Infomotions, Inc.De La Salle Fifth Reader / Schools, Brothers of the Christian



Author: Schools, Brothers of the Christian
Title: De La Salle Fifth Reader
Publisher: Project Gutenberg
Tag(s): yankee doodle; doodle dandy
Contributor(s): Giles, J. A. (John Allen), 1808-1884 [Translator]
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Size: 55,991 words (really short) Grade range: 7-9 (grade school) Readability score: 71 (easy)
Identifier: etext10811
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Title: De La Salle Fifth Reader

Author: Brothers of the Christian Schools

Release Date: January 23, 2004 [EBook #10811]

Language: English

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*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DE LA SALLE FIFTH READER ***




Produced by Juliet Sutherland, David Gundry and PG Distributed
Proofreaders





_DE LA SALLE SERIES_




FIFTH READER



[Illustration: WILLIAM McKINLEY PRESIDENT 1897-1901]



(REVISED EDITION, 1922)

BY THE BROTHERS OF THE CHRISTIAN SCHOOLS, ST. JOSEPH'S NORMAL INSTITUTE,
POCANTICO HILLS, N.Y. LA SALLE INSTITUTE, GLENCOE, MO.





       *       *       *       *       *



CONTENTS


_2_ PREFACE

_3_ INTRODUCTION

_4_ SUGGESTIONS

_5_ GUIDE TO PRONUNCIATION

_6_ DEFINITIONS

_7_ HYMN TO ST. LA SALLE. _Mercedes_

_8_ COLUMBUS AT THE CONVENT. _J.T. Trowbridge_

_9_ THE LITTLE FERN. _Mara L. Pratt_

_10_ HELPING MOTHER.

_11_ A CONTENTED WORKMAN.

_12_ TWO LABORERS. _Thomas Carlyle_

_13_ THE GRUMBLING PUSS.

_14_ THE BROOK SONG. _James Whitcomb Riley_

_15_ THE STORY OF THE SEED-DOWN. _Rydingsvard_

_16_ THE USE OF FLOWERS. _Mary Howitt_

_17_ PIERRE'S LITTLE SONG.

_18_ SEPTEMBER. _Helen Hunt Jackson_

_19_ "MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME." _Mrs. T.A. Sherrard_

_20_ THE FIRST MIRACLE OF JESUS.

_21_ MY BEADS. _Father Ryan_

_22_ THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS. _Thomas Moore_

_23_ A LITTLE LADY. _Louisa M. Alcott_

_24_ WHAT HOUSE TO LIKE. _Anon._

_25_ A SONG OF DUTY. _Denis A. McCarthy_

_26_ AN EVENING WITH THE ANGELS.

_27_ MY GUARDIAN ANGEL. _Cardinal Newman_

_28_ LITTLE BELL. _Thomas Westwood_

_29_ A MODEST WIT. _Selleck Osborne_

_30_ WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. _George P. Morris_

_31_ THE BOSTON TEA PARTY.

_32_ THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. _Samuel Woodworth_

_33_ THE BOY AND THE CRICKETS. _Pierre J. Hetzel_

_34_ OUR HEROES. _Phoebe Cary_

_35_ THE MINNOWS WITH SILVER TAILS. _Jean Ingelow_

_36_ THE BROOK. _Tennyson_

_37_ LEARNING TO THINK.

_38_ ONE BY ONE. _Adelaide A. Procter_

_39_ THE BIRCH CANOE. _Longfellow_

_40_ PETER OF CORTONA.

_41_ To MY DOG BLANCO. _J.G. Holland_

_42_ A STORY OF A MONK.

_43_ THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS. _Longfellow_

_44_ GLORIA IN EXCELSIS. _Father Ryan_

_45_ THE FIRST CHRISTMAS TREE. _Eugene Field_

_46_ THE HOLY CITY.

_47_ THE FEAST OF TONGUES. _Aesop_

_48_ THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE GLOWWORM. _William Cowper_

_49_ JACK FROST. _Hannah F. Gould_

_50_ "GOING! GOING! GONE!" _Helen Hunt Jackson_

_51_ SEVEN TIMES TWO. _Jean Ingelow_

_52_ MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

_53_ THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. _Eliza Cook_

_54_ BREAK, BREAK, BREAK! _Tennyson_

_55_ GOD IS OUR FATHER.

_56_ HAPPY OLD AGE. _Robert Southey_

_57_ KIND WORDS. _Father Faber_

_58_ KINDNESS IS THE WORD. _John Boyle O'Reilly_

_59_ DAFFODILS. _William Wordsworth_

_60_ THE STORY OF TARCISIUS. _Cardinal Wiseman_

_61_ LEGEND OF THE WAXEN CIBORIUM. _Eleanor C. Donnelly_

_62_ LITTLE DAFFY-DOWN-DILLY. _Nathaniel Hawthorne_

_63_ IN SCHOOL DAYS _Whittier_

_64_ THE SUN'S FAMILY

_65_ WILL AND I _Paul H. Hayne_

_66_ CHRISTMAS DINNER AT THE CRATCHITS'. _Charles Dickens_

_67_ WHICH SHALL IT BE? _Anon_

_68_ ST. DOROTHY, MARTYR.

_69_ TO A BUTTERFLY. _William Wordsworth_

_70_ THE PEN AND THE INKSTAND. _Hans Christian Andersen_

_71_ THE WIND AND THE MOON. _George MacDonald_

_72_ ST. PHILIP NERI AND THE YOUTH.

_73_ THE WATER LILY. _Jean Ingelow_

_74_ A BUILDER'S LESSON. _John Boyle O'Reilly_

_75_ WASHINGTON AND HIS MOTHER.

_76_ WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY. _Margaret E. Sangster_

_77_ THE SWORD OF BUNKER HILL. _William R. Wallace_

_78_ THE MARTYR'S BOY. _Cardinal Wiseman_

_79_ THE ANGEL'S STORY. _Adelaide A. Procter_

_80_ GLUCK'S VISITOR. _John Ruskin_

_81_ A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. _Clement C. Moore_

_82_ COMMODORE JOHN BARRY.

_83_ THE BOY OF THE HOUSE. _Jean Blewett_

_84_ BIOGRAPHIES


(Transcriber's Note: Although "ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL. _Leigh Hunt_"
and "A SIMPLE RECIPE. _James Whitcomb Riley_" were originally shown in the
list above, neither work appears in the text.)



       *       *       *       *       *




_2_



PREFACE


The object of the Christian Brothers in issuing a new series of Readers
is to place in the hands of the teachers and pupils of our Catholic
schools a set of books embodying the matter and methods best suited to
their needs. The matter has been written or chosen with a view to
interest and instruct, to cultivate a taste for the best literature, to
build up a strong moral character and to imbue our children with an
intelligent love of Faith and Country. The methods are those approved by
the most experienced and progressive teachers of reading in Europe and
America.

These Readers have also been specially designed to elicit thought and
facilitate literary composition. In furtherance of this idea, class
talks, word study, the structure of sentences, drills on certain correct
forms of expression, the proper arrangement of ideas, explanation of
phrases and literary expressions, oral and written reproductions of
narrations and descriptions, and exercises in original composition, all
receive the attention which their importance demands. Thus will the
pupils, while learning to read and from their earliest years, acquire
that readiness in grasping the thoughts of others and that fluency in
expressing their own, which are so essential to a good English
education.

In teaching the art of Reading as well as that of Composition, the
principle of order should in a great measure determine the value of the
methods to be employed. In the acquisition of knowledge, the child
instinctively follows the order of nature. This order is first,
_observation_; second, _thought_; third, _expression_. It becomes the
duty of the teacher, consequently, to lead the child to observe
_accurately_, to think _clearly_, and to express his thoughts
_correctly_. And text-books are useful only in so far as they supply the
teacher with the material and the system best calculated to accomplish
such results.

It is therefore hoped that the present new series of Readers, having
been planned in accordance with the principle just enunciated, will
prove a valuable adjunct in our Catholic schools.


       *       *       *       *       *




_3_



INTRODUCTION


In this Fifth Reader of the De La Salle Series the plan of the preceding
numbers has been continued. The pupil has now mastered the mechanical
difficulties of learning to read, and has acquired a fairly good working
vocabulary. Hence he is prepared to read intelligently and with some
degree of fluency and pleasure. Now is the time to lead him to acquire a
taste for good reading. The selections have been drawn mainly from
authors whose writings are distinguished for their moral and literary
value, and whose style is sure to excite a lasting interest.

In addition to giving the pupil practice in reading and forming a basis
for oral and written composition work, these selections will raise his
ideas of right living, will quicken his imagination, will give him his
first knowledge of many things, stimulate his powers of observation,
enlarge his vocabulary, and correct and refine his mode of expression. A
wholesome reading habit, so important to-day, will thus be easily,
pleasantly and unconsciously formed.

The following are some of the features of the book:

GUIDE TO PRONUNCIATION.--This Guide is to be referred to again and
again, and the diacritical marks carefully taught. Instruction in the
vowel sounds is an excellent drill in articulation, while a knowledge of
the diacritical marks enables the pupil to master these sounds for
himself when consulting the dictionary.

VARIETY OF MATTER.--In the volume will be found the best sentiments of
the best writers. The pupil will find fables, nature studies, tales of
travel and adventure, brave deeds from history and fiction, stories of
loyalty and heroism, examples of sublime Christian self-sacrifice, and
selections that teach industry, contentment, respect for authority,
reverence for all things sacred, attachment to home, and fidelity to
faith and Country.

LANGUAGE STUDY.--If reading is to hold its proper place in the class
room, the teaching of it must not be confined to the mere reading of the
text. In its truest sense, reading is far more comprehensive. The
teacher will question the pupil on what he has read, point out to him
the beauties of thought and language, find out what hold the reading has
taken upon his memory, how it has aroused his imagination, assisted his
judgment, directed his will, and contributed to his fund of general
information. To assist in this most important work is the object aimed
at in the matter given for Language Study. Such study will also give
fuller powers of interpretation and corresponding appreciation of the
selection considered simply as literature.

RECITATIONS.--There are some selections marked for recitation. The
public recitation of these extracts will banish awkwardness of manner,
beget self-confidence, and lay the foundation for subsequent
elocutionary work. Besides, experience teaches that a single poem or
address based upon some heroic or historic event, recited before a class
or a school, will often do more to build up a noble character and foster
a love of history, than a full term of instruction by question and
answer.

POETRY.--The numerous poetic selections, some of which are partly
analyzed by way of suggestion, will create a love for the highest and
purest forms of literature, will broaden the field of knowledge, and
emphasize the teachings of some of the prose selections. Many of them
have been written by American authors. Every American boy and girl
should be acquainted with the works of poets who have done so much for
the development of American literature and nationality.

MEMORY GEMS.--"The memorizing of choice bits of prose and poetry
enriches the vocabulary of the pupils, adorns their memory, suggests
delicate and noble thoughts, and puts them in possession of sentences of
the best construction. The recitation of these expressive texts
accustoms the children to speak with ease, grace and elegance."
("Elements of Practical Pedagogy.")

BIOGRAPHIES.--Young children enjoy literature for its own sake, and take
little interest in the personality of the writer; but as they grow
older, pleasure in the work of an author arouses an interest in the
writer himself. Brief biographical sketches are given at the close of
the volume as helps in the study of the authors from whom selections are
drawn, and to induce the pupils to read further.


       *       *       *       *       *




_4_



SUGGESTIONS


WORD STUDY.--The pupil should know how to spell and pronounce correctly
all the words of the selection he is preparing to read. He should know
their ordinary meanings and the special meanings they may have in the
text. He should be able to write them correctly from dictation and to
use them in sentences of his own. He should examine if they are
primitive, derivative, or compound; he should be able to name the
prefixes and suffixes and show how the meanings of the original words
are modified by their use. He should cultivate the habit of word
mastery. What is read will not otherwise be understood. Without it there
can be no good reading, speaking or writing.

EXPRESSIVE READING.--There should be constant drill to secure correct
pronunciation, distinct articulation, proper emphasis, and an agreeable
tone of voice, without which there can be no expressive reading. This is
a difficult task, and will take much time, trouble and practice; but it
has far-reaching results. It enlarges the sympathy of the pupil and lays
the foundation for a genuine love of literature. Do not, then, let the
reading lesson drift into a dull and monotonous calling of words. On the
contrary, let it be intelligent, spirited, enthusiastic. Emotion comes
largely from the imagination. The pupil himself must be taught not only
to feel what he reads, but to make its meaning clear to others. It is
important that children be taught to acquire thought through the ear.

CONCERT READING.--Reading in concert is generally of little value, and
the time given to it ill-spent. It does not aid the children in getting
thought, or in expressing it fluently. As an exercise in teaching
reading it is ineffective and often positively harmful. A concert
recitation to which special training has been given partakes of the
nature of a hymn or a song, and then becomes an element of value. If
occasionally there must be concert reading in the class room, it should
always be preceded by individual mastery of the selection.

POEMS.--In the first lesson, a poem, like a picture, should be presented
as a whole, and never dissected. The teacher should first read it
through, not stopping for note or comment. He should then read it again,
part by part, stopping, for question, explanation and discussion.
Lastly, the whole poem, should be read with suitable emotion, so that
the final impression may be made by the author's own words. It is
important that the pupil get the message which the author intended to
give. In teaching a descriptive poem, make the pictures as vivid as
possible, and thus awaken the imagination. In dealing with a narrative
poem, the sequence of events must first be made clear. When this is
done, the aim should be to give fuller meaning to the story by bringing
out clearly the causes, motives and results of acts. All this will take
time. Be it so. One poem well read, well studied, is worth more than a
volume carelessly read over. In reading poetry, be careful that the
pupils, while giving the rhythm of the lines, do not fall into the
singsong tone so common and so disagreeable.

EXPLANATIONS.--Explanations should accompany every reading lesson,
without which there can be no serious teaching of the vernacular. By
their means the teacher enters into communication with his pupils; he
gets them to speak, he corrects their errors, trains their reason, and
forms their taste. It has been said that a teacher able to explain
selections in prose and poetry "holds his class in the hollow of his
hand." The teacher should insist that the pupil express himself clearly
and correctly, not only during the reading lesson, but on every subject
he has occasion to deal with, either orally or in writing, throughout
the day's recitations.

REVIEWS.--As the memory of children, though prompt, is weak, frequent
reviews should be held. They are necessary for the backward pupils and
advantageous for the others. Have an informal talk with the children on
what they have read, what they have learned, what they have liked, and
what has interested them. Some important parts of the prose and poetry
previously studied might, during this exercise, be re-read with profit.

COMPOSITION.--Continue oral and written composition. The correct use of
written language is best taught by selecting for compositions
subject-matter that deeply interests the children. If persevered in,
this will secure a good, strong, idiomatic use of English. If the words
of a selection that has been studied appear now and then in the
children's conversation or writing, it should be a matter for praise;
for this means that new words have been added to their vocabulary, and
that the children have a new conception of beauty of thought and speech.

See that all written work be done neatly and legibly. Slovenly or
careless habits should never be allowed in any written work.

MEMORY GEMS.--Do not lose sight of the memory gems. Familiarize the
pupil with them. Their value to the child lies more in future good
resulting from them than in present good. These treasures of thought
will live in the memory and influence the daily lives of the children
who learn them by heart.

THE DICTIONARY.--The use of the dictionary is a necessary part of
education. It is a powerful aid in self-education. Its use will double
the value of study in connection with reading and language. Every
Grammar School, High School and College should be supplied with several
copies of a good unabridged dictionary, and every pupil taught how to
consult it, and encouraged to do so. The dictionary should be the book
of first and last and constant resort.

USE OF THE LIBRARY.--The teacher should endeavor to create an interest
in those books from which the selections in the Reader are taken, and in
others of equal grade and quality. Encourage the children to take books
from the library. Direct them in their choice. Encourage home reading.
The reading of good books should be a part of regular school work;
otherwise little or no true progress can be made in speaking and
writing. The best way to learn to speak and write good English is to
read good English.

For additional suggestions as to the best means of teaching Reading and
Language, teachers are referred to Chapters II and IV, Part IV, of
"Elements of Practical Pedagogy," by the Christian Brothers, and
published by the La Salle Bureau of Supplies, 50 Second Street, New
York.


       *       *       *       *       *


Acknowledgments are gratefully made to the following authors,
publishers, and owners of copyright, who have courteously granted
permission to use the selections which bear their names:

"Mercedes," Miss Eleanor C. Donnelly, Miss Mary Boyle O'Reilly, Miss
Kate Putnam Osgood, Miss P.C. Donnelly, Mrs. Margaret E. Sangster, Mr.
Denis A. McCarthy, Mr. James Whitcomb Riley, Mr. George Cooper, Mr. J.T.
Trowbridge, "Rev. Richard W. Alexander;" University of Notre Dame; The
Ladies' Home Journal; Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.; The Educational
Publishing Co.; Little, Brown & Co.; The Bobbs-Merrill Co.; P.J. Kenedy
& Sons; The Hinds & Noble Co.; Charles Scribner's Sons.

The selections from Longfellow, Whittier, Holmes, Hawthorne, Fields,
Trowbridge, Phoebe Cary, Charles Dudley Warner, are used by permission
of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers
of the works of these authors, and to these gentlemen are tendered
expressions of sincere thanks.


       *       *       *       *       *




_5_



GUIDE TO PRONUNCIATION


NOTE.--This Guide is given to aid the pupil in the use of the
dictionary, and will be found to cover all ordinary cases. In the
diacritical marking, as in accentuation and syllabication, Webster's
International Dictionary has been taken as authority.




VOWELS


(Transcriber's Note: Equivalent sound shown within round brackets.)



[=a]            as in gate--g[=a]te

[^a]            as in care--c[^a]re

[)a]            as in cat--c[)a]t

[.a]            as in ask--[.a]sk

[a.]  ([)o])    as in what--wh[a.]t

[:a]            as in car--c[:a]r

[a:]            as in all--[a:]ll

ai  ([^a])      as in air--[^a]ir

ai  ([=a])      as in aim--[=a]im

au  ([:a])      as in aunt--[:a]unt

[=e]            as in eve--[=e]ve

[)e]            as in end--[)e]nd

[~e]            as in her--h[~e]r

[^e]            as in there--th[^e]re

[e=]  ([=a])    as in they--th[e=]y

ea  ([=e])      as in ear--[=e]ar

ei  ([=e])      as in receive--rec[=e]ive

[=i]            as in ice--[=i]ce

[)i]            as in pin--p[)i]n

[~i]  ([~e])    as in bird--b[~i]rd

[:i]  ([=e])    as in police--pol[:i]ce

i[e=]  ([=e])   as in chief--chi[=e]f

[=o]            as in old--[=o]ld

[^o]            as in lord--l[^o]rd

[)o]            as in not--n[)o]t

[.o]  ([)u])    as in son--s[.o]n

[o.]  ([u.])    as in wolf--w[o.]lf

[o:]  ([=oo])   as in do--d[o:]

oa  ([=o])      as in boat--b[=o]at

[=oo]  ([o:])   as in moon--m[=oo]n

[)oo]  ([o.])   as in foot--f[)oo]t

[=u]            as in pure--p[=u]re

[)u]            as in cup--c[)u]p

[^u]            as in burn--b[^u]rn

[u.]  ([o.])    as in full--f[u.]ll

[u:]            as in rude--r[u:]de

ew  ([=u])      as in new

[=y]  ([=i]     as in fly--fl[=y]

[)y]  ([)i])    as in hymn--h[)y]mn

[~y]  ([~e])    as in myrrh--m[~y]rrh



CONSONANTS


c   (s)        as in cent

c   (k)        as in cat

ce  (sh)       as in ocean

ch  (k)        as in school

ch  (sh)       as in machine

ci  (sh)       as in gracious

dg  (j)        as in edge

ed  (d)        as in burned

ed  (t)        as in baked

f   (v)        as in of

g   (hard)     as in get

g   (j)        as in gem

gh  (f)        as in laugh

n   (ng)       as in ink

ph  (f)        as in sulphur

qu  (kw)       as in queen

s   (z)        as in has

s   (sh)       as in sure

s   (zh)       as in pleasure

ssi (sh)       as in passion

si  (zh)       as in occasion

ti  (sh)       as in nation

wh  (hw)       as in when

x   (z)        as in Xavier

x   (ks)       as in tax

x   (gz)       as in exist



       *       *       *       *       *




_6_



DEFINITIONS


LANGUAGE is the expression of thought by means of words.

WORDS, with respect to their _origin_, are divided into _primitive_
and _derivative_; and with respect to their _composition_, into _simple_
and _compound_.

A PRIMITIVE word is one that is not derived from another word.

A DERIVATIVE word is one that is formed from another word by means
of prefixes or suffixes, or by some other change.

A SIMPLE word is one that consists of a single significant term.

A COMPOUND word is one made up of two or more simple words.

A SENTENCE is a combination of words which make complete sense.

A SYLLABLE is a word or a part of a word pronounced by one effort
of the voice.


The DIAERESIS is the mark [..] placed over the second of two
adjacent vowels, to denote that they are to be pronounced as distinct
letters; as _REECHO_.



RULES FOR THE USE OF CAPITAL LETTERS


The first word of every SENTENCE should begin with a capital.

PROPER NAMES, and words derived from them, should begin with
capitals.

The first word of every LINE OF POETRY should begin with a capital.

All names of God and all titles of the DEITY, as well as all
pronouns referring to the Deity, should begin with capitals.

The words I and O should always be capitals.

The first word of a DIRECT QUOTATION should begin with a capital.

The names of the DAYS and of the MONTHS should begin with
capitals; but not the names of the seasons.


       *       *       *       *       *




_7_



HYMN TO ST. LA SALLE.


       Glorious Patron! low before thee
         Kneel thy sons, with hearts a-flame!
       And our voices blend in music,
         Singing praises to thy name.
           Saint John Baptist! glorious Patron!
           Saint La Salle! we sound thy fame.

       Lover of our Queen and Mother,
         At her feet didst vow thy heart,
       Earth, and all its joys, forsaking,
         Thou didst choose the better part.
           Saint La Salle, our glorious Father,
           Pierce our souls with love's own dart.

       Model of the Christian Teacher!
         Patron of the Christian youth!
       Lead us all to heights of glory,
         As we strive in earnest ruth.
           Saint La Salle! oh, guard and guide us,
           As we spread afar the Truth!

       In this life of sin and sorrow,
         Saint La Salle, oh, guide our way,
       In the hour of dark temptation,
         Father! be our spirit's stay!
           Take our hand and lead us homeward,
           Saint La Salle, to Heaven's bright Day!


_Mercedes._


[Illustration: ST. JOHN BAPTIST DE LA SALLE.]
Founder of the Brothers of the Christian Schools, pointing out the way
of salvation to the children of all nations.

"Christian Teachers are the sculptors of living angels, moulding and
shaping the souls of youth for heaven." _Most Reverend Archbishop
Keane, of Dubuque._


       *       *       *       *       *




_8_


due
mien
fri'ar
pri'or
Pa'los
por'ter
con'vent
pre'cious
grat'i tude



COLUMBUS AT THE CONVENT.


       Dreary and brown the night comes down,
         Gloomy, without a star.
       On Palos town the night comes down;
       The day departs with stormy frown;
         The sad sea moans afar.

       A convent gate is near; 'tis late;
         Tin-gling! the bell they ring.
       They ring the bell, they ask for bread--
       "Just for my child," the father said.
         Kind hands the bread will bring.

       White was his hair, his mien was fair,
         His look was calm and great.
       The porter ran and called a friar;
       The friar made haste and told the prior;
         The prior came to the gate.

       He took them in, he gave them food;
         The traveler's dreams he heard;
       And fast the midnight moments flew.
       And fast the good man's wonder grew,
         And all his heart was stirred.

       The child the while, with soft, sweet smile,
         Forgetful of all sorrow,
       Lay soundly sleeping in his bed.
       The good man kissed him there, and said:
         "You leave us not to-morrow!

       "I pray you, rest the convent's guest;
         This child shall be our own--
       A precious care, while you prepare
       Your business with the court, and bear
         Your message to the throne."

       And so his guest he comforted.
         O wise, good prior! to you,
       Who cheered the stranger's darkest days,
       And helped him on his way, what praise
         And gratitude are due!


_J.T. Trowbridge._

By permission of the author.


       *       *       *       *       *


Where is Palos? What is it noted for?

Who was the "good man" spoken of in the poem?

In the line "The traveler's dreams he heard," who was the traveler?
Relate the story of his dreams. Why are they called dreams? Did the
dreams become facts? In what way?

How did the monks of this convent assist Columbus?

How did the Queen of Spain assist him?

Why is it that in the geography of our country we meet with so many
Catholic names?


       *       *       *       *       *


Memory Gem:


       Press on! There's no such word as fail!
       Push nobly on! The goal is near!
       Ascend the mountain! Breast the gale!
       Look upward, onward,--never fear!



[Illustration:]


       *       *       *       *       *




_9_



THE LITTLE FERN.


A great many centuries ago, when the earth was even more beautiful than
it is now, there grew in one of the many valleys a dainty little fern
leaf. All around the tiny plant were many others, but none of them so
graceful and delicate as this one I tell you of. Every day the cheery
breezes sought out their playmate, and the merry sunbeams darted in and
out, playing hide-and-seek among reeds and rushes; and when the twilight
shadows deepened, and the sunbeams had all gone away, the little fern
curled itself up for the night with only the dewdrops for company.

So day after day went by: and no one knew of, or found the sweet wild
fern, or the beautiful valley it grew in. But--for this was a very long
time ago--a great change took place in the earth; and rocks and soil
were upturned, and the rivers found new channels to flow in.

Now, when all this happened, the little fern was quite covered up with
the soft moist clay, and perhaps you think it might as well never have
lived as to have been hidden away where none could see it.

But after all, it was not really lost; for hundreds of years afterwards,
when all that clay had become stone, and had broken into many fragments,
a very wise and learned man found the bit of rock upon which was all the
delicate tracery of the little fern leaf, with outline just as perfect
and lovely as when, long, long ago it had swayed to the breezes in its
own beautiful valley.

And so wonderful did it seem to the wise man, that he took the fern leaf
home with him and placed it in his cabinet where all could admire it;
and where, if they were thoughtful and clever enough, they could think
out the story for themselves and find the lesson which was hidden away
with the fern in the bit of rock.

Lesson! did I say? Well, let's not call it a lesson, but only a truth
which it will do every one of us good to remember; and that is, that
none of the beauty in this fair world around us, nor anything that is
sweet and lovely in our own hearts, and lives, will ever be useless and
lost. For, as the little fern leaf lay hidden away for years and years,
and yet finally was found by the wise man and given a place with his
other rare and precious possessions where it could still, though
silently, aid those who looked upon it; so we, as boys and girls, men
and women who are to be, can now, day by day, cultivate all lovely
traits of character, making ourselves ready to take our place in the
world's work. And when that time comes we shall not only be able to aid
others silently, as did the little fern, but may also, by word and deed,
lend a hand to each and every one around us.

_Mara L. Pratt._

From "Fairyland of Flowers." The Educational Publishing Co.


       *       *       *       *       *


Break up the following words into their syllables, and place the accent
mark where it belongs in each:

outline, tracery, cabinet, delicate, finally, character, hundreds,
centuries, remember, beautiful, possessions. Show the correct use of the
words in original sentences. The dictionary will help you in the work.

Name some of the traits of character that will help a boy or a girl to
be truly successful in life.


       *       *       *       *       *


Memory Gems:


       The child is father of the man;
       And I could wish my days to be
       Bound each to each by natural piety.


_Wordsworth_.


Truth alone makes life rich and great.

_Emerson_.



       There is a tongue in every leaf--
         A voice in every rill--
       A voice that speaketh everywhere--
       In flood and fire, through earth and air,
         A tongue that's never still.


_Anon_.


       *       *       *       *       *




_10_


blithe
whistler
mellow
replied
cheery
skylark



HELPING MOTHER.


       As I went down the street to-day,
         I saw a little lad
       Whose face was just the kind of face
         To make a person glad.
       It was so plump and rosy-cheeked,
         So cheerful and so bright,
       It made me think of apple-time.
         And filled me with delight.

       I saw him busy at his work,
         While blithe as skylark's song
       His merry, mellow whistle rang
         The pleasant street along.
       "Oh, that's the kind of lad I like!"
         I thought as I passed by;
       "These busy, cheery, whistling boys
         Make grand men by and by."

       Just then a playmate came along,
         And leaned across the gate--
       A plan that promised lots of fun
         And frolic to relate.
       "The boys are waiting for us now,
         So hurry up!" he cried;
       My little whistler shook his head,
         And "Can't come," he replied.

       "Can't come? Why not, I'd like to know?
         What hinders?" asked the other.
       "Why, don't you see," came the reply,
         "I'm busy helping mother?
       She's lots to do, and so I like
         To help her all I can;
       So I've no time for fun just now,"
         Said this dear little man.

       "I like to hear you talk like that,"
         I told the little lad;
       "Help mother all you can, and make
         Her kind heart light and glad."
       It does me good to think of him,
         And know that there are others
       Who, like this manly little boy,
         Take hold and help their mothers.



LANGUAGE WORK:


Describe the little lad spoken of in the poem. Do you know any boy like
him?

Tell what this "little man" said to his playmate.

When night came, was the boy sorry that he had missed so much fun? What
kind of man did he very likely grow up to be?


       *       *       *       *       *




_11_


rid' dle
brand'-new
mys' ter y
un rav' el
like' ness es



A CONTENTED WORKMAN.


Once upon a time, Frederick, King of Prussia, surnamed "Old Fritz," took
a ride, and saw an old laborer plowing his land by the wayside cheerily
singing his song.

"You must be well off, old man," said the king. "Does this land on which
you are working so hard belong to you?"

"No, sir," replied the laborer, who knew not that it was the king; "I am
not so rich as that; I plow for wages."

"How much do you get a day?" asked the king.

"Two dollars," said the laborer.

"That is not much," replied the king; "can you get along with that?"

"Yes; and have something left."

"How is that?"

The laborer smiled, and said, "Well, if I must tell you, fifty cents are
for myself and wife; with fifty I pay my old debts, fifty I lend, and
fifty I give away for the Lord's sake."

"That is a mystery which I cannot solve," replied the king.

"Then I will solve it for you," said the laborer. "I have two old
parents at home, who kept me when I was weak and needed help; and now,
that they are weak and need help, I keep them. This is my debt, towards
which I pay fifty cents a day. The third fifty cents, which I lend, I
spend for my children, that they may receive Christian instruction. This
will come handy to me and my wife when we get old. With the last fifty I
maintain two sick sisters. This I give for the Lord's sake."

The king, well pleased with his answer, said, "Bravely spoken, old man.
Now I will also give you something to guess. Have you ever seen me
before?"

"Never," said the laborer.

"In less than five minutes you shall see me fifty times, and carry in
your pocket fifty of my likenesses."

"That is a riddle which I cannot unravel," said the laborer.

"Then I will do it for you," replied the king. Thrusting his hand into
his pocket, and counting fifty brand-new gold pieces into his hand,
stamped with his royal likeness, he said to the astonished laborer, who
knew not what was coming, "The coin is good, for it also comes from our
Lord God, and I am his paymaster. I bid you good-day."


       *       *       *       *       *


Memory Gems:


       The working men, whatever their task,
         Who carve the stone, or bear the hod,
       They wear upon their honest brows
         The royal stamp and seal of God;
       And worthier are their drops of sweat
         Than diamonds in a coronet.

       Give fools their gold, and knaves their power;
         Let fortune's bubbles rise and fall;
       Who sows a field, or trains a flower,
         Or plants a tree, is more than all.


_Whittier_.


[Illustration: LABOR _Millet_.]


       *       *       *       *       *




_12_


con' script
in dis pen' sa ble
im' ple ment
in de fea' si bly



TWO LABORERS.


Two men I honor, and no third. First, the toil worn craftsman, that with
earth-made implement laboriously conquers the earth, and makes her
man's. Venerable to me is the hard hand, crooked, coarse, wherein,
notwithstanding, lies a cunning virtue, indefeasibly royal, as of the
scepter of this planet. Venerable, too, is the rugged face, all weather
tanned, besoiled, with its rude intelligence; for it is the face of a
man living manlike.

Oh, but the more venerable for thy rudeness, and even because I must
pity as well as love thee! Hardly entreated brother! For us was thy back
so bent, for us were thy straight limbs and fingers so deformed. Thou
wert our conscript on whom the lot fell and, fighting our battles, wert
so marred. Yet toil on, toil on; ... thou toilest for the altogether
indispensable,--for daily bread.

A second man I honor, and still more highly; him who is seen toiling for
the spiritually indispensable; not daily bread, but the bread of life.
Is not he, too, in his duty; endeavoring towards inward harmony;
revealing this, by act or word, through all his outward endeavors, be
they high or low? Highest of all, when his outward and his inward
endeavor are one; when we can name him artist; not earthly craftsman
only, but inspired thinker, that with heaven-made implement conquers
heaven for us!

If the poor and humble toil that we may have food, must not the high and
glorious toil for him, in return, that he may have light and guidance,
freedom, immortality?--these two, in all their degrees, I honor; all
else is chaff and dust, which let the wind blow whither it listeth.

Unspeakably touching it is, however, when I find both dignities united;
and he, that must toil outwardly for the lowest of man's wants, is also
toiling inwardly for the highest. Sublimer in this world know I nothing
than a peasant saint. Such a one will take thee back to Nazareth itself;
thou wilt see the splendor of heaven spring forth from the humblest
depths of earth like a light shining in great darkness.

_Thomas Carlyle._


       *       *       *       *       *


Laws are like cobwebs, where the small flies are caught, and the great
break through.

_Bacon_.


       *       *       *       *       *




_13_


gust
thief
mop' ing
awk' ward
pet' tish ly
in dig' nant
un bear' a ble
med' dle some
en light' ened
in quis' i tive



THE GRUMBLING PUSS.


"What's the matter?" said Growler to the gray cat, as she sat moping on
the top of the garden wall.

"Matter enough," said the cat, turning her head another way, "Our cook
is very fond of talking of hanging me. I wish heartily some one would
hang _her_."

"Why, what _is_ the matter?" repeated Growler.

"Hasn't she beaten me, and called me a thief, and threatened to be the
death of me?"

"Dear, dear!" said Growler; "pray what has brought it about?"

"Oh, nothing at all; it is her temper. All the servants complain of it.
I wonder they haven't hanged her long ago."

"Well, you see," said Growler, "cooks are awkward things to hang; you
and I might be managed much more easily."

"Not a drop of milk have I had this day!" said the gray cat; "and such a
pain in my side!"

"But what," said Growler, "what is the cause?"

"Haven't I told you?" said the gray cat, pettishly; "it's her
temper:--oh, what I have had to suffer from it! Everything she breaks
she lays to me; everything that is stolen she lays to me. Really, it is
quite unbearable!"

Growler was quite indignant; but, being of a reflective turn, after the
first gust of wrath had passed, he asked: "But was there no particular
cause this morning?"

"She chose to be very angry because I--I offended her," said the cat.

"How, may I ask?" gently inquired Growler.

"Oh, nothing worth telling,--a mere mistake of mine."

Growler looked at her with such a questioning expression, that she was
compelled to say, "I took the wrong thing for my breakfast."

"Oh!" said Growler, much enlightened.

"Why, the fact is," said the gray cat, "I was springing at a mouse, and
knocked down a dish, and, not knowing exactly what it was, I smelt it,
and it was rather nice, and--"

"You finished it," hinted Growler.

"Well, I believe I should have done so, if that meddlesome cook hadn't
come in. As it was, I left the head."

"The head of what?" said Growler.

"How inquisitive you are!" said the gray cat.

"Nay, but I should like to know," said Growler.

"Well, then, of a certain fine fish that was meant for dinner."

"Then," said Growler, "say what you please; but, now that I've heard the
whole story, I only wonder she did _not_ hang you."


       *       *       *       *       *


Fill the following blanks with words that will make complete sentences:

Mary -- here, and Susan and Agnes -- coming. They -- delayed on the road.
Mother -- to come with them, but she and father -- obliged to wait till
to-morrow.

Puss said to Growler, "I -- not -- a drop of milk to-day, and -- not -- any
yesterday."

I -- my work well now. Yesterday I -- it fairly well. To-morrow I shall
-- it perfectly.

The boys -- their best, though they -- the game.

John--now the boys he -- last week. He -- not -- them before.


NOTE.--Let two pupils read or recite the conversational parts of this
selection, omitting the explanatory matter, while the other pupils
simply listen. If done with expressive feeling and in a perfectly
natural tone, it will prove quite an interesting exercise. To play or
act the story of a selection helps to develop the imagination.


       *       *       *       *       *




_14_


scared
swerve
gur' gle
rip' ples
cur' rent
mum' bling ly



THE BROOK SONG.


       Little brook! Little brook!
       You have such a happy look--
       Such a very merry manner, as you swerve and curve and crook--
       And your ripples, one and one,
       Reach each other's hands and run
       Like laughing little children in the sun!

       Little brook, sing to me;
       Sing about the bumblebee
       That tumbled from a lily bell and grumbled mumblingly,
       Because he wet the film
       Of his wings, and had to swim,
       While the water bugs raced round and laughed at him.

       Little brook--sing a song
       Of a leaf that sailed along
       Down the golden-hearted center of your current swift and strong,
       And a dragon fly that lit
       On the tilting rim of it,
       And rode away and wasn't scared a bit.

       And sing--how oft in glee
       Came a truant boy like me,
       Who loved to lean and listen to your lilting melody,
       Till the gurgle and refrain
       Of your music in his brain
       Wrought a happiness as keen to him as pain.

       Little brook--laugh and leap!
       Do not let the dreamer weep:
       Sing him all the songs of summer till he sink in softest sleep;
       And then sing soft and low
       Through his dreams of long ago--
       Sing back to him the rest he used to know!


_James Whitcomb Riley_.

From "Rhymes of Childhood." Used by special permission of the
publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Co. Copyright, 1900.


       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: BY THE BROOK]


RIPPLES, little curling waves FILM, a thin skin or slight
covering.

CURRENT, the swiftest part of a stream; also applied to _air,
electricity_, etc.

What do the following expressions mean: tilting rim, lilting melody,
softest sleep, gurgle and refrain, a happiness as keen to him as pain?

What is a lullaby? Recite a stanza of one.

Insert _may_ or _can_ properly where you see a dash in the
following: The boy said, "--I leave the room?" "Mother, I--climb the
ladder;--I?"--a dog climb a tree?--I ask a favor?

Copy the following words--they are often misspelled: loving, using,
till, until, queer, fulfil, speech, muscle, quite, scheme, success,
barely, college, villain, salary, visitor, remedy, hurried, forty-four,
enemies, twelfth, marriage, immense, exhaust.

By means of the suffixes, _er, est, ness_, form three new words
from each of the following words: happy, sleepy, lively, greedy,
steady, lovely, gloomy.

Example: From happy,--happier, happiest, happiness. Note the change of
_y_ to _i_.


       *       *       *       *       *




_15_


rag'ged
crin'kly
rub'bish
fil'tered
protect'ed
disor'derly
disturbed'
imme'diately



THE STORY OF THE SEED-DOWN.



I.


High above the earth, over land and sea, floated the seed-down, borne on
the autumn wind's strong arms.

"Here shall you lie, little seed-down," said he at last, and put it down
on the ground, and laid a fallen leaf over it. Then he flew away
immediately, because he had much to look after.

That was in the dark evening, and the seed could not see where it was
placed, and besides, the leaf covered it.

Something heavy came now, and pressed so hard that the seed came near
being destroyed; but the leaf, weak though it was, protected it.

It was a human foot which walked along over the ground, and pressed the
downy seed into the earth. When the foot was withdrawn, the earth fell,
and filled the little pit it had made.

The cold came, and the snow fell several feet deep; but the seed lay
quietly down there, waiting for warmth and light. When the spring came,
and the snow melted away, the plant shot up out of the earth.

There was a little gray cottage beside which it grew up. The tiny plant
could not see very far around, because rubbish and brush-heaps lay near
it, and the little window was so gray and dusty that it could not peep
into the cottage either.

"Who lives here?" asked the little thing.

"Don't you know that?" asked the ragged shoe, which lay near. "Why, the
smith who drinks so much lives here, and his wife who wore me out."

And then she told how it looked inside, how life went on there, and it
was not cheering; no, but fearfully sad. The shoe knew it all well, and
told a whole lot in a few minutes, because she had such a well-hung
tongue.

Now there came a pair of ragged children, running--the smith's boy and
girl; he was six years old and the girl eight, so the shoe said, after
they were gone.

"Oh, see, what a pretty little plant!" said the girl. "So now, I shall
pull it up," said the boy, and the plant trembled to the root's heart.

"No, do not do it!" said the girl. "We must let it grow. Do you not see
what pretty crinkly leaves it has? It will have lovely flowers, I know,
when it grows bigger."

And it was allowed to stay there. The children took a stick and dug up
the earth round about, so it looked like a plowed field. Then they threw
the shoe and the sweepings a little way off, because they thought to
make the place look better.

"You cannot think," said the shoe, after the children had gone, "you
cannot think how in the way folks are!"

"The children have to give themselves airs, and pretend to be very
orderly," said the half of a coffee-cup; and she broke in another place
she was so disturbed.

But the sun shone warmly and the rain filtered down in the upturned
earth. Then leaf after leaf unfolded, and in a few days the plant was
several inches high.

"Oh, see!" said the children, who came again; "see how beautiful it is
getting!"

"Come, father, come! brother and I have discovered such a pretty plant!
Come and see it!" begged the girl.

The father glanced at it. The plant looked so lovely on the little rough
bit of soil which lay between the piles of sweepings.

The smith nodded to the children.

"It looks very disorderly here," he said to himself, and stopped an
instant. "Yes, indeed, it does!" He went along, but thought of the
little green spot, with the lovely plant in the midst of it.


       *       *       *       *       *




II.



pet' als
in' mates
scrubbed
fra' grant



The children ran into the house.

"Mother," said they, "there is such a rare plant growing right by the
window!"

The mother wished to glance out, but the window was so thick with dust
that she could not do so. She wiped off a little spot.

"My! My!" said she, when she noticed how dirty the window looked beside
the cleaned spot; so she wiped the whole window.

"That is an odd plant," said she, looking at it. "But how dreadfully
dirty it is out in the yard!"

Now that the sun shone in through the window it became very light in the
cottage. The mother looked at the ragged children and at the rubbish in
the room, and the blood rushed over her pale cheeks.

"It is a perfect shame!" she murmured. "I have never noticed that it was
so untidy here."

She hurried around, and set the room to rights, and, when that was done,
she washed the dirty floor. She scrubbed it so hard that her hands
smarted as if she had burned them in the fire; she did not stop until
every spot was white.

It was evening; the husband came home from work. The wife sat mending
the girl's ragged dress. The man stopped in the door. It looked so
strange to him within, and the look his wife gave him was brighter than
ever before, he thought.

"Go--God's peace!" he stammered. It was a long time since such a
greeting had been heard in here.

"God's peace!" answered she; "wel--welcome home!" She had not said this
for many years.

The smith stepped forward to the window; on the bed beside it the two
children lay sleeping. He looked at them, then he looked out on the
mound where the little plant stood. After a few minutes he went out.

A deep sigh rose from the woman's breast. She had hoped that he would
stay home that evening. Two great tears fell on the little dress.

In a few minutes she heard a noise outside. She went to the window to
see what it could be. Her husband had not gone away! He was out in the
yard clearing up the brush-heaps and rubbish.

She became more happy than she had been for a long time. He glanced in
through the window and saw her. Then she nodded, he nodded back, and
they both smiled.

"Be careful, above all, of the little plant!" said she.

Warm and sunny days came. The smith stayed at home now every evening. It
was green and lovely round the little cottage, and outside the window
there was a whole flower-bed, with many blossoms; but in the midst stood
the little plant the autumn wind had brought thither.

The smith's family stood around the flower-bed, and talked about the
flowers.

"But the plant that brother and I found is the most beautiful of all,"
said the girl.

"Yes, indeed it is," said the parents.

The smith bent down and took one of the leaves in his hand, but very
carefully, because he was afraid he might hurt it with his thick, coarse
fingers.

Then a bell was heard ringing in the distance. The sound floated out
over field and lake, and rang so peacefully in the eventide, just as the
sun sank behind the tree-tops in the forest. And every one bowed the
head, because it was Saturday evening, and it was a sacred voice that
sounded.

In a little while all was silent in the cottage; the inmates slumbered,
more tired, perhaps, than before, after the week's toils, but also much,
much happier. And round about, all was calm and peaceful.

But when Sunday's sun came up, the plant opened its bud,--and it bore
but a single one. When the cottage folks passed the little
flower-garden, they all stopped and looked at the beautiful, fragrant
blossom.

"It shall go with us to the house of God," said the wife, turning to her
husband. He nodded, and then she broke off the flower. The wife looked
at the husband, and he looked at her, and then their eyes rested on both
children; then their eyes grew dim, but became immediately bright again,
for the tears were not of sorrow, but of happiness.

When the organ's tones swelled and the people sang in the temple, the
flower folded its petals, for it had fulfilled its mission; but on the
waves of song its perfume floated upwards. And in the sweet fragrance
lay a warm thanksgiving from the little seed-down.


From "My Lady Legend," translated from the Swedish by Miss Rydingsvaerd.

Used by the special permission of the publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard
Co.


       *       *       *       *       *


Memory Gem:

I want it to be said of me by those who know me best that I have always
plucked a thistle and planted a flower in its place wherever a flower
would grow.

_Abraham Lincoln._


       *       *       *       *       *




_16_


lux'u ry
med'i cine
a bun'dant
wil'der ness



THE USE OF FLOWERS.


       God might have bade the earth bring forth
         Enough for great and small,
       The oak tree, and the cedar tree,
         Without a flower at all.

       He might have made enough, enough,
         For every want of ours;
       For luxury, medicine, and toil,
         And yet have made no flowers.

       The ore within the mountain mine
         Requireth none to grow,
       Nor doth it need the lotus flower
         To make the river flow.

       The clouds might give abundant rain,
         The nightly dews might fall,
       And the herb that keepeth life in man
         Might yet have drunk them all.

       Then wherefore, wherefore were they made
         All dyed with rainbow light,
       All fashioned with supremest grace,
         Upspringing day and night--

       Springing in valleys green and low,
         And on the mountains high,
       And in the silent wilderness,
         Where no man passeth by?

       Our outward life requires them not,
         Then wherefore had they birth?
       To minister delight to man,
         To beautify the earth;

       To whisper hope--to comfort man
         Whene'er his faith is dim;
       For whoso careth for the flowers
         Will care much more for Him!


_Mary Howitt._


       *       *       *       *       *


Give the plural forms of the following name-words: tree, leaf, copy,
foot, shoe, calf, life, child, tooth, valley.

Insert the proper punctuation marks in the following stanza:


       In the country on every side
         Where far and wide
       Like a leopard's tawny hide
         Stretches the plain
       To the dry grass and drier grain
       How welcome is the rain.


Memory Gem:


       Full many a gem of purest ray serene
         The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
       Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
         And waste its sweetness on the desert air.


_Stanza from Gray's "Elegy."_


       *       *       *       *       *




_17_


deigned
in' va lid
lone' li ness
smoothed
med'i cine
be wil'dered
gen' ius
riv' et ed
soul-sub du' ing



PIERRE'S LITTLE SONG.


In a humble room, in one of the poorer streets of London, little Pierre,
a fatherless French boy, sat humming by the bedside of his sick mother.
There was no bread in the house; and he had not tasted food all day. Yet
he sat humming to keep up his spirits.

Still, at times, he thought of his loneliness and hunger, and he could
scarcely keep the tears from his eyes; for he knew that nothing would be
so welcome to his poor invalid mother as a good sweet orange; and yet he
had not a penny in the world.

The little song he was singing was his own,--one he had composed, both
air and words; for the child was a genius. He went to the window, and,
looking out, saw a man putting up a great poster with yellow letters,
announcing that Madame Malibran would sing that night in public.

"Oh, if I could only go!" thought little Pierre; and then, pausing a
moment, he clasped his hands; his eyes sparkled with a new hope. Running
to the looking-glass, he smoothed his yellow curls, and, taking from a
little box an old, stained paper, he gave one eager glance at his
mother, who slept, and ran speedily from the house.


       *       *       *       *       *


"Who, do you say, is waiting for me?" said the lady to her servant. "I
am already worn out with company."

"Only a very pretty little boy, with yellow curls, who says that if he
can just see you, he is sure you will not be sorry, and he will not keep
you a moment."

"Oh, well, let him come!" said the beautiful singer, with a smile; "I
can never refuse children."

Little Pierre came in, his hat under his arm; and in his hand a little
roll of paper. With a manliness unusual in a child, he walked straight
up to the lady, and, bowing, said: "I have come to see you, because my
mother is very sick, and we are too poor to get food and medicine. I
thought that, perhaps, if you would only sing my little song at one of
your grand concerts, some publisher might buy it, for a small sum; and
so I could get food and medicine for my mother."

The beautiful woman rose from her seat; very tall and stately she
was;--she took the little roll from his hand, and lightly hummed the
air.

"Did you compose it?" she asked,--"you, a child! And the words?--Would
you like to come to my concert?" she asked, after a few moments of
thought.

"Oh, yes!" and the boy's eyes grew bright with happiness; "but I
couldn't leave my mother."

"I will send somebody to take care of your mother for the evening; and
here is a crown, with which you may go and get food and medicine. Here
is also one of my tickets; come to-night; and that will admit you to a
seat near me."

Almost beside himself with joy, Pierre bought some oranges, and many a
little luxury besides, and carried them home to the poor invalid,
telling her, not without tears, of his good fortune.


       *       *       *       *       *


When evening came, and Pierre was admitted to the concert hall, he felt
that never in his life had he been in so grand a place. The music, the
glare of lights, the beauty, the flashing of diamonds and the rustling
of silks, completely bewildered him. At last _she_ came; and the
child sat with his eyes riveted on her face. Could it be that the grand
lady, glittering with jewels, and whom everybody seemed to worship,
would really sing his little song?

Breathless he waited:--the band, the whole band, struck up a little
plaintive melody: he knew it, and clapped his hands for joy! And oh, how
she sang it! It was so simple, so mournful, so soul-subduing. Many a
bright eye was dimmed with tears, many a heart was moved, by the
touching words of that little song.

Pierre walked home as if he were moving on the air. What cared he for
money now? The greatest singer in Europe had sung his little song, and
thousands had wept at his grief.

The next day he was frightened by a visit from Madame Malibran. She laid
her hand on his yellow curls, and, turning to the sick woman, said:
"Your little boy, madam, has brought you a fortune. I was offered, this
morning, by the first publisher in London, a large sum for his little
song. Madam, thank God that your son has a gift from heaven."

The noble-hearted singer and the poor woman wept together. As for
Pierre, always mindful of Him who watches over the tried and the
tempted, he knelt down by his mother's bedside and uttered a simple
prayer, asking God's blessing on the kind lady who had deigned to notice
their affliction.

The memory of that prayer made the singer even more tender-hearted; and
she now went about doing good. And on her early death, he who stood by
her bed, and smoothed her pillow, and lightened her last moments by his
affection, was the little Pierre of former days,--now rich,
accomplished, and one of the most talented composers of the day.

All honor to those great hearts who, from their high stations, send down
bounty to the widow and the fatherless!


       *       *       *       *       *


PIERRE (pe [^a]r'), Peter.

MALIBRAN, a French singer and actress. She died in 1836, when only 28
years old.

What does "he walked as if moving on air" mean?

BREATHLESS = _breath_+_less_, without breath, out of breath;
holding the breath on account of great interest.

BREATHLESSLY, in a breathless manner. Use _breath, breathless,
breathlessly,_ in sentences of your own.

Pronounce separately the two similar consonant sounds coming together in
the following words and phrases:

humming; meanness; is sure; his spirit; send down; this shows; eyes
sparkled; wept together; frequent trials.


Memory Gems:

A single sunbeam is enough to drive away many shadows.

_St. Francis of Assisi._



       Howe'er it be, it seems to me,
         'Tis only noble to be good.
       Kind hearts are more than coronets,
         And simple faith than Norman blood.


_Tennyson_.


       *       *       *       *       *




_18_



SEPTEMBER.


       The golden-rod is yellow;
         The corn is turning brown;
       The trees in apple orchards
         With fruit are bending down.

       The gentian's bluest fringes
         Are curling in the sun;
       In dusty pods the milkweed
         Its hidden silk has spun.

       The sedges flaunt their harvest
         In every meadow nook;
       And asters by the brookside
         Make asters in the brook.

       From dewy lanes at morning
         The grapes' sweet odors rise;
       At noon the roads all flutter
         With yellow butterflies.

       By all these lovely tokens
         September days are here,
       With summer's best of weather,
         And autumn's best of cheer.


_Helen Hunt Jackson._


[Footnote: Copyright, Little, Brown & Co., Publishers.]


[Illustration:]


       *       *       *       *       *


sedges, coarse grasses which grow in marshy places.

Tell what the following expressions mean: dewy lanes; best of cheer;
sedges flaunt their harvest.

How do "Asters by the brookside make asters in the brook"?

Give in your own words the tokens of September mentioned in the poem.
Can you name any others?

Memorize the poem. What do you know of the author?


         *       *       *       *       *




_19_


tat'ter
wreathed
Ken tuck' y
de scend'ed
re cess'
home' stead
en rap' tured
Penn syl va' ni a



"MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME."


"My Old Kentucky Home" was written by Stephen Collins Foster, a resident
of Pittsburg, Pa., while he and his sister were on a visit to his
relative, Judge John Rowan, a short distance east of Bardstown, Ky. One
beautiful morning while the slaves were at work in the cornfield and the
sun was shining with a mighty splendor on the waving grass, first giving
it a light red, then changing it to a golden hue, there were seated upon
a bench in front of the Rowan homestead two young people, a brother and
a sister.

High up in the top of a tree was a mocking bird warbling its sweet
notes. Over in a hidden recess of a small brush, the thrush's mellow
song could be heard. A number of small negro children were playing not
far away. When Foster had finished the first verse of the song his
sister took it from his hand and sang in a sweet, mellow voice:



       The sun shines bright on the old Kentucky home;
         'Tis summer, the darkies are gay;
       The corn top's ripe and the meadows in the bloom,
         While the birds make music all the day.

       The young folks roll on the little cabin floor,
         All merry, all happy, all bright;
       By'n by hard times comes a-knockin' at the door--
         Then, my old Kentucky home, good night.



On her finishing the first verse the mocking bird descended to a lower
branch. The feathery songster drew his head to one side and appeared to
be completely enraptured at the wonderful voice of the young singer.
When the last note died away upon the air, her fond brother sang in deep
bass voice:


       Weep no more, my lady; oh, weep no more to-day,
         Well sing one song for the old Kentucky home,
       For our old Kentucky home far away.

       A few more days for to tote the weary load,
         No matter, 'twill never be light;
       A few more days till we totter on the road--
         Then, my old Kentucky home, good night.


The negroes had laid down their hoes and rakes; the little tots had
placed themselves behind the large, sheltering trees, while the old
black women were peeping around the corner of the house. The faithful
old house dog never took his eyes off the young singers. Everything was
still; not even the stirring of the leaves seemed to break the wonderful
silence.

Again the brother and sister took hold of the remaining notes, and sang
in sweet accents:


       They hunt no more for the 'possum and the coon
         On the meadow, the hill and the shore;
       They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon,
         On the bench by the old cabin door.

       The day goes by like a shadow o'er the heart,
         With sorrow where all was delight:
       The time has come when the darkies have to part--
         Then, my old Kentucky home, good night.

       The head must bow and the back will have to bend
         Wherever the darkies may go;
       A few more days and the trouble all will end
         In the fields where the sugar cane grow.

       Then weep no more, my lady; oh, weep no more to-day,
         We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home,
       For our old Kentucky home far away.


As the song was finished tears flowed down the old people's cheeks; the
children crept from their hiding place behind the trees, their faces
wreathed in smiles. The mocking bird and the thrush sought their home in
the thicket, while the old house dog still lay basking in the sun.


_Mrs. T.A. Sherrard_


Louisville _Courier-Journal._


       *       *       *       *       *




_20_


stew' ard
se'quel
Gal'i lee
ab lu' tions
in ter ces' sion



THE FIRST MIRACLE OF JESUS.


In the first year of our Lord's public life, St. John tells us in his
gospel that "there was a marriage in Cana of Galilee, and the Mother of
Jesus was there. And Jesus also was invited to the marriage." Mary was
invited to be one of the honored guests because she was, no doubt, an
intimate friend of the family. She preceded her Son to the wedding in
order to lend her aid in the necessary preparations.

Jesus also was asked, and He did not refuse the invitation. He went as
freely to this house of feasting as He afterwards went pityingly to so
many houses of mourning. Though worn and weary with his long fast and
struggle in the desert, He was pleased to attend this merry wedding
feast, and by this loving and kindly act to sanctify the bond of
Marriage, which was to become in His Church one of the seven Sacraments.

The feast went gayly onward until an incident occurred that greatly
disturbed the host. The wine failed. The host had not calculated
rightly, or perhaps he had not counted on so many guests.

Mary, with her motherly heart, was the first to notice the confusion of
the servants when they discovered that the wine vessels had become
empty; and leaning towards her Son, whispered, "They have no wine." "My
hour is not yet come," He answered her, meaning that His time for
working miracles had not yet arrived. He knew on the instant what the
gentle heart of His Mother desired. His words sounded like a refusal of
the request which Mary made rather with her eyes than with her tongue;
but the sequel shows that the Blessed Mother fully believed that her
prayer would be granted.

She quietly said to the servants, "Whatsoever He shall say to you, do
ye." They had not long to wait. There were standing close at hand six
great urns of stone, covered with branches, as is the custom in the
East, in order to keep the water cool and fresh. These vessels
"containing two or three measures apiece," were kept in readiness for
the guests, who were required not only to wash their feet before
touching the linen and drapery of the couches, but even during the meal
frequently to purify their hands. Already there had been many of these
ablutions performed, and the urns were being rapidly emptied.

"Fill the waterpots with water," said Jesus to the servants.

They filled them up to the brim with clear, fresh water.

"Draw out now, and carry to the chief steward of the feast."

And they carried it.

When the chief steward had tasted the water made wine, and knew not
whence it was, he called the bridegroom and said to him: "Every man at
first setteth forth good wine, and when men have well drunk then that
which is worse; but thou hast kept the good wine until now."

The steward had supposed at first that the host had wished to give an
agreeable surprise to the company assembled at his table; but the
latter, to his amazement, was at once made aware that a wondrous deed
had been accomplished--that water had been changed into wine!

Jesus had performed His first Miracle.

From this beautiful story of the first miracle of Jesus, we learn that
Jesus Christ is God, and that Mary, the Mother of God, whose
intercession is all-powerful with her Divine Son, has a loving and
motherly care over the smallest of our life's concerns.


[Illustration: THE FEAST _Veronese_.]


       *       *       *       *       *


PRECEDED, went before in order of time. The prefix _pre_- means
_before_. Tell what the following words mean:

prefix, predict, prepare, prejudge, prescribe, predestine, precaution,
precursor, prefigure, prearrange.

Read the sentences of the Lesson that express commands.


Memory Gems:


The conscious water saw its God and blushed.

_Richard Crashaw._

But these are written that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the
Son of God; and that believing you may have life in His Name.


_Gospel of St. John._


       *       *       *       *       *




_21_


dec' ades (dek' ads)
di' a dem



MY BEADS.


       Sweet blessed beads! I would not part
           With one of you for richest gem
           That gleams in kingly diadem:
       Ye know the history of my heart.

       For I have told you every grief
           In all the days of twenty years,
           And I have moistened you with tears,
       And in your decades found relief.

       Ah! time has fled, and friends have failed,
         And joys have died; but in my needs
         Ye were my friends, my blessed beads!
       And ye consoled me when I wailed.

       For many and many a time, in grief,
         My weary fingers wandered round
         Thy circled chain, and always found
       In some Hail Mary sweet relief.

       How many a story you might tell
         Of inner life, to all unknown;
         I trusted you and you alone,
       But ah! ye keep my secrets well.

       Ye are the only chain I wear--
         A sign that I am but the slave,
         In life, in death, beyond the grave,
       Of Jesus and His Mother fair.




_Father Ryan._

"Father Ryan's Poems." Published by P. J. Kenedy & Sons, New York.


       *       *       *       *       *


From the following words make new words by means of the suffix -_ous_:
joy, grace, grief, glory, desire, virtue, beauty, courage, disaster,
harmony.

(Consult the dictionary.)



Memory Gem:



       Mary,--our comfort and our hope,--
         O, may that name be given
       To be the last we sigh on earth,--
         The first we breathe in heaven.


_Adelaide A. Procter._


       *       *       *       *       *




_22_



THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS.


       The harp that once through Tara's halls
         The soul of music shed,
       Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,
         As if that soul were fled.
       So sleeps the pride of former days,
         So glory's thrill is o'er,
       And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
         Now feel that pulse no more.

       No more to chiefs and ladies bright
         The harp of Tara swells;
       The chord alone that breaks at night
         Its tale of ruin tells.
       Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
         The only throb she gives
       Is when some heart indignant breaks,
         To show that still She lives.


_Thomas Moore._


[Illustration: TOM MOORE]


       *       *       *       *       *




_23_


ma'am
dis suade'
re spect'a ble
shuf' fled
dan' ger ous
grate' ful
wist' ful ly
mit' tens
outstretched'
res' cue
un daunt' ed
an' ti qua ted



A LITTLE LADY.[001]


Going down a very steep street, where the pavement was covered with ice,
I saw before me an old woman, slowly and timidly picking her way. She
was one of the poor but respectable old ladies who dress in rusty black,
wear old-fashioned bonnets, and carry big bags.

Some young folks laugh at these antiquated figures; but those who are
better bred treat them with respect. They find something touching in the
faded suits, the withered faces, and the knowledge that these lonely old
ladies have lost youth, friends, and often fortune, and are patiently
waiting to be called away from a world that seems to have passed by and
forgotten them.

Well, as I slipped and shuffled along, I watched the little black bonnet
in front, expecting every minute to see it go down, and trying to hurry,
that I might offer my help.

At the corner, I passed three little school-girls, and heard one say to
another, "O, I wouldn't; she will do well enough, and we shall lose our
coasting, unless we hurry."

"But if she should tumble and break her poor old bones, I should feel so
bad," returned the second, a pleasant-faced child, whose eyes, full of a
sweet, pitiful expression, followed the old lady.

"She's such a funny-looking woman, I shouldn't like to be seen walking
with her," said the third, as if she thought it a kind thing to do, but
had not the courage to try it.

"Well, I don't care; she's old, and ought to be helped, and I'm going to
do it," cried the pleasant-faced girl; and, running by me, I saw her
overtake the old lady, who stood at a crossing, looking wistfully over
the dangerous sheet of ice before her.

"Please, ma'am, may I help you, it's so bad here?" said the kind little
voice, as the hands in the red mittens were helpfully out-stretched.

"O, thank you, dear. I'd no idea the walking was so bad; but I must get
home." And the old face lighted up with a grateful smile, which was
worth a dozen of the best coasts in Boston.

"Take my arm then; I'll help you down the street, for I'm afraid you
might fall," said the child, offering her arm.

"Yes, dear, so I will. Now we shall get on beautifully. I've been having
a dreadful time, for my over-socks are all holes, and I slip at every
step."

"Keep hold, ma'am, I won't fall. I have rubber boots, and can't tumble."

So chatting, the two went safely across, leaving me and the other girls
to look after them and wish that we had done the little act of kindness,
which now looked so lovely in another.

"I think Katy is a very good girl, don't you?" said one child to the
other.

"Yes, I do; let's wait till she comes back. No matter if we do lose some
coasts," answered the child who had tried to dissuade her playmate from
going to the rescue.

Then I left them; but I think they learned a lesson that day in real
politeness; for, as they watched little Katy dutifully supporting the
old lady, undaunted by the rusty dress, the big bag, the old socks, and
the queer bonnet, both their faces lighted up with new respect and
affection for their playmate.

_Louisa M. Alcott._

From "Little Women." Little, Brown & Co., Publishers.


       *       *       *       *       *


DISSUADE, to advise against; to turn from a purpose by reasons
given.

ANTIQUATED, grown old; old-fashioned.

Tell what each contraction met with in the selection stands for.


Use _their_ or _there_ properly in place of the blanks in
the following sentences: The girls were on -- way
to the Park. -- was an old lady at the crossing.
Our home is --. Katy and Mary said --
mother lived --.



Memory Gems:


       Count that day lost
         Whose low descending sun,
       Views from thy hands
         No worthy action done.


_Author unknown._



What I must do concerns me, not what people will think.

_Emerson_.



[Footnote 001: Copyrighted by Little, Brown & Company.]


       *       *       *       *       *




_24_



WHAT HOUSE TO LIKE.


For Recitation:


       Some love the glow of outward show,
         Some love mere wealth and try to win it;
       The house to me may lowly be
         If I but like the people in it.

       What's all the gold that glitters cold,
         When linked to hard or haughty feeling?
       Whate'er we're told, the noble gold
         Is truth of heart and manly dealing.

       A lowly roof may give us proof
         That lowly flowers are often fairest;
       And trees whose bark is hard and dark
         May yield us fruit and bloom the rarest.

       There's worth as sure 'neath garments poor
         As e'er adorned a loftier station;
       And minds as just as those, we trust,
         Whose claim is but of wealth's creation.

       Then let them seek, whose minds are weak,
         Mere fashion's smile, and try to win it;
       The house to me may lowly be
         If I but like the people in it.


_Anon_.


       *       *       *       *       *


What is meant by "haughty feeling"?

What does the author say "the noble gold" is?

Is "bloom" in the third stanza an action-word or a name-word? Why?

Give in your own words the thought of the fourth stanza.

Use _to, too, two,_ properly before each of the following words:

hard, win, people, minds, dark, yield.

What virtues does the poem recommend?

What "lowly flowers are often fairest"?

What "lowly" virtue does the following stanza suggest?


       The bird that sings on highest wing,
         Builds on the ground her lowly nest;
       And she that doth most sweetly sing,
         Sings in the shade when all things rest.


_Montgomery_.


Name the two birds referred to.


       *       *       *       *       *




_25_


sears
flecked
de signed'
strait'ened
il lu'mined



A SONG OF DUTY.


       Sorrow comes and sorrow goes;
         Life is flecked with shine and shower;
       Now the tear of grieving flows,
         Now we smile in happy hour;
       Death awaits us, every one--
         Toiler, dreamer, preacher, writer--
       Let us then, ere life be done,
         Make the world a little brighter!

       Burdens that our neighbors bear,
         Easier let us try to make them;
       Chains perhaps our neighbors wear,
         Let us do our best to break them.
       From the straitened hand and mind,
         Let us loose the binding fetter,
       Let us, as the Lord designed,
         Make the world a little better!

       Selfish brooding sears the soul,
         Fills the mind with clouds of sorrow,
       Darkens all the shining goal
         Of the sun-illumined morrow;
       Wherefore should our lives be spent
         Daily growing blind and blinder--
       Let us, as the Master meant,
         Make the world a little kinder!


_Denis A. McCarthy._

From "Voices from Erin."

Angel Guardian Press, Boston, Mass.


       *       *       *       *       *




_26_


Sod' om
spright' ly
the o lo' gi an
his' to ry
To bi' as
cre at' ed
pro ceed' ed
sep' a ra ted
min' is ter
Au gus' tine
crit' i cise
cat' e ehism
de ter' mined
As cen' sion
Res ur rec' tion



AN EVENING WITH THE ANGELS.


"Well, James," said a kind-voiced mother, "you promised to tell Maggie
all about the Catechism you heard this afternoon at school."

"All right, mother," answered sprightly James, "anything at all to make
Maggie happy. Let's begin right away."

"Maggie, you said," continued James, "that you never could find out
_when_ the angels were created. Neither could our teacher tell me. And
I'm told St. Augustine could only make a guess when they were created.

"He thought the angels were created when God separated the light from
the darkness. But that's no matter, anyhow. We're sure there are angels;
that's the chief point."

"Are you quite certain?" asked Maggie.

"To be sure I am," said James. "If I met a man in the street I would
know he must have a father and a mother, although I had never heard when
he was born."

"That's so," chimed in the proud mother.

"Well, then, mother, many angels have been seen on earth, and they must
have been created some time. Let me tell you some of the places where it
is said in the Bible that angels have been seen, and where they spoke,
too."

"Now, James," said the father, "let Maggie see if _she_ can find out
some of those places herself. Here is the Bible."

With the help of mother and James, Maggie soon found the history of Adam
and Eve, where it is recorded that an angel with a flaming sword was
placed at the gate of Paradise.

"Poor Adam and Eve," said Maggie, "they must have felt very sad."

"Yes," answered Father Kennedy, who dropped in just then, and beheld his
young theologians with the holy Book before them. "They felt very sorry,
indeed, but they were consoled when told that a Savior would come to
redeem them."

"So you told us last Sunday," chimed in James. "Then you spoke about the
angels at Bethlehem who sang glory to God in the highest."

"And there was an angel in the desert when our Lord was tempted,"
proceeded the father.

"Oh! did you hear papa say the devil was an angel?" exclaimed James.

"Of course the devil is an angel," said Maggie, glad to trip up her big
brother, "but he is a bad one."

"I say yet that there were angels with our Lord after His forty days'
fast," insisted James.

"So I say, too," retorted Maggie; "but while only one _bad angel_
tempted our Lord, many good angels came to minister unto Him."

"Very well, indeed," said Father Kennedy. "But let's hurry over some
other points about the angels. Your turn; Master James, and give only
the place and person in each case."

"Well, let me see; there were Abraham and the three angels who went to
Sodom, and the angels who beat the man that wanted to steal money from
the temple, and the angel who took Tobias on a long journey."

"Please, Father Kennedy, wasn't it an _Archangel?_" inquired Maggie,
still determined to surpass her brother.

"Never mind that," said the priest. "Go on, James; 'twill be Maggie's
turn soon."

"Well, there was an angel in the Garden of Olives, and angels at the
Resurrection of our Lord, and angels at His Ascension."

Here Maggie exclaimed, "Please, Father Kennedy, may I have till next
Sunday to search out some angels? James has taken all mine."

"No," mildly said the delighted clergyman, "_your _angel is always with
you, and James has his, too."

"Father Kennedy, there's a man dying in the block behind the church,"
said the servant from the half-open parlor door. "Excuse my coming in
without knocking. They're in a great hurry."

"Good night, children," said the devoted priest, "till next Sunday. May
your angels watch over you in the meantime."


       *       *       *       *       *


ARCHANGEL ([:a]rk [=a]n' j[)e]l), a chief angel.

ARCHBISHOP ([:a]rch bish' [)u]p), a chief bishop.

ARCH, as a prefix, means _chief_, and in nearly every case
the _ch_ is soft, as in archbishop. In archangel, architect, and in
one or two other words, the _ch = k._

ARCH, as a suffix, is pronounced _[:a]rk_, and means _ruler;
_ as monarch, a _sole ruler;_ one who _rules alone._

Make a list of all the words of the Lesson that are contractions. Write
after each what it is a contraction of.

EARTHWARD = earth + ward (w[~e]rd). _ward_ is here a suffix
meaning _course, direction to, motion towards._ Add this SUFFIX
to the end of each of the following words, and tell the meaning of
each new word formed:

up, sea, back, down, east, west, land, earth.

WHAT word is the opposite in meaning of each of these new words?

Memory Gem:


                            The generous heart
       Should scorn a pleasure which gives others pain.


_Tennyson_.


       *       *       *       *       *




_27_


ebb' ing
spon' sor
judg' ments
el' e ments
tu' te lage



MY GUARDIAN ANGEL.


       My oldest friend, mine from the hour
         When first I drew my breath;
       My faithful friend, that shall be mine,
         Unfailing, till my death.

       Thou hast been ever at my side;
         My Maker to thy trust
       Consign'd my soul, what time He framed
         The infant child of dust.

       No beating heart in holy prayer,
         No faith, inform'd aright,
       Gave me to Joseph's tutelage,
         Or Michael's conquering might.

       Nor patron saint, nor Mary's love,--
         The dearest and the best,--
       Has known my being as thou hast known,
         And blest as thou hast blest.

       Thou wast my sponsor at the font;
         And thou, each budding year,
       Didst whisper elements of truth
         Into my childish ear.

       And when, ere boyhood yet was gone,
         My rebel spirit fell,
       Ah! thou didst see, and shudder too,
         Yet bear each deed of Hell.

       And then in turn, when judgments came.
         And scared me back again,
       Thy quick soft breath was near to soothe
         And hallow every pain.

       Oh! who of all thy toils and cares
         Can tell the tale complete,
       To place me under Mary's smile,
         And Peter's royal feet!

       And thou wilt hang above my bed,
         When life is ebbing low;
       Of doubt, impatience, and of gloom,
         The jealous, sleepless foe.

       Mine, when I stand before my Judge;
         And mine, if spared to stay
       Within the golden furnace till
         My sin is burn'd away.

       And mine, O Brother of my soul,
         When my release shall come;
       Thy gentle arms shall lift me then,
         Thy wings shall waft me home.


_Cardinal Newman._


       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: THE GUARDIAN ANGEL]


Explain the following expressions:

Joseph's tutelage; Michael's conquering might; my sponsor at the font;
each budding year; my rebel spirit fell; Peter's royal feet. Describe
the picture.


       *       *       *       *       *




_28_


quoth
crooned
frisked
beech'-wood
twain
se'rene
frol'icked
wan'dering



LITTLE BELL.


       Piped the blackbird on the beech-wood spray:
       "Pretty maid, slow wandering this way,
           What's your name?" quoth he,--
       "What's your name? Oh, stop, and straight unfold,
       Pretty maid, with showery curls of gold!"
           "Little Bell," said she.

       Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks,
       Tossed aside her gleaming, golden locks.
           "Bonny bird," quoth she,
       "Sing me your best song before I go,"
       "Here's the very finest song I know,
           Little Bell," said he.

       And the blackbird piped: you never heard
       Half so gay a song from any bird,--
           Full of quips and wiles,
       Now so round and rich, now soft and slow,
       All for love of that sweet face below,
           Dimpled o'er with smiles.

       And the while the bonny bird did pour
       His full heart out freely, o'er and o'er,
           'Neath the morning skies,
       In the little childish heart below
       All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
       And shine forth in happy overflow
           From the blue, bright eyes.

       Down the dell she tripped; and through the glade
       Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade,
           And from out the tree
       Swung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear,
       While bold blackbird piped, that all might hear:
           "Little Bell!" piped he.

       Little Bell sat down amid the fern:
       "Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return;
           Bring me nuts," quoth she.
       Up, away, the frisky squirrel hies,--
       Golden woodlights glancing in his eyes,--
           And adown the tree
       Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun,
       In the little lap dropped, one by one.
       Hark! how blackbird pipes to see the fun!
           "Happy Bell!" pipes he.

       Little Bell looked up and down the glade:
       "Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid,
           Come and share with me!"
       Down came squirrel, eager for his fare,
       Down came bonny blackbird, I declare!
       Little Bell gave each his honest share;
           Ah! the merry three!

       And the while these woodland playmates twain
       Piped and frisked from bough to bough again,
           'Neath the morning skies,
       In the little childish heart below
       All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
       And shine out in happy overflow
           From her blue, bright eyes.

       By her snow-white cot at close of day
       Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms, to pray:
           Very calm and clear
       Rose the praying voice to where, unseen,
       In blue heaven, an angel shape serene
           Paused awhile to hear.

       "What good child is this," the angel said,
       "That, with happy heart, beside her bed
           Prays so lovingly?"
       Low and soft, oh! very low and soft,
       Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft,
           "Bell, _dear_ Bell!" crooned he.

       "Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair
       Whispered, "God doth bless with angels' care;
           Child, thy bed shall be
       Folded safe from harm. Love, deep and kind,
       Shall watch around, and leave good gifts behind,
           Little Bell, for thee."


_Thomas Westwood_.


[Illustration:]


A STUDY OF LITTLE BELL

croft, a small inclosed field, near a house.

croon, to sing in a low tone.

quips, quick, smart turns.

piping, making a shrill sound like that of a pipe or flute.

In the first stanza what are the marks called that enclose _Little
Bell?_ Why are these marks used here?

Name the words of the poem in which the apostrophe is used. Tell what it
denotes in each case.

Where does the poem first take us? What do we see there?

In what words does the blackbird address the "pretty maid, slowly
wandering" his way? Who is she?

Seated beneath the rocks, what does Little Bell ask the blackbird to do?

Read the lines that describe the blackbird's song. Why did the bird sing
so sweetly? What were the effects of his song on "the little childish
heart below?"

Seated amid the fern, what did Little Bell ask the squirrel to do? Read
the lines that tell what the squirrel did. What invitation did the
squirrel receive from Little Bell?

Where does the poem bring us "at the close of day?" Tell what you see
there.

Read the lines that tell what the angel asked.

Read the angel's words in the first two lines of the last stanza. What
is their meaning?

What promises did the angel make to this good child? Why did he make
such beautiful promises?

Tell what the following words and expressions of the poem mean: quoth
he; straight unfold; dell; glade; hies; showery curls of gold; bonny
bird; hazel shade; void of fear; golden woodlights; adown the tree;
playmates twain; with folded palms; an angel shape; with angels' care;
the bird did pour his full heart out freely; the sweetness did shine
forth in happy overflow.

Select a stanza of the poem, and express in your own words the thought
it contains.

Describe some of the pictures the poem brings to mind.

What is the lesson the poet wishes us to learn from this poem?

Show how the couplet of the English poet, Coleridge,--

       "He prayeth best who loveth best,
       All things both great and small,"--

is illustrated in the story of Little Bell.



Write a composition on the story from the following hints: Where did
Little Bell go? In what season of the year? At what time of day? How old
was she? How did she look? What companions did she meet? What did the
three friends do? How did the little girl close the day?

In your composition, use as many words and phrases of the poem as you
can.


       *       *       *       *       *


Memorize:



       Prayer is the dew of faith,
         Its raindrop, night and day,
       That guards its vital power from death
         When cherished hopes decay,
       And keeps it mid this changeful scene,
       A bright, perennial evergreen.

       Good works, of faith the fruit,
         Should ripen year by year,
       Of health and soundness at the root
         And evidence sincere.
       Dear Savior, grant thy blessing free
       And make our faith no barren tree.


_Lydia H. Sigourney._


       *       *       *       *       *




_29_


na'bob
ap plaud'ed
un as sum'ing
sad' dler
dif' fi dence
sec' re ta ry
ob scured'
live' li hood
su per cil' i ous



A MODEST WIT.


For Recitation:


       A supercilious nabob of the East--
         Haughty,  being great--purse-proud,  being rich--
       A governor, or general, at the least,
         I have forgotten which--
       Had in his family a humble youth,
         Who went from England in his patron's suit,
       An unassuming boy, in truth
         A lad of decent parts, and good repute.

       This youth had sense and spirit;
         But yet with all his sense,
         Excessive diffidence
       Obscured his merit.

       One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine,
         His honor, proudly free, severely merry,
       Conceived it would be vastly fine
         To crack a joke upon his secretary.

       "Young man," said he, "by what art, craft, or trade,
         Did your good father gain a livelihood?"--
       "He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said,
         "And in his line was reckoned good."

       "A saddler, eh? and taught you Greek,
         Instead of teaching you to sew!
       Pray, why did not your father make
         A saddler, sir, of you?"

       Each flatterer, then, as in duty bound,
       The joke applauded, and the laugh went round.
         At length, Modestus, bowing low,
       Said (craving pardon, if too free he made),
         "Sir, by your leave, I fain would know
       _Your_ father's trade!"

       "_My_ father's _trade?_ Heavens! that's too bad!
       My father's trade! Why, blockhead, are you mad?
       My father, sir, did never stoop so low.
       He was a gentleman, I'd have you know."

       "Excuse the liberty I take,"
         Modestus said, with archness on his brow,
       "Pray, why did not your father make
         A gentleman of you?"


_Selleck Osborne._


       *       *       *       *       *


fain, gladly.

archness, sly humor free from malice.

suit (s[=u]t), the people who attend upon a person of distinction;
often written _suite_ (_sw[=e]t_).

Write the plural forms of _boy, man, duty, youth, family,
secretary._

Copy these sentences, using other words instead of those in italics:

He was an _unassuming_ boy, of decent _parts_ and good
_repute_. His _diffidence obscured_ his merit.
_Excuse_ the _liberty_ I take.


Memory Gems:



       The rank is but the guinea's stamp,--
       The man's the gold for a' that!


_Burns._


One cannot always be a hero, but one can always be a man.

_Goethe_ (_g[^u]' t[=e]_).


       *       *       *       *       *




_30_



WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.[002]


For Recitation:


       Woodman, spare that tree!
         Touch not a single bough!
       In youth it sheltered me,
         And I'll protect it now.
       'Twas my forefather's hand
         That placed it near his cot;
       There, woodman, let it stand,
         Thy ax shall harm it not!

       That old familiar tree,
         Whose glory and renown
       Are spread o'er land and sea--
         And wouldst thou hew it down?
       Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
         Cut not its earth-bound ties;
       Oh! spare that aged oak,
         Now towering to the skies.

       When but an idle boy,
         I sought its grateful shade;
       In all their gushing joy
         Here, too, my sisters played.
       My mother kissed me here;
         My father pressed my hand;--
       Forgive this foolish tear,
         But let that old oak stand.

       My heartstrings round thee cling,
         Close as thy bark, old friend!
       Here shall the wild bird sing,
         And still thy branches bend.
       Old tree! the storm still brave!
         And, Woodman, leave the spot!
       While I've a hand to save,
         Thy ax shall harm it not.


_George P. Morris,_


[Footnote 002: NOTE.--Many trees in our country are landmarks, and are
valued highly. The early settlers were accustomed to plant trees and
dedicate them to liberty. One of these was planted at Cambridge, Mass.,
and it was under the shade of this venerable Elm that George Washington
took command of the Continental army, July 3rd, 1775.

There are other trees around whose trunks and under whose boughs whole
families of children passed much of their childhood. When one of these
falls or is destroyed, it is like the death of some honored citizen.

Judge Harris of Georgia, a scholar, and a gentleman of extensive
literary culture, regarded "Woodman, Spare that Tree" as one of the
truest lyrics of the age. He never heard it sung or recited without
being deeply moved.]


       *       *       *       *       *




_31_


car' goes
em bar' go
im mor' tal ized
prin' ci ple
col' o nists
rep re sen ta' tion
de ri' sion
pa' tri ot ism
Phil a del' phi a



THE BOSTON TEA PARTY.


Shortly before the War of the Revolution broke out, George III, King of
England, claimed the right to tax the people of this country, though he
did not permit them to take any part in framing the laws under which
they lived.

He placed a light tax on tea, just to teach Americans that they could
not escape taxation altogether. But the colonists were fighting for a
principle,--that of no taxation without representation, and would not
buy the tea. In New York and Philadelphia the people would not allow the
vessels to land their cargoes.

The women of America held meetings in many towns, and declared they
would drink no tea until the hated tax was removed. The ladies had a
hard time of it without their consoling cup of tea, but they stood out
nobly.

Three shiploads of tea were sent to Boston. On the night of December 16,
1773, a party of young Americans, painted and dressed like Indians,
boarded the three vessels lying in the harbor, opened the chests, and
emptied all the tea into the water. They then slipped away to their
homes, and were never found out by the British. One of the leaders of
these daring young men was Paul Revere, whose famous midnight ride has
been immortalized by Longfellow.

When the news of the Boston Tea Party was carried across the ocean, the
anger of the King was aroused, and he sent a strong force of soldiers to
Boston to bring the rebels to terms. This act only increased the spirit
of patriotism that burned in the breasts of all Americans.


[Illustration:]


George P. Morris, the poet, describes this Tea Party, and the origin of
the tune "Yankee Doodle," in the following verses, which our American
boys and girls of to-day will gladly read and sing:



       Once on a time old Johnny Bull flew in a raging fury,
       And swore that Jonathan should have no trials, sir, by jury;
       That no elections should be held, across the briny waters;
       "And now," said he, "I'll tax the tea of all his sons and daughters."
       Then down he sate in burly state, and blustered like a grandee,
       And in derision made a tune called "Yankee doodle dandy."
       "Yankee doodle"--these are facts--"Yankee doodle dandy;"
       My son of wax, your tea I'll tax; you Yankee doodle dandy!"

       John sent the tea from o'er the sea, with heavy duties rated;
       But whether hyson or bohea, I never heard it stated.
       Then Jonathan to pout began--he laid a strong embargo--
       "I'll drink no tea, by Jove!" so he threw overboard the cargo.
       Then Johnny sent a regiment, big words and looks to bandy,
       Whose martial band, when near the land, played "Yankee doodle dandy."
       "Yankee doodle--keep it up--Yankee doodle dandy--
       I'll poison with a tax your cup, you Yankee doodle dandy."

       A long war then they had, in which John was at last defeated,
       And "Yankee Doodle" was the march to which his troops retreated.
       Cute Jonathan, to see them fly, could not restrain his laughter;
       "That tune," said he, "suits to a T--I'll sing it ever after!"
       Old Johnny's face, to his disgrace, was flushed with beer and brandy,
       E'en while he swore to sing no more this Yankee doodle dandy.
       Yankee doodle,--ho-ha-he--Yankee doodle dandy,
       We kept the tune, but not the tea--Yankee doodle dandy.

       I've told you now the origin of this most lively ditty,
       Which Johnny Bull dislikes as "dull and stupid"--what a pity!
       With "Hail Columbia" it is sung, in chorus full and hearty--
       On land and main we breathe the strain John made for his tea party,
       No matter how we rhyme the words, the music speaks them handy,
       And where's the fair can't sing the air of Yankee doodle dandy?
       Yankee doodle, firm and true--Yankee doodle dandy--
       Yankee doodle, doodle do, Yankee doodle dandy!



       *       *       *       *       *


The people of the thirteen original colonies adopted as a principle, "No
taxation without representation." What did they mean by this? Name the
thirteen original colonies.

Are the last syllables of the words _principle_ and
_principal_ pronounced alike? Use the two words in sentences of your own.

What does "with heavy duties rated" mean?

Pronounce distinctly the final consonants in the words _colonists,
insects, friend, friends, nests, priests, lifts, tempts._

Write the plural forms of the following words: solo, echo, negro, cargo,
piano, calico, potato, embargo.

How should a word be broken or divided when there is not room for all of
it at the end of a line? Illustrate by means of examples found in your
Reader.


       *       *       *       *       *




_32_


scenes
source
seized
re ceive'
poised
nec' tar
re verts'
Ju' pi ter
cat' a ract
ex' qui site
in tru' sive ly



THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.


       How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood,
         When fond recollection presents them to view!
       The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,
         And every loved spot that my infancy knew;--
       The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it;
         The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;

       The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,
         And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well:
       The old oaken bucket, the ironbound bucket,
         The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well.

       That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure;
         For often, at noon, when returned from the field,
       I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
         The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
       How ardent I seized it with hands that were glowing,
         And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;
       Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
         And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well:
       The old oaken bucket, the ironbound bucket,
         The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

       How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
         As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!
       Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
         Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.

       And now, far removed from that loved habitation,
         The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
       As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
         And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well:
       The old oaken bucket, the ironbound bucket,
         The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in the well!


_Samuel Woodworth._


[Illustration:]


       *       *       *       *       *


Make a list of the describing-words of the poem, and tell what each
describes. Use each to describe something else.

Make a list of the words of the poem that you never use, and tell what
word you would have used in the place of each had you tried to express
its meaning. Which word is better, yours or the author's? Why?


       *       *       *       *       *




_33_


blouse
receipt'ed
coun' te nance
ab sorbed'
con trast' ed
for' tu nate ly
mir' a cle
stock'-still
good-hu' mored ly



THE BOY AND THE CRICKETS.


My friend Jacques went into a baker's shop one day to buy a little cake
which he had fancied in passing. He intended it for a child whose
appetite was gone, and who could be coaxed to eat only by amusing him.
He thought that such a pretty loaf might tempt even the sick. While he
waited for his change, a little boy six or eight years old, in poor but
perfectly clean clothes, entered the baker's shop. "Ma'am," said he to
the baker's wife, "mother sent me for a loaf of bread." The woman
climbed upon the counter (this happened in a country town), took from
the shelf of four-pound loaves the best one she could find, and put it
into the arms of the little boy.

My friend Jacques then first observed the thin and thoughtful face of
the little fellow. It contrasted strongly with the round, open
countenance of the great loaf, of which he was taking the greatest care.

"Have you any money?" said the baker's wife.

The little boy's eyes grew sad.

"No, ma'am," said he, hugging the loaf closer to his thin blouse; "but
mother told me to say that she would come and speak to you about it
to-morrow."

"Run along," said the good woman; "carry your bread home, child."

"Thank you, ma'am," said the poor little fellow.

My friend Jacques came forward for his money. He had put his purchase
into his pocket, and was about to go, when he found the child with the
big loaf, whom he had supposed to be halfway home, standing stock-still
behind him.

"What are you doing there?" said the baker's wife to the child, whom she
also had thought to be fairly off. "Don't you like the bread?"

"Oh yes, ma'am!" said the child.

"Well, then, carry it to your mother, my little friend. If you wait any
longer, she will think you are playing by the way, and you will get a
scolding."

The child did not seem to hear. Something else absorbed his attention.

The baker's wife went up to him, and gave him a friendly tap on the
shoulder, "What _are_ you thinking about?" said she.

"Ma'am," said the little boy, "what is it that sings?"

"There is no singing," said she.

"Yes!" cried the little fellow. "Hear it! Queek, queek, queek, queek!"

My friend and the woman both listened, but they could hear nothing,
unless it was the song of the crickets, frequent guests in bakers'
houses.

"It is a little bird," said the dear little fellow; "or perhaps the
bread sings when it bakes, as apples do?"

"No, indeed, little goosey!" said the baker's wife; "those are crickets.
They sing in the bakehouse because we are lighting the oven, and they
like to see the fire."

"Crickets!" said the child; "are they really crickets?"

"Yes, to be sure," said she good-humoredly. The child's face lighted up.

"Ma'am," said he, blushing at the boldness of his request, "I would like
it very much if you would give me a cricket."

"A cricket!" said the baker's wife, smiling; "what in the world would
you do with a cricket, my little friend? I would gladly give you all
there are in the house, to get rid of them, they run about so."

"O ma'am, give me one, only one, if you please!" said the child,
clasping his little thin hands under the big loaf. "They say that
crickets bring good luck into houses; and perhaps if we had one at home,
mother, who has so much trouble, wouldn't cry any more."

"Why does your poor mamma cry?" said my friend, who could no longer help
joining in the conversation.

"On account of her bills, sir," said the little fellow. "Father is dead,
and mother works very hard, but she cannot pay them all."

My friend took the child, and with him the great loaf, into his arms,
and I really believe he kissed them both. Meanwhile the baker's wife,
who did not dare to touch a cricket herself, had gone into the
bakehouse. She made her husband catch four, and put them into a box with
holes in the cover, so that they might breathe. She gave the box to the
child, who went away perfectly happy.

When he had gone, the baker's wife and my friend gave each other a good
squeeze of the hand. "Poor little fellow!" said they both together. Then
she took down her account book, and, finding the page where the mother's
charges were written, made a great dash all down the page, and then
wrote at the bottom, "Paid."

Meanwhile my friend, to lose no time, had put up in paper all the money
in his pockets, where fortunately he had quite a sum that day, and had
begged the good wife to send it at once to the mother of the little
cricket-boy, with her bill receipted, and a note, in which he told her
she had a son who would one day be her joy and pride.

They gave it to a baker's boy with long legs, and told him to make
haste. The child, with his big loaf, his four crickets, and his little
short legs, could not run very fast, so that, when he reached home, he
found his mother, for the first time in many weeks, with her eyes raised
from her work, and a smile of peace and happiness upon her lips.

The boy believed that it was the arrival of his four little black things
which had worked this miracle, and I do not think he was mistaken.
Without the crickets, and his good little heart, would this happy change
have taken place in his mother's fortunes?

_From the French of Pierre J. Hetzel._


       *       *       *       *       *


Jacques (zh[:a]k), James.

In the selection, find ten sentences that ask questions, and five that
express commands or requests.

What mark of punctuation always follows the first kind? The second?


Memorize:



       In the evening I sit near my poker and tongs,
         And I dream in the firelight's glow,
       And sometimes I quaver forgotten old songs
         That I listened to long ago.
       Then out of the cinders there cometh a chirp
         Like an echoing, answering cry,--
       Little we care for the outside world,
         My friend the cricket, and I.

       For my cricket has learnt, I am sure of it quite,
         That this earth is a silly, strange place,
       And perhaps he's been beaten and hurt in the fight,
         And perhaps he's been passed in the race.
       But I know he has found it far better to sing
         Than to talk of ill luck and to sigh,--
       Little we care for the outside world,
         My friend the cricket, and I.



       *       *       *       *       *




_34_



For Recitation:


OUR HEROES.


       Here's a hand to the boy who has courage
         To do what he knows to be right;
       When he falls in the way of temptation
         He has a hard battle to fight.
       Who strives against self and his comrades
         Will find a most powerful foe:
       All honor to him if he conquers;
         A cheer for the boy who says "No!"

       There's many a battle fought daily
         The world knows nothing about;
       There's many a brave little soldier
         Whose strength puts a legion to rout.
       And he who fights sin single-handed
         Is more of a hero, I say,
       Than he who leads soldiers to battle,
         And conquers by arms in the fray.

       Be steadfast, my boy, when you're tempted,
         And do what you know to be right;
       Stand firm by the colors of manhood,
         And you will o'ercome in the fight.
       "The right!" be your battle cry ever
         In waging the warfare of life;
       And God, who knows who are the heroes,
         Will give you the strength for the strife.


_Phoebe Cary._

From "Poems for the Study of Language." Houghton, Mifflin & Co.,
Publishers.


       *       *       *       *       *


Write sentences each containing one of the following words:

I, me; he, him; she, her; they, them.


Memory Gems:

For raising the spirits, for brightening the eyes, for bringing back
vanished smiles, for making one brave and courageous, light-hearted and
happy, there is nothing like a good Confession.

_Father Bearne, S.J._



       Heroes must be more than driftwood
       Floating on a waveless tide.

       For right is right, since God is God;
         And right the day must win;
       To doubt would be disloyalty,
         To falter would be sin.


_Father Faber._


I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the
Faith.

_St. Paul._


       *       *       *       *       *




_35_


troll
cel' er y
new' fan gled
thatch
chink' ing
as par' a gus
im mense'
sauce' pan
de mol' ish ing
sa' vor y
pat' terns
ag' gra va ting



THE MINNOWS WITH SILVER TAILS.


There was a cuckoo clock hanging in Tom Turner's cottage. When it struck
one, Tom's wife laid the baby in the cradle, and took a saucepan off the
fire, from which came a very savory smell.

"If father doesn't come soon," she observed, "the apple dumplings will
be too much done."

"There he is!" cried the little boy; "he is coming around by the wood;
and now he's going over the bridge. O father! make haste, and have some
apple dumpling."

"Tom," said his wife, as he came near, "art tired to-day?"

"Uncommon tired," said Tom, as he threw himself on the bench, in the
shadow of the thatch.

"Has anything gone wrong?" asked his wife; "what's the matter?"

"Matter!" repeated Tom; "is anything the matter? The matter is this,
mother, that I'm a miserable, hard-worked slave;" and he clapped his
hands upon his knees and uttered in a deep voice, which frightened the
children--"a miserable slave!"

"Bless us!" said the wife, but could not make out what he meant.

"A miserable, ill-used slave," continued Tom, "and always have been."

"Always have been?" said his wife: "why, father, I thought thou used to
say, at the election time, that thou wast a free-born Briton."

"Women have no business with politics," said Tom, getting up rather
sulkily. Whether it was the force of habit, or the smell of the dinner,
that made him do it, has not been ascertained; but it is certain that he
walked into the house, ate plenty of pork and greens, and then took a
tolerable share in demolishing the apple dumpling.

When the little children were gone out to play, Tom's wife said to him,
"I hope thou and thy master haven't had words to-day."

"We've had no words," said Tom, impatiently; "but I'm sick of being at
another man's beck and call. It's, 'Tom, do this,' and 'Tom do that,'
and nothing but work, work, work, from Monday morning till Saturday
night. I was thinking as I walked over to Squire Morton's to ask for the
turnip seed for master,--I was thinking, Sally, that I am nothing but a
poor workingman after all. In short, I'm a slave; and my spirit won't
stand it."

So saying, Tom flung himself out at the cottage door, and his wife
thought he was going back to his work as usual; but she was mistaken. He
walked to the wood, and there, when he came to the border of a little
tinkling stream, he sat down and began to brood over his grievances.

"Now, I'll tell you what," said Tom to himself, "it's much pleasanter
sitting here in the shade, than broiling over celery trenches, and
thinning wall fruit, with a baking sun at one's back, and a hot wall
before one's eyes. But I'm a miserable slave. I must either work or see
my family starve; a very hard lot it is to be a workingman."

"Ahem," said a voice close to him. Tom started, and, to his great
surprise, saw a small man about the size of his own baby, sitting
composedly at his elbow. He was dressed in green,--green hat, green
coat, and green shoes. He had very bright black eyes, and they twinkled
very much as he looked at Tom and smiled.

"Servant, sir!" said Tom, edging himself a little farther off.

"Miserable slave," said the small man, "art thou so far lost to the
noble sense of freedom that thy very salutation acknowledges a mere
stranger as thy master?'

"Who are you," said Tom, "and how dare you call me a slave?"

"Tom," said the small man, with a knowing look, "don't speak roughly.
Keep your rough words for your wife, my man; she is bound to bear them."

"I'll thank you to let my affairs alone," interrupted Tom, shortly.

"Tom, I'm your friend; I think I can help you out of your difficulty.
Every minnow in this stream--they are very scarce, mind you--has a
silver tail."

"You don't say so," exclaimed Tom, opening his eyes very wide; "fishing
for minnows and being one's own master would be much pleasanter than the
sort of life I've been leading this many a day."

"Well, keep the secret as to where you get them, and much good may it do
you," said the man in green. "Farewell; I wish you joy in your freedom."
So saying, he walked away, leaving Tom on the brink of the stream, full
of joy and pride.

He went to his master and told him that he had an opportunity for
bettering himself, and should not work for him any longer.

The next day, he arose with the dawn, and went in search of minnows. But
of all the minnows in the world, never were any so nimble as those with
silver tails. They were very shy, too, and had as many turns and doubles
as a hare; what a life they led him!

They made him troll up the stream for miles; then, just as he thought
his chase was at an end and he was sure of them, they would leap quite
out of the water, and dart down the stream again like little silver
arrows. Miles and miles he went, tired, wet, and hungry. He came home
late in the evening, wearied and footsore, with only three minnows in
his pocket, each with a silver tail.

"But, at any rate," he said to himself, as he lay down in his bed,
"though they lead me a pretty life, and I have to work harder than ever,
yet I certainly am free; no man can now order me about."

This went on for a whole week; he worked very hard; but, up to Saturday
afternoon, he had caught only fourteen minnows.

After all, however, his fish were really great curiosities; and when he
had exhibited them all over the town, set them out in all lights,
praised their perfections, and taken immense pains to conceal his
impatience and ill temper, he, at length, contrived to sell them all,
and get exactly fourteen shillings for them, and no more.

"Now, I'll tell you what, Tom Turner," said he to himself, "I've found
out this afternoon, and I don't mind your knowing it,--that every one of
those customers of yours was your master. Why! you were at the beck of
every man, woman, and child that came near you;--obliged to be in a good
temper, too, which was very aggravating."

"True, Tom," said the man in green, starting up in his path. "I knew you
were a man of sense; look you, you are all workingmen; and you must all
please your customers. Your master was your customer; what he bought of
you was your work. Well, you must let the work be such as will please
the customer."

"All workingmen? How do you make that out?" said Tom, chinking the
fourteen shillings in his hand. "Is my master a workingman; and has he a
master of his own? Nonsense!"

"No nonsense at all; he works with his head, keeps his books, and
manages his great mills. He has many masters; else why was he nearly
ruined last year?"

"He was nearly ruined because he made some newfangled kinds of patterns
at his works, and people would not buy them," said Tom. "Well, in a way
of speaking, then, he works to please his masters, poor fellow! He is,
as one may say, a fellow-servant, and plagued with very awkward masters.
So I should not mind his being my master, and I think I'll go and tell
him so."

"I would, Tom," said the man in green. "Tell him you have not been able
to better yourself, and you have no objection now to dig up the
asparagus bed."

So Tom trudged home to his wife, gave her the money he had earned, got
his old master to take him back, and kept a profound secret his
adventures with the man in green.

_Jean Ingelow._


[Illustration:]


"Every minnow in the stream (they are very scarce, mind you) has a
silver tail." Here we have a group of words in parenthesis. Read the
sentence aloud several times, _omitting_ the group in parenthesis. Now
read the _whole_ sentence, keeping in mind the fact that the words in
parenthesis are not at all important,--that they are merely thrown in by
way of explanation. You notice that you have read the words in
parenthesis in a _lower tone_ and _faster time._ Groups of words like
the above are not always enclosed by marks of parenthesis; but that
makes no difference in the reading of them.

The following examples are taken from "The Martyr's Boy," page 243.
Practice on them till you believe you have mastered the method.

I never heard anything so cold and insipid (I hope it is not wrong to
say so) as the compositions read by my companions.

Only, I know not why, he seems ever to have a grudge against me.

I felt that I was strong enough--my rising anger made me so--to seize my
unjust assailant by the throat, and cast him gasping to the ground.


Memorize:



       "Work! and the clouds of care will fly;
         Pale want will pass away.
       Work! and the leprosy of crime
         And tyrants must decay.
       Leave the dead ages in their urns:
         The present time be ours,
       To grapple bravely with our lot,
         And strew our path with flowers."



       *       *       *       *       *




_36_



THE BROOK.


       I come from haunts of coot and hern,
         I make a sudden sally,
       And sparkle out among the fern,
         To bicker down a valley.
       By thirty hills I hurry down,
         Or slip between the ridges,
       By twenty thorps, a little town,
         And half a hundred bridges.
       Till last by Philip's farm I flow
         To join the brimming river;
       For men may come, and men may go,
         But I go on forever.

       I chatter over stony ways
         In little sharps and trebles;
       I bubble into eddying bays;
         I babble on the pebbles.
       With many a curve my banks I fret
         By many a field and fallow.
       And many a fairy foreland set
         With willow-weed and mallow.
       I chatter, chatter, as I flow
         To join the brimming river;
       For men may come, and men may go,
         But I go on forever.

       I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
         I slide by hazel covers,
       I move the sweet forget-me-nots
         That grow for happy lovers.
       I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
         Among my skimming swallows;
       I make the netted sunbeams dance
         Against my sandy shallows.

       I murmur under moon and stars
         In brambly wildernesses;
       I linger by my shingly bars;
         I loiter round my cresses.
       And out again I curve and flow
         To join the brimming river;
       For men may come, and men may go,
         But I go on forever.


_Tennyson_.


[Illustration:]


       *       *       *       *       *


HAUNTS, places of frequent resort.

COOT and hern, water fowls that frequent lakes and other still
waters.

BICKER, to move quickly and unsteadily, like flame or water.

THORP, a cluster of houses; a hamlet.

SHARPS and trebles, terms in music. They are here used to
describe the sound of the brook.

EDDYING, moving in circles. Why are "eddying bays" dangerous to the
swimmer?

FRETTED BANKS, banks worn away by the action of the water.

FALLOW, plowed land, foreland, a point of land running into the sea
or other water.

MALLOW, a kind of plant.

GLOOM, to shine obscurely.

SHINGLY, abounding with shingle or loose gravel.

BARS, banks of sand or gravel or rock forming a shoal in a river or
harbor.

CRESSES, certain plants which grow near the water. They are
sometimes used as a salad.


       *       *       *       *       *




_37_


wits
hale
borne
suit' ed
prop' er ly
sit u a' tion



LEARNING TO THINK.


Grandpa Dennis is one of the kindest and gentlest, as well as one of the
wisest men I know; and although his step is somewhat feeble, and the few
locks that are left him are gray, he is still more hale and hearty than
many a younger man.

Like all old people whose hearts are in the right place, he is fond of
children, whom he likes to amuse and instruct by his pleasant talk, as
they gather round his fireside or sit upon his knee.

Sometimes he puts questions to the young folks, not only to find out
what they know, but also to sharpen their wits and lead them to think.

"Tell me, Norman," he said one day, as they sat together, "if I have a
cake to divide among three persons, how ought I to proceed?"

"Why, cut it into three parts, and give one to each, to be sure," said
Norman.

"Let us try that plan, and see how it will succeed. Suppose the cake has
to be divided among you, Arthur and Winnie. If I cut off a very thin
slice for you, and divide what is left between your brother and sister,
will that be fair?"

"No, that would not be at all fair, Grandpa."

"Why not? Did I not divide the cake according to your advice? Did I not
cut it into three parts?"

"But one was larger than the other, and they ought to have been exactly
the same size."

"Then you think, that if I had divided the cake into three equal parts,
it would have been quite fair?"

"Yes; if you had done so, I should have no cause to complain."

"Now, Norman, let us suppose that I have three baskets to send to a
distance by three persons; shall I act fairly if I give each a basket to
carry?"

"Stop a minute, Grandpa, I must think a little. No, it might not be
fair, for one of the baskets might be a great deal larger than the
others."

"Come, Norman, I see that you are really beginning to think. But we will
take care that the baskets are all of the same size."

"Then it would be quite fair for each one to take a basket."

"What! if one was full of lead, and the other two were filled with
feathers?"

"Oh, no! I never thought of that. Let the baskets be of the same weight,
and all will be right."

"Are you quite sure of that? Suppose one of the three persons is a
strong man, another a weak woman, and the third a little child?"

"Grandpa! Grandpa! Why, I am altogether wrong. How many things there are
to think about."

"Well, Norman, I hope you see that if burdens have to be equally borne,
they must be suited to the strength of those who have to bear them."

"Yes, I see that clearly now. Put one more question to me, Grandpa, and
I will try to answer it properly this time."

"Well, then, my next question is this: If I want a man to dig for me,
and three persons apply for the situation, will it not be fair if I set
them to work to try them, and choose the one who does his task in the
quickest time?"

"Are they all to begin their work at the same time?"

"A very proper question, Norman: yes, they shall all start together."

"Has one just as much ground to dig as another?"

"Exactly the same."

"And will each man have a good spade?"

"Yes, their spades shall be exactly alike."

"But one part of the field may be soft earth, and the other hard and
stony."

"I will take care of that. All shall be fairly dealt with. The ground
shall be everywhere alike."

"Well, I think, Grandpa, that he who does his work first, if done as
well as that of either of the other two, is the best man."

"And I think so, too, Norman; and if you go on in this way it will be
greatly to your advantage. Only form the habit of being thoughtful in
little things, and you will be sure to judge wisely in important ones."


       *       *       *       *       *


In the words _suit_ (s[=u]t) and _soon_ (s[=oo]n), have the marked
vowels the same sound?


In the two statements,--


       I give it to you because it's good;
       Virtue brings its own reward;


why is there an apostrophe in the first "it's," and none in the second?


       Let your hands be honest and clean--
       Let your conscience be honest and clean--


Combine these two sentences by the word _and_; rewrite them, omitting
all needless words.

Compose two sentences, one having the action-word _learned_; the other
the word _taught_.

Fill each of the following blank spaces with the correct form of the
action-word _bear_:


As Christ -- His cross, so must we -- ours.
Our cross must be --. "And -- His own
cross, He went forth to Calvary."



       *       *       *       *       *




_38_


elate'
despond'
lu' mi nous
pil' grim age



ONE BY ONE.


       One by one the sands are flowing,
         One by one the moments fall;
       Some are coming, some are going;
         Do not strive to grasp them all.

       One by one thy duties wait thee;
         Let thy whole strength go to each;
       Let no future dreams elate thee,
         Learn thou first what these can teach.

       One by one (bright gifts from Heaven)
         Joys are sent thee here below;
       Take them readily when given,
         Ready, too, to let them go.

       One by one thy griefs shall meet thee;
         Do not fear an armed band;
       One will fade as others greet thee--
         Shadows passing through the land.

       Do not look at life's long sorrow;
         See how small each moment's pain;
       God will help thee for to-morrow,
         So each day begin again.

       Every hour that fleets so slowly
         Has its task to do or bear;
       Luminous the crown, and holy,
         When each gem is set with care.

       Do not linger with regretting,
         Or for passing hours despond;
       Nor, thy daily toil forgetting,
         Look too eagerly beyond.

       Hours are golden links, God's token,
         Reaching heaven; but one by one
       Take them, lest the chain be broken
         Ere the pilgrimage be done.


_Adelaide A. Procter._


       *       *       *       *       *


Choose any four lines of the poem, and tell what lesson each line
teaches.

Name some great works that were done little by little.

What does "Rome was not built in a day" mean?

Tell what is meant by "He that despiseth small faults shall fall by
little and little."

What is the real or literal meaning of the word _gem_?

Find the word in the poem, and tell what meaning it has there.

Explain the line--


       "Let no future dreams elate thee."


What is meant by "building castles in the air?"

Study the whole poem line by line, and try to tell yourself what each
line means. Nearly every single line of it teaches an important moral
lesson. Find out what that lesson is.

Tell what you know of the author.


       *       *       *       *       *




_39_


ca noe'
sup' ple
fi' brous
res' in
sin' ews
tam' a rack
ooz' ing
bal' sam
sol' i ta ry
pli' ant
fis' sure
re sist' ance
som' ber
crev' ice
re splen' dent



THE BIRCH CANOE.


           "Give me of your bark, O Birch Tree!
       Of your yellow bark, O Birch Tree!
       Growing by the rushing river,
       Tall and stately in the valley!
       I a light canoe will build me,
       That shall float upon the river,
       Like a yellow leaf in autumn,
       Like a yellow water lily!
           Lay aside your cloak, O Birch Tree!
       Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,
       For the summer time is coming,
       And the sun is warm in heaven,
       And you need no white-skin wrapper!"
           Thus aloud cried Hiawatha
       In the solitary forest,
       When the birds were singing gayly,
       In the Moon of Leaves were singing.
           And the tree with all its branches
       Rustled in the breeze of morning,
       Saying, with a sigh of patience,
       "Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!"
           With his knife the tree he girdled;
       Just beneath its lowest branches,
       Just above the roots, he cut it,
       Till the sap came oozing outward;
       Down the trunk, from top to bottom,
       Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,
       With a wooden wedge he raised it,
       Stripped it from the trunk unbroken.
           "Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!
       Of your strong and pliant branches,
       My canoe to make more steady,
       Make more strong and firm beneath me!"
           Through the summit of the Cedar
       Went a sound, a cry of horror,
       Went a murmur of resistance;
       But it whispered, bending downward,
       "Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!"
           Down he hewed the boughs of cedar
       Shaped them straightway to a framework,
       Like two bows he formed and shaped them,
       Like two bended bows together.
           "Give me of your roots, O Tamarack!
       Of your fibrous roots, O Larch Tree!
       My canoe to bind together,
       So to bind the ends together,
       That the water may not enter,
       That the river may not wet me!"
           And the Larch with all its fibers
       Shivered in the air of morning,
       Touched his forehead with its tassels,
       Said, with one long sigh of sorrow,
       "Take them all, O Hiawatha!"
           From the earth he tore the fibers,
       Tore the tough roots of the Larch Tree.
       Closely sewed the bark together,
       Bound it closely to the framework.
           "Give me of your balm, O Fir Tree!
       Of your balsam and your resin,
       So to close the seams together
       That the water may not enter,
       That the river may not wet me!"
           And the Fir Tree, tall and somber,
       Sobbed through all its robes of darkness,
       Rattled like a shore with pebbles,
       Answered wailing, answered weeping,
       "Take my balm, O Hiawatha!"
           And he took the tears of balsam,
       Took the resin of the Fir Tree,
       Smeared therewith each seam and fissure,
       Made each crevice safe from water.
           "Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog!
       I will make a necklace of them,
       Make a girdle for my beauty,
       And two stars to deck her bosom!"
           From a hollow tree the Hedgehog,
       With his sleepy eyes looked at him,
       Shot his shining quills, like arrows,
       Saying, with a drowsy murmur,
       Through the tangle of his whiskers,
       "Take my quills, O Hiawatha!"
           From the ground the quills he gathered,
       All the little shining arrows,
       Stained them red and blue and yellow,
       With the juice of roots and berries;
       Into his canoe he wrought them,
       Round its waist a shining girdle.
       Round its bows a gleaming necklace,
       On its breast two stars resplendent.
           Thus the Birch Canoe was builded
       In the valley, by the river,
       In the bosom of the forest;
       And the forest's life was in it,
       All its mystery and its magic,
       All the lightness of the birch tree,
       All the toughness of the cedar,
       All the larch's supple sinews;
       And it floated on the river,
       Like a yellow leaf in autumn,
       Like a yellow water lily.


_Longfellow._

From "Song of Hiawatha." Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Publishers.


[Illustration:]


       *       *       *       *       *


MOON OF LEAVES, month of May.

SHEER, straight up and down.

TAMARACK, the American larch tree.

FISSURE, a narrow opening; a cleft.

What does Hiawatha call the bark of the birch tree?

Where did he get the balsam and resin? What use did he put these to?

What are the drops of balsam called? Why?

NOTE.--"The bark canoe of the Indians is, perhaps, the lightest and most
beautiful model of all the water craft ever invented. It is generally
made complete with the bark of one birch tree, and so skillfully shaped
and sewed together with the roots of the tamarack, that it is
water-tight, and rides upon the water as light as a cork."


       *       *       *       *       *




_40_


pic' tures
pal' ace
four' teen
fa' mous ly
scul' lion
re past'
in hal' ing
en chant' ed
mat' tress
char' coal
land' scapes
ar' chi tect



PETER OF CORTONA.


A little shepherd boy, twelve years old, one day gave up the care of the
sheep he was tending, and betook himself to Florence, where he knew no
one but a lad of his own age, nearly as poor as himself, who had lived
in the same village, but who had gone to Florence to be scullion in the
house of Cardinal Sachetti. It was for a good motive that little Peter
desired to come to Florence: he wanted to be an artist, and he knew
there was a school for artists there. When he had seen the town well,
Peter stationed himself at the Cardinal's palace; and inhaling the odor
of the cooking, he waited patiently till his Eminence was served, that
he might speak to his old companion, Thomas. He had to wait a long time;
but at length Thomas appeared.

"You here, Peter! What have you come to Florence for?"

"I am come to learn painting."

"You had much better learn kitchen work to begin with; one is then sure
not to die of hunger."

"You have as much to eat as you want here, then?" replied Peter.

"Indeed I have," said Thomas; "I might eat till I made myself ill every
day, if I chose to do it."

"Then," said Peter, "I see we shall do very well. As you have too much
and I not enough, I will bring my appetite, and you will bring the food;
and we shall get on famously."

"Very well," said Thomas.

"Let us begin at once, then," said Peter; "for as I have eaten nothing
to-day, I should like to try the plan directly."

Thomas then took little Peter into the garret where he slept, and bade
him wait there till he brought him some fragments that he was freely
permitted to take. The repast was a merry one, for Thomas was in high
spirits, and little Peter had a famous appetite.

"Ah," cried Thomas, "here you are fed and lodged. Now the question is,
how are you going to study?"

"I shall study like all artists--with pencil and paper."

"But then, Peter, have you money to buy the paper and pencils?"

"No, I have nothing; but I said to myself, 'Thomas, who is scullion at
his lordship's, must have plenty of money!' As you are rich, it is just
the same as if I was."

Thomas scratched his head and replied, that as to broken victuals, he
had plenty of them; but that he would have to wait three years before he
should receive wages. Peter did not mind. The garret walls were white.
Thomas could give him charcoal, and so he set to draw on the walls with
that; and after a little while somebody gave Thomas a silver coin.

With joy he brought it to his friend. Pencils and paper were bought.
Early in the morning Peter went out studying the pictures in the
galleries, the statues in the streets, the landscapes in the
neighborhood; and in the evening, tired and hungry, but enchanted with
what he had seen, he crept back into the garret, where he was always
sure to find his dinner hidden under the mattress, _to keep it warm,_ as
Thomas said. Very soon the first charcoal drawings were rubbed off, and
Peter drew his best designs to ornament his friend's room.

One day Cardinal Sachetti, who was restoring his palace, came with the
architect to the very top of the house, and happened to enter the
scullion's garret. The room was empty; but both Cardinal and architect
were struck with the genius of the drawings. They thought they were
executed by Thomas, and his Eminence sent for him. When poor Thomas
heard that the Cardinal had been in the garret, and had seen what he
called Peter's daubs, he thought all was lost.

"You will no longer be a scullion," said the Cardinal to him; and
Thomas, thinking this meant banishment and disgrace, fell on his knees,
and cried, "Oh! my lord, what will become of poor Peter?"

The Cardinal made him tell his story.

"Bring him to me when he comes in to-night," said he, smiling.

But Peter did not return that night, nor the next, till at length a
fortnight had passed without a sign of him. At last came the news that
the monks of a distant convent had received and kept with them a boy of
fourteen, who had come to ask permission to copy a painting of Raphael
in the chapel of the convent. This boy was Peter. Finally, the Cardinal
sent him as a pupil to one of the first artists in Rome.

Fifty years afterwards there were two old men who lived as brothers in
one of the most beautiful houses in Florence. One said of the other, "He
is the greatest painter of our age." The other said of the first, "He is
a model for evermore of a faithful friend."


       *       *       *       *       *


PETER OF CORTONA, a great Italian painter and architect. He was
born in Cortona in the year 1596, and died in Rome, in 1669.

EMINENCE, a title of honor, applied to a cardinal.

GALLERIES, rooms or buildings where works of art are exhibited.

VICTUALS (v[)i]t' 'lz), cooked food for human beings.

FORTNIGHT (f[^o]rt' n[=i]t or n[)i]t): This word is contracted from
_fourteen nights._

Locate the cities of _Rome_ and _Florence_.

Give words that mean the opposite of the following:

ill, bade, buy, first, old, begin, empty, enter, cooked, merry, bought,
friend, inhale, patient, palace, distant, appeared, disgrace, famous,
faithful, morning, enchanted.

Recite the words--"Oh, my lord, what will become of poor Peter?"--as
Thomas uttered them. Remember he was beseeching a great _cardinal_ in
favor of a poor destitute _boy_ whom he loved as a brother. He _felt_
what he said.

Do you find any humorous passages in the selection? Read them, and tell
wherein the humor lies.


Memory Gems:


When a friend asketh, there is no to-morrow.

_Spanish Proverb._



Diligence overcomes difficulties; sloth makes them.

_From "Poor Richard's Proverbs."_



       A gift in need, though small indeed,
       Is large as earth and rich as heaven.


_Whittier_.


       *       *       *       *       *




_41_


vas' sal
roy' al ly
beg' gar y
hom' age
sen' ti nel
dif' fer ence



TO MY DOG BLANCO.[003]


       My dear, dumb friend, low lying there,
         A willing vassal at my feet,
       Glad partner of my home and fare,
         My shadow in the street.

       I look into your great brown eyes,
         Where love and loyal homage shine,
       And wonder where the difference lies
         Between your soul and mine!

       For all the good that I have found
         Within myself or human kind,
       Hath royally informed and crowned
         Your gentle heart and mind.

       I scan the whole broad earth around
         For that one heart which, leal and true,
       Bears friendship without end or bound,
         And find the prize in you.

       I trust you as I trust the stars;
         Nor cruel loss, nor scoff of pride,
       Nor beggary, nor dungeon bars,
         Can move you from my side!

       As patient under injury
         As any Christian saint of old,
       As gentle as a lamb with me,
         But with your brothers bold;

       More playful than a frolic boy,
         More watchful than a sentinel,
       By day and night your constant joy
         To guard and please me well.

       I clasp your head upon my breast--
         The while you whine and lick my hand--
       And thus our friendship is confessed,
         And thus we understand!

       Ah, Blanco! did I worship God
         As truly as you worship me,
       Or follow where my Master trod
         With your humility,--

       Did I sit fondly at His feet,
         As you, dear Blanco, sit at mine,
       And watch Him with a love as sweet,
         My life would grow divine!


_J.G. Holland_

From "The Complete Poetical Writings of J.G. Holland."

[Illustration:]

[Footnote 003: Copyright, 1879, 1881, by Charles Scribner's Sons.]


       *       *       *       *       *


LEAL (l[=e]l), loyal, faithful.

DUNGEON (d[)u]n' j[)u]n), a close, dark prison, commonly
underground.

Tell what is meant by the terms, dumb friend; willing vassal; glad
partner; my shadow; human kind; frolic boy.

What duty does Blanco teach his master?

Memorize the last two stanzas of the poem.

The three great divisions of time are _past, present, future._ Tell what
time each of the following action-words expresses:

found, find, have found, will find, bears, shall bear, has borne,
crowned, will crown, did crown, crowns.


       *       *       *       *       *




_42_


ab'bot
clois'ter
min'ster
li'brary
chron' i cle



A STORY OF A MONK.


Many hundreds of years ago there dwelt in a cloister a monk named Urban,
who was remarkable for his earnest and fervent piety. He was a studious
reader of the learned and sacred volumes in the convent library. One day
he read in the Epistles of St. Peter the words, "One day is with the
Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day;" and this
saying seemed impossible in his eyes, so that he spent many an hour in
meditating upon it.

Then one morning it happened that the monk descended from the library
into the cloister garden, and there he saw a little bird perched on the
bough of a tree, singing sweetly, like a nightingale. The bird did not
move as the monk approached her, till he came quite close, and then she
flew to another bough, and again another, as the monk pursued her. Still
singing the same sweet song, the nightingale flew on; and the monk,
entranced by the sound, followed her out of the garden into the wide
world.

At last he stopped, and turned back to the cloister; but every thing
seemed changed to him. Every thing had become larger, more beautiful,
and older,--the buildings, the garden; and in the place of the low,
humble cloister church, a lofty minster with three towers reared its
head to the sky. This seemed very strange to the monk, indeed marvelous;
but he walked on to the cloister gate and timidly rang the bell. A
porter entirely unknown to him answered his summons, and drew back in
amazement when he saw the monk.

The latter went in, and wandered through the church, gazing with
astonishment on memorial stones which he never remembered to have seen
before. Presently the brethren of the cloister entered the church; but
all retreated when they saw the strange figure of the monk. The abbot
only (but not his abbot) stopped, and stretching a crucifix before him,
exclaimed, "In the name of Christ, who art thou, spirit or mortal? And
what dost thou seek here, coming from the dead among us, the living?"

The monk, trembling and tottering like an old man, cast his eyes to the
ground, and for the first time became aware that a long silvery beard
descended from his chin over his girdle, to which was still suspended
the key of the library. To the monks around, the stranger seemed some
marvelous appearance; and, with a mixture of awe and admiration, they
led him to the chair of the abbot. There he gave the key to a young
monk, who opened the library, and brought out a chronicle wherein it was
written that three hundred years ago the monk Urban had disappeared; and
no one knew whither he had gone.

"Ah, bird of the forest, was it then thy song?" said the monk Urban,
with a sigh. "I followed thee for scarce three minutes, listening to thy
notes, and yet three hundred years have passed away! Thou hast sung to
me the song of eternity which I could never before learn. Now I know it;
and, dust myself, I pray to God kneeling in the dust." With these words
he sank to the ground, and his spirit ascended to heaven.


       *       *       *       *       *


Copy the last paragraph, omitting all marks of punctuation.

Close the book, and punctuate what you have written. Compare your work
with the printed page.


Memory Gems:


If thou wouldst live long, live well; for folly and wickedness shorten
life.

_From "Poor Richard's Proverbs"_


The older I grow--and I now stand upon the brink of eternity--the more
comes back to me the sentence in the catechism which I learned when a
child, and the fuller and deeper becomes its meaning: "What is the chief
end of man? To glorify God, and to enjoy Him forever."

_Thomas Carlyle._


       *       *       *       *       *




_43_


dole
man' na
em' blem
re leased'
plumes
breathe
crim' son
feath' ered
soared
dou' bly
hom' i ly
ser'a phim



THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS.


       Up soared the lark into the air,
       A shaft of song, a winged prayer,
       As if a soul, released from pain,
       Were flying back to heaven again.

       St. Francis heard; it was to him
       An emblem of the Seraphim;
       The upward motion of the fire,
       The light, the heat, the heart's desire.

       Around Assisi's convent gate
       The birds, God's poor who cannot wait,
       From moor and mere and darksome wood
       Came flocking for their dole of food.

       "O brother birds," St. Francis said,
       "Ye come to me and ask for bread,
       But not with bread alone to-day
       Shall ye be fed and sent away.

       "Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds
       With manna of celestial words;
       Not mine, though mine they seem to be,
       Not mine, though they be spoken through me.

       "O, doubly are ye bound to praise
       The great Creator in your lays;
       He giveth you your plumes of down,
       Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown.

       "He giveth you your wings to fly
       And breathe a purer air on high,
       And careth for you everywhere,
       Who for yourselves so little care!"

       With flutter of swift wings and songs
       Together rose the feathered throngs,
       And singing scattered far apart;
       Deep peace was in St. Francis' heart.

       He knew not if the brotherhood
       His homily had understood;
       He only knew that to one ear
       The meaning of his words was clear.


_Longfellow._

From "Children's Hour and Other Poems." Houghton, Mifflin & Co.,
Publishers.


[Illustration: ST. FRANCIS PREACHING]


       *       *       *       *       *


LAYS, songs.

ASSISI ([:a]s s[=e]' ze), a town of Italy, where St. Francis was
born in 1182.

What does "manna of celestial words" mean?

What is the singular form of seraphim?


Memory Gem:


       Every word has its own spirit,
         True or false, that never dies;
       Every word man's lips have uttered
         Echoes in God's skies.


_Adelaide A. Procter._


       *       *       *       *       *




_44_


GLORIA IN EXCELSIS.


       Gloria in excelsis!
         Sound the thrilling song;
       In excelsis Deo!
         Roll the hymn along.

       Gloria in excelsis!
         Let the heavens ring;
       In excelsis Deo!
         Welcome, new-born King.

       Gloria in excelsis!
         Over the sea and land,
       In excelsis Deo!
         Chant the anthem grand.

       Gloria in excelsis!
         Let us all rejoice;
       In excelsis Deo!
         Lift each heart and voice.

       Gloria in excelsis!
         Swell the hymn on high;
       In excelsis Deo!
         Sound it to the sky.

       Gloria in excelsis!
         Sing it, sinful earth,
       In excelsis Deo!
         For the Savior's birth.


_Father Ryan._

"Father Ryan's Poems." Published by P.J. Kenedy & Sons, New York.


[Illustration: Artist _Hofmann_.--Caption: "Glory to God in the
highest; and on earth peace to men of good will."]


       *       *       *       *       *




_45_


plied
won' drous
ex cite' ment
com mo' tion
vig' or
fo' li age
mar' vel ous
com pas' sion



THE FIRST CHRISTMAS TREE.[004]


Once upon a time the Forest was in a great commotion. Early in the
evening the wise old Cedars had shaken their heads and told of strange
things that were to happen. They had lived in the Forest many, many
years; but never had they seen such marvelous sights as were to be seen
now in the sky, and upon the hills, and in the distant village.

"Pray tell us what you see," pleaded a little Vine; "we who are not so
tall as you can behold none of these wonderful things."

"The whole sky seems to be aflame," said one of the Cedars, "and the
Stars appear to be dancing among the clouds; angels walk down from
heaven to the earth and talk with the shepherds upon the hills."

The Vine trembled with excitement. Its nearest neighbor was a tiny tree,
so small it was scarcely ever noticed; yet it was a very beautiful
little tree, and the Vines and Ferns and Mosses loved it very dearly.

"How I should like to see the Angels!" sighed the little Tree; "and how
I should like to see the Stars dancing among the clouds! It must be very
beautiful. Oh, listen to the music! I wonder whence it comes."

"The Angels are singing," said a Cedar; "for none but angels could make
such sweet music."

"And the Stars are singing, too," said another Cedar; "yes, and the
shepherds on the hills join in the song."

The trees listened to the singing. It was a strange song about a Child
that had been born. But further than this they did not understand. The
strange and glorious song continued all the night.

In the early morning the Angels came to the Forest singing the same song
about the Child, and the Stars sang in chorus with them, until every
part of the woods rang with echoes of that wondrous song. They were clad
all in white, and there were crowns upon their fair heads, and golden
harps in their hands. Love, hope, joy and compassion beamed from their
beautiful faces. The Angels came through the Forest to where the little
Tree stood, and gathering around it, they touched it with their hands,
kissed its little branches, and sang even more sweetly than before. And
their song was about the Child, the Child, the Child, that had been
born. Then the Stars came down from the skies and danced and hung upon
the branches of the little Tree, and they, too, sang the song of the
Child.

When they left the Forest, one Angel remained to guard the little Tree.
Night and day he watched so that no harm should come to it. Day by day
it grew in strength and beauty. The sun sent it his choicest rays,
heaven dropped its sweetest dew upon it, and the winds sang to it their
prettiest songs.

So the years passed, and the little Tree grew until it became the pride
and glory of the Forest.

One day the Tree heard some one coming through the Forest. "Have no
fear," said the Angel, "for He who comes is the Master."

And the Master came to the Tree and placed His Hands upon its smooth
trunk and branches. He stooped and kissed the Tree, and then turned and
went away.

[Illustration: _A. Bida._]

Many times after that the Master came to the Forest, rested beneath the
Tree and enjoyed the shade of its foliage. Many times He slept there and
the Tree watched over Him. Many times men came with the Master to the
Forest, sat with Him in the shade of the Tree, and talked with Him of
things which the Tree never could understand. It heard them tell how the
Master healed the sick and raised the dead and bestowed blessings
wherever He walked.

But one night the Master came alone into the Forest. His Face was pale
and wet with tears. He fell upon His knees and prayed. The Tree heard
Him, and all the Forest was still. In the morning there was a sound of
rude voices and a clashing of swords.

[Illustration: _Hofmann._]

Strange men plied their axes with cruel vigor, and the Tree was hewn to
the ground. Its beautiful branches were cut away, and its soft, thick
foliage was strewn to the winds. The Trees of the Forest wept.

The cruel men dragged the hewn Tree away, and the Forest saw it no more.

But the Night Wind that swept down from the City of the Great King
stayed that night in the Forest awhile to say that it had seen that day
a Cross raised on Calvary,--the Tree on which was nailed the Body of the
dying Master.

_Eugene Field._

From "A Little Book of Profitable Tales." Published by Charles
Scribner's Sons.


[Footnote 004: Copyright, 1889, by Eugene Field.]


       *       *       *       *       *




_46_



THE HOLY CITY.


       Last night I lay a-sleeping; there came a dream so fair;--
       I stood in old Jerusalem, beside the Temple there;
       I heard the children singing, and ever as they sang
       Methought the voice of Angels
       From Heaven in answer rang;--
       Methought the voice of Angels
       From Heaven in answer rang.
       Jerusalem, Jerusalem, lift up your gates and sing
       Hosanna in the highest! Hosanna to your King!

       And then methought my dream was changed;--
       The streets no longer rang
       Hushed were the glad Hosannas the little children sang.
       The sun grew dark with mystery,
       The morn was cold and chill,
       As the shadow of a cross arose upon a lonely hill;--
       As the shadow of a cross arose upon a lonely hill.
       Jerusalem, Jerusalem, hark! how the Angels sing
       Hosanna in the highest! Hosanna to your King!

       And once again the scene was changed--
       New earth there seemed to be;
       I saw the Holy City beside the tideless sea;
       The light of God was on its streets,
       The gates were open wide,
       And all who would might enter,
       And no one was denied.
       No need of moon or stars by night,
       Nor sun to shine by day;
       It was the New Jerusalem, that would not pass away,--
       It was the New Jerusalem, that would not pass away.
       Jerusalem, Jerusalem, sing, for the night is o'er,
       Hosanna in the highest! Hosanna forevermore!



       *       *       *       *       *




_47_


trea' son
eu' lo gies
de bat' ed
phi los' o phy
in ge nu' i ty
ap pro' pri ate
con' sum ma ted



THE FEAST OF TONGUES.


Xanthus invited a large company to dinner, and Aesop was ordered to
furnish the choicest dainties that money could procure. The first course
consisted of tongues, cooked in different ways and served with
appropriate sauces. This gave rise to much mirth and many witty remarks
by the guests. The second course was also nothing but tongues, and so
with the third and fourth. This seemed to go beyond a joke, and Xanthus
demanded in an angry manner of Aesop, "Did I not tell you to provide the
choicest dainties that money could procure?" "And what excels the
tongue?" replied Aesop, "It is the channel of learning and philosophy.
By it addresses and eulogies are made, and commerce carried on,
contracts executed, and marriages consummated. Nothing is equal to the
tongue." The company applauded Aesop's wit, and good feeling was
restored.

"Well," said Xanthus to the guests, "pray do me the favor of dining with
me again to-morrow. I have a mind to change the feast; to-morrow," said
he, turning to Aesop, "provide us with the worst meat you can find." The
next day the guests assembled as before, and to their astonishment and
the anger of Xanthus nothing but tongues was provided. "How, sir," said
Xanthus, "should tongues be the best of meat one day and the worst
another?" "What," replied Aesop, "can be worse than the tongue? What
wickedness is there under the sun that it has not a part in? Treasons,
violence, injustice, fraud, are debated and resolved upon, and
communicated by the tongue. It is the ruin of empires, cities, and of
private friendships." The company were more than ever struck by Aesop's
ingenuity, and they interceded for him with his master.

_From "Aesop's Fables."_


       *       *       *       *       *


XANTHUS, a Greek poet and historian, who lived in the sixth century
before Christ.

Write the plurals of the following words, and tell how they are formed
in each case:

dainty, sauce, eulogy, feast, city, chief, calf, day, lily, copy, loaf,
roof, half, valley, donkey.

What words are made emphatic by contrast in the following sentence: "How
should tongues be the best of meat one day and the worst another?"

Memorize what Aesop said in praise of the tongue, and what he said in
dispraise of it.


Memory Gem:


"If any man offend not in word, the same is a perfect man. The tongue is
a fire, a world of iniquity. By it we bless God and the Father; and by
it we curse men who are made after the likeness of God."

_From "Epistle of St. James."_


       *       *       *       *       *




_48_


ap' pe tite
ha rangued'
sus pend' ed
min' strel sy



THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE GLOWWORM.


       A nightingale, that all day long
       Had cheered the village with his song,
       Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
       Nor yet when eventide was ended,
       Began to feel, as well he might,
       The keen demands of appetite;
       When, looking eagerly around,
       He spied far off, upon the ground,
       A something shining in the dark,
       And knew the glowworm by his spark;
       So, stooping down from hawthorn top,
       He thought to put him in his crop.

       The worm, aware of his intent,
       Harangued him thus, right eloquent:
       "Did you admire my lamp," quoth he,
       "As much as I your minstrelsy,
       You would abhor to do me wrong
       As much as I to spoil your song:
       For 'twas the self-same Power Divine
       Taught you to sing and me to shine;
       That you with music, I with light,
       Might beautify and cheer the night."
       The songster heard this short oration,
       And, warbling out his approbation,
       Released him, as my story tells,
       And found a supper somewhere else.

_William Cowper._


Why did the nightingale feel "The keen demands of appetite?"

Do you admire the eloquent speech that the worm made to the bird? Study
it by heart. Copy it from memory. Compare your copy with the printed
page as to spelling, capitals and punctuation.


Memory Gems:



       I would not enter on my list of friends
       (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,
       Yet wanting sensibility) the man
       Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.
       An inadvertent step may crush the snail
       That crawls at evening in the public path;
       But he that has humanity, forewarned,
       Will tread aside, and let the reptile live.


_William Cowper._



       Turn, turn thy hasty foot aside,
         Nor crush that helpless worm!
       The frame thy wayward looks deride
         Required a God to form.

       The common Lord of all that move.
         From whom thy being flowed,
       A portion of His boundless love
         On that poor worm bestowed.

       Let them enjoy their little day,
         Their humble bliss receive;
       Oh! do not lightly take away
         The life thou canst not give!


_Thomas Gisborne._


       *       *       *       *       *




_49_


mar' gin
pitch' er
cup' board
breathed
di' a mond
quiv' er ing



JACK FROST.


       Jack Frost looked forth one still, clear night,
       And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight;
       So, through the valley, and over the height,
         In silence I'll take my way.
       I will not go on like that blustering train,
       The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
       Who make so much bustle and noise in vain;
         But I'll be as busy as they!"

       Then he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest;
       He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed
       In diamond beads; and over the breast
         Of the quivering lake he spread
       A coat of mail, that it need not fear
       The glittering point of many a spear,
       Which he hung on its margin, far and near,
         Where a rock could rear its head.

       He went to the windows of those who slept,
       And over each pane, like a fairy, crept:
       Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped,
         By the morning light were seen
       Most beautiful things!--there were flowers and trees;
       There were bevies of birds, and swarms of bees;
       There were cities with temples and towers; and these
         All pictured in silvery sheen!

       But he did one thing that was hardly fair;
       He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there
       That all had forgotten for him to prepare.--
         "Now, just to set them a-thinking,
       I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he;
       "This costly pitcher I'll burst in three;
       And the glass of water they've left for me,
       Shall '_tchick_,' to tell them I'm drinking."


_Hannah F. Gould._


       *       *       *       *       *


CREST, top or summit.

COAT OF MAIL, a garment of iron or steel worn by warriors in olden
times.

BEVIES, flocks or companies.

SHEEN, brightness.

TCHICK a combination of letters whose pronunciation is supposed to
resemble the sound of breaking glass.

What did Jack Frost do when he went to the mountain?

How did he dress the boughs of the trees? What did he spread over the
lake? Why?

What could be seen after he had worked on "the windows of those who
slept?"

What mischief did he do in the cupboard, and why?

Is Jack Frost an artist? In what kind of weather does he work? Why does
he work generally at night?


       *       *       *       *       *




_50_


re' al ize
pen' du lum
dil' i gent ly
sig nif' i cance
auc tion eer'
per sist' ent ly
in ex haust' i ble
un der stood'
hope' less ly
nev er the less



"GOING! GOING! GONE!"


The other day, as I was walking through a side street in one of our
large cities, I heard these words ringing out from a room so crowded
with people that I could but just see the auctioneer's face and uplifted
hammer above the heads of the crowd.

"Going! Going! Going! Gone!" and down came the hammer with a sharp rap.

I do not know how or why it was, but the words struck me with a new
force and significance. I had heard them hundreds of times before, with
only a sense of amusement. This time they sounded solemn.

"Going! Going! Gone!"

"That is the way it is with life," I said to myself;--"with time." This
world is a sort of auction-room; we do not know that we are buyers: we
are, in fact, more like beggars; we have brought no money to exchange
for precious minutes, hours, days, or years; they are given to us. There
is no calling out of terms, no noisy auctioneer, no hammer; but
nevertheless, the time is "going! going! gone!"

The more I thought of it, the more solemn did the words sound, and the
more did they seem to me a good motto to remind one of the value of
time.

When we are young we think old people are preaching and prosing when
they say so much about it,--when they declare so often that days, weeks,
even years, are short. I can remember when a holiday, a whole day long,
appeared to me an almost inexhaustible play-spell; when one afternoon,
even, seemed an endless round of pleasure, and the week that was to come
seemed longer than does a whole year now.

One needs to live many years before one learns how little time there is
in a year,--how little, indeed, there will be even in the longest
possible life,--how many things one will still be obliged to leave
undone.

But there is one thing, boys and girls, that you can realize if you will
try--if you will stop and think about it a little; and that is, how fast
and how steadily the present time is slipping away. However long life
may seem to you as you look forward to the whole of it, the present hour
has only sixty minutes, and minute by minute, second by second, it is
"going! going! gone!" If you gather nothing from it as it passes, it is
"gone" forever. Nothing is so utterly, hopelessly lost as "lost time."
It makes me unhappy when I look back and see how much time I have
wasted; how much I might have learned and done if I had but understood
how short is the longest hour.

All the men and women who have made the world better, happier or wiser
for their having lived in it, have done so by working diligently and
persistently. Yet, I am certain that not even one of these, when
"looking backward from his manhood's prime, saw not the specter of his
mis-spent time." Now, don't suppose I am so foolish as to think that all
the preaching in the world can make anything look to young eyes as it
looks to old eyes; not a bit of it.

But think about it a little; don't let time slip away by the minute,
hour, day, without getting something out of it! Look at the clock now
and then, and listen to the pendulum, saying of every minute, as it
flies,--"Going! going! gone!"

_Helen Hunt Jackson._

From "Bits of Talk." Copyright, Little, Brown & Co., Publishers.


       *       *       *       *       *


PROSING, talking in a dull way.

In the following sentences, instead of the words in italics, use others
that have the same general meaning:

I heard these words _ringing_ out from a _room_ so _crowded_ with
_people_ that I could _but_ just _see_ the man's _face._ How _fast_ and
_steadily_ the present time is _slipping_ away!


Punctuate the following:

Go to the ant thou sluggard consider her ways and be wise.


       *       *       *       *       *




_51_


yearn
car' ol
mus' ing
stee' ple
mag' ic al



SEVEN TIMES TWO.


       You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes,
         How many soever they be,
       And let the brown meadowlark's note, as he ranges,
         Come over, come over to me!

       Yet birds' clearest carol, by fall or by swelling,
         No magical sense conveys;
       And bells have forgotten their old art of telling
         The fortune of future days.

       "Turn again, turn again!" once they rang cheerily,
         While a boy listened alone;
       Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily
         All by himself on a stone.

       Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over,
         And mine, they are yet to be;
       No listening, no longing, shall aught, aught discover:
         You leave the story to me.

       The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather,
         And hangeth her hoods of snow;
       She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather:
         Oh, children take long to grow!

       I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster,
         Nor long summer bide so late;
       And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster,
         For some things are ill to wait.

       I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover,
         While dear hands are laid on my head,
       "The child is a woman--the book may close over,
         For all the lessons are said."

       I wait for my story: the birds cannot sing it,
         Not one, as he sits on the tree;
       The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it!
         Such as I wish it to be.


_Jean Ingelow._


       *       *       *       *       *


"TURN AGAIN, TURN AGAIN!" Reference is here made to Dick
Whittington, a poor orphan country lad, who went to London to earn a
living, and who afterwards rose to be the first Lord Mayor of that city.


NOTE.--This poem is the second of a series of seven lyrics, entitled
"The Songs of Seven," which picture seven stages in a woman's life. For
the first of the series, "Seven Times One," see page 44 of the Fourth
Reader. Read it in connection with this. "Seven Times Two" shows the
girl standing at the entrance to maidenhood, books closed and lessons
said, longing for the years to go faster to bring to her the happiness
she imagines is waiting.


[Illustration:]


       *       *       *       *       *




_52_


man' i fold
do mes' tic
pet' tish ly
in grat' i tude



MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.


It was thirteen years since my mother's death, when, after a long
absence from my native village, I stood beside the sacred mound beneath
which I had seen her buried. Since that mournful period, a great change
had come over me. My childish years had passed away, and with them my
youthful character. The world was altered, too; and as I stood at my
mother's grave, I could hardly realize that I was the same thoughtless,
happy creature, whose cheeks she so often kissed in an excess of
tenderness.

But the varied events of thirteen years had not effaced the remembrance
of that mother's smile. It seemed as if I had seen her but yesterday--as
if the blessed sound of her well-remembered voice was in my ear. The gay
dreams of my infancy and childhood were brought back so distinctly to my
mind that, had it not been for one bitter recollection, the tears I shed
would have been gentle and refreshing.

The circumstance may seem a trifling one, but the thought of it now
pains my heart; and I relate it, that those children who have parents to
love them may learn to value them as they ought.

My mother had been ill a long time, and I had become so accustomed to
her pale face and weak voice, that I was not frightened at them, as
children usually are. At first, it is true, I sobbed violently; but
when, day after day, I returned from school, and found her the same, I
began to believe she would always be spared to me; but they told me she
would die.

One day when I had lost my place in the class, I came home discouraged
and fretful. I went to my mother's chamber. She was paler than usual,
but she met me with the same affectionate smile that always welcomed my
return. Alas! when I look back through the lapse of thirteen years, I
think my heart must have been stone not to have been melted by it. She
requested me to go downstairs and bring her a glass of water. I
pettishly asked her why she did not call a domestic to do it. With a
look of mild reproach, which I shall never forget if I live to be a
hundred years old, she said, "Will not my daughter bring a glass of
water for her poor, sick mother?"

I went and brought her the water, but I did not do it kindly. Instead of
smiling, and kissing her as I had been wont to do, I set the glass down
very quickly, and left the room. After playing a short time, I went to
bed without bidding my mother good night; but when alone in my room, in
darkness and silence, I remembered how pale she looked, and how her
voice trembled when she said, "Will not my daughter bring a glass of
water for her poor, sick mother?" I could not sleep. I stole into her
chamber to ask forgiveness. She had sunk into an easy slumber, and they
told me I must not waken her.

I did not tell anyone what troubled me, but stole back to my bed,
resolved to rise early in the morning and tell her how sorry I was for
my conduct. The sun was shining brightly when I awoke, and, hurrying on
my clothes, I hastened to my mother's chamber. She was dead! She never
spoke more--never smiled upon me again; and when I touched the hand that
used to rest upon my head in blessing, it was so cold that it made me
start.

I bowed down by her side, and sobbed in the bitterness of my heart. I
then wished that I might die, and be buried with her; and, old as I now
am, I would give worlds, were they mine to give, could my mother but
have lived to tell me she forgave my childish ingratitude. But I cannot
call her back; and when I stand by her grave, and whenever I think of
her manifold kindness, the memory of that reproachful look she gave me
will bite like a serpent and sting like an adder.


       *       *       *       *       *


Memory Gem:


       "But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
       And the sound of a voice that is still!"


       *       *       *       *       *




_53_


chide
be dewed'
em balmed'
be tide'
lin' gered
wor' shiped



THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.


       I love it, I love it; and who shall dare
       To chide me for loving that old Arm-chair?
       I've treasured it long as a sainted prize;
       I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs.
       'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;
       Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
       Would ye learn the spell?--a mother sat there!
       And a sacred thing is that old Arm-chair.

       In Childhood's hour I lingered near
       The hallowed seat with listening ear;
       And gentle words that mother would give,
       To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
       She told me that shame would never betide,
       With truth for my creed and God for my guide;
       She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
       As I knelt beside that old Arm-chair.

       I sat and watched her many a day,
       When her eye grew dim and her locks were gray;
       And I almost worshiped her when she smiled,
       And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
       Years rolled on; but the last one sped--
       My idol was shattered; my earth-star fled:
       I learned how much the heart can bear,
       When I saw her die in that old Arm-chair.

       'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now
       With quivering breath and throbbing brow:
       'Twas there she nursed me; 'twas there she died;
       And Memory flows with lava tide.
       Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
       While the scalding drops start down my cheek;
       But I love it, I love it; and cannot tear
       My soul from a mother's old Arm-chair.

_Eliza Cook._


       *       *       *       *       *


SPELL, a verse or phrase or word supposed to have magical power; a
charm.

HALLOWED, made holy.

HOLLOWED, made a hole out of; made hollow. Use these two words
in sentences of your own.

What is meant by "Memory flows with lava tide?"

Write a two-paragraph description of an old arm-chair. Your imagination
will furnish you with all needed details.

Divide the following words into their syllables, and mark the accented
syllable of each:

absurd, every, nature, mature, leisure, valuable, safety, again, virtue,
ancient, weather, history, poetry, mother, genuine, earliest, fatigued,
business.

The dictionary will aid you.


       *       *       *       *       *




_54_


crags
break
tongue
thoughts
ha' ven
sail' or
state' ly



BREAK, BREAK, BREAK!


       Break, break, break,
         On thy cold gray stones, O sea!
       And I would that my tongue could utter
         The thoughts that arise in me.

       O well for the fisherman's boy,
         That he shouts with his sister at play!
       O well for the sailor lad,
         That he sings in his boat on the bay!

       And the stately ships go on
         To the haven under the hill;
       But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
         And the sound of a voice that is still!

       Break, break, break,
         At the foot of thy crags, O sea!
       But the tender grace of a day that is dead
         Will never come back to me.


_Tennyson_.


[Illustration: Tennyson]


       *       *       *       *       *




_55_


barns
deaf en ing
i dol' a trous
pon' der
ca lum' ni ate
Be at' i tudes



GOD IS OUR FATHER.


The Old Law, the Law given to the Jews on Mount Sinai, tended to inspire
the fear of God, which is the beginning of wisdom. It was given amidst
fire and smoke, thunders and lightnings, and whatever else could fill
the minds of the Jews with fear and wonder. Compelled, as it were, by
the idolatrous acts of His chosen people, by their repeated rebellions,
and their endless murmurings, God showed Himself to them as the almighty
Sovereign, the King of kings, the Lord of lords, whose holiness, power,
majesty, and severity in punishing sin, filled their minds with awe and
dread.

It was not thus that the New Law, the Law of grace and love, was given
to the world. No dark cloud covered the mount of the Beatitudes from
which our Lord preached; no deafening thunders were heard; no angry
flashes of lightning were visible. There was nothing forbidding in the
voice, words, or appearance of the Divine Lawgiver. In the whole
exterior of our Savior there was a something so sweet, so humble, so
meek and captivating, that the people were filled with admiration and
love.

One of the most remarkable features of this first sermon that Christ
preached is the fact that He constantly called God our Father. How
beautifully His teachings reveal the spirit of the Law of love! Listen
to Him attentively, and ponder upon His words:

"Take heed that you do not your justice before men, to be seen by them:
otherwise you shall not have a reward of your FATHER WHO is in
heaven.... But when thou dost alms, let not thy left hand know what thy
right hand doth; that thy alms may be in secret, and thy FATHER WHO
seeth in secret will repay thee.... Love your enemies; do good to them
that hate you; and pray for them that persecute and calumniate you; that
you may be the children of your FATHER WHO is in heaven, Who maketh His
sun to rise upon the good and bad, and raineth upon the just and the
unjust.

"Behold the birds of the air, for they neither sow, nor do they reap,
nor gather into barns: and your heavenly FATHER feedeth them. Are not
you of much more value than they?... If you, then, being evil, know how
to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your FATHER WHO
is in heaven give good things to them that ask Him.... For if you will
forgive men their offenses, your heavenly FATHER will forgive you also
your offenses. But if you will not forgive men, neither will your FATHER
forgive you your offenses.... Thus therefore shall you pray: OUR FATHER
Who art in heaven."

From these and many other similar expressions found in the very first
sermon which Jesus Christ ever preached, we learn that it is the
expressed will of God that we should look upon Him as our loving Father;
and that, however unworthy we may be, we should look upon ourselves as
His beloved children. There cannot be a possible doubt of this, since it
is taught so positively by His only begotten Son, Who is "the Way, the
Truth, and the Life."

[Illustration: _Henry le Jeune._]


       *       *       *       *       *


Sinai (s[=i]' n[=a]), a mountain in Arabia.


       *       *       *       *       *




_56_



HAPPY OLD AGE.


       "You are old, Father William," the young man cried;
         "The few locks that are left you are gray;
       You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man;
         Now, tell me the reason, I pray."

       "In the days of my youth," Father William replied,
         "I remembered that youth would fly fast,
       And abused not my health and my vigor at first,
         That I never might need them at last."

       "You are old, Father William," the young man cried,
         "And life must be hastening away;
       You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death!
         Now, tell me the reason, I pray."

       "I am cheerful, young man," Father William replied;
         "Let the cause thy attention engage;
       In the days of my youth I remembered my God!
         And He hath not forgotten my age."


_Robert Southey._


       *       *       *       *       *


Tell the story of the poem in your own words. What are some of the
important lessons it teaches?


       *       *       *       *       *




_57_


smit' ing
el' o quence
mes' mer ize
ges' ture
vin' e gar
un dy' ing ly



KIND WORDS.


Kind words are the music of the world. They have a power which seems to
be beyond natural causes, as if they were some angel's song, which had
lost its way and come on earth, and sang on undyingly, smiting the
hearts of men with sweetest wounds, and putting for the while an angel's
nature into us.

Let us then think first of all of the power of kind words. In truth,
there is hardly a power on earth equal to them. It seems as they could
almost do what in reality God alone can do, namely, soften the hard and
angry hearts of men. Many a friendship, long, loyal, and
self-sacrificing, rested at first on no thicker a foundation than a kind
word.

Kind words produce happiness. How often have we ourselves been made
happy by kind words, in a manner and to an extent which we are unable to
explain! And happiness is a great power of holiness. Thus, kind words,
by their power of producing happiness, have also a power of producing
holiness, and so of winning men to God.

If I may use such a word when I am speaking of religious subjects, it is
by voice and words that men mesmerize each other. Hence it is that the
world is converted by the voice of the preacher. Hence it is that an
angry word rankles longer in the heart than an angry gesture, nay, very
often even longer than a blow. Thus, all that has been said of the power
of kindness in general applies with an additional and peculiar force to
kind words.

_Father Faber._

From "Spiritual Conferences."


       *       *       *       *       *


Explain: Kind words are the music of the world--An angel's song that had
lost its way and come on earth--Smiting the hearts of men with sweetest
wounds--Putting an angel's nature into us--Hard and angry hearts of
men--An angry word rankles longer in the heart than even a blow.

Mention some occasions when kind words addressed to you made you very
happy. Which will bring a person more happiness,--to have kind words
said to him, or for him to say them to another?

Memorize the first paragraph of the selection.


Memory Gems:


Kindness has converted more sinners than either zeal, eloquence, or
learning.

_Father Faber._


You will catch more flies with a spoonful of honey than with a hundred
barrels of vinegar.

_St. Francis de Sales._


       *       *       *       *       *




_58_



KINDNESS IS THE WORD.


Memorize:


       "What is the real good?"
       I asked in musing mood.

       Order, said the law court;
       Knowledge, said the school;
       Truth, said the wise man;
       Pleasure, said the fool;
       Love, said the maiden;
       Beauty, said the page;
       Freedom, said the dreamer;
       Home, said the sage;
       Fame, said the soldier;
       Equity, said the seer;--

       Spake my heart full sadly:
       "The answer is not here."

       Then within my bosom
       Softly this I heard:
       "Each heart holds the secret:
       Kindness is the word."


_John Boyle O'Reilly._


       *       *       *       *       *


SAGE, a wise man.

SEER, one who foresees events; a prophet.

EQUITY ([)e]k' w[)i] t[)y]), justice, fairness.


       *       *       *       *       *




_59_


va' cant
joc' und
pen' sive
spright' ly
sol' i tude
daf' fo dils
con tin' u ous



DAFFODILS.


       I wandered lonely as a cloud
         That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
       When all at once I saw a crowd,
         A host, of golden daffodils,
       Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
         Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

       Continuous as the stars that shine
         And twinkle on the Milky Way,
       They stretched in never-ending line
         Along the margin of the bay:
       Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
         Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

       The waves beside them danced; but they
         Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
       A poet could not but be gay
         In such a jocund company.
       I gazed,--and gazed,--but little thought
         What wealth the show to me had brought:

       For oft, when on my couch I lie
         In vacant or in pensive mood,
       They flash upon that inward eye
         Which is the bliss of solitude;
       And then my heart with pleasure fills,
         And dances with the daffodils.


_William Wordsworth._


       *       *       *       *       *


MILKY WAY, the belt of light seen at night in the heavens, and is
composed of millions of stars.

1st stanza: Explain, "I wandered lonely." To what does the poet compare
his loneliness?

What did the poet see "all at once?" Where? What were the daffodils
doing?

What picture do the first two lines bring to mind? Describe the picture
contained in the remaining lines of this stanza.

2d stanza: How does the poet tell what a great crowd of daffodils there
were? How would you tell it?

How does he say the daffodils were arranged? What does _margin_ mean?

How many daffodils did he see? In this stanza, what does he say they
were doing?

3d stanza: What is said of the waves? In what did the daffodils surpass
the waves?

What do the third and fourth lines of this stanza mean?

4th stanza: What does "in vacant mood" mean? "In pensive mood?" "Inward
eye?"

How does this inward eye make bliss for us in solitude?

What feelings did the thought of what he saw awaken in the heart of the
poet?

What changed the wanderer's loneliness, as told at the beginning of the
poem, to gayety, as told towards the end?

Commit the poem to memory.


[Illustration:]


       *       *       *       *       *




_60_


hos' tile
en dowed'
tu' mult
ac' o lyte
ep' i taph
grav' i ty
com' bat ants
pref' er ence
a maz' ed ly
ath let' ic
Vi at' i cum
in her' it ance
cem' e ter y
re tal' i ate
un flinch' ing ly
ir re sist' i ble
un vi' o la ted
con temp' tu ous ly



THE STORY OF TARCISIUS.


At the time our story opens, a bloody persecution of the Church was
going on, and all the prisons of Rome were filled with Christians
condemned to death for the Faith. Some were to die on the morrow, and to
these it was necessary to send the Holy Viaticum to strengthen their
souls for the battle before them. On this day, when the hostile passions
of heathen Rome were unusually excited by the coming slaughter of so
many Christian victims, it was a work of more than common danger to
discharge this duty.

The Sacred Bread was prepared, and the priest turned round from the
altar on which it was placed, to see who would be its safest bearer.
Before any other could step forward, the young acolyte Tarcisius knelt
at his feet. With his hands extended before him, ready to receive the
sacred deposit, with a countenance beautiful in its lovely innocence as
an angel's, he seemed to entreat for preference, and even to claim it.

"Thou art too young, my child," said the kind priest, filled with
admiration of the picture before him.

"My youth, holy father, will be my best protection. Oh! do not refuse me
this great honor." The tears stood in the boy's eyes, and his cheeks
glowed with a modest emotion, as he spoke these words. He stretched
forth his hands eagerly, and his entreaty was so full of fervor and
courage, that the plea was irresistible. The priest took the Divine
Mysteries, wrapped up carefully in a linen cloth, then in an outer
covering, and put them on his palms, saying--

"Remember, Tarcisius, what a treasure is intrusted to thy feeble care.
Avoid public places as thou goest along; and remember that holy things
must not be delivered to dogs, nor pearls be cast before swine. Thou
wilt keep safely God's sacred gifts?"

"I will die rather than betray them," answered the holy youth, as he
folded the heavenly trust in the bosom of his tunic, and with cheerful
reverence started on his journey. There was a gravity beyond the usual
expression of his years stamped upon his countenance, as he tripped
lightly along the streets, avoiding equally the more public, and the too
low, thoroughfares.

As he was approaching the door of a large mansion, its mistress, a rich
lady without children, saw him coming, and was struck with his beauty
and sweetness, as, with arms folded on his breast, he was hastening on.
"Stay one moment, dear child," she said, putting herself in his way;
"tell me thy name, and where do thy parents live?"

"I am Tarcisius, an orphan boy," he replied, looking up smilingly; "and
I have no home, save one which it might be displeasing to thee to hear."

"Then come into my house and rest; I wish to speak to thee. Oh, that I
had a child like thee!"

"Not now, noble lady, not now. I have intrusted to me a most solemn and
sacred duty, and I must not tarry a moment in its performance."

"Then promise to come to me tomorrow; this is my house."

"If I am alive, I will," answered the boy, with a kindled look, which
made him appear to her as a messenger from a higher sphere. She watched
him a long time, and after some deliberation determined to follow him.
Soon, however, she heard a tumult with horrid cries, which made her
pause on her way until they had ceased, when she went on again.

In the meantime, Tarcisius, with his thoughts fixed on better things
than her inheritance, hastened on, and shortly came into an open space,
where boys, just escaped from school, were beginning to play.

"We just want one to make up the game; where shall we get him?" said
their leader.

"Capital!" exclaimed another; "here comes Tarcisius, whom I have not
seen for an age. He used to be an excellent hand at all sports. Come,
Tarcisius," he added, stopping him by seizing his arm, "whither so fast?
take a part in our game, that's a good fellow."

"I can't now; I really can't. I am going on business of great
importance."

"But you shall," exclaimed the first speaker, a strong and bullying
youth, laying hold of him. "I will have no sulking, when I want anything
done. So come, join us at once."

"I entreat you," said the poor boy feelingly, "do let me go."

"No such thing," replied the other. "What is that you seem to be
carrying so carefully in your bosom? A letter, I suppose; well, it will
not addle by being for half an hour out of its nest. Give it to me, and
I will put it by safe while we play."

"Never, never," answered the child, looking up towards heaven.

"I _will_ see it," insisted the other rudely; "I will know what is this
wonderful secret." And he commenced pulling him roughly about. A crowd
of men from the neighborhood soon got round, and all asked eagerly what
was the matter. They saw a boy, who, with folded arms, seemed endowed
with a supernatural strength, as he resisted every effort of one much
bigger and stronger, to make him reveal what he was bearing. Cuffs,
pulls, blows, kicks, seemed to have no effect. He bore them all without
a murmur, or an attempt to retaliate; but he unflinchingly kept his
purpose.

"What is it? what can it be?" one began to ask the other; when Fulvius
chanced to pass by, and joined the circle round the combatants. He at
once recognized Tarcisius, having seen him at the Ordination; and being
asked, as a better-dressed man, the same question, he replied
contemptuously, as he turned on his heel, "What is it? Why, only a
Christian, bearing the Mysteries."

This was enough. Heathen curiosity, to see the Mysteries of the
Christians revealed, and to insult them, was aroused, and a general
demand was made to Tarcisius to yield up his charge. "Never with life,"
was his only reply. A heavy blow from a smith's fist nearly stunned him,
while the blood flowed from the wound. Another and another followed,
till, covered with bruises, but with his arms crossed fast upon his
breast, he fell heavily on the ground. The mob closed upon him, and were
just seizing, him to tear open his thrice-holy trust, when they felt
themselves pushed aside right and left by some giant strength. Some went
reeling to the further side of the square, others were spun round and
round, they knew not how, till they fell where they were, and the rest
retired before a tall athletic officer, who was the author of this
overthrow. He had no sooner cleared the ground than he was on his knees,
and with tears in his eyes raised up the bruised and fainting boy as
tenderly as a mother could have done, and in most gentle tones asked
him, "Are you much hurt, Tarcisius?"

"Never mind me, Quadratus," answered he, opening his eyes with a smile;
"but I am carrying the Divine Mysteries; take care of them."

The soldier raised the boy in his arms with tenfold reverence, as if
bearing, not only the sweet victim of a youthful sacrifice, a martyr's
relics, but the very King and Lord of Martyrs, and the divine Victim of
eternal salvation. The child's head leaned in confidence on the stout
soldier's neck, but his arms and hands never left their watchful custody
of the confided gift; and his gallant bearer felt no weight in the
hallowed double burden which he carried. No one stopped him, till a lady
met him and stared amazedly at him. She drew nearer, and looked closer
at what he carried. "Is it possible?" she exclaimed with terror, "is
that Tarcisius, whom I met a few moments ago, so fair and lovely?"

"Madam," replied Quadratus, "they have murdered him because he was a
Christian."

The lady looked for an instant on the child's countenance. He opened his
eyes upon her, smiled, and expired. From that look came the light of
faith--she hastened to be a Christian.

The venerable Dionysius could hardly see for weeping, as he removed the
child's hands, and took from his bosom, unviolated, the Holy of Holies;
and he thought he looked more like an angel now, sleeping the martyr's
slumber, than he did when living scarcely an hour before. Quadratus
himself bore him to the cemetery of Callistus, where he was buried
amidst the admiration of older believers; and later a holy Pope composed
for him an epitaph, which no one can read without concluding that the
belief in the real presence of Our Lord's Body in the Blessed Eucharist
was the same then as now:



       "Christ's secret gifts, by good Tarcisius borne,
         The mob profanely bade him to display;
       He rather gave his own limbs to be torn,
         Than Christ's Body to mad dogs betray."


_Cardinal Wiseman._

From "Fabiola; or, The Church of the Catacombs."



ADDLE, to become rotten, as eggs.

TUNIC, a loose garment, reaching to the knees, and confined at the
waist by a girdle.

SUPERNATURAL, = prefix _super_, meaning _above_ or _beyond,_ +
_natural_.

-ION, a suffix denoting _act, state, condition of_. Define
_emotion, objection, dejection, conversion, submission, construction,
admiration, persecution, observation, revolution, deliberation._

Write a letter to a friend who has sent you a copy of "Fabiola." Tell
him how much you like the book, what you have read in it, and thank him
for sending it.

Make a list of the characters in the story of Tarcisius, and tell what
you like or dislike in each.


Memory Gems:



       The boy, with proud, yet tear-dimmed eyes,
         Kept murmuring under breath:
       "Before temptation--sacrifice!
         Before dishonor--death!"


_Margaret J. Preston._



       Dare to do right! Dare to be true!
       Other men's failures can never save you;
       Stand by your conscience, your honor, your faith;
       Stand like a hero, and battle till death.


_George L. Taylor._



       Heroes of old! I humbly lay
         The laurel on your graves again;
       Whatever men have done, men may--
         The deeds you wrought are not in vain.


_Austin Dobson._


       *       *       *       *       *




_61_


a jar'
chal' ice
a thwart'
rap' tur ous
sward
ter' race
jew' eled
ci bo' ri um
por' tal
vil' lain
au da' cious
sac ri le' gious



LEGEND OF THE WAXEN CIBORIUM.


       A summer night in Remy--strokes of the midnight bell,
       Like drops of molten silver, athwart the silence fell,
       Where 'mid the misty meadows, the circling crystal streams,
       A little village slumber'd,--locked in quiet dreams.

       A lily, green-embower'd, beside a mossy wood,
       With golden cross uplifted, the small white chapel stood,
       But in that solemn hour, the light of moon and star
       Upon its portal shining, revealed the door ajar!

       And lo! into the midnight, with noiseless feet, there ran
       From out the sacred shadows, a mask'd and muffl'd man,
       Who bore beneath his mantle, with sacrilegious hold,
       The Victim of the altar within Its vase of gold!

       To right--to left,--he faltered; then swift across the sward,
       (Like dusky demon fleeing), he bore the Hidden Lord;
       By mere and moonlit meadow his rapid passage sped,
       Till, at an open wicket, he paused with bended head.

       Behold! a grassy terrace,--a garden, wide and fair,
       And, 'mid the wealth of roses, a beehive nestling there.
       Across the flow'ring trellis, the villain cast his cloak,
       Upon the jeweled chalice, the moonbeams, sparkling, broke!

       O sacrilegious fingers! your work was quickly done!
       Within the hive (audacious!) he thrust the Holy One,
       Then gath'ring up his mantle to hide the treasure bright--
       Plunged back into the darkness, and vanish'd in the night.


       *       *       *       *       *


       Forth in the summer morning, full of the sun and breeze,
       Into his dewy garden, walks the master of the bees.
       All silent stands the beehive,--no little buzzing things
       Among the flowers, flutter, on brown and golden wings.

       Untasted lies the honey within the roses' hearts,--
       The master paces nearer,--he listens--lo! he starts,
       What sounds of rapturous singing! O heaven! all alive
       With strange angelic music, is that celestial hive!

       Upon his knees adoring, the master, weeping, sees
       Within a honeyed cloister, the Chalice of the bees;
       For lo! the little creatures have reared a waxen shrine,
       Wherein reposes safely the Sacred Host Divine!...

       O little ones, who listen unto this legend old
       (Upon my shoulder blending your locks of brown and gold),
       From out the hands of sinners whose hearts are foul to see,
       Behold! the dear Lord Jesus appeals to you and me.

       He says: "O loving children! within your hearts prepare
       A hive of honeyed sweetness where I may nestle fair;
       Make haste, O pure affections! to welcome Me therein,
       Out of the world's bright gardens, out of the groves of Sin.

       "And in the night of sorrow (sweet sorrow), like the bees,
       Around My Heart shall hover your winged ministries,
       And while ye toil, the angels shall, softly singing come
       To worship Me, the Captive of Love's Ciborium!"



_Eleanor C. Donnelly._

From "The Children of the Golden Sheaf." Published by P.C. Donnelly.


       *       *       *       *       *


MERE, a waste place; a marsh.

TRELLIS, a frame of latticework.

WAXEN, made of wax. _en_ is here a suffix meaning _made of._ Use
_golden, leaden, wooden,_ in sentences of your own.

Synonyms are words which have very nearly the same meaning. What does
_revealed_ mean? _cloister_? Find as many synonyms of these two words as
you can. Consult your dictionary.


       *       *       *       *       *




_62_


stalked
ep'au lets
be hind' hand
se date'
trudg' ing
com pos' ed ly
fid' dler
strut' ted
ap pro ba' tion
re sumed'
af firmed'
dis a gree' a ble
whith er so ev' er



LITTLE DAFFY-DOWN-DILLY.


Daffy-down-dilly was so called because in his nature he resembled a
flower, and loved to do only what was beautiful and agreeable, and took
no delight in labor of any kind. But, while Daffy-down-dilly was yet a
little boy, his mother sent him away from his pleasant home, and put him
under the care of a very strict schoolmaster, who went by the name of
Mr. Toil. Those who knew him best, affirmed that this Mr. Toil was a
very worthy character, and that he had done more good, both to children
and grown people, than anybody else in the world. Nevertheless, Mr. Toil
had a severe countenance; his voice, too, was harsh; and all his ways
seemed very disagreeable to our friend Daffy-down-dilly.

The whole day long, this terrible old schoolmaster sat at his desk,
overlooking the pupils, or stalked about the room with a certain awful
birch rod in his hand. Now came a rap over the shoulders of a boy whom
Mr. Toil had caught at play; now he punished a whole class who were
behindhand with their lessons; and, in short, unless a lad chose to
attend constantly to his book, he had no chance of enjoying a quiet
moment in the schoolroom of Mr. Toil.

"I can't bear it any longer," said Daffy-down-dilly to himself, when he
had been at school about a week. "I'll run away, and try to find my dear
mother; at any rate, I shall never find anybody half so disagreeable as
this old Mr. Toil." So, the very next morning, off started poor
Daffy-down-dilly, and began his rambles about the world, with only some
bread and cheese for his breakfast, and very little pocket money to pay
his expenses. But he had gone only a short distance, when he overtook a
man of grave and sedate appearance, who was trudging along the road at a
moderate pace.

"Good-morning, my fine little lad," said the stranger; "whence do you
come so early, and whither are you going?" Daffy-down-dilly hesitated a
moment or two, but finally confessed that he had run away from school,
on account of his great dislike to Mr. Toil; and that he was resolved to
find some place in the world where he should never see nor hear of the
old schoolmaster again. "Very well, my little friend," answered the
stranger, "we will go together; for I, also, have had a great deal to do
with Mr. Toil, and should be glad to find some place where his name was
never heard."

They had not gone far, when they passed a field where some haymakers
were at work, mowing down the tall grass, and spreading it out in the
sun to dry. Daffy-down-dilly was delighted with the sweet smell of the
new-mown grass, and thought how much pleasanter it must be to make hay
in the sunshine, under the blue sky, and with the birds singing sweetly
in the neighboring trees and bushes, than to be shut up in a dismal
schoolroom, learning lessons all day long, and continually scolded by
Mr. Toil.

But, in the midst of these thoughts, while he was stopping to peep over
the stone wall, he started back, caught hold of his companion's hand,
and cried, "Quick, quick! Let us run away, or he will catch us!"

"Who will catch us?" asked the stranger.

"Mr. Toil, the old schoolmaster!" answered Daffy-down-dilly. "Don't you
see him among the haymakers?"

"Don't be afraid," said the stranger. "This is not Mr. Toil, the
schoolmaster, but a brother of his, who was bred a farmer; and people
say he is the more disagreeable man of the two. However, he won't
trouble you, unless you become a laborer on the farm."

They went on a little farther, and soon heard the sound of a drum and
fife. Daffy-down-dilly besought his companion to hurry forward, that
they might not miss seeing the soldiers.

"Quick step! Forward march!" shouted a gruff voice.

Little Daffy-down-dilly started in great dismay; and, turning his eyes
to the captain of the company, what should he see but the very image of
old Mr. Toil himself, with a smart cap and feather on his head, a pair
of gold epaulets on his shoulders, a laced coat on his back, a purple
sash round his waist, and a long sword, instead of a birch rod, in his
hand! Though he held his head high and strutted like a rooster, still he
looked quite as ugly and disagreeable as when he was hearing lessons in
the schoolroom.

"This is certainly old Mr. Toil," said Daffy-down-dilly, in a trembling
voice. "Let us run away, for fear he will make us enlist in his
company!"

"You are mistaken again, my little friend," replied the stranger, very
composedly. "This is not Mr. Toil, the schoolmaster, but a brother of
his, who has served in the army all his life. People say he's a very
severe fellow, but you and I need not be afraid of him."

"Well, well," said Daffy-down-dilly, "but, if you please, sir, I don't
want to see the soldiers any more."

So the child and the stranger resumed their journey; and, by and by,
they came to a house by the roadside, where some people were making
merry. Young men and rosy-cheeked girls, with smiles on their faces,
were dancing to the sound of a fiddle.

"Let us stop here," cried Daffy-down-dilly to his companion; "for Mr.
Toil will never dare to show his face where there is a fiddler, and
where people are dancing and making merry. We shall be quite safe here."

But these last words died away upon Daffy-down-dilly's tongue, for,
happening to cast his eyes on the fiddler, whom should he behold again,
but the likeness of Mr. Toil, holding a fiddle bow instead of a birch
rod.

"Oh, dear!" whispered he, turning pale, "it seems as if there was nobody
but Mr. Toil in the world. Who could have thought of his playing on a
fiddle!"

"This is not your old schoolmaster," said the stranger, "but another
brother of his, who was bred in France, where he learned the profession
of a fiddler. He is ashamed of his family, and generally calls himself
Mr. Pleasure; but his real name is Toil, and those who have known him
best, think him still more disagreeable than his brother."

"Pray let us go a little farther," said Daffy-down-dilly. "I don't like
the looks of this fiddler."

Thus the stranger and little Daffy-down-dilly went wandering along the
highway, and in shady lanes, and through pleasant villages; and,
whithersoever they went, behold! there was the image of old Mr. Toil.

He stood like a scarecrow in the cornfields. If they entered a house, he
sat in the parlor; if they peeped into the kitchen, he was there. He
made himself at home in every cottage, and, under one disguise or
another, stole into the most splendid mansions.

"Oh, take me back!--take me back!" said poor little Daffy-down-dilly,
bursting into tears. "If there is nothing but Toil all the world over, I
may just as well go back to the schoolhouse."

"Yonder it is,--there is the schoolhouse!" said the stranger; for,
though he and little Daffy-down-dilly had taken a great many steps, they
had traveled in a circle, instead of a straight line. "Come; we will go
back to school together."

There was something in his companion's voice that little
Daffy-down-dilly now remembered; and it is strange that he had not
remembered it sooner. Looking up into his face, behold! there again was
the likeness of old Mr. Toil; so the poor child had been in company with
Toil all day, even while he was doing his best to run away from him.

When Daffy-down-dilly became better acquainted with Mr. Toil, he began
to think that his ways were not so very disagreeable, and that the old
schoolmaster's smile of approbation made his face almost as pleasant as
the face of his own dear mother.

_Nathaniel Hawthorne._


"Little Daffy-down-dilly and Other Stories." Houghton, Mifflin & Co.,
Publishers.


       *       *       *       *       *


How will the following sentences read if you change the name-words from
the singular to the plural form: The old schoolmaster has a rod in his
hand. The boy likes his teacher. The girl goes cheerfully on an errand
for her mother. The pupil attends to his book, and knows his lesson
perfectly. Under the blue sky, and while the bird was singing sweetly in
tree and bush, the farmer was making hay in his meadow. The man won't
trouble him unless he becomes a laborer on his farm. The captain had a
smart cap and feather on his head, a laced coat on his back, a purple
sash round his waist, and a long sword instead of a birch rod in his
hand.

From points furnished by your teacher, write a short composition on "Our
School." Be careful as to spelling, capitals, punctuation, paragraphs,
margin, penmanship, neatness and general appearance.


Memory Gems:


       Evil is wrought by want of thought,
       As well as want of heart.


_Hood._


It is not where you are, but what you are, that determines your
happiness.


       *       *       *       *       *




_63_


su' macs
char' coal
of fi' cial
fres' coes
in i' tial
rest' less ly



IN SCHOOL DAYS


       Still sits the schoolhouse by the road,
         A ragged beggar sunning;
       Around it still the sumacs grow
         And blackberry vines are running.

       Within, the master's desk is seen,
         Deep scarred by raps official;
       The warping floor, the battered seats,
         The jackknife's carved initial;

       The charcoal frescoes on its wall;
         Its door's worn sill, betraying
       The feet that, creeping slow to school,
         Went storming out to playing!

       Long years ago a winter sun
         Shone over it at setting;
       Lit up its western window-panes,
         And low eaves' icy fretting.

       It touched the tangled golden curls,
         And brown eyes full of grieving,
       Of one who still her steps delayed
         When all the school were leaving.

       For near her stood the little boy
         Her childish favor singled;
       His cap pulled low upon a face
         Where pride and shame were mingled.

       Pushing with restless feet the snow
         To right and left, he lingered;
       As restlessly her tiny hands
         The blue-checked apron fingered.

       He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
         The soft hand's light caressing,
       And heard the tremble of her voice,
         As if a fault confessing:

       "I'm sorry that I spelt the word;
         I hate to go above you,
       Because,"--the brown eyes lower fell,--
         "Because, you see, I love you!"

       Still memory to a gray-haired man
         That sweet child-face is showing.
       Dear girl! the grasses on her grave
         Have forty years been growing!

       He lives to learn, in life's hard school,
         How few who pass above him
       Lament their triumph and his loss,
         Like her,--because they love him.


_Whittier._


From "Child Life in Poetry." Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Publishers.


[Illustration: _John G. Whittier._]


       *       *       *       *       *




_64_


Mars
so' lar (ler)
Ve' nus
plan' ets
Mer' cu ry
di am' e ter
com' pass es
sat' el lite
tel' e scope
grad' u al ly
in' ter est ing
cir cum' fer ence



THE SUN'S FAMILY


"Please tell me a story, Frank" said Philip, as the two boys sat in the
shade of a large tree.

"I have heard and read many wonderful stories. I will try to recall
one," said Frank.

"Let me see. Well--perhaps--I think that the most wonderful story I have
ever read is that of the solar system, or the sun's family."

"Solar system!" repeated Philip. "That certainly sounds hard enough to
puzzle even a fairy. Please tell me all about it."

"That I should find much too hard" answered Frank. "But I'll try to tell
you what little I know. You see the sun there, don't you--the great
shining sun? Do you think the sun moves?"

"Of course it moves," said Philip. "I always see it in the morning when
I am in the garden. It rises first above the bushes, then over the trees
and houses; by evening it has traveled across the sky, when it sinks
below the houses and trees, out of sight on the other side of the town."

"Now that is quite a mistake," said Frank, "You think that the sun is
traveling all that way along the sky, whereas it is really we--we on
this big ball of earth--who are moving. We are whirling around on the
outer surface, rushing on at the rate--let me think--at the rate of more
than one thousand miles a minute!"

"Frank, what do you mean?" cried Philip.

"I mean that the earth is moving many times faster than a ball moves
when shot from the mouth of a cannon!"

"Do you expect me to believe that, Frank! I can hardly believe that this
big, solid earth moves at all; but to think of it with all the cities,
towns, and people whirling round and round faster than a ball from the
mouth of a cannon, while we never feel that it stirs one inch,--this is
much harder to believe than all that the fairies have ever told us."

"Yes, but it is quite true for all that," replied Frank.

"I have learned much about the motions of the planets, and viewed the
stars one night through a telescope. As I looked through this
instrument, the stars appeared to me much larger than ever before. The
earth is a planet, and there are besides our earth seven large planets
and many small ones, which also whirl around the sun. Some of these
planets are larger than our world. Some of them also move much faster.

"The sun is in the middle with the planets moving around him. The one
nearest to the sun is Mercury."

"It must be hot there!" cried Philip.

"I dare say that if we were in Mercury we should be scorched to ashes;
but if creatures live on that planet, God has given them a different
nature from ours, so that they may enjoy what would be dreadful to us.

"The next planet to Mercury is Venus. Venus is sometimes seen shining so
bright after sunset; then she is called the evening star. Some of the
time, a little before sunrise, she may be seen in the east; she is then
called the morning star.

"Venus can never be an evening star and a morning star at the same time
of the year. If you are watching her this evening before or after
sundown, there is no use getting up early to-morrow to look for her
again. For several weeks Venus remains an evening star, then gradually
disappears. Two months later you may see her in the east--a bright
morning star.

"Our earth is the third planet, and Mars is the fourth from the sun. Now
let us make a drawing of what we have been talking about.

"First open the compasses one inch; describe a circle, and make a dot on
its circumference, naming it Mercury. Write on this circle eighty-eight
days; this shows the time it takes Mercury to travel around the sun.
Make another circle three and one-half inches in diameter and make a dot
on it. This represents Venus. It takes Venus two hundred twenty-five
days to journey around the sun.

"The next circle we have to draw is a very interesting one to us. The
compasses must be opened two and one-half inches. The path made
represents the journey we take in three hundred sixty-five days.

"One more circle must be drawn to complete our little plan. This circle
must be eight inches in diameter. You see Mars is much farther from the
sun than our earth is. It takes him six hundred eighty-seven days to
make the trip around the sun. The other planets are too far away to be
put in this plan."

"O, Frank, you have missed the biggest of all--the moon!" said Philip.

"O, no, no!" exclaimed Frank. "The moon is quite a little ball. It is
less than seven thousand miles around her, while our earth is
twenty-five thousand miles around."

"Is that a little ball, Frank?"

"Yes, compared with the sun and the planets. The moon is what is called
a satellite--that is, a servant or an attendant. She is a satellite of
our earth. She keeps circling round and round our earth, while we go
circling round and round the sun.

"How fast the moon must travel! If I were to go rushing round a field,
and a bird should keep flying around my head, you see that the movements
of the bird would be much quicker than mine."

"I can't understand it, Frank," said Philip. "The moon always looks so
quiet in the sky. If she is darting about like lightning, why is it that
she scarcely seems to move more than an inch in ten minutes?"

"I suppose," said Frank, after a thoughtful silence, "that what to us
seems an inch in the sky is really many miles. You know how very fast
the steam cars seem to go when one is quite near them, yet I have seen a
train of cars far off which seemed to go so slowly that I could fancy it
was painted on the sky."

"Yes, that must be the reason; but how do people find out these curious
things about the sun and the stars--to know how large they are and how
fast they go?" asked Philip.

"That is something we shall understand when we are older," said Frank.
"We must gain a little knowledge every day."

"Is the earth the only planet that has a moon?" asked Philip.

"Mercury and Venus have no moons. Mars has two, and Jupiter has four,
but we can see them only when we look through a telescope." replied
Frank.

"Are all the twinkling stars which one sees on a fine clear night,
planets?" inquired Philip.

"Those that twinkle are not planets; they are fixed stars," said Frank.
"A planet does not twinkle. It has no light of its own. It shines just
as the moon shines, because the sun gives it light."

"But our earth does not shine!" said Philip.

"Indeed it does," explained Frank. "Our earth appears to Venus and Mars
as a shining planet."

"There must be many more fixed stars than planets, then, for almost
every star that I can see twinkles and sparkles like a diamond. Do these
fixed stars all go around the sun?" asked Philip.

"O, Philip! haven't you noticed that they are called fixed stars to show
that they do not move like planets? The word _planet_ means to _wander._
These fixed stars are suns themselves, which may have planets of their
own. They are so very far away that we cannot know much about them,
except that they shine of themselves just as our sun does.

"We know that our sun gives light and heat to the planets and satellites
with which he is surrounded. We know that without his warm rays there
would not be any flowers or birds or any living thing on the earth. So
we can easily imagine that all other suns are shining in the same way
for the worlds that surround them."


       *       *       *       *       *


Make a drawing of the sun and the three planets nearest it, as directed
in the lesson.

Fill each blank space in the following sentences with the correct form
of the action-word _draw_:


My boys like to --.

Yesterday they -- the picture of an old mill.

They are now -- a picture of the solar system.

The lines on the blackboard were -- by John.
He -- well.


       *       *       *       *       *




_65_


dew' y
clos'es
ca ress'
twined
wreaths
weath'er
brook' let
togeth'er



WILL AND I


       We roam the hills together,
       In the golden summer weather,
                 Will and I;
       And the glowing sunbeams bless us,
       And the winds of heaven caress us,
         As we wander hand in hand
         Through the blissful summer land,
                 Will and I.

       Where the tinkling brooklet passes
       Through the heart of dewy grasses,
                 Will and I
       Have heard the mock-bird singing,
       And the field lark seen upspringing,
         In his happy flight afar,
         Like a tiny winged star--
                 Will and I.

       Amid cool forest closes,
       We have plucked the wild wood-roses,
                 Will and I;
       And have twined, with tender duty,
       Sweet wreaths to crown the beauty
         Of the purest brows that shine
         With a mother-love divine,
                 Will and I.

       Ah! thus we roam together,
       Through the golden summer weather,
                 Will and I;
       While the glowing sunbeams bless us,
       And the winds of heaven caress us,
         As we wander hand in hand
         O'er the blissful summer land,
                 Will and I.


_Paul H. Hayne._


       *       *       *       *       *


CLOSES, small inclosed fields.

Write about what you and Will _saw, heard,_ and _did,_ as you roamed
together over the hills, through the woods, along the brooklet, on a
certain bright, clear day in early summer. You are a country boy and
Will is your city cousin. If you begin your composition by saying, "It
was a beautiful afternoon towards the end of June," keep the image of
the day in mind till the end of the paragraph; tell what _made_ the day
beautiful,--such as the sun, the sky, the trees, the grass. In other
paragraphs tell the things you saw and heard in the order in which you
saw and heard them. Give a paragraph to what you did in the "closes" of
the cool forest, and why you plucked the wild flowers. Conclude by
telling what a pleasant surprise you gave mother on your return home;
and how she surprised you two hungry boys during supper.

In your composition, use as many of the words and phrases of the poem as
you can.


       *       *       *       *       *




_66_


themes
her' e sy
ramp' ant
a chieved'
es cort ed
po ta'toes
trem' u lous
lux u' ri ous
cre du' li ty
in cred' i ble
phe nom' e non
pre ma ture' ly



CHRISTMAS DINNER AT THE CRATCHITS'.


[Illustration: Tiny Tim and Bob Cratchit.]

Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned
gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap; and she laid the cloth,
assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in
ribbons; while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of
potatoes, and getting the corners of his monstrous shirt-collar (Bob's
private property, conferred upon his son and heir in honor of the day)
into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired. And now
two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that
outside the baker's they had smelt the goose, and known it for their
own; and, basking in luxurious thoughts of sage and onions, they danced
about the table, and exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while
he (not proud, although his collar nearly choked him) blew the fire,
until the potatoes, bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan-lid to
be let out and peeled.

"What has ever kept your precious father, then?" said Mrs. Cratchit.
"And your brother, Tiny Tim? And Martha wasn't as late last Christmas
Day by half an hour!"

"Here's Martha, mother!" cried the two young Cratchits. "Hurrah! There's
_such_ a goose, Martha!"

"Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!" said Mrs.
Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet
for her with officious zeal.

"We'd a deal of work to finish up last night, and had to clear away this
morning, mother!"

"Well, never mind so long as you are come," said Mrs. Cratchit. "Sit ye
down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye!"

"No, no! There's father coming," cried the two young Cratchits, who were
everywhere at once. "Hide, Martha, hide!"

So Martha hid herself, and in came the father, with at least three feet
of comforter, exclusive of the fringe, hanging down before him; and his
threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, to look seasonable; and Tiny
Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and
had his limb supported by an iron frame.

"Why, where's our Martha?" cried Bob Cratchit, looking round.

"Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchit.

"Not coming!" said Bob, with a sudden declension in his high spirits;
for he had been Tim's blood-horse all the way from church, and had come
home rampant. "Not coming upon Christmas Day!"

Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke; so
she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and ran into his
arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off
to the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper.

"And how did little Tim behave?" asked Mrs. Cratchit, when she had
rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had hugged his daughter to his
heart's content.

"As good as gold," said Bob, "and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful,
sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever
heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the
church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to
remember, upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk and blind men
see."

Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more when
he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.

His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny
Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister
to his stool beside the fire; and while Bob compounded some hot mixture
in a jug, and put it on the hob to simmer, Master Peter and the two
ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which they soon
returned in high procession.

Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of
all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter of
course--and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs.
Cratchit made the gravy hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes
with incredible vigor; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple sauce; Martha
dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at
the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not
forgetting themselves, and, mounting guard upon their posts, crammed
spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their
turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was
said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking
slowly all along the carving knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast;
but when she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued
forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny
Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the
handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah!

Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its
tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal
admiration. Eked out by apple sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a
sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said
with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish),
they hadn't eaten it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the
youngest Cratchits in particular were steeped in sage and onion to the
eyebrows! But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs.
Cratchit left the room alone--too nervous to bear witnesses--to take the
pudding up and bring it in.

Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in turning
out! Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the backyard and
stolen it, while they were merry with the goose--a supposition at which
the two young Cratchits became livid. All sorts of horrors were
supposed.

Halloa! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A
smell like a washing day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating
house and a pastry cook's next door to each other, with a laundress's
next door to that! That was the pudding! In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit
entered--flushed, but smiling proudly--with the pudding like a speckled
cannon ball, so hard and firm, smoking hot, and bedight with Christmas
holly stuck into the top.

Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he
regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since
their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that, now the weight was off her
mind, she would confess she had her doubts about the quantity of flour.
Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it
was at all a small pudding for so large a family. It would have been
flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a
thing.

At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth
swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and
considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a
shovelful of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew
round the hearth in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a
one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass,--two
tumblers and a custard cup without a handle.

These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden
goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while
the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob
proposed: "A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!"

Which all the family re[:e]choed.

"God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all.

He sat very close to his father's side, upon his little stool. Bob held
his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the child, and wished to
keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him.

_Charles Dickens._

[Illustration: Portrait of Dickens.]


       *       *       *       *       *


DECLENSION, a falling downward.

COPPER, a boiler made of copper.

RALLIED, indulged in pleasant humor.

UBIQUITOUS (u b[)i]k' w[)i] t[)u]s), appearing to be everywhere at
the same time.

EKED OUT, added to; increased.

BEDIGHT, bedecked; adorned.

RE[:E]CHOED (reechoed): What is the mark placed over the second _e_ called,
and what does it denote?


NOTE.--"A Christmas Carol," from which the selection is taken, is
considered the best short story that Dickens wrote, and one of the best
Christmas stories ever written. The Cratchits were very poor as to the
goods of this world, but very rich in love, kindness, and contentment.


       *       *       *       *       *




_67_



WHICH SHALL IT BE?


       Which shall it be? Which shall it be?
       I looked at John, John looked at me;
       And when I found that I must speak,
       My voice seemed strangely low and weak:
       "Tell me again what Robert said,"
       And then I, listening, bent my head--
       This is his letter: "I will give
       A house and land while you shall live,
       If in return from out your seven
       One child to me for aye is given."

       I looked at John's old garments worn;
       I thought of all that he had borne
       Of poverty, and work, and care,
       Which I, though willing, could not share;
       I thought of seven young mouths to feed,
       Of seven little children's need,
             And then of this.

             "Come, John," said I,
       "We'll choose among them as they lie
       Asleep."  So, walking hand in hand,
       Dear John and I surveyed our band:
       First to the cradle lightly stepped,
       Where Lilian, the baby, slept.
       Softly the father stooped to lay
       His rough hand down in loving way,
       When dream or whisper made her stir,
       And huskily he said: "Not her!"

       We stooped beside the trundle-bed,
       And one long ray of lamplight shed
       Athwart the boyish faces there,
       In sleep so pitiful and fair;
       I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek
       A tear undried. Ere John could speak,
       "He's but a baby too," said I,
       And kissed him as we hurried by.
       Pale, patient Robbie's angel face
       Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace--
       "No, for a thousand crowns, not him!"
       He whispered, while our eyes were dim.

       Poor Dick! bad Dick, our wayward son--
       Turbulent, restless, idle one--
       Could he be spared? Nay, He who gave
       Bade us befriend him to the grave;
       Only a mother's heart could be
       Patient enough for such as he;
       "And so," said John, "I would not dare
       To take him from her bedside prayer."

       Then stole we softly up above,
       And knelt by Mary, child of love;
       "Perhaps for her 'twould better be,"
       I said to John. Quite silently
       He lifted up a curl that lay
       Across her cheek in wilful way,
       And shook his head: "Nay, love, not thee,"
       The while my heart beat audibly.

       Only one more, our eldest lad,
       Trusty and truthful, good and glad,
       So like his father. "No, John, no!
       I cannot, will not, let him go."
       And so we wrote in courteous way,
       We could not give one child away;
       And afterwards toil lighter seemed,
       Thinking of that of which we dreamed,
       Happy in truth that not one face
       Was missed from its accustomed place,
       Thankful to work for all the seven,
       Trusting the rest to One in Heaven!


_Anonymous_.


       *       *       *       *       *


Write the story of the poem in the form of a composition. Tell of the
great affection of parents for their children. Even in the poorest and
most numerous families, what parent could think of parting with a child
for any sum of money?

Tell about the letter John and his wife received from a rich man without
children who wished to adopt one of their seven. Tell about the offer
the rich man made. What a great temptation this was!

The parents considered the offer, looked into each other's faces and
asked, "Which shall it be?" Not the baby. Why? Not the two youngest
boys. Why? Not the poor helpless little cripple. Why? Not the sweet
child, Mary. Why? Not Dick, the wayward son. Why? Not, for worlds, the
oldest boy. Why?

Tell the answer the parents sent the rich man.


       *       *       *       *       *




_68_


Dor'o thy
in her'it ance
Cap pa do' ci a
ob' sti na cy
The oph' i lus
ex e cu' tion ers



ST. DOROTHY, MARTYR


The names of St. Catherine and St. Agnes, St. Lucy and St. Cecilia, are
familiar to us all; and to many of us, no doubt, their histories are
well known also. Young as they were, they despised alike the pleasures
and the flatteries of the world. They chose God alone as their portion
and inheritance; and He has highly exalted them, and placed their names
amongst those glorious martyrs whose memory is daily honored in the holy
Sacrifice of the Mass.

St. Dorothy was another of these virgin saints. She was born in the city
of Caesarea, and was descended of a rich and noble family. While the last
of the ten terrible persecutions, which for three hundred years steeped
the Church in the blood of martyrs, was raging, Dorothy embraced the
faith of Christ, and, in consequence, was seized and carried before the
Roman Prefect of the city.

She was put to the most cruel tortures, and, at length, condemned to
death. When the executioners were preparing to behead her, the Prefect
said, "Now, at least, confess your folly, and pray to the immortal gods
for pardon."

"I pray," replied the martyr, "that the God of heaven and earth may
pardon and have mercy on you; and I will also pray when I reach the land
whither I am going."

"Of what land do you speak?" asked the judge, who, like most of the
pagans, had very little notion of another world.

"I speak of that land where Christ, the Son of God, dwells with his
saints," replied St. Dorothy. "_There_ is neither night nor sorrow;
_there_ is the river of life, and the brightness of eternal glory; and
_there_ is a paradise of all delight, and flowers that shall never
fade."

"I pray you, then," said a young man, named Theophilus, who was
listening to her words with pity mingled with wonder, "if these things
be so, to send me some of those flowers, when you shall have reached the
land you speak of."

Dorothy looked at him as he spoke; and then answered: "Theophilus, you
shall have the sign you ask for." There was no time for more; the
executioner placed her before the block, and, in another moment, with
one blow, he struck off the head of the holy martyr.

"Those were strange words," said Theophilus to one of his friends, as
they were about to leave the court; "but these Christians are not like
other people." "Their obstinacy is altogether surprising," rejoined his
friend; "death itself will never make them waver. But who is this,
Theophilus?" he continued, as a young boy came up to them, of such
singular beauty that the eyes of all were fixed upon him with wonder and
admiration. He seemed not more than ten years old; his golden hair fell
on his shoulders, and in his hand he bore four roses, two white and two
red, and of so brilliant a color and rich a fragrance that their like
had never before been seen. He held them out to Theophilus. "These
flowers are for you," said he; "will you not take them?" "And whence do
you bring them, my boy?" asked Theophilus. "From Dorothy," he replied,
"and they are the sign you even now asked for." "Roses, and in winter
time!" said Theophilus, as he took the flowers; "yea, and such roses as
never blossomed in any earthly garden. Prefect, your task is not yet
ended; your sword has slain one Christian, but it has made another; I,
too, profess the faith for which Dorothy died."

Within another hour, Theophilus was condemned to death by the enraged
Prefect; and on the spot where Dorothy had been beheaded, he too poured
forth his blood, and obtained the crown of martyrdom.


       *       *       *       *       *


CAESAREA (s[)e]s [.a] r[=e]' [.a]), an ancient city of Palestine. It
is celebrated as being the scene of many events recorded in the New
Testament.


Memory Gem:


       Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave.


_A line from Lowell's "0de."_


[Illustration:]


       *       *       *       *       *




_69_



TO A BUTTERFLY.


       I've watched you now a full half hour
       Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
       And, little butterfly, indeed
       I know not if you sleep or feed.
       How motionless!--not frozen seas
         More motionless!--and then
       What joy awaits you, when the breeze
       Hath found you out among the trees,
         And calls you forth again!

       This plot of orchard ground is ours;
       My trees they are, my sister's flowers;
       Here rest your wings when they are weary;
       Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
       Come often to us, fear no wrong;
         Sit near us on the bough!
       We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
       And summer days, when we were young;
       Sweet childish days, that were as long
         As twenty days are now!


_Wordsworth_.


       *       *       *       *       *


SELF-POISED, balanced.

What is a sanctuary? In the Temple at Jerusalem, what was the Holy of
Holies? Why are the sanctuaries of Catholic churches so supremely holy?

Why are "sweet childish days" as long "As twenty days are now?"

Tell what you know of the author's life.

Memorize the poem.


[Illustration:]


       *       *       *       *       *




_70_


re tort' ed
quizzed
in cred' i ble
man u fac' ture
sat' ire
vi o lin' ist
com pre hend'
me lo' di ous ly
hu' mor
ex hib' it
a chieve' ments
for' ests



THE PEN AND THE INKSTAND.


In the room of a poet, where his inkstand stood upon the table, it was
said, "It is wonderful what can come out of an inkstand. What will the
next thing be? It is wonderful!"

"Yes, certainly," said the Inkstand. "It's extraordinary--that's what I
always say," he exclaimed to the pen and to the other articles on the
table that were near enough to hear. "It is wonderful what a number of
things can come out of me. It's quite incredible. And I really don't
myself know what will be the next thing, when that man begins to dip
into me. One drop out of me is enough for half a page of paper; and what
cannot be contained in half a page?

"From me all the works of the poet go forth--all these living men, whom
people can imagine they have met--all the deep feeling, the humor, the
vivid pictures of nature. I myself don't understand how it is, for I am
not acquainted with nature, but it certainly is in me. From me all
things have gone forth, and from me proceed the troops of charming
maidens, and of brave knights on prancing steeds, and all the lame and
the blind, and I don't know what more--I assure you I don't think of
anything."

"There you are right," said the Pen; "you don't think at all; for if you
did, you would comprehend that you only furnish the fluid. You give the
fluid, that I may exhibit upon the paper what dwells in me, and what I
would bring to the day. It is the pen that writes. No man doubts that;
and, indeed, most people have about as much insight into poetry as an
old inkstand."

"You have but little experience," replied the Inkstand. "You've hardly
been in service a week, and are already half worn out. Do you fancy you
are the poet? You are only a servant; and before you came I had many of
your sorts, some of the goose family, and others of English manufacture.
I know the quill as well as the steel pen. Many have been in my service,
and I shall have many more when _he_ comes--the man who goes through the
motions for me, and writes down what he derives from me. I should like
to know what will be the next thing he'll take out of me."

"Inkpot!" exclaimed the Pen.

Late in the evening the poet came home. He had been to a concert, where
he had heard a famous violinist, with whose admirable performances he
was quite enchanted. The player had drawn a wonderful wealth of tone
from the instrument; sometimes it had sounded like tinkling water-drops,
like rolling pearls, sometimes like birds twittering in chorus, and then
again it went swelling on like the wind through the fir trees.

The poet thought he heard his own heart weeping, but weeping
melodiously, like the sound of woman's voice. It seemed as though not
only the strings sounded, but every part of the instrument.

It was a wonderful performance; and difficult as the piece was, the bow
seemed to glide easily to and fro over the strings, and it looked as
though every one might do it. The violin seemed to sound of itself, and
the bow to move of itself--those two appeared to do everything; and the
audience forgot the master who guided them and breathed soul and spirit
into them. The master was forgotten; but the poet remembered him, and
named him, and wrote down his thoughts concerning the subject:

"How foolish it would be of the violin and the bow to boast of their
achievements. And yet we men often commit this folly--the poet, the
artist, the laborer in the domain of science, the general--we all do it.
We are only the instruments which the Almighty uses: to Him alone be the
honor! We have nothing of which we should be proud."

Yes, that is what the poet wrote down. He wrote it in the form of a
parable, which he called "The Master and the Instrument."

"That is what you get, madam," said the Pen to the Inkstand, when the
two were alone again. "Did you not hear him read aloud what I have
written down?"

"Yes, what I gave you to write," retorted the Inkstand. "That was a cut
at you, because of your conceit. That you should not even have
understood that you were being quizzed! I gave you a cut from within
me--surely I must know my own satire!"

"Ink-pipkin!" cried the Pen.

"Writing-stick!" cried the Inkstand.

And each of them felt a conviction that he had answered well; and it is
a pleasing conviction to feel that one has given a good answer--a
conviction on which one can sleep; and accordingly they slept upon it.
But the poet did not sleep. Thoughts welled up from within him, like the
tones from the violin, falling like pearls, rushing like the storm-wind
through the forests. He understood his own heart in these thoughts, and
caught a ray from the Eternal Master. To _Him_ be all the honor!

_Hans Christian Andersen._


       *       *       *       *       *


PIPKIN, a small pipe; a small jar made of baked clay.

Write as many synonyms as you know, or can find, of the words _vivid,
exhibit, comprehend_. Consult the dictionary.

What one word may you use instead of "laborer in the domain of science?"

Seek in your dictionary the definition of the word _parable_. Relate one
of our Lord's parables.

By means of the prefixes and suffixes that you have learned, form as
many words as you can from the following: man, do, late, loud, art,
room, blind, easy, heart, humor, vivid, maiden, famous, service,
furnished.


       *       *       *       *       *




_71_



THE WIND AND THE MOON.


       Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out.
              You stare in the air
              Like a ghost in a chair,
       Always looking what I am about,
       I hate to be watched; I'll blow you out."

       The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon.
              So, deep on a heap
              Of clouds, to sleep
       Down lay the Wind and slumbered soon,
       Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon."

       He turned in his bed; she was there again!
              On high in the sky,
              With her one ghost eye,
       The Moon shone white and alive and plain.
       Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again."

       The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim.
              "With my sledge and my wedge
              I have knocked off her edge.
       If only I blow right fierce and grim,
       The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."

       He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread:
              "One puff more's enough
              To blow her to snuff!
       One good puff more where the last was bred,
       And  glimmer, glimmer, glum, will go the thread."

       He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone,
              In the air nowhere
              Was a moonbeam bare;
       Far off and harmless the shy stars shone;
       Sure and certain the Moon was gone!

       The Wind he took to his revels once more;
              On down, in town,
              Like a merry-mad clown,
       He leaped and holloed with whistle and roar,--
       "What's that?" The glimmering thread once more!

       He flew in a rage--he danced and he blew;
              But in vain was the pain
              Of his bursting brain;
       For still the broader the moon-scrap grew,
       The broader he swelled his big cheeks, and blew.

       Slowly she grew, till she filled the night,
              And shone on her throne
              In the sky alone,
       A matchless, wonderful, silvery light,
       Radiant and lovely, the Queen of the Night.

       Said the Wind: "What a marvel of power am I!
              With my breath, good faith!
              I blew her to death--
       First blew her away right out of the sky,
       Then blew her in; what a strength am I!"

       But the Moon she knew nothing about the affair;
              For, high in the sky,
              With her one white eye,
       Motionless, miles above the air,
       She had never heard the great Wind blare.


_George MacDonald._


       *       *       *       *       *


DOWN (7th stanza), a tract of sandy, hilly land near the sea.

GLIMMER, fainter.

GLUM, dark, gloomy.

What is a suffix? What does the suffix _less_ mean? Define _cloudless,
matchless, motionless._

What class of people does Mr. Wind remind you of?


       *       *       *       *       *




_72_


mi' ter
can'on
car' di nal
dis course'
di' a logue
cour'te ous ly



ST. PHILIP NERI AND THE YOUTH.


       St. Philip Neri, as old readings say,
       Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day,
       And being ever courteously inclined
       To give young folks a sober turn of mind,
       He fell into discourse with him, and thus
       The dialogue they held comes down to us.

       _Saint_.--Tell me what brings you, gentle youth, to Rome?
       _Youth_.--To make myself a scholar, sir, I come.
       _St_.--And when you are one, what do you intend?
       _Y_.--To be a priest, I hope, sir, in the end.
       _St_.--Suppose it so; what have you next in view?
       _Y_.--That I may get to be a canon too.
       _St_.--Well; and what then?
       _Y_.--                       Why then, for aught I know,
       I may be made a bishop.
       _St_.--            Be it so,--
                   What next?
       _Y_.--             Why, cardinal's a high degree;
       And yet my lot it possibly may be.
       _St_.--Suppose it was; what then?
       _Y_.--                             Why, who can say
       But I've a chance of being pope one day?
       _St_.--Well, having worn the miter and red hat,
       And triple crown, what follows after that?

       _Y_.--Nay, there is nothing further, to be sure,
       Upon this earth, that wishing can procure:
       When I've enjoyed a dignity so high
       As long as God shall please, then I must die.

       _St_.--What! must you die? fond youth, and at the best,
       But wish, and hope, and may be, all the rest!
       Take my advice--whatever may betide,
       For that which _must be_, first of all provide;
       Then think  of that which _may be_; and indeed,
       When well prepared, who knows what may succeed,
       But you may be, as you are pleased to hope,
       Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope.



       *       *       *       *       *


ST. PHILIP NERI, born in Florence, Italy, in 1515. Went to Rome in
1533, where he founded the "Priests of the Oratory," and where he died
in 1595.

TRIPLE CROWN, the tiara; the crown worn by our Holy Father, the
Pope.

Use correctly in sentences the words _canon, cannon, canon._


NOTE.--It will prove interesting if one pupil reads the first six lines
of the selection, and two others personate St. Philip and the Youth.

The whole selection might be given from memory.


       *       *       *       *       *




_73_


mag' ic
sta' mens
de sert' ed
pet' als
pic' tures
dis cour' aged
liq' uid
sat' is fied
per se ver' ance



THE WATER LILY.


There was once a little boy who was very fond of pictures. There were
not many pictures for him to look at, for he lived long ago near a great
American forest. His father and mother had come from England, but his
father was dead now. His mother was very poor, but there were still a
few beautiful pictures on the walls of her house.

The little boy liked to copy these pictures; but as he was not fond of
work, he often threw his drawings away before they were half done. He
said that he wished that some good fairy would finish them for him.

"Child," said his mother, "I don't believe that there are any fairies. I
never saw one, and your father never saw one. Mind your books, my child,
and never mind the fairies."

"Very well, mother," said the boy.

"It makes me sad to see you stand looking at the pictures," said his
mother another day, as she laid her hand on his curly head. "Why, child,
pictures can't feed a body, pictures can't clothe a body, and a log of
wood is far better to burn and warm a body."

"All that is quite true, mother," said the boy.

"Then why do you keep looking at them, child?" but the boy could only
say, "I don't know, mother."

"You don't know! Nor I, neither! Why, child, you look at the dumb things
as if you loved them! Put on your cap and run out to play."

So the boy wandered off into the forest till he came to the brink of a
little sheet of water. It was too small to be called a lake; but it was
deep and clear, and was overhung with tall trees. It was evening, and
the sun was getting low. The boy stood still beside the water and
thought how beautiful it was to see the sun, red and glorious, between
the black trunks of the pine trees. Then he looked up at the great blue
sky and thought how beautiful it was to see the little clouds folding
over one another like a belt of rose-colored waves. Then he looked at
the lake and saw the clouds and the sky and the trees all reflected
there, down among the lilies.

And he wished that he were a painter, for he said to himself, "I am sure
there are no trees in the world with such beautiful leaves as these
pines. I am sure there are no clouds in the world so lovely as these. I
know this is the prettiest little lake in the world, and if I could
paint it, every one else would know it, too."

But he had nothing to paint with. So he picked a lily and sat down with
it in his hand and tried very hard to make a correct drawing of it. But
he could not make a very good picture. At last he threw down his drawing
and said to the lily:

"You are too beautiful to draw with a pencil. How I wish I were a
painter!"

As he said these words he felt the flower move. He looked, and the
cluster of stamens at the bottom of the lily-cup glittered like a crown
of gold. The dewdrops which hung upon the stamens changed to diamonds
before his eyes. The white petals flowed together, and the next moment a
beautiful little fairy stood on his hand. She was no taller than the
lily from which she came, and she was dressed in a robe of the purest
white.

"Child, are you happy?" she asked.

"No," said the boy in a low voice, "because I want to paint and I
cannot."

"How do you know that you cannot?" asked the fairy.

"Oh, I have tried a great many times. It is of no use to try any more."

"But I will help you."

"Oh," said the boy. "Then I might succeed."

"I heard your wish, and I am willing to help you," said the fairy. "I
know a charm which will give you success. But you must do exactly as I
tell you. Do you promise to obey?"

"Spirit of a water lily!" said the boy, "I promise with all my heart."

"Go home, then," said the fairy, "and you will find a little key on the
doorstep. Take it up and carry it to the nearest pine tree; strike the
trunk with it, and a keyhole will appear. Do not be afraid to unlock the
door. Slip in your hand, and you will bring out a magic palette. You
must be very careful to paint with colors from that palette every day.
On this depends the success of the charm. You will find that it will
make your pictures beautiful and full of grace.

"If you do not break the spell, I promise you that in a few years you
shall be able to paint this lily so well that you will be satisfied; and
that you shall become a truly great painter."

"Can it be possible?" said the boy. And the hand on which the fairy
stood trembled for joy.

"It shall be so, if only you do not break the charm," said the fairy.
"But lest you forget what you owe to me, and as you grow older even
begin to doubt that you have ever seen me, the lily you gathered to-day
will never fade till my promise is fulfilled."

The boy raised his eyes, and when he looked again there was nothing in
his hand but the flower.

He arose with the lily in his hand, and went home at once. There on the
doorstep was the little key, and in the pine tree he found the magic
palette. He was so delighted with it and so afraid that he might break
the spell that he began to work that very night. After that he spent
nearly all his time working with the magic palette. He often passed
whole days beside the sheet of water in the forest. He painted it when
the sun shone on it and it was spotted all over with the reflections of
fleeting white clouds. He painted it covered with water lilies rocking
on the ripples. He painted it by moonlight, when but two or three stars
in the empty sky shone down upon it; and at sunset, when it lay
trembling like liquid gold.

So the years passed, and the boy grew to be a man. He had never broken
the charm. The lily had never faded, and he still worked every day with
his magic palette.

But no one cared for his pictures. Even his mother did not like them.
His forests and misty hills and common clouds were too much like the
real ones. She said she could see as good any day by looking out of her
window. All this made the young man very unhappy. He began to doubt
whether he should ever be a painter, and one day he threw down his
palette. He thought the fairy had deserted him.

He threw himself on his bed. It grew dark, and he soon fell asleep; but
in the middle of the night he awoke with a start. His chamber was full
of light, and his fairy friend stood near.

"Shall I take back my gift?" she asked.

"Oh, no, no, no!" he cried. He was rested now, and he did not feel so
much discouraged.

"If you still wish to go on working, take this ring," said the fairy.
"My sister sends it to you. Wear it, and it will greatly assist the
charm."

He took the ring, and the fairy was gone. The ring was set with a
beautiful blue stone, which reflected everything bright that came near
it; and he thought he saw inside the ring the one word--"Hope."

Many more years passed. The young man's mother died, and he went far,
far from home. In the strange land to which he went people thought his
pictures were wonderful; and he had become a great and famous painter.

One day he went to see a large collection of pictures in a great city.
He saw many of his own pictures, and some of them had been painted
before he left his forest home. All the people and the painters praised
them; but there was one that they liked better than the others. It was a
picture of a little child, holding in its hands several water lilies.

Toward evening the people departed one by one, till he was left alone
with his masterpieces. He was sitting in a chair thinking of leaving the
place, when he suddenly fell asleep. And he dreamed that he was again
standing near the little lake in his native land, watching the rays of
the setting sun as they melted away from its surface. The beautiful lily
was in his hand, and while he looked at it the leaves became withered,
and fell at his feet. Then he felt a light touch on his hand. He looked
up, and there on the chair beside him stood the little fairy.

"O wonderful fairy!" he cried, "how can I thank you for your magic gift?
I can give you nothing but my thanks. But at least tell me your name, so
that I may cut it on a ring and always wear it."

"My name," replied the fairy, "is Perseverance."

_Jean Ingelow._


       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration:]


Name the different objects you see in the picture. What did the artist
desire to tell? What is the central object? Where is the scene of the
picture placed? What time of the day and of the year does it show?

Describe the boy. How old is he? What impresses you most about him?

Suppose your teacher took the class to this lake for a day's outing.
Write a composition on how the day was spent.


       *       *       *       *       *




_74_



A BUILDER'S LESSON.


Memorize:


       "How shall I a habit break?"
       As you did that habit make.
       As you gathered, you must lose;
       As you yielded, now refuse.
       Thread by thread the strands we twist
       Till they bind us, neck and wrist;
       Thread by thread the patient hand
       Must untwine, ere free we stand.
       As we builded, stone by stone,
       We must toil, unhelped, alone,
       Till the wall is overthrown.

       But remember, as we try,
       Lighter every test goes by;
       Wading in, the stream grows deep
       Toward the center's downward sweep;
       Backward turn, each step ashore
       Shallower is than that before.

       Ah, the precious years we waste
       Leveling what we raised in haste:
       Doing what must be undone
       Ere content or love be won!
       First, across the gulf we cast
       Kite-borne threads, till lines are passed,
       And habit builds the bridge at last!


_John Boyle O'Reilly._


       *       *       *       *       *


Memory Gem:


Habit is a cable. Every day we weave a thread, until at last it is so
strong we cannot break it.


       *       *       *       *       *




_75_


in ured'
ru' di ments
nine' ti eth
ma tur' er
ac' cu ra cy
in ad vert' ence
an' ec dotes
e ner' vate
in cor' po ra ted
dig' ni fied
in junc' tion
pre var i ca' tion



WASHINGTON AND HIS MOTHER.


Some of the most interesting anecdotes of the early life of Washington
were derived from his mother, a dignified matron who, by the death of
her husband, while her children were young, became the sole conductress
of their education. To the inquiry, what course she had pursued in
rearing one so truly illustrious, she replied, "Only to require
obedience, diligence, and truth."

These simple rules, faithfully enforced, and incorporated with the
rudiments of character, had a powerful influence over his future
greatness.

He was early accustomed to accuracy in all his statements, and to speak
of his faults and omissions without prevarication or disguise. Hence
arose that noble openness of soul, and contempt of deceit in others,
which ever distinguished him. Once, by an inadvertence of his youth,
considerable loss had been incurred, and of such a nature as to
interfere with the plans of his mother. He came to her, frankly owning
his error, and she replied, while tears of affection moistened her eyes,
"I had rather it should be so, than that my son should have been guilty
of a falsehood."

She was careful not to enervate him by luxury or weak indulgence. He was
inured to early rising, and never permitted to be idle. Sometimes he
engaged in labors which the children of wealthy parents would now
account severe, and thus acquired firmness of frame and a disregard of
hardship.

The systematic employment of time, which from childhood he had been
taught, was of great service when the weight of a nation's concerns
devolved upon him. It was then observed by those who surrounded him,
that he was never known to be in a hurry, but found time for the
transaction of the smallest affairs in the midst of the greatest and
most conflicting duties.

Such benefit did he derive from attention to the counsels of his mother.
His obedience to her commands, when a child, was cheerful and strict;
and as he approached to maturer years, the expression of her slightest
wish was law.

At length, America having secured her independence, and the war being
ended, Washington, who for eight years had not tasted the repose of
home, hastened with filial reverence to ask his mother's blessing. The
hero, "first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his
countrymen," came to lay his laurels at his mother's feet.

This venerable woman continued, till past her ninetieth year, to be
respected and beloved by all around. With pious grief, Washington closed
her eyes and laid her in the grave which she had selected for herself.

We have now seen the man who was the leader of victorious armies, the
conqueror of a mighty kingdom, and the admiration of the world, in the
delightful attitude of an obedient and affectionate son. She, whom he
honored with such filial reverence, said that "he had learned to command
others by first learning to obey."

Let those, then, who in the morning of life are ambitious of future
eminence, cultivate the virtue of filial obedience, and remember that
they cannot be either fortunate or happy while they neglect the
injunction, "My son, keep thy father's commandments, and forsake not the
law of thy mother."


[Illustration: _L.E. Fournier._]


       *       *       *       *       *


CONDUCTRESS, a woman who leads or directs.

The suffix _-ess_ is used to form feminine name-words.

Tell what each of the following words means:



ab' bess
ac' tress
duch' ess
li' on ess
count' ess
po' et ess
song' stress
au' thor ess
di rect' ress



Use the following homonyms in sentences:


air, ere, e'er, heir; oar, ore, o'er; in, inn; four, fore; vain, vein;
vale, veil; core, corps; their, there; hear, here; fair, fare; sweet,
suite; strait, straight.


       *       *       *       *       *




_76_


na' tal
a main'
toc' sin
re count' ed



WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY.


       'Tis splendid to have a record
         So white and free from stain
       That, held to the light, it shows no blot,
         Though tested and tried amain;
       That age to age forever
         Repeats its story of love,
       And your birthday lives in a nation's heart,
         All other days above.

       And this is Washington's glory,
         A steadfast soul and true,
       Who stood for his country's honor
         When his country's days were few.
       And now when its days are many,
         And its flag of stars is flung
       To the breeze in radiant glory,
         His name is on every tongue.

       Yes, it's splendid to live so bravely,
         To be so great and strong,
       That your memory is ever a tocsin
         To rally the foes of wrong;
       To live so proudly and purely,
         That your people pause in their way,
       And year by year, with banner and drum,
         Keep the thought of your natal day.


_Margaret E. Sangster._

By permission of the author.


       *       *       *       *       *




_77_


Brit' on (un)
ant' lers
wrin' kled
vet' er an
im mor' tal



THE SWORD OF BUNKER HILL.


       He lay upon his dying bed,
         His eye was growing dim,
       When, with a feeble voice, he called
         His weeping son to him:
       "Weep not, my boy," the veteran said,
         "I bow to heaven's high will;
       But quickly from yon antlers bring
         The sword of Bunker Hill."

       The sword was brought; the soldier's eye
         Lit with a sudden flame;
       And, as he grasped the ancient blade,
         He murmured Warren's name;
       Then said, "My boy, I leave you gold,
         But what is richer still,
       I leave you, mark me, mark me well,
         The sword of Bunker Hill.

       "'Twas on that dread, immortal day,
         I dared the Briton's band;
       A captain raised his blade on me,
         I tore it from his hand;
       And while the glorious battle raged,
         It lightened Freedom's will;
       For, son, the God of Freedom blessed
         The sword of Bunker Hill.

       "Oh! keep this sword," his accents broke,--
         A smile--and he was dead;
       But his wrinkled hand still grasped the blade,
         Upon that dying bed.
       The son remains, the sword remains,
         Its glory growing still,
       And twenty millions bless the sire
         And sword of Bunker Hill.


_William R. Wallace._


[Illustration:]


       *       *       *       *       *




_78_


es' say
buoy' ant
in sip' id
fe quent' ing
scowl' ing ly
sug ges' tion
in tel' li gence
sin' gu lar ly
so lic' i tude
com pet' i tor
phi los' o pher
ve' he ment ly
tre men' dous ly
ex pos tu la' tion
ig no min' i ous ly



THE MARTYR'S BOY.


It is a youth full of grace, and sprightliness, and candor, that comes
forward with light and buoyant steps across the open court, towards the
inner hall; and we shall hardly find time to sketch him before he
reaches it. He is about fourteen years old, but tall for that age, with
elegance of form and manliness of bearing. His bare neck and limbs are
well developed by healthy exercise; his features display an open and
warm heart, while his lofty forehead, round which his brown hair
naturally curls, beams with a bright intelligence. He wears the usual
youth's garment, the short toga, reaching below the knee, and a hollow
spheroid of gold suspended round his neck. A bundle of papers and vellum
rolls fastened together, and carried by an old servant behind him, shows
us that he is just returning home from school.

While we have been thus noting him, he has received his mother's
embrace, and has sat himself low by her feet. She gazes upon him for
some time in silence, as if to discover in his countenance the cause of
his unusual delay, for he is an hour late in his return. But he meets
her glance with so frank a look, and with such a smile of innocence,
that every cloud of doubt is in a moment dispelled, and she addresses
him as follows:

"What has detained you to-day, my dearest boy? No accident, I trust, has
happened to you on the way."

"Oh, none, I assure you, sweetest mother; on the contrary, all has been
so delightful that I can scarcely venture to tell you."

A look of smiling, expostulation drew from the open-hearted boy a
delicious laugh, as he continued: "Well, I suppose I must. You know I am
never happy if I have failed to tell you all the bad and the good of the
day about myself. But, to-day, for the first time, I have a doubt
whether I ought to tell you all."

Did the mother's heart flutter more than usual, as from a first anxiety,
or was there a softer solicitude dimming her eye, that the youth should
seize her hand and put it tenderly to his lips, while he thus replied:

"Fear nothing, mother most beloved, your son has done nothing that may
give you pain. Only say, do you wish to hear _all_ that has befallen me
to-day, or only the cause of my late return home?"

"Tell me all, dear Pancratius," she answered; "nothing that concerns you
can be indifferent to me."

"Well, then," he began, "this last day of my frequenting school appears
to me to have been singularly blessed. First, I was crowned as the
successful competitor in a declamation, which our good master Cassianus
set us for our work during the morning hours; and this led, as you will
hear, to some singular discoveries. The subject was, 'That the real
philosopher should be ever ready to die for the truth.' I never heard
anything so cold or insipid (I hope it is not wrong to say so) as the
compositions read by my companions. It was not their fault, poor
fellows! what truth can they possess, and what inducements can they have
to die for any of their vain opinions? But to a Christian, what charming
suggestions such a theme naturally makes! And so I felt it. My heart
glowed, and all my thoughts seemed to burn, as I wrote my essay, full of
the lessons you have taught me, and of the domestic examples that are
before me. The son of a martyr could not feel otherwise. But when my
turn came to read my declamation, I found that my feelings had nearly
betrayed me. In the warmth of my recitation, the word 'Christian'
escaped my lips instead of 'philosopher,' and 'faith' instead of
'truth,' At the first mistake, I saw Cassianus start; at the second, I
saw a tear glisten in his eye, as bending affectionately towards me, he
said, in a whisper, 'Beware, my child, there are sharp ears listening.'"

"What, then," interrupted the mother, "is Cassianus a Christian? I chose
his school because it was in the highest repute for learning and
morality; and now indeed I thank God that I did so. But in these days of
danger we are obliged to live as strangers in our own land. Certainly,
had Cassianus proclaimed his faith, his school would soon have been
deserted. But go on, my dear boy. Were his apprehensions well grounded?"

"I fear so; for while the great body of my school-fellows vehemently
applauded my hearty declamation, I saw the dark eyes of Corvinus bent
scowlingly upon me, as he bit his lip in manifest anger."

"And who is he, my child, that was so displeased, and wherefore?"

"He is the strongest, but, unfortunately, the dullest boy in the school.
But this, you know, is not his fault. Only, I know not why, he seems
ever to have had a grudge against me, the cause of which I cannot
understand."

"Did he say aught to you, or do?"

"Yes, and was the cause of my delay. For when we went forth from school
into the field by the river, he addressed me insultingly in the presence
of our companions, and said, 'Come, Pancratius, this, I understand, is
the last time we meet _here_; but I have a long score to demand payment
of from you. You have loved to show your superiority in school over me
and others older and better than yourself; I saw your supercilious looks
at me as you spouted your high-flown declamation to-day; ay, and I
caught expressions in it which you may live to rue, and that very soon.
Before you leave us, I must have my revenge. If you are worthy of your
name let us fairly contend in more manly strife than that of the style
and tables. Wrestle with me, or try the cestus against me. I burn to
humble you as you deserve, before these witnesses of your insolent
triumphs.'"

The anxious mother bent eagerly forward as she listened, and scarcely
breathed. "And what," she exclaimed, "did you answer, my dear son?"

"I told him gently that he was quite mistaken; for never had I
consciously done anything that could give pain to him or any of my
school-fellows; nor did I ever dream of claiming superiority over them.
'And as to what you propose,' I added, 'you know, Corvinus, that I have
always refused to indulge in personal combats, which, beginning in a
cool trial of skill, end in an angry strife, hatred, and wish for
revenge. How much less could I think of entering on them now, when you
avow that you are anxious to begin them with those evil feelings which
are usually their bad end?' Our school-mates had now formed a circle
round us; and I clearly saw that they were all against me, for they had
hoped to enjoy some of the delights of their cruel games; I therefore
cheerfully added, 'And now, my comrades, good-by, and may all happiness
attend you. I part from you, as I have lived with you, in peace,' 'Not
so,' replied Corvinus, now purple in the face with fury; 'but--'"

The boy's countenance became crimsoned, his voice quivered, his body
trembled, and, half-choked, he sobbed out, "I cannot go on; I dare not
tell the rest!"

"I entreat you, for God's sake, and for the love you bear your father's
memory," said the mother, placing her hand upon her son's head, "conceal
nothing from me. I shall never again have rest if you tell me not all.
What further said or did Corvinus?"

The boy recovered himself by a moment's pause and a silent prayer, and
then proceeded:

"'Not so!' exclaimed Corvinus, 'not so do you depart! You have concealed
your abode from us, but I will find you out; till then bear this token
of my determined purpose to be revenged!' So saying, he dealt me a
furious blow upon the face, which made me reel and stagger, while a
shout of savage delight broke forth from the boys around us."

He burst into tears, which relieved him, and then went on:

"Oh, how I felt my blood boil at that moment; how my heart seemed
bursting within me; and a voice appeared to whisper in my ear the name
of 'coward!' It surely was an evil spirit. I felt that I was strong
enough--my rising anger made me so--to seize my unjust assailant by the
throat, and cast him gasping on the ground. I heard already the shout of
applause that would have hailed my victory and turned the tables against
him. It was the hardest struggle of my life; never were flesh and blood
so strong within me. O God! may they never be again so tremendously
powerful."

"And what did you do, then, my darling boy?" gasped forth the trembling
matron.

He replied, "My good angel conquered the demon at my side. I stretched
forth my hand to Corvinus, and said, 'May God forgive you, as I freely
and fully do; and may He bless you abundantly.' Cassianus came up at
that moment, having seen all from a distance, and the youthful crowd
quickly dispersed. I entreated him, by our common faith, now
acknowledged between us, not to pursue Corvinus for what he had done;
and I obtained his promise. And now, sweet mother," murmured the boy, in
soft, gentle accents, into his parent's bosom, "do you think I may call
this a happy day?"

_"Fabiola"--Cardinal Wiseman._


       *       *       *       *       *


SPHEROID (sf[=e]'), a body or figure in shape like a sphere.

VELLUM, a fine kind of parchment, made of the skin of a lamb, goat,
sheep or young calf, for writing on.

THEME, a subject or topic on which a person writes or speaks.

SCORE, bill, account, reckoning.

SUPERCIL'IOUS, proud, haughty.

STYLES AND TABLES, writing implements for schools. The tables or
tablets were covered with wax, on which the letters were traced by the
sharp point of the style, and erased by its flat top.

CESTUS, a covering for the hands of boxers, made of leather bands,
and often loaded with lead or iron.

"IF YOU ARE WORTHY OF YOUR NAME." Reference is here made by
Corvinus to the _pancratium_, an athletic exercise among the Romans,
which combined all personal contests, such as boxing, wrestling, etc.

CASSIANUS, St. Cassian, who, though a Bishop, opened a school for
Roman youths. Having confessed Christ, and refusing to offer sacrifice
to the gods, the pagan judge commanded that his own pupils should stab
him to death with their iron writing pencils, called styles.

AY or AYE, meaning _yes_, is pronounced
_[=i]_ or _[:a][)i]_; meaning _ever_,
and used only in poetry, it is pronounced _[=a]_.

Read carefully two or three times the opening paragraph of the
selection, so that the picture conveyed by the words may be clearly
impressed on the mind. Then with book closed write out in your own words
a description of "The Martyr's Boy."


[Illustration:]

[Illustration:]


       *       *       *       *       *




_79_



THE ANGEL'S STORY.


       Through the blue and frosty heavens
         Christmas stars were shining bright;
       Glistening lamps throughout the City
         Almost matched their gleaming light;
       While the winter snow was lying,
       And the winter winds were sighing,
         Long ago, one Christmas night.


       *       *       *       *       *


       Rich and poor felt love and blessing
         From the gracious season fall;
       Joy and plenty in the cottage,
         Peace and feasting in the hall;
       And the voices of the children
         Ringing clear above it all.

       Yet one house was dim and darkened;
         Gloom, and sickness, and despair,
       Dwelling in the gilded chambers,
         Creeping up the marble stair,
       Even stilled the voice of mourning,--
         For a child lay dying there.

       Silken curtains fell around him,
         Velvet carpets hushed the tread,
       Many costly toys were lying
         All unheeded by his bed;
       And his tangled golden ringlets
         Were on downy pillows spread.

       The skill of all that mighty City
         To save one little life was vain,--
       One little thread from being broken,
       One fatal word from being spoken;
         Nay, his very mother's pain
       And the mighty love within her
         Could not give him health again.


       *       *       *       *       *


       Suddenly an unseen Presence
         Checked those constant moaning cries,
       Stilled the little heart's quick fluttering,
         Raised those blue and wondering eyes,
       Fixed on some mysterious vision
         With a startled, sweet surprise.

       For a radiant angel hovered,
         Smiling, o'er the little bed;
       White his raiment; from his shoulders
         Snowy dove-like pinions spread,
       And a starlike light was shining
         In a glory round his head.

       While, with tender love, the angel,
         Leaning o'er the little nest,
       In his arms the sick child folding,
         Laid him gently on his breast,
       Sobs and wailings told the mother
         That her darling was at rest.

       So the angel, slowly rising,
         Spread his wings, and through the air
       Bore the child; and, while he held him
         To his heart with loving care,
       Placed a branch of crimson roses
         Tenderly beside him there.

       While the child, thus clinging, floated
         Towards the mansions of the Blest,
       Gazing from his shining guardian
         To the flowers upon his breast,
       Thus the angel spake, still smiling
         On the little heavenly guest:

       "Know, dear little one, that Heaven
         Does no earthly thing disdain;
       Man's poor joys find there an echo
         Just as surely as his pain;
       Love, on earth so feebly striving,
         Lives divine in Heaven again.

       "Once, in that great town below us,
         In a poor and narrow street,
       Dwelt a little sickly orphan;
         Gentle aid, or pity sweet,
       Never in life's rugged pathway
         Guided his poor tottering feet.

       "All the striving, anxious fore-thought
         That should only come with age
       Weighed upon his baby spirit,
         Showed him soon life's sternest page;
       Grim Want was his nurse, and Sorrow
         Was his only heritage."


       *       *       *       *       *


       "One bright day, with feeble footsteps
         Slowly forth he tried to crawl
       Through the crowded city's pathways,
         Till he reached a garden-wall,
       Where 'mid princely halls and mansions
         Stood the lordliest of all.

       "There were trees with giant branches,
       Velvet glades where shadows hide;
       There were sparkling fountains glancing,
         Flowers, which in luxuriant pride
       Even wafted breaths of perfume
         To the child who stood outside.

       "He against the gate of iron
         Pressed his wan and wistful face,
       Gazing with an awe-struck pleasure
         At the glories of the place;
       Never had his brightest day-dream
         Shone with half such wondrous grace.

       "You were playing in that garden,
         Throwing blossoms in the air,
       Laughing when the petals floated
         Downwards on your golden hair;
       And the fond eyes watching o'er you,
       And the splendor spread before you,
         Told a House's Hope was there.

       "When your servants, tired of seeing
         Such a face of want and woe,
       Turning to the ragged orphan,
         Gave him coin, and bade him go,
       Down his cheeks so thin and wasted
         Bitter tears began to flow.

       "But that look of childish sorrow
         On your tender child-heart fell,
       And you plucked the reddest roses
         From the tree you loved so well,
       Passed them through the stern cold grating,
         Gently bidding him 'Farewell!'

       "Dazzled by the fragrant treasure
         And the gentle voice he heard,
       In the poor forlorn boy's spirit,
         Joy, the sleeping Seraph, stirred;
       In his hand he took the flowers,
         In his heart the loving word.

       "So he crept to his poor garret;
         Poor no more, but rich and bright;
       For the holy dreams of childhood--
         Love, and Rest, and Hope, and Light--
       Floated round the orphan's pillow
         Through the starry summer night.

       "Day dawned, yet the visions lasted;
         All too weak to rise he lay;
       Did he dream that none spake harshly,--
         All were strangely kind that day?
       Surely then his treasured roses
         Must have charmed all ills away.

       "And he smiled, though they were fading;
         One by one their leaves were shed;
       'Such bright things could never perish,
         They would bloom again,' he said.
       When the next day's sun had risen
         Child and flowers both were dead.

       "Know, dear little one, our Father
         Will no gentle deed disdain;
       Love on the cold earth beginning
         Lives divine in Heaven again;
       While the angel hearts that beat there
         Still all tender thoughts retain."

       So the angel ceased, and gently
         O'er his little burden leant;
       While the child gazed from the shining,
         Loving eyes that o'er him bent,
       To the blooming roses by him.
         Wondering what that mystery meant.

       Thus the radiant angel answered,
         And with tender meaning smiled:
       "Ere your childlike, loving spirit,
         Sin and the hard world defiled,
       God has given me leave to seek you,--
         I was once that little child!"


       *       *       *       *       *


       In the churchyard of that city
         Rose a tomb of marble rare,
       Decked, as soon as Spring awakened,
         With her buds and blossoms fair,--
       And a humble grave beside it,--
         No one knew who rested there.


_Adelaide A. Procter_.


[Illustration: _Kaulbach_.]


       *       *       *       *       *


Enlarge the following brief summary of the Angel's Story into a
composition the length of which to be determined by your teacher. Use
many of the words and forms of expression you find in the poem.


THE ANGEL'S STORY

A poor little boy, to whom a child of wealth had in pity given a bunch
of "reddest roses," died with the fading flowers. Afterwards he came as
a "radiant angel" to visit his dying friend, and in a spirit of
gratitude bore him to heaven.


       *       *       *       *       *




_80_


al' ti tude
as tound' ing
ve loc' i ty
vag' a bond
mus tach' es
hes i ta' ting ly
par' a lyzed
tre men' dous
ex tra or' di na ry



GLUCK'S VISITOR.


It was drawing toward winter, and very cold weather, when one day
Gluck's two older brothers had gone out, with their usual warning to
little Gluck, who was left to mind the roast, that he was to let nobody
in and give nothing out. Gluck sat down quite close to the fire, for it
was raining very hard. He turned and turned, and the roast got nice and
brown.

"What a pity," thought Gluck, "that my brothers never ask anybody to
dinner. I'm sure, when they have such a nice piece of mutton as this, it
would do their hearts good to have somebody to eat it with them." Just
as he spoke there came a double knock at the house door, yet heavy and
dull, as though the knocker had been tied up. "It must be the wind,"
said Gluck; "nobody else would venture to knock double knocks at our
door."

No; it wasn't the wind. There it came again very hard, and what was
particularly astounding the knocker seemed to be in a hurry, and not to
be in the least afraid of the consequences. Gluck put his head out the
window to see who it was.

It was the most extraordinary looking little gentleman he had ever seen
in his life. He had a very large nose, slightly brass-colored; his
cheeks were very round and very red; his eyes twinkled merrily through
long, silky eyelashes; his mustaches curled twice round like a corkscrew
on each side of his mouth, and his hair, of a curious mixed
pepper-and-salt color, descended far over his shoulders. He was about
four feet six in height, and wore a conical pointed cap of nearly the
same altitude, decorated with a black feather some three feet long. He
wore an enormous black, glossy-looking cloak, which must have been very
much too long in calm weather, as the wind carried it clear out from the
wearer's shoulders to about four times his own length.

Gluck was so perfectly paralyzed by the appearance of his visitor that
he remained fixed, without uttering a word, until the old gentleman
turned round to look after his fly-away cloak. In so doing he caught
sight of Gluck's little yellow head jammed in the window, with its mouth
and eyes very wide open indeed.

"Hello!" said the little gentleman, "that's not the way to answer the
door. I'm wet; let me in." To do the little gentleman justice, he _was_
wet. His feather hung down between his legs like a beaten puppy's tail,
dripping like an umbrella; and from the end of his mustaches the water
was running into his waistcoat pockets, and out again like a mill
stream.

"I'm very sorry" said Gluck, "but I really can't."

"Can't what?" said the old gentleman.

"I can't let you in, sir. My brothers would beat me to death, sir, if I
thought of such a thing. What do you want, sir?"

"Want?" said the old gentleman. "I want fire and shelter; and there's
your great fire there blazing, crackling, and dancing on the walls, with
nobody to feel it. Let me in, I say."

Gluck had had his head, by this time, so long out of the window that he
began to feel it was really unpleasantly cold. When he turned and saw
the beautiful fire rustling and roaring, and throwing long, bright
tongues up the chimney, as if it were licking its chops at the savory
smell of the leg of mutton, his heart melted within him that it should
be burning away for nothing.

"He does look _very_ wet," said little Gluck; "I'll just let him in for
a quarter of an hour."

As the little gentleman walked in, there came a gust of wind through the
house that made the old chimney totter.

"That's a good boy. Never mind your brothers. I'll talk to them."

"Pray, sir, don't do any such thing," said Gluck. "I can't let you stay
till they come; they'd be the death of me."

"Dear me," said the old gentleman, "I'm sorry to hear that. How long may
I stay?"

"Only till the mutton is done, sir," replied Gluck, "and it's very
brown." Then the old gentleman walked into the kitchen and sat himself
down on the hob, with the top of his cap up the chimney, for it was much
too high for the roof.

"You'll soon dry there; sir," said Gluck, and sat down again to turn the
mutton. But the old gentleman did _not_ dry there, but went on drip,
drip, dripping among the cinders, so that the fire fizzed and sputtered
and began to look very black and uncomfortable. Never was such a cloak;
every fold in it ran like a gutter.

"I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck, at length, after watching the water
spreading in long, quicksilver-like streams over the floor; "mayn't I
take your cloak?"

"No, thank you," said the old gentleman.

"Your cap, sir?"

"I am all right, thank you," said the old gentleman, rather gruffly.

"But--sir--I'm very sorry," said Gluck, hesitatingly,
"but--really--sir--you're putting the fire out."

"It'll take longer to do the mutton, then."

Gluck was very much puzzled by the behavior of his guest; it was such a
strange mixture of coolness and humility.

"That mutton looks very nice," said the old gentleman. "Can't you give
me a little bit?"

"Impossible, sir," said Gluck.

"I'm very hungry," continued the old gentleman; "I've had nothing to eat
yesterday nor to-day. They surely couldn't miss a bit from the knuckle!"

He spoke in so very melancholy a tone that it quite melted Gluck's
heart.

"They promised me one slice to-day, sir," said he; "I can give you that,
but no more."

"That's a good boy," said the old gentleman again.

"I don't care if I do get beaten for it," thought Gluck.

Just as he had cut a large slice out of the mutton, there came a
tremendous rap at the door. The old gentleman jumped; Gluck fitted the
slice into the mutton again, and ran to open the door.

"What did you keep us waiting in the rain for?" said Schwartz, as he
walked in, throwing his umbrella in Gluck's face.

"Aye; what for, indeed, you little vagabond?" said Hans, administering
an educational box on the ear, as he followed his brother.

"Bless my soul!" said Schwartz, when he opened the door.

"Amen," said the little gentleman, who had taken his cap off, and was
standing in the middle of the kitchen, bowing with the utmost velocity.

"Who's that?" said Schwartz, catching up a rolling-pin, and turning
fiercely to Gluck.

"I don't know, indeed, brother," said Gluck, in great terror.

"How did he get in?" roared Schwartz.

"My dear brother, he was so _very_ wet!"

The rolling-pin was descending on Gluck's head; but, at that instant,
the old gentleman interposed his conical cap, on which it crashed with a
shock that shook the water out of it all over the room. What was very
odd, the rolling-pin no sooner touched the cap, than it flew out of
Schwartz's hand, spinning like a straw in a high wind, and fell into the
corner at the farther end of the room.

"Who are you sir?" demanded Schwartz.

"What's your business?" snarled Hans.

"I'm a poor old man, sir," the little gentleman began, very modestly,
"and I saw your fire through the window, and begged shelter for a
quarter of an hour."

"Have the goodness to walk out again, then," said Schwartz. "We've quite
enough water in our kitchen, without making it a drying house."

"It's a very cold day, sir, to turn an old man out in, sir; look at my
gray hairs."

"Aye!" said Hans, "there are enough of them to keep you warm. Walk!"

"I'm very, very hungry, sir; couldn't you spare me a bit of bread before
I go?"

"Bread, indeed!" said Schwartz; "do you suppose we've nothing to do with
our bread but to give it to such fellows as you?"

"Why don't you sell your feather?" said Hans, sneeringly. "Out with
you."

"A little bit," said the old gentleman.

"Be off!" said Schwartz.

"Pray, gentlemen."

"Off!" cried Hans, seizing him by the collar. But he had no sooner
touched the old gentleman's collar than away he went after the
rolling-pin, spinning round and round, till he fell into the corner on
the top of it.

Then Schwartz was very angry, and ran at the old gentleman to turn him
out. But he also had hardly touched him, when away he went after Hans
and the rolling-pin, and hit his head against the wall as he tumbled
into the corner. And so there they lay, all three.

Then the old gentleman spun himself round until his long cloak was all
wound neatly about him, clapped his cap on his head, very much on one
side, gave a twist to his corkscrew mustaches, and replied, with perfect
coolness: "Gentlemen, I wish you a very good morning. At twelve o'clock
to-night, I'll call again."

_John Ruskin._


       *       *       *       *       *


NOTE.--"The King of the Golden River," from which the selection is
taken, is a charming story for children. It was written in 1841, for the
amusement of a sick child. It is said to be the finest story of its kind
in the language.


[Illustration:]


       *       *       *       *       *




_81_


elf
en cir' cled
jerk
hur' ri cane
rein'deer
min' i a ture
tar' nished



A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS.


       'Twas the  night  before  Christmas,  when  all through the house
       Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse:
       The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
       In the hope that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
       The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
       While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
       And Mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
       Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,
       When out on the lawn there rose such a clatter,
       I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
       Away to the window I flew like a flash,
       Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash.
       The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
       Gave the luster of midday to objects below;
       When, what  to  my wondering eyes should appear
       But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
       With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
       I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick!
       More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
       And he whistled, and shouted  and called them by name:
       "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! now, Vixen!
       On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
       To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall,
       Now, dash away! dash away! dash away, all!"
       As dry leaves, that before the wild hurricane fly
       When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
       So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
       With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas, too;
       And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
       The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
       As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
       Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
       He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,
       And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
       A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
       And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack;
       His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
       His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
       His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
       And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;
       The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
       And the smoke it  encircled his head like a wreath;
       He had a broad face, and a little round belly,
       That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
       He was chubby and plump,--a right jolly old elf--
       And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
       A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
       Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
       He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
       And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
       And, laying his finger aside of his nose,
       And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
       He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
       And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;
       But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
       "Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"


_Clement C. Moore._


       *       *       *       *       *




_82_


a chieved'
es poused'
thral' dom
al li' ance
ter rif' ic
Del' a ware
Com' mo dore
re cip' i ents
New' found land
can non ad' ing
par tic' i pa ted
char ac ter is' tic



COMMODORE JOHN BARRY.


The story of the American Navy is a story of glorious deeds. From the
early days of Barry and Jones, when it swept the decks of King George's
proud ships with merciless fire, down to the glories achieved by
Admirals Dewey and Schley in our war with Spain, the story of our Navy
is the pride and glory of our Republic. The glowing track of its
victories extends around the world.

Of the many distinguished men whose names and whose deeds adorn the
pages of our country's history, there is none more deserving of our
gratitude and admiration than Commodore John Barry. His name and fame
will live in the naval annals of our country as long as the history of
America lasts.

Commodore Barry, the founder of the American Navy, was born in County
Wexford, Ireland, in the year 1745. At the age of fourteen he left home
for a life on

       "The sea, the sea, the open sea,
       The blue, the fresh, the ever free."


On board trading vessels he made several voyages to America. He spent
his leisure hours in reading and study, and in this way soon acquired a
general and practical education. By fidelity to duty, he advanced so
rapidly in his profession that at the age of twenty-five we find him in
command of the _Black Prince,_ one of the finest merchant vessels then
running between Philadelphia and London.

When the Revolution broke out between the Colonies and England, our
gallant Commodore gave up the command of his ship, and without delay or
hesitation espoused the cause of his adopted country. Congress purchased
a few vessels, had them fitted out for war, and placed the little fleet
under the command of Captain Barry. His flagship was the _Lexington_,
named after the first battle of the Revolution; and Congress having at
this time adopted a national flag, the Star-spangled Banner, the
_Lexington_ was the first to hoist this ensign of freedom.

From the time of the fitting out of the _Lexington_ down to the time of
the declaration of peace, which assured the liberation of the Colonies
from the thraldom of Great Britain, Commodore Barry was constantly
engaged on shore and afloat. Though he actually participated in upwards
of twenty sea fights, always against a force superior to his own, he
never once struck his flag to the enemy. The field of his operations
ranged all the way from the capes of the Delaware to the West Indies,
and as far east as the coast of Maine and Newfoundland. His victories
were hailed with joy throughout the country, and Barry and his men were
publicly thanked by General Washington.

During the darkest days of the War, while Washington was spending the
winter of 1777 in camp at Valley Forge, with our brave soldiers
perishing for want of provisions, blankets, clothing and tents, an
incident occurred which shows how supremely loyal and devoted Commodore
Barry was to the American cause. The British troops were occupying
Philadelphia. Lord Howe, their commander, offered our great sea fighter
a bribe of fifty thousand guineas and the command of a ship of war, if
he would abandon the American cause and enter the service of England.
Barry's indignant reply should be written in letters of gold: "I have
engaged in the service of my adopted country, and neither the value nor
the command of the whole British fleet can seduce me from it."

General Washington had the utmost confidence in the pluck and daring and
loyalty of Barry. He selected him as the best and safest man to be
trusted with the important mission of carrying our commissioners to
France to secure that alliance and assistance which we then so sorely
needed.

On his homeward trip, it is related that being hailed by a British
man-of-war with the usual questions as to the name of his ship, captain,
and destination, he gave the following bold and characteristic reply:
"This is the United States ship _Alliance_: Jack Barry, half Irishman
and half Yankee, commander: who are you?" In the engagement that
followed, Barry and his band of heroes performed such deeds of valor
that after a few hours of terrific cannonading, the English ship was
forced to strike its colors and surrender to the "half Irishman and half
Yankee."

This illustrious man, who was the first that bore the title of Commodore
in the service of our Republic, continued at the head of our infant Navy
till his death, which took place in Philadelphia, on the 13th of
September, 1803. During life he was generous and charitable, and at his
death made the children of the Catholic Orphan Asylum of Philadelphia
the chief recipients of his wealth. His remains repose in the little
graveyard attached to St. Mary's Catholic church.

Through the generous patriotism of the "Friendly Sons of St. Patrick," a
society of which General Washington himself was a member, a magnificent
monument was erected to the memory of Commodore Barry, in Independence
Square, Philadelphia, under the shadow of Independence Hall, the cradle
of American liberty. Miss Elise Hazel Hepburn, a great-great-grandniece
of the Commodore, had a prominent part at the ceremonies of the
unveiling, which took place on Saint Patrick's Day, 1907.


       *       *       *       *       *


       There are gallant hearts whose glory
         Columbia loves to name,
       Whose deeds shall live in story
         And everlasting fame.
       But never yet one braver
         Our starry banner bore
       Than saucy old Jack Barry,
         The Irish Commodore.



What is meant by the Congress of the U.S.? What two bodies compose it?
What is the number of senators, and how are they chosen?

Which was the most notable sea fight of Commodore John Paul Jones?

Where did Admiral Dewey specially distinguish himself? And Admiral
Schley?

What countries does the island of Great Britain comprise?

What does "never struck his flag" mean?

Name the capes of the Delaware. Locate Newfoundland.

Recite the two famous replies of Commodore Barry given in the selection.


[Illustration: COMMODORE JOHN BARRY]


       *       *       *       *       *




_83_


sau' cy
ig nored'
rev' eled
plain' tive
dis traught'
wea' ri some
rol' lick ing
mis' chie vous
frec'kle-faced



THE BOY OF THE HOUSE.


       He was the boy of the house, you know,
         A jolly and rollicking lad;
       He was never tired, and never sick,
         And nothing could make him sad.

       Did some one urge that he make less noise,
         He would say, with a saucy grin,
       "Why, one boy alone doesn't make much stir--
         I'm sorry I am not a twin!"

       "There are two of twins--oh, it must be fun
         To go double at everything:
       To hollo by twos, and to run by twos,
         To whistle by twos, and to sing!"

       His laugh was something to make you glad,
         So brimful was it of joy;
       A conscience he had, perhaps, in his breast,
         But it never troubled the boy.

       You met him out in the garden path,
         With the terrier at his heels;
       You knew by the shout he hailed you with
         How happy a youngster feels.

       The maiden auntie was half distraught
         At his tricks as the days went by;
       "The most mischievous child in the world!"
         She said, with a shrug and a sigh.

       His father owned that her words were true,
         And his mother declared each day
       Was putting wrinkles into her face,
         And was turning her brown hair gray.

       But it never troubled the boy of the house;
         He reveled in clatter and din,
       And had only one regret in the world--
         That he hadn't been born a twin.


       *       *       *       *       *


       There's nobody making a noise to-day,
         There's nobody stamping the floor,
       There's an awful silence, upstairs and down,
         There's crape on the wide hall door.

       The terrier's whining out in the sun--
         "Where's my comrade?" he seems to say;
       Turn your plaintive eyes away, little dog.
         There's no frolic for you to-day.

       The freckle-faced girl from the house next door
         Is sobbing her young heart out;
       Don't cry, little girl, you'll soon forget
         To miss the laugh and the shout.

       How strangely quiet the little form,
         With the hands on the bosom crossed!
       Not a fold, not a flower, out of place,
         Not a short curl rumpled and tossed!

       So solemn and still the big house seems--
         No laughter, no racket, no din,
       No starting shriek, no voice piping out,
         "I'm sorry I am not a twin!"

       There a man and a woman, pale with grief,
         As the wearisome moments creep;
       Oh! the loneliness touches everything--
         The boy of the house is asleep.


_Jean Blewett._

From the Toronto _Globe_.


[Illustration:]


       *       *       *       *       *




_84_



BIOGRAPHIES


COOK, ELIZA, was born in London, England, in the year 1817, and was
  the most popular poetess of her day. When a young girl, she gave herself
  so completely up to reading that her father threatened to burn her
  books. She began to write at an early age, and contributed poems and
  essays to various periodicals. She is the author of many poems that will
  live. She died in 1889.

COWPER, WILLIAM, is one of the most eminent and popular of all
  English poets. He was born in the year 1731. His mother dying when he
  was only six years old, the child was sent away from home to boarding
  school, where he suffered so much from the cruelty of a bigger boy that
  he was obliged to leave that school for another. At the completion of
  his college course he expressed regrets that his education was not
  received in a school where he could be taught his duty to God. "I have
  been graduated," he writes, "but I understand neither the law nor the
  gospel." His longest poem is "The Task," upon which his reputation as a
  poet chiefly depends. He died in the year 1800.

DICKENS, CHARLES, one of the greatest and most popular of the
  novelists of England, was born in 1812. By hard, persistent work he
  raised himself from obscurity and poverty to fame and fortune. After
  only two years of schooling he was obliged to go to work. His first job
  was pasting labels on blacking-pots, for which he received twenty-five
  cents a day! He next became office boy in a lawyer's office, and then
  reporter for a London daily paper. He learned shorthand by himself from
  a book he found in a public reading-room. In 1841, and again in 1867, he
  lectured in America. He died suddenly in 1870, and is buried in
  Westminster Abbey.

DONNELLY, ELEANOR CECILIA, began to write verses when she was but
  eight years old. Her early education was directed by her mother, a
  gifted and accomplished lady. Her pen has ever been devoted to the cause
  of Catholic truth and the elevation of Catholic literature. Besides
  hundreds of charming stories and essays, she has published several
  volumes of poems. Her writings on sacred subjects display a strong,
  intelligent faith, and a tender piety. She is a writer whose pathos,
  originality, grace of diction, sweetness of rhythm, purity of sentiment,
  and sublimity of thought entitle her to rank among the first of our
  American poets. Miss Donnelly has lived all her life in her native city
  of Philadelphia, where she is the center of a cultured circle of
  admiring friends, and where she edifies all by the practice of every
  Christian virtue and by a life of devotedness to the honor and glory of
  Almighty God.

GOULD, HANNAH F., an American poetess, has written many pleasant
  poems for children. "Jack Frost" and "The Winter King" have long been
  favorites. She was born in Vermont in the year 1789, and died in 1865.

HAWTHORNE, NATHANIEL, was born in Salem, Mass., on July 4, 1804.
  When still quite young he showed a great fondness for reading. At the
  early age of six his favorite book was Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress." At
  college he was a classmate of Longfellow. Among his writings are a
  number of stories for children: "The Tanglewood Tales," "The
  Snow-Image," "The Wonder Books," and some stories of American history.
  His volumes of short stories charm old and young alike. His Book, "The
  Scarlet Letter," has made him famous. It was while he lived at Lenox,
  Mass., among the Berkshire Hills, that he published "The House of the
  Seven Gables." He visited Italy in 1857, where he began "The Marble
  Faun," which is considered his greatest novel. He died in 1864, and is
  buried in Concord, Mass. Hawthorne possessed a delicate and exquisite
  humor, and a marvelous felicity in the use of language. His style may be
  said to combine almost every excellence--elegance, simplicity, grace,
  clearness and force.

HAYNE, PAUL HAMILTON, an American poet, was born in South Carolina
  in the year 1831. In 1854 he published a volume of poems. His death
  occurred in 1886. He was a descendant of the American patriot, Isaac
  Hayne, who, at the siege of Charleston in 1780, fell into the hands of
  the British, and was hanged by them because he refused to join their
  ranks and fight against his country.

HOLLAND, JOSIAH GILBERT, a popular American author who wrote under
  the assumed name of _Timothy Titcomb,_ was born in Massachusetts in the
  year 1819. He began life as a physician, but after a few years of
  practice gave up his profession and went to Vicksburg, Miss., as
  Superintendent of Schools. He wrote a number of novels and several
  volumes of essays. In 1870 he became editor of _Scribner's Magazine._ He
  died in 1881.

HUNT, LEIGH, editor, essayist, critic, and poet, and an intimate
  friend of Byron, Moore, Keats, and Shelley, was born near London,
  England, in 1784, and died in 1859.

JACKSON, HELEN HUNT, a noted American writer of prose and poetry,
  and known for years by her pen name of "H.H." (the initials of her
  name), was born in Massachusetts in the year 1831. She is the author of
  many charming poems, short stories, and novels. Read her "Bits of Talk"
  and "Bits of Travel." She lived some years in Colorado, where her life
  brought to her notice the wrongs done the Indians. In their defense she
  wrote "A Century of Dishonor," The last book she wrote is "Ramona," an
  Indian romance, which she hoped would do for the Indian what "Uncle
  Tom's Cabin" had done for the slave. Mrs. Jackson died in California in
  1885.

"MERCEDES" is the pen name of an able, zealous, and devoted Sister
  of one of our great Teaching Communities. She has written several
  excellent "Plays" for use in Convent Schools which have met the test of
  successful production. Her "Wild Flowers from the Mountain-side" is a
  volume of Poems and Dramas that exhibit "the heart and soul and faith of
  true poetry." A competent critic calls these "Wild Flowers sweet, their
  hues most delicate, their fragrance most agreeable." Mercedes has also
  enriched the columns of _The Missionary_ and other publications with
  several true stories, in attractive prose, of edifying conversions
  resulting from the missionary zeal of priest and teacher. Her graceful
  pen is ever at the service of every cause tending to the glory of God
  and the good of souls.

MOORE, THOMAS, was born in the city of Dublin, Ireland, in the year
  1779, and was educated at Trinity College. His matchless "Melodies" are
  the delight of all lovers of music, and are sung all over the world.
  Archbishop McHale of Tuam translated them into the grand old Celtic
  tongue. Moore is the greatest of Ireland's song-writers, and one of the
  world's greatest. As a poet few have equaled him in the power to write
  poetry which charms the ear by its delightful cadence. His lines display
  an exquisite harmony, and are perfectly adapted to the thoughts which
  they express and inspire. His grave is in England, where he spent the
  later years of his life, and where he died in 1852. In 1896, the Moore
  Memorial Committee of Dublin erected over his grave a monument
  consisting of a magnificent and beautiful Celtic cross.

MOORE, CLEMENT C., poet and teacher, was born in New York in 1779.
  In 1821 he was appointed professor in a Seminary founded by his father,
  who was Bishop Benjamin Moore of the Protestant Episcopal diocese of New
  York. He died in 1863.

MORRIS, GEORGE P., poet and journalist, wrote several popular
  poems, but is remembered chiefly for his songs and ballads. He was born
  in Philadelphia in the year 1802, and died in New York in 1864.

MCCARTHY, DENIS ALOYSIUS, poet, lecturer and journalist, was born
  in Carrick-on-Suir, County Tipperary, Ireland, in the year 1871, and
  made his elementary and intermediate studies in the Christian Brothers'
  School of his native town. Since his arrival in America in 1886, he has
  published two volumes of poems which he modestly calls "A Round of
  Rimes" and "Voices from Erin." "His poetry," says a distinguished critic
  who is neither Irish nor Catholic, "is soulful and sweet, and sings
  itself into the heart of anyone who has a bit of sentiment in his
  make-up." Mr. McCarthy is at present Associate Editor of the _Sacred
  Heart Review_ of Boston. He lectures on literary and Irish themes, and
  contributes poems, stories, essays, book reviews, etc., to various
  papers and magazines.

NEWMAN, CARDINAL JOHN HENRY, was born in London in 1801, and
  studied at Trinity College, Oxford. In 1824 he became a minister of the
  Church of England, and rose rapidly in his profession. In 1845 he
  abandoned the English ministry, renounced the errors of Protestantism,
  and entered the Catholic Church, of which he remained till death a most
  faithful, devoted, and zealous son. He was ordained priest in 1848, was
  made Rector of the Catholic University of Dublin in 1854, and in 1879
  was raised to the rank of Cardinal by Pope Leo XIII. Cardinal Newman's
  writings are beyond the grasp of young minds, yet they will profit by
  and enjoy the perusal of his two great novels, "Loss and Gain" and
  "Callista." The former is the story of a convert; the latter a tale of
  the third century, in which the beautiful heroine and martyr, Callista,
  is presented with a master's art. Newman is the greatest master of
  English prose. In this field he holds the same rank that Shakespeare
  does in English poetry. To his style, Augustine Birrell, a noted English
  essayist, pays the following graceful and eloquent tribute: "The charm
  of Dr. Newman's style baffles description. As well might one seek to
  analyze the fragrance of a flower, or to expound in words the jumping of
  one's heart when a beloved friend unexpectedly enters the room." This
  great Prince of the Church died the death of the saints in the year
  1890.

O'REILLY, JOHN BOYLE, patriot, author, poet and journalist, was
  born on the banks of the famous river Boyne, in County Meath, Ireland,
  in the year 1844. In 1860 he went over to England as agent of the Fenian
  Brotherhood, an organization whose purpose was the freedom of Ireland
  from English rule. In 1863 he joined the English army in order to sow
  the seeds of revolution among the soldiers. In 1866 he was arrested,
  tried for treason, and sentenced to death. This was afterwards commuted
  to twenty years' penal servitude. In 1867 he was transported to
  Australia to serve out his sentence, whence he escaped in 1869, and made
  his way to Philadelphia. He became editor of the Boston _Pilot_ in 1874.
  He is the author of "Songs from the Southern Seas," "Songs, Legends and
  Ballads," and of other works. He died in 1890. All through life the
  voice and pen of Boyle O'Reilly were at the service of his Church, his
  native land, and his adopted country. Kindness was the keynote of his
  character. In 1896 Boston erected in his honor a magnificent memorial
  monument.

RILEY, JAMES WHITCOMB, called the "Hoosier Poet," was born in
  Indiana in the year 1852. In many of his poems there is a strong sense
  of humor. What he writes comes from the heart and goes to the heart. He
  has written much in dialect. His home is in Indianapolis.

RUSKIN, JOHN, one of the most famous of English authors, was born
  in London in 1819, and educated at Oxford. He spent several years in
  Italy in the study of art. He wrote many volumes of essays and lectures,
  chiefly on matters connected with art and art criticism. In his writings
  we find many beautiful pen-pictures of statues and fine buildings and
  such things. His "Modern Painters," a treatise on art and nature,
  established his reputation as the greatest art critic of England. He
  died in 1900.

SANGSTER, MRS. MARGARET E., editor and poet, was born in New
  Rochelle, N.Y., on the 22d of February, 1838, and educated in Vienna.
  She has successfully edited such periodicals as _Hearth and Home,
  Harpers' Young People, and Harpers' Bazaar,_ in which much of her prose
  and poetry has appeared. She is at present (1909) the editor of _The
  Woman's Home Companion._

SOUTHEY, ROBERT, an eminent English poet and author, was born in
  the year 1774. He began to write verse at the age of ten. In 1792 he was
  expelled from the Westminster School for writing an essay against
  corporal punishment. He then entered one of the colleges of Oxford
  University, where he became an intimate friend of Coleridge. While
  residing at Lisbon he began a special study of Spanish and Portuguese
  literature. In 1813 he was appointed poet-laureate of England, and in
  1835 received a pension from the government. He died in 1843. Southey,
  Coleridge and Wordsworth are often called "The Lake Poets," because they
  lived together for years in the lake country of England, and in their
  writings described the scenery of that beautiful region.

TENNYSON, ALFRED, is considered the greatest poet of his age, and
  one of the great English poets of modern times. He was born in the year
  1809, and educated at Cambridge University. In 1850 he gave to the world
  "In Memoriam," his lament for the loss by death of his friend, Arthur H.
  Hallam. In 1851 he succeeded Wordsworth as poet-laureate of England. His
  poems, long and short, are general favorites. His "Idyls of the King,"
  "The Princess," "Maud," and "In Memoriam" are his chief long poems.
  These are remarkable for beauty of expression and richness of thought,
  of which Tennyson was master. He died in 1892, lamented by the entire
  English-speaking world, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. Tennyson
  always loved the sea, the music of whose restless waves awakened an
  answering echo in his heart.

WALLACE, WILLIAM R., was born at Lexington, Ky., in the year 1819.
  As a poet he is best known as the author of "The Sword of Bunker Hill."

WESTWOOD, THOMAS, an English poet, was born in the year 1814, and
  died in 1888. He wrote several volumes of poetry, one of which was
  "Beads from a Rosary."

WHITTIER, JOHN G., called the "Quaker Poet," was born in
  Massachusetts in the year 1807. His parents were Quakers and were poor.
  When young he learned to make shoes, and with the money thus earned he
  paid his way at school. He was a boy of nineteen when his first verses
  were published. His poems were inspired by current events, and their
  patriotic spirit gives them a strong hold upon the public. "Snow-bound"
  is considered his greatest poem. Whittier loved home so much that he
  never visited a foreign country, and traveled but little in his own. He
  gave thirty of the best years of his life to the anti-slavery struggle.
  While other poets traveled in foreign lands or studied in their
  libraries, Whittier worked hard for the freedom of the slave. Of this he
  wrote--
         "Forego the dreams of lettered ease,
         Put thou the scholar's promise by;
         The rights of man are more than these."

  Mr. Whittier died in the year 1892.

WISEMAN, CARDINAL NICHOLAS PATRICK, was born in the year 1802 in
  Seville, Spain, of an Irish family settled there. His family returned to
  Ireland, where he was educated. When he was sixteen he entered the
  English College, Rome, and was ordained priest in 1825. In 1840 he was
  appointed Coadjutor Bishop, and in 1850 the Pope named him Archbishop of
  Westminster, and at the same time created him a Cardinal. He was a
  profound scholar, an eloquent preacher, and a brilliant writer, and is
  the author of many able works. He was one of the founders of the _Dublin
  Review._ He died in 1865. His "Fabiola or the Church of the Catacombs,"
  from which some selections have been taken for this Reader, is one of
  the classics of our language. It was written in 1854.

WOODWORTH, SAMUEL, editor and poet, was born in Massachusetts in
  1785, and died in 1842. With George P. Morris, he founded the _New York
  Mirror._ "The Old Oaken Bucket" is the best known of his poems.

  For sketches of other authors from whom selections are taken for this
  book, see the Third and the Fourth Reader of the series.


       *       *       *       *       *







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