fered up to be gulped down into the yawning interior of the
Normal School.

(9) _Practising Poetry_

That blue manuscript book was soon filled, like the hive of some insect,
with a network of variously slanting lines and the thick and thin
strokes of letters. The eager pressure of the boy writer soon crumpled
its leaves; and then the edges got frayed, and twisted up claw-like as
if to hold fast the writing within, till at last, down what river
_Baitarani_[17] I know not, its pages were swept away by merciful
oblivion. Anyhow they escaped the pangs of a passage through the
printing press and need fear no birth into this vale of woe.

I cannot claim to have been a passive witness of the spread of my
reputation as a poet. Though Satkari Babu was not a teacher of our class
he was very fond of me. He had written a book on Natural
History--wherein I hope no unkind humorist will try to find a reason for
such fondness. He sent for me one day and asked: "So you write poetry,
do you?" I did not conceal the fact. From that time on, he would now and
then ask me to complete a quatrain by adding a couplet of my own to one
given by him.

Gobinda Babu of our school was very dark, and short and fat. He was the
Superintendent. He sat, in his black suit, with his account books, in an
office room on the second storey. We were all afraid of him, for he was
the rod-bearing judge. On one occasion I had escaped from the attentions
of some bullies into his room. The persecutors were five or six older
boys. I had no one to bear witness on my side--except my tears. I won my
case and since then Govinda Babu had a soft corner in his heart for me.

One day he called me into his room during the recess. I went in fear and
trembling but had no sooner stepped before him than he also accosted me
with the question: "So you write poetry?" I did not hesitate to make the
admission. He commissioned me to write a poem on some high moral precept
which I do not remember. The amount of condescension and affability
which such a request coming from him implied can only be appreciated by
those who were his pupils. When I finished and handed him the verses
next day, he took me to the highest class and made me stand before the
boys. "Recite," he commanded. And I recited loudly.

The only praiseworthy thing about this moral poem was that it soon got
lost. Its moral effect on that class was far from encouraging--the
sentiment it aroused being not one of re