Page:Poems Denver.djvu/260

A dear-bought lesson it was to me,
From A, B, C, to the Rule of Three,
When seated upright, from morn till noon,
(The noontide hour never came too soon,)
On benches that stretched across the floor,
From the opposite wall to the open door,
I strove right hard to learn by rote
The lessons I cared for not a groat.

I loved them not, but I could not bear
That others the victor-wreath should wear;
It was something, too, to triumph o'er
Those taller than I by a head or more.
For this alone I would bravely look
By the hour o'er Webster's Spelling Book,
And think my triumph was easily won,
If I could at last but be number "one."

I remember once I had kept my place,
Against all who strove to win the race
And the meed of praise gain, me instead,
For full a week at my class's head;
Ah! never an ancient conqueror felt
Like me, as each little word was spelt,
And I read in each schoolmate's hopeless eye,
That my hour of triumph was drawing nigh.

But the last word came—that dreadful word!
And my soul in its little depths was stirred;
I spelt—e'en now my spirit bends—
And "Oh! what a fall was there," my friends