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Thirty-seven years have passed, but if I were a portrait painter I could reproduce on canvas every nose, eye, smile, hand, curl of hair, in that group. I often close my eyes to call up the picture, and almost every child falls into his old seat and answers to his right name. Here are a few sketches of those in the front row:

Willy Beer, dubbed Wriggly Beer by the older boys in his street, because of a slight nervous affection that kept him in a state of perpetual motion. He was not uncomely; indeed, when I was telling a story it was a pleasure to watch his face all twitching with interest; first nose, then eyes, then mouth, till the delight spread to his fat hands, which clasped and unclasped as the tale proceeded. He had a perfect sense of time and tunes and was indefatigable in the marching and games. His mother sent me this unique letter when he had been with me a month:

“Yung lady:

“Willy seems to be onto his foot most of the time. These is all the butes Willy will half to Krissmus. Can you learn him settin’ down?
Respeckfully,
“Mrs. Beer.”

Sitting next to Willy, and rhyming with him, was Billy–Billy Prendergast–a large boy for his years with the face and voice of a man of thirty.

Billy Prendergast taught me a very good lesson in pedagogy when I was making believe teach him other things!

One of our simple morning songs ended with the verse:

“All ye little children, hear the truth we tell.
God will ne’er forget you, for he loves you well.”

One day in the gentle lull that succeeded the singing of that song, Billy’s growling baritone fell on my ear:

“Why will he never get yer?” he asked, his strange rough voice bringing complete silence, as it always did.

“What do you mean, Billy?”

“That’s what it says: ‘God will never get yer, for he loves you well.”

Consternation overcame me. Billy, and goodness knows how many others, had been beginning the day with the puzzling theological statement: “God will never get yer (ne’er forget you) for he loves you well.”

I chose my verses more carefully, after that experience, avoiding all e’ers and ne’ers and other misleading abbreviations.

Hansanella Dorflinger now claims attention.

Hansanella sounds like one word but they were twins, and thus introduced to me by a large incoherent boy who brought them to the kindergarten. He was in a hurry and left them at my door with scant ceremony, save the frequent repetition of the watchword “Hansanella.”

After some difficulty I succeeded in deciding which was Hans and which was Ella, though there was practically no difference between them excepting that the ash blonde hair of Hans was cropped still more closely than that of Ella.

They had light blue glassy eyes, too far apart, thin lips, chalky skins and perennial colds in the head. They breathed together, smiled and wept together, rose and sat down together and wiped their noses together–none too frequently. Never were such ‘twinneous’ twins as Hansanella, and it was ridiculous to waste two names on them, for there was not between them personality enough for one child.

When I requested Ella to be a pony it immediately became a span, for she never moved without Hans. If the children chose Hans for the father-bird, Ella intrusively and suffragistically fluttered into the nest, too, sadly complicating the family arrangements. They seldom spoke, but sat stolidly beside each other, laying the same patterns with dogged pertinacity.

One morning a new little boy joined our company. As was often the case he was shy about sitting down. It would seem as if the spectacle of forty children working tranquilly together, would convince new applicants that the benches contained no dynamite, but they always parted with their dilapidated hats as if they never, in the nature of things, could hope to see them again, and the very contact of their persons with the benches evoked an uncontrollable wail, which seemed to say: “It is all up with us now! Let the portcullis fall!”