At last I close my note-book with a half slam.

“That means,” says Bob, laying down his pencil, and addressing the girls,—­“That means he’s concluded his poem, and that he’s not pleased with it in any manner, and that he intends declining to read it, for that self-acknowledged reason, and that he expects us to believe every affected word of his entire speech—­”

“Oh, don’t!” I exclaim.

“Then give us the wretched production, in all its hideous deformity!”

And the girls all laugh so sympathetically, and Bob joins them so gently, and yet with a tone, I know, that can be changed so quickly to my further discomfiture, that I arise at once and read, without apology or excuse, this primitive and very callow poem recovered here to-day from the gilded roll: 

A BACKWARD LOOK.

  As I sat smoking, alone, yesterday,
    And lazily leaning back in my chair,
  Enjoying myself in a general way—­
  Allowing my thoughts a holiday
    From weariness, toil and care,—­
  My fancies—­doubtless, for ventilation—­
    Left ajar the gates of my mind,—­
  And Memory, seeing the situation,
    Slipped out in street of “Auld Lang Syne.”

  Wandering ever with tireless feet
    Through scenes of silence, and jubilee
  Of long-hushed voices; and faces sweet
  Were thronging the shadowy side of the street
    As far as the eye could see;
  Dreaming again, in anticipation,
    The same old dreams of our boyhood’s days
  That never come true, from the vague sensation
    Of walking asleep in the world’s strange ways.

  Away to the house where I was born! 
    And there was the selfsame clock that ticked
  From the close of dusk to the burst of morn,
  When life-warm hands plucked the golden corn
    And helped when the apples were picked. 
  And the “chany-dog” on the mantel-shelf,
    With the gilded collar and yellow eyes,
  Looked just as at first, when I hugged myself
    Sound asleep with the dear surprise.

  And down to the swing in the locust tree,
    Where the grass was worn from the trampled ground,
  And where “Eck” Skinner, “Old” Carr, and three
  Or four such other boys used to be
    Doin’ “sky-scrapers,” or “whirlin’ round:” 
  And again Bob climbed for the bluebird’s nest,
    And again “had shows” in the buggy-shed
  Of Guymon’s barn, where still, unguessed,
    The old ghosts romp through the best days dead!

  And again I gazed from the old school-room
    With a wistful look of a long June day,
  When on my cheek was the hectic bloom
  Caught of Mischief, as I presume—­
    He had such a “partial” way,
  It seemed, toward me.—­And again I thought
    Of a probable likelihood to be
  Kept in after school—­for a girl was caught
    Catching a note from me.