ished
at my performance, and said many kind things, and asked many
questions; all of which I took very solemnly, like one who had been in
the clouds and returned to earth with a sign upon him. When Miss
Dwight asked me to read my poem to the class on the day of
celebration, I readily consented. It was not in me to refuse a chance
to tell my schoolmates what I thought of George Washington.

I was not a heroic figure when I stood up in front of the class to
pronounce the praises of the Father of his Country. Thin, pale, and
hollow, with a shadow of short black curls on my brow, and the staring
look of prominent eyes, I must have looked more frightened than
imposing. My dress added no grace to my appearance. "Plaids" were in
fashion, and my frock was of a red-and-green "plaid" that had a
ghastly effect on my complexion. I hated it when I thought of it, but
on the great day I did not know I had any dress on. Heels clapped
together, and hands glued to my sides, I lifted up my voice in praise
of George Washington. It was not much of a voice; like my hollow
cheeks, it suggested consumption. My pronunciation was faulty, my
declamation flat. But I had the courage of my convictions. I was face
to face with twoscore Fellow Citizens, in clean blouses and extra
frills. I must tell them what George Washington had done for their
country--for _our_ country--for me.

I can laugh now at the impossible metres, the grandiose phrases, the
verbose repetitions of my poem. Years ago I must have laughed at it,
when I threw my only copy into the wastebasket. The copy I am now
turning over was loaned me by Miss Dwight, who faithfully preserved it
all these years, for the sake, no doubt, of what I strove to express
when I laboriously hitched together those dozen and more ungraceful
stanzas. But to the forty Fellow Citizens sitting in rows in front of
me it was no laughing matter. Even the bad boys sat in attitudes of
attention, hypnotized by the solemnity of my demeanor. If they got any
inkling of what the hail of big words was about, it must have been
through occult suggestion. I fixed their eighty eyes with my single
stare, and gave it to them, stanza after stanza, with such emphasis as
the lameness of the lines permitted.

He whose courage, will, amazing bravery,
Did free his land from a despot's rule,
From man's greatest evil, almost slavery,
And all that's taught in tyranny's school.
Who gave his land its liberty,