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THAT OLD SCHOOL
The Old Temple of Learning That Used to Stand on the Square Is Immortalized In Verse by S. H. Lynch, Esq.
[The following poem appeared in the Sunday Leader, and is herewith printed through the courtesy of the proprietor.]

"As down the stream of time I swiftly go,
Oft do I find me in an eddy's flow.
Which bears me back along youth's sunny shore,
And makes the stream seem swifter than before."

Once on a time in eighteen-thirty-two
When joys were plenty and when cares were few,
When Hope's bright pinions swept all clouds away,
And life to me was one unclouded day,
I found myself, a youth both small and spare,
Seated in school upon the Public Square.

How clear fond mem'ry brings the scene to view,
The desks, the scholars, and the master too.
Seated on high upon his splint-backed chair
Behind his desk, be heard the classes there.

Sometimes a culprit was compelled to stand
Close to his majesty, hold out his hand
To meet his doom, and on his palm to bear
That punishment e'en mercy could not spare.

But oft the sentence would the rather be,
"Go to your seat and learn your 'jography.' "
He ruled by love, made every duty plain,
Was kind to all, his name was "Chamberlain."

The ten-plate stove with oven large and wide
Extending through the stove from side to side,
As well adapted for a roast of pork
As thawing ink-stands that were made of cork,

Which, when they burst, as they would often do,
Would make a most delicious, fragrant stew;
Not quite so fragrant as the new mown hay,
But much more pungent on a winter's day.

The very books in usе remembered well;
From "Webster's Spelling Book" we learned to spell,
And e'en to read, for there were fables, too,
Which to our mental vision always true, Had each a moral, and a picture crude To illustrate the truth in ev'ry attitude.

Then "Murray," with the "English Reader" саmе,
Goldsmith and Blair and other men of fame
Here reproduced in purest English prose And poetry, to test the skill of those Who, when in parsing would the lines transpose
To find the verb most active of the thrее
Or passive, neuter, as the сase might be,
The parts of speech, the nouns and pronouns; lest
They might not always stand the final test
The application of Old Murray's rule,
And not agree, in that distinguished school
In number, person, as he says they must,
We boys agreed the study dry as dust.

Within those ancient walls imparting knowledge
From A В C to fitting boys for college,
No pens of steel were known, or then in use,
But simply quills from out some farmer's goose,
Which cut and fashioned by the master's skills
Did all the writing for both "Jack and Jill"
From copies set to guide the pupil's hand
Long ere we heard or knew of "Master Rand;"
And I remember how intensely then
We bowed ourselves and struggled with that pen,
With tongue protruding and each pupil's face
Writhing in concert with a broad grimace,
As if the writer using pen and ink
To follow copy would the moral drink.
And ne'er forget, believing every word
"The pen is mightier, mightier than the sword."
Thus did our teachers sentiments instill,
Or try to, through the medium of that quill.

And we had "Daboli" for our mathematics
And "Blake's Philosophy" for Hydrostatics;
The former taught us figures never lie,
As we would add, subtract, and multiply;
The latter, conversational the while
Gave us our "physics" in a pleasing style.
And we had "Woodbridge" then, with "Atlas." too,
Descriptive of the earth, our interest grew
As this we studied, for it gave us all
At that time known of this terrestrial ball.
And then for History we studied "Hale",
That is the history within the pale of our United States.

For ancient lore and higher branches, we must go next door,
And climb for fame up second story stairs
Where we all thought the pupils put on airs,
But when in course of time we got there too,
We wondered how we ever thought it true.
The "Upper School", as it was called those days,
Was somewhat better in its means and ways,
For there the boys and girls were older, and the floor
Extended to the rostrum from the door.
The desks along each window lighted side,
Leaving the center quite unoccupied
Save for the old wood stoves, in number, two,
Which In the winter, fed with wood which grew
On the surrounding hills, gave grateful heat
Diffusing comfort to the farthest seat.

But what with Greek, and Latin, and renown
This school considered best in this old town
Was occupied with Females on the right, and Males upon the left,
so it was quite a trial of our courage,
when the day came round
That all the orators by law were bound
To mount the stage and make their bow,
And "speak a piece" the best that they knew how,
Facing the school, and worst of all, the girls
With eyes of black or blue, entrancing curls,
All staring at you, and your blushing face
And trembling limbs to add to your disgrace,
And voice so weak, and memory wandering far
As you proclaimed "My voice is still for war,"
Or "My name is Norval, On the Grarmpion Hills
My father feeds his flocks," while the cold chills
Are running down your spine enough to freeze
Your blood, and your weak knees
Are knocking 'gainst each other
Until you really do not know the one from tother.
And growing desperate with shame and rage
You scrape your foot and stumble from the stage.

On Saturday another trial came,
To read a composition weak and lame;
'Twas easy work to write a lot of stuff
Reflecting on the master, who was rough
At times, and we boys didn't like him,
And this was all the way we had to strike him.

On one occasion, the boys were well aware
That one among us had composed with care
A composition, which when it was read
Would bring down vengeance on his guilty head,
But conning the result, in fear and doubt
When time was called, his courage all oozed out.
"I'm not prepared", he said, with guilty look,
And hid his manuscript within his book. But expectation was on tip toe now, And disappointed of a coming row,
The boys proclaimed his falsehood to the school
And our poor author looked e'en like a fool.
No mercy did they show, no not a bit,
"We know he has a composition writ,
For we have seen it with our very eyes,
And when he says he hasn't then he lies."
The master bade him read it, then and there.
But "Charley" with a wild and vacant stare
Sat, silent as a victim of despair.
"Will you obey me sir?" the master cries,
And from his old armchair we see him rise
While anger to subdue he vainly tries,
And rushing down with eager, hasty stride
He seized the poker which lay just beside
The ten plate stove, 'twas long and stout,
A blow from that would lay the culprit out,
And springing up upon the bench above,
He looked the picture of avenging Jove,
When raising high the weapon o'er his head
As though determined he would strike him dead.
The school transfixed with terror turned away
And hid their eyes upon that fearful fray
Until they hear a voice as thunder-like
Cry out quite tragic, "Strike, Silvester, strike!"
This brought the house down, and the master too,
And our respect for "Charley" quickly grew
As we acknowledged he had won the day
Though after school the master bade him stay.

The ways of boys and girls in school together,
While Human Nature, just the same as ever,
Revealed itself in many curious ways.
One of which was that in those halcyon days
A Postoffice, which, as we now recall,
Was simply carried on within the wall
Of the old Meeting House across the way
By working hard when they were out at play
In digging out a stone, thus leaving space
For notes and letters—'twas a secret place
Known to but few, but that they knew it well,
Both boys and girls, it were not hard to tell,
And many a love note, not left long alone,
Was thus conveyed from out that wall of stone.

The boys were full of mischief then, as now,
And many a trick they played, and many a row.
Some teachers were so heartily disliked
That had they been a cannon, they'd been spiked,
But being only made of common clay,
The boys devised to annoy them every way
That deviltry suggested, one of which
To hide the ruler or to burn the switch.
Encouraged by success, they farther went
And to blockade the door much time was spent
To keep him out, but this was not enough,
They tilled the oven of the stove with snuff,
Which, when the fires were lighted, drove us out
And put the whole school in a noisy rout.
Again they filled the stove pipe up with wood,
And then upon the Public Square they stood
To see the ending of their reckless joke
And thus their "alma mater" end in smoke.
But while they waited, and all stood aloof,
One, "Daniel Collings," mounted on the roof
While others passed up water in their pails,
And single banded, he the fire assails.
And put it out, else that had been the last
Of the old school, and memories of the past

All that was left of this old house of lame
Once "Court House," "Jail," "Academy," by name.
Again did mischief, which they thought was fun,
Asserts itself until the deed was done,
In sawing off the steeple posts at night,
A deed that was too evil for the light.
And pulled it, down to let the people know
How far malicious mischief then could go.
What pleasure they could find 'twas hard to see
Save vent their spite on the Academy.

Now in our school days, holidays were rare.
So few, that to our minds 'twas hardly fair.
But half a day on Saturday each week
Whether we studied А, В, С or Greek,
"Old Michael" kept us up to time quite well,
At nine, o'clock and two, he rang the bell
On the Old Church that stood across the way,
And made us scurry when we were at play.
We might be playing mumblypeg or ball,
He had no sympathy with us at all,
And so we ran for school with hardly breath
To cry out "Give me Liberty or Give me Death!"
To sit in school upon а summer day
And watch the flies above our heads at play,
Darting athwart a sunbeam back and forth,
Playing at tag for all that they were worth,
As if to tantalize our being there
And sitting still, while they were free as air
Would cause what little minds we youngsters had
To wander o'ur the meadows, flower clad,
And listen to the birds, the cheerful clink
Of one we always loved, the bobolink,
And see him raise in varied colored coat
From out the grass, and in the air to float,
Then settle down upon some slender reed
And swing himself, was liberty indeed.
But who in summer when the air was hot
Does like the school house, or does like it not?
But loves sweet liberty in which to roam
Along the river margin near his home,
And listen to the birds in sweetest song.
And have some boon companion go along
To chase the rabbits, or to fight the bees,
To steal a boat and sail on inland seas,
Mayhap to fish or else a swimming go
That wouldn't do it I should like to know.
So playing "hookey" often was our will
Though knowing well the penalty, yet still
When weighed and balanced with fun that led it
We always found a margin to our credit.
The punishment ne'er thought of while we roam
But the reminder came when we got home,
An then again, when we got back to school, So twice we got a licking as a rule, Yet notwithstanding all, we still would do it
Time and again, though well we knew we'd rue it.

Some from this school went forth to carve a name
High on the Temple of their Country's fame;
Still others, ere they left to enter life
Had carved their name with an old "Barlow knife"
Upon the desk or bench, without a thought or care
Of youthful folly that had placed it there.
As others too we must not everlook
Inscribed their name in some old dog-eared book,
Leaving a guide-board on the title page
To point a moral for the coming age,
In this sententious warning, terse and brief,
Inscribed in crabbed hand on the flу-leaf:
'Steal not this book, my honest friend,
'For fear the 'gallus' be your end,
'And if my name you wish to see
'Look at page sixty-three."
Then closed the book and left it to its fate
Shut out from sight and mem'ry from that date.
Like some old friend of whom I set great store
Returned to greet me from a foreign shore
So does the past come back;
again I see The Public Square as then it used to be,
With church, and Court House and Academy;
The market house with rows of hooks and stall.
The old Town Pump, its handle, spout and all,
And never can forget the taste or smell
Of the foul water from that ancient well.
The school is gone from off the Public Square
And of the boys and girls once gathered there
How few are left to reminisce with me The glories of the old Academy.

The Teachers from 1830.
First Noah Webster's son began his rule,
Then "Chamberlin" succeeded to the school.
The next in order to assume the part,
Was one, the father of Professor Hart.
The next that I remember, too anon,
Was one who ruled by might, his name St. John;
And many will remember one e'en now
That faithlul teacher, Jeremiah Dow.
Within the higher school, imparting knowledge,
Was Dr. Orton, fitting boys for college;
And Daniel Ullman, whom I often saw
Was afterwards distinguished in the law,
Then followed Siewers, Dickenson went past,
Then Dana, who not least, at least was last.
For my own pleasure, in this way I've tried
To see the Old Academy diversified,
And hope the others as I have expected
Be also pleased to see it resurrected.