One of the Saints by Ambrose Bierce

Big Smith is an Oakland School Board man, And he looks as good as ever he can; And he’s such a cold and a chaste Big Smith That snowflakes all are his kin and kith. Wherever his eye he chances to throw The crystals of ice begin to grow; And the fruits and flowers he sees are lost By the singeing touch of a sudden frost. The women all shiver whenever he’s near, And look upon us with a look austere⁠— Effect of the Smithian atmosphere. Such, in a word, is the moral plan Of the Big, Big Smith, the School Board man. When told that Madame Ferrier had taught Hernani in school, his fist he brought Like a trip-hammer down on his bulbous knee, And he roared: “Her Nanny? By gum, we’ll see If the public’s time she dares devote To the educatin’ of any dam goat!” “You do not entirely comprehend⁠— Hernani ’s a play,” said his learned friend, “By Victor Hugo⁠—immoral and bad. What’s worse, it’s French!” “Well, well, my lad,” Said Smith, “if he cuts a swath so wide I’ll have him took re’glar up and tried!” And he smiled so sweetly the other chap Thought that himself was a Finn or Lapp Caught in a storm of his native snows, With a purple ear and an azure nose. The Smith continued: “I never pursue Immoral readin’.” And that is true: He’s a saint of remarkably high degree, With a mind as chaste as a mind can be; But read!⁠—the devil a word can he.