ll such.

Oratory and poetry--all foolishness, I say. Better far are
drawing-lessons, and raffia-work, and clay-modeling than: "I come not
here to talk," and "A soldier of the Legion lay dying at Algiers," and
"Old Ironsides at anchor lay." (I observe that these lines are more or
less familiar to you, and that you are eager to add selections to the
list, all of them known to me as well as you.) That children, especially
boys, loathe to speak a piece is a fact profoundly significant. They
know it is nothing in the world but foolishness; and if there is one
thing above another that a child hates, it is to be made a fool in
public. That's what makes them work their fingers so, and gulp, and
stammer, and tremble at the knees. That is what sends them to their
seats, after all is over, mad as hornets. This is something that I know
about. It happened that, instead of getting funny pieces to recite as I
wanted to, discerning that one silly turn deserves another, my parents,
well-meaning in their way, taught me solemn things about: "O man
immortal, live for something!" and all such, and I had to humiliate
myself by disgorging them in public. The consequence was, that not only
on Friday afternoons but whenever anybody came to visit the school, I
was butchered to make a Roman holiday. Teacher was so proud of me, and
the visitors let on that they were tickled half to death, but I knew
better. I could see the other scholars look at one another, as much
as to say: "Well, if you'll tell me why!" Even in my shame and anger
I could see that. But there is one happy memory of a Friday afternoon.
Determined to show my friends and fellow-citizens that I, too, was born
in Arcadia, and was a living, human boy, I announced to Teacher: "I got
another piece."

"Oh, have you?" cried she, sure of an extra O-man-immortal intellectual
treat. "Let us hear it, by all means."

Whereupon I marched up to the platform and declaimed that deathless
lyric:

"When I was a boy, I was a bold one. My mammy made me a new shirt out o'
dad's old one."

All of it? Certainly. Isn't that enough? That was the only distinctly
popular platform effort I ever made. I am proud of it now. I was proud
of it then. But the news of my triumph was coldly received at home.

I don't know whether it has since gone out of date, but in my day
and time a very telling feature of school exhibitions was reading in
concert. The room was packed as full of everybody's ma as it could b