It was a remote village,
A school teacher single,
With boys of assorted age,
Had to manage and tackle.
'Boys, Inspector, any time,
To inspect the school,
Is expected to come,
Be smart, ready and cool.'
'He may, perhaps, ask you,
The shape of the world,
My snuff box, all of you
See how it is round.'
'I'll keep it on my table,
For your remembrance here,
One of you should be able
To answer, have no fear.'
Suddenly on a Sunday,
Knowing it was a holiday,
He came to inspect, on his way
To his own village nearby.
The teacher rang the bell.
The boys were puzzled.
It was short of a hell,
To have them assembled.
Boys with unkempt hair,
Boys with soiled dress,
Boys with faces poor,
Took their seats in the class.
The teacher in a hurry,
Kept a square snuff box,
And was feeling sorry,
To miss his round box.
The boys, as expected,
Heard the same query
With their hands raised,
Kept the answer ready.
Up one of them stood,
And promptly he said,
'Square on all Sundays
And round on other days.'