Benjamin Franklin was, when a boy, His mother’s delight, and his grandmother’s joy; He would chase after lightning wherever he spied it, Because he declared that he wanted to ride it. His hair was quite straight, but his nose he could curl, And so people thought him “a dear little girl!” There was a general shout from the class, while Miss Horton rapped sharply on the desk with her ruler:— “Silence!” she commanded. “Proceed with your composition, Ernestine.” And Ernie, with a rosy and rather abashed countenance, was about to begin the second stanza when the door opened and Miss O’Connell, the principal, entered the room. Miss O’Connell is a very imposing person, and endowed with a rather high temper. All the girls are afraid of her. She stood for a moment looking majestically about. “What was the cause of the outburst of disorder I heard just now?” she finally asked Miss Horton. “Ernestine Graham is reading her composition on Benjamin Franklin,” answered Miss Horton, really anxious to shield Ernie, it would seem. “There was something in it that struck the girls as funny.” “So I should judge,” answered Miss O’Connell. “It might be well for me to hear the rest of the composition myself. You may proceed, Ernestine.” Poor Ernie! her knees were literally clapping together with horror beneath the elegant box-pleats of her new plaid skirt. The thought of her cherished record assailed her. She turned a piteous, sickly smile upon Miss O’Connell, who met it with a glance of adamant. Evidently no quarter was to be expected from that direction. So, steadying her voice as well as she could, Ernie began to read again. This time you might have heard a pin drop:— Benjamin’s father, a terrible man, Kept in the closet a worn rattan; When Ben or his brothers did what was wrong, Their father would chant them this horrible song:— “Run, run, to my closet as quick as you can, And bring me my rat-te-tee, tat-te-tee, tan! And with it I’ll rat-te-tee, tat-tee-tan you, Until with your eyeses you crieses, boo-hoo!” Ernie gasped for breath. “Is that all?” asked the inexorable Miss O’Connell. “No, ma’am,” answered Ernie, plaintively; and spurred on by the recklessness of despair, she began the last stanza:— So Ben and his brothers they grew very good, They never stole nothing, not even their food! But lived upon pickles, and peanuts, and paint, And when asked, “Are you hungry?” replied, “No, we ain’t; But we’ll take, if you’ll give it, a wee bite of soap!” And now they’re all dead, and in heaven, I hope. With a final, hysterical giggle, Ernie dropped back into her seat. Miss O’Connell stood looking at her.