar' a coward an' a fool.