Poetry

Up Learning’s ladder, round by round We’ve climbed with many a fall; But, through the toil, companionship Has made amends for all.

Now from our giddy heights we glance, With calm thoughts and serene, Once more at those we leave today⁠— Our class of sweet sixteen.

I want to take you with me through The ranks of our small crowd; And, if you’ll listen carefully, You’ll know why we are proud.

Grace, as our goodly president Has served her second year; In singing, speaking, poetry, She stands without a peer.

Blanche is the sunshine of our class, She drives dull care away Her laughing eyes, her smiling face, Have gladdened many a day.

Alice, the calm, the dignified, I know we’ll ne’er forget; Her views are wide⁠—but, best of all, She is the teacher’s pet.

Lena excels in whispering. Few are the notes she writes; She studies hard throughout the day, For pleasure, saves her nights.

Belle was the star in physics class, She always knew the laws And when she failed to know a thing, She always had a cause.

Anna has graced our piano stool, And mingled tunes with laughter; Ah, well, one can be young but once, The frowns may come hereafter.

Ruth is a clever, pretty girl, So everyone remarks, Yet lives in constant danger⁠—what? The danger of her “Sparks.”

He’s a dear little thing, is No. 3, Dear to his mother and dear to me, While his older brother’s idea of bliss Is to give him a gentle hug and kiss. But the one ambition of Brother Jim Appears to be to demolish him.

All that he does is eat and cry; He wouldn’t and couldn’t harm a fly. There’s nothing about him that might inspire A brother’s aversion, a brother’s ire. Nevertheless, his Brother Jim Would give one eye for a slap at him.

He lacks attainments; he’s shy on looks, Compared with his brothers, he has no books, He has no games, and he has no toys To make him the envy of other boys. But the fact remains that his Brother Jim Is looking for chances to wallop him.

When I see his wonderful choo-choo trains, Which he daily builds with infinite pains, Whose cars are a crazy and curious lot⁠— A doll, a picture, a pepper pot, A hat, a pillow, a horse, a book, A pote, a mintie, a button hook, A bag of tobacco, a piece of string, A pair of wubbas, a bodkin ring, A deck of twos and a paper box, A brush, a comb and a lot of blocks⁠— When I first gaze on his wonderful trains, Which he daily builds with infinite pains, I laugh, and I think to myself, “O gee! Was ever a child as cute as he?”

But when he’s gone to his cozy nest, From the toil of his strenuous day to rest, And when I gaze on his trains once more, Where they lie, abandoned, across the floor, And when the terrible task I face Of putting each “Pullman” back in its place, I groan a little, and think, “O gee! Was ever a child as mean as he?”

That may not be the proper way To spell their name; I cannot say. I’ve never seen ’em written out: I’ve only heard ’em talked about. They’re coming here tonight to dine, So says that little son of mine. But all last week, ’twas just the same; They were to come, and never came.

And I’m just skeptical enough To think they’re all a myth, a bluff; Mere creatures of my youngster’s brain, Whose coming he’ll await in vain. And yet to him they’re very real. They own a big black auto’bile. They work downtown, and they’ll arrive Out here at one-two-three-four-five.

The Heckuses are four all told. There’s Mrs. H. who’s very old, And Baby Heckus, and a lad Named Tom, and Bill, the Heckus dad. Beyond this point I can’t describe The fascinating Heckus tribe. I can but wonder how he came To think of such a lovely name.