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

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



* * * * *

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

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

What does "with heavy duties rated" mean?

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

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

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

* * * * *



32

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



THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

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

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

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

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

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

Samuel Woodworth.



* * * * *

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 (zhäk), James.

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

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

Memorize:



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

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



* * * * *



34



For Recitation:

OUR HEROES.

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

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

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

Phoebe Cary.

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

* * * * *

Write sentences each containing one of the following words:

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

Memory Gems:

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

Father Bearne, S.J.



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

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

Father Faber.

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

St. Paul.

* * * * *



35

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



THE MINNOWS WITH SILVER TAILS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jean Ingelow.



"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 (sūt) 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 (vĭt' 'lz), cooked food for human beings.

FORTNIGHT (fôrt' nīt or nĭt): 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."



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

* * * * *

LEAL (lēl), loyal, faithful.

DUNGEON (dŭn' jŭn), a close, dark prison, commonly underground.

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

What duty does Blanco teach his master?

Memorize the last two stanzas of the poem.

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

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

* * * * *



42

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



A STORY OF A MONK.

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

Copy the last paragraph, omitting all marks of punctuation.

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

Memory Gems:

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

From "Poor Richard's Proverbs"

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

Thomas Carlyle.

* * * * *



43

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



THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Longfellow.

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



* * * * *

LAYS, songs.

ASSISI (äs sē' 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.



* * * * *



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.



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.



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

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

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

Eugene Field.

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

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

* * * * *



46



THE HOLY CITY.

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

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

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



* * * * *



47

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



THE FEAST OF TONGUES.

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

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

From "Aesop's Fables."

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

Memory Gem:

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

From "Epistle of St. James."

* * * * *



48

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



THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE GLOWWORM.

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

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

William Cowper.

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

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

Memory Gems:



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

William Cowper.



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

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

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

Thomas Gisborne.

* * * * *



49

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



JACK FROST.

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

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

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

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

Hannah F. Gould.

* * * * *

CREST, top or summit.

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

BEVIES, flocks or companies.

SHEEN, brightness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *



50

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



"GOING! GOING! GONE!"

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

"Going! Going! Going! Gone!" and down came the hammer with a sharp rap.

I do not know how or why it was, but the words struck me with a new force and significance. I had heard them hundreds of times before, with only a sense of amusement. This time they sounded solemn.

"Going! Going! Gone!"

"That is the way it is with life," I said to myself;—"with time." This world is a sort of auction-room; we do not know that we are buyers: we are, in fact, more like beggars; we have brought no money to exchange for precious minutes, hours, days, or years; they are given to us. There is no calling out of terms, no noisy auctioneer, no hammer; but nevertheless, the time is "going! going! gone!"

The more I thought of it, the more solemn did the words sound, and the more did they seem to me a good motto to remind one of the value of time.

When we are young we think old people are preaching and prosing when they say so much about it,—when they declare so often that days, weeks, even years, are short. I can remember when a holiday, a whole day long, appeared to me an almost inexhaustible play-spell; when one afternoon, even, seemed an endless round of pleasure, and the week that was to come seemed longer than does a whole year now.

One needs to live many years before one learns how little time there is in a year,—how little, indeed, there will be even in the longest possible life,—how many things one will still be obliged to leave undone.

But there is one thing, boys and girls, that you can realize if you will try—if you will stop and think about it a little; and that is, how fast and how steadily the present time is slipping away. However long life may seem to you as you look forward to the whole of it, the present hour has only sixty minutes, and minute by minute, second by second, it is "going! going! gone!" If you gather nothing from it as it passes, it is "gone" forever. Nothing is so utterly, hopelessly lost as "lost time." It makes me unhappy when I look back and see how much time I have wasted; how much I might have learned and done if I had but understood how short is the longest hour.

All the men and women who have made the world better, happier or wiser for their having lived in it, have done so by working diligently and persistently. Yet, I am certain that not even one of these, when "looking backward from his manhood's prime, saw not the specter of his mis-spent time." Now, don't suppose I am so foolish as to think that all the preaching in the world can make anything look to young eyes as it looks to old eyes; not a bit of it.

But think about it a little; don't let time slip away by the minute, hour, day, without getting something out of it! Look at the clock now and then, and listen to the pendulum, saying of every minute, as it flies,—"Going! going! gone!"

Helen Hunt Jackson.

From "Bits of Talk." Copyright, Little, Brown & Co., Publishers.

* * * * *

PROSING, talking in a dull way.

In the following sentences, instead of the words in italics, use others that have the same general meaning:

I heard these words ringing out from a room so crowded with people that I could but just see the man's face. How fast and steadily the present time is slipping away!

Punctuate the following:

Go to the ant thou sluggard consider her ways and be wise.

* * * * *



51

yearn car' ol mus' ing stee' ple mag' ic al



SEVEN TIMES TWO.

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, How many soever they be, And let the brown meadowlark's note, as he ranges, Come over, come over to me!

Yet birds' clearest carol, by fall or by swelling, No magical sense conveys; And bells have forgotten their old art of telling The fortune of future days.

"Turn again, turn again!" once they rang cheerily, While a boy listened alone; Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily All by himself on a stone.

Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over, And mine, they are yet to be; No listening, no longing, shall aught, aught discover: You leave the story to me.

The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather, And hangeth her hoods of snow; She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: Oh, children take long to grow!

I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster, Nor long summer bide so late; And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, For some things are ill to wait.

I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, While dear hands are laid on my head, "The child is a woman—the book may close over, For all the lessons are said."

I wait for my story: the birds cannot sing it, Not one, as he sits on the tree; The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it! Such as I wish it to be.

Jean Ingelow.

* * * * *

"TURN AGAIN, TURN AGAIN!" Reference is here made to Dick Whittington, a poor orphan country lad, who went to London to earn a living, and who afterwards rose to be the first Lord Mayor of that city.

NOTE.—This poem is the second of a series of seven lyrics, entitled "The Songs of Seven," which picture seven stages in a woman's life. For the first of the series, "Seven Times One," see page 44 of the Fourth Reader. Read it in connection with this. "Seven Times Two" shows the girl standing at the entrance to maidenhood, books closed and lessons said, longing for the years to go faster to bring to her the happiness she imagines is waiting.



* * * * *



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.



* * * * *



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."



* * * * *

Sinai (sī' nā), 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 (ĕk' wĭ ty), 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.

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Forth in the summer morning, full of the sun and breeze, Into his dewy garden, walks the master of the bees. All silent stands the beehive,—no little buzzing things Among the flowers, flutter, on brown and golden wings.

Untasted lies the honey within the roses' hearts,— The master paces nearer,—he listens—lo! he starts, What sounds of rapturous singing! O heaven! all alive With strange angelic music, is that celestial hive!

Upon his knees adoring, the master, weeping, sees Within a honeyed cloister, the Chalice of the bees; For lo! the little creatures have reared a waxen shrine, Wherein reposes safely the Sacred Host Divine!...

O little ones, who listen unto this legend old (Upon my shoulder blending your locks of brown and gold), From out the hands of sinners whose hearts are foul to see, Behold! the dear Lord Jesus appeals to you and me.

He says: "O loving children! within your hearts prepare A hive of honeyed sweetness where I may nestle fair; Make haste, O pure affections! to welcome Me therein, Out of the world's bright gardens, out of the groves of Sin.

"And in the night of sorrow (sweet sorrow), like the bees, Around My Heart shall hover your winged ministries, And while ye toil, the angels shall, softly singing come To worship Me, the Captive of Love's Ciborium!"



Eleanor C. Donnelly.

From "The Children of the Golden Sheaf." Published by P.C. Donnelly.

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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.

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62

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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."