Alice of the Red Hair
Alice is young, Alice is fair,
Alice is crowned with red-gold hair;
Alice is tall and fair to see,
Alice is just the girl for me.
Thus sang the school room poet,
William Williams. The little piece of paper was folded and handed to another
boy to pass across the aisle. The fair Alice, however, was doomed never to rest
her glad eyes upon the flattering quatrain. The hawk-eyed teacher had seen a
plot brewing and called the middleman up to her desk.
“Give me that note,” she demanded.
“I – I didn’t write it,”
blubbered the accessory during the fact, handing over the missive.
“I didn’t ask you if you wrote
it,” snapped the teacher. “I asked you to give it to
me. Now take your seat.”
The teacher’s face assumed, if
that were possible, a graver look while reading the lines to Alice.
“No,” went on the unpoetical
school ma’m, “You did not write these lines, but I know who did. There’s but
one person in this school who could have written them. Once I had hope for him.
He has abused his talent. He has disgraced his gift. As a reward for his
contribution to literature he shall read it aloud before the school. William
Williams, come forward.”
Crestfallen, crushed to the earth
and red to the roots of his hair, William Williams staggered from his seat.
In a daze he reached the teacher’s
desk and took the slip of paper. The lines were blurred, but he knew them only
too well. Suddenly an inspiration enveloped him. He was a poet. Why not tune
his talent to practical use? It might turn the tide of affairs in his
direction. Surely the teacher was human, and perhaps sentimental. To him she
seemed a middle-aged woman, devoid of charm or beauty. Anyway, he could not
make matters worse than they were already. With a decided gulp and a clearing
of his throat he began:
“Teacher is young, teacher is
fair,
Teacher has loads of nut brown
hair;
Teacher is tall and fair to see,
Teacher is good as she can be.”
For an instant there was dead
silence. William stole a sidelong glance at the nonplussed teacher. She
wavered. Then she grasped the shoulder of the scared poet roughly. She held the
paper to his blinking eyes.
“William Williams,” she rasped, “You
read that poem correctly, or I’ll punish you within an inch of your life!”
Begun March, 1916.
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