(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_

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
reëcho.

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.

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

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!

_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.

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.

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
Rydingsvärd.

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.]

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.

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 blessèd 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.

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.

[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_

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.

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.

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,

[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.

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
principalpronounced 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.

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<</td>
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.

“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.

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.

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.”

[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 wingèd 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.

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.

Hofmann.–“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.

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.

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.

[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.

_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.

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.”

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.

_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 wingèd 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.

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’.

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.

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 (reëchoed): What is the mark placed
over the second ë 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 Cæsarea, 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.

Cæsarea (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.”

_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.

_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,
cañon.

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.

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.”

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.

_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.”

_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.

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.

_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.

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.

_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.

DE LA SALLE SERIES

FIFTH READER

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_

_3_

_4_

_5_

VOWELS

CONSONANTS

_6_

RULES FOR THE USE OF CAPITAL LETTERS

_7_

_8_

_9_

_10_

_11_

_12_

_13_

_14_

_15_

I.

II.

_16_

_17_

_18_

_19_

_20_

_21_

_22_

_23_

_24_

_25_

_26_

_27_

_28_

_29_

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