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CIHM/ICMH

Microfiche

Series.

CIHM/ICMH
Collection de
microfiches.

Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions Institut canadien de microreproductions historiques

1980

Technical Notes / Notes techniques

The Institute has attempted to obtain the best
original copy available for filming. Physical
features of this copy which may alter any of the
images in the reproduction are checked below.

n
n

Coloured covers/
Couvertures de couleur

Coloured maps/

Cartes gi6ographiques en couleur

Pages discoloured, stained or foxed/
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Tight binding (may cause shadows or
distortion along interior margin)/
Reliure serr6 (peut causer de I'ombre ou
de la distortion le long de la marge
int6rieure)

L'Institut a microfilmd le meilleur exemplaire
qu'il lui a 6t6 possible de se procurer. Certains
d^fauts susceptibles de nuire d la quality de la
reproduction sont notds ci-dessous.

D
D

Coloured pages/
Pages de couleur

Coloured plates/
Planches en couleur

Show through/
Transparence

Pages damaged/
Pages endommag6es

The
posi
of tl
film

The
con

or tl
app

The
film
inst

Mai
in G
upp
bot
foil

□ Additional comments/
Commentaires suppl6mentaires

Bibliographic Notes / Notes bibliographiques

D
D
D

Only edition available/
Seule Edition disponibte

Bound with other material/
Reli6 avec d'ai tres documents

Cover title missing/

Le titre de couverture manque

D
D
D

Pagination incorrect/
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Pages missing/

Des pages manquent

Maps missing/

Des cartes g6ographiques manquent

Plates missing/

Des planches manquent

Additional comments/
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The images appearing hare are the best quality
possible considering the condition and legibility
of the original copy and in keepiig with the
filming contract specifications.

Les images suivantes ont 6t6 reproduites avec le
plus grand soin, compte tenu de la condition et
de la nettet6 de I'exemplaire film6, et en
conformitd avec les conditions du contrat de
filmage.

The last recorded frame on each microfiche shall
contain the symbol —►(meaning CONTINUED"),
or the symbol V (meaning "END"), whichever
applies.

The original copy was borrowed from, and
filmed with, the kind consent of the following
institution:

National Library of Canada

Un des symboles suivants apparattra sur la der-
nidre image de chaque microfiche, selon le cas:
•9 aymbole — ► signifie "A SUIVRE", le symbole
V signifie "FIN".

L'exemplaire film6 fut reproduit grdce d la
g6n6rosit6 de l'6tablissement prdteur
suivant :

Bibliothdque nationale du Canada

Maps or plates too large to be entirely included
in one exposure are filmed beginning in the
upper lfl*t hand corner, left to right and top to
bottom, as many frames as required. The
following diagrams illustrate the method:

Les cartes ou les planches trop grandes pour §tre
reproduites en un seul clich6 sont film6es d
partir de Tangle supdrieure gauche, de gauche ^
droite et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre
d'images ndcessaire. Le diagramme suivant
illustre la mdthode :

1 2 3

456

CANADIAN
CATHOLIC READERS.

Cana^.url Catbolic TRea^ers.

THIRD READER.

APPUOVED BY THE EDUCATION DEPARTMENT FOR
USE IN THE ROMAN CATHOLIC SEPARATE
SCHOOLS OF ONTARIO.

TORONTO:
THE COPI-, CLARK COMPANY, LIMITKU.

Pf^jCO/h'

''-ir.

Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand
eight hundred ami ninety-nine, hy The Copp, Claj^k Comi'any, Limited, Toronto,
Ontario, in the Otfice of the Minister of Agriculture.

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

!l%e Selections in Poetry are Printed in Jtalica.

The AnyeVs Whisper Samuel Lover

The Unknown Painter

Casablanca Mrs. Hemans

A Living Bridge Mayne Reid

Page.
. 9
. 10
. 12
. 14

As the Dewy Shades of Even 16

The Heroic Serf {Illustrated) .... Champney 17

The Soldier's Dream {Illustrated) . . . Thomas Campbell. . . 21

The Better Land Mrs. Hemans .... 22

Two Parables:

I. — The Tares St. Mattheio xiii ... 24

II. — The Good SAMA.RiTA's{Ilhistrated) St. Luke X 24

A Visit from St. Nicholas Clement C. Moore . . 26

Count Rodolph of Hapsburo 28

The Alleluia of the Pasch 30

The Village Blacksmith Henry W. Longfellow . 31

The White Bear Schwatka 33

A Sailor's Song of the Sea Barry Cornwall ... 35

The Scullion who beca J' Sculptor. George Cary Eggleston . 36

The Rudder , ... St. Nicholas Magazine . 39

The Sermon of St. Francis Henry W. IjongfeUow . 40

The Sentry's Pouch 41

The Wreck of the Hesperus {Illustrated) . Henry W. Longfellow . 44

The Sultana of the Desert. Part I 48

The Supper of St. Gregory JohnG. Whittier ... 50

The Sultana of the Desert. Part II 52

Robert of Lincoln William Cullen Bryant . 55

Hunting the Honey-Brk John Burroughs ... 57

The Names of Our Lady Adelaide Anne Procter . 60

The Desired Haven. Part I . . . Adapted 63

A Canadian Boat Song {Illustrated) . . Thomas Moore ... 65

The Desired Haven. Part II . . . Adapted 66

The Sailor Boy's Dream Montreal True Witness . 71

The Desired Haven. Part III . . Adapted 73

[V]

vi Contents.

Paqb.

When I was a Boy Henry W. Longfellow . 75

The Desired Haven. Part IV. . . Adapted 77

A Vision Adelaide Anne Proder . 81

Acres of Turtle-Eggs Mayne lieid .... 83

The First Snow- Fall James Russell Lowell . 86

The Indians at Yiouv. [Illustrated) . . KatherineA. Yonm/ . . 87
Hiawatha and the Black-Rohe .... Henry W. Longfellow . 9\
The Land of the Midnight Sun . . PauLDu Chaillu ... 93

Oh ! Balmy and Bright 96

The Legend on the Locket .... Father Finn .... 97
Napoleon and the English Sailor Boy . . Thomas Campbell . . . 101

Chase of the Pet Fawn Cooper 104

St. Patrick 107

The Two Herd Boys 110

The Sculptor Boy . . 113

A Swarm of Locusts Mayne Beid . . . .113

Jack Frost Hannah F. Gould . .117

The Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ

Vart 1 [Illustrated) St. John xviii . . , .118

Give me Thy Heart Adelaide Anne Procter . 122

The Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ

Part II St. John xix .... 125

Burial of Sir John Moore . ..... Charles Wolfe, . . .128

The Birch John Burroughs. Adapted 130

The Burial of Moses Mrs. Cecil F. Alexander 132

The Woodpecker John Burroughs . . .135

Our Own Dear Land Thomas O'Hagan . . 137

The Humming-Bird 138

Farm- Yard Song J. T. Trowbridge. . .141

Waterspouts at Sea St. Nicholas Magazine . 143

The Bed River Voyage ur John G. Whittier . . .146

How THE Mountain was Clad . . . Bjornstjerne .... 147

God in Nature 151

Tjiis.hAMV ovT^^^k^CT\5XUY [Illustrated) Cardinal Wiseman . . 151

Rock Me to Sleep Elizabeth Akers Allen . 158

The Birth of Montreal 160

Story of Montreal T. G. Marquis. . . .161

Jacques Cartier . . . T. D'Arcy McGee . . 165

Bingen on the Rhine Hon. Mrs. Norton . .167

A Fox Hunt JoJin Burroughs . . . 169

Hunting Song Sir Walter Scott. . . .172

The Story of the Forty-Nine Martyrs Adapted from Ave Maria 173

.,.^m««i««S^''«««5«i*^

Contents.

RosaheUt' (Illustrated)

The ItoHiN

7Vi« Widow\t Messaye to Her Sun . . .
One op God's Storehouses ....

Edinburgh Castle

The Jnchcape Bock

The Cratchits' Christmas Dinner .

(Illustrated)

The Queen of Seasons

The Town Pump

Peter the Great and the Russian

Capital

The Pied Piper (Illustrated)

The Last Martyr of the Collseum

(Illustrated)

The Queen of the Night

St. Joseph

Curfew Must Not Ruvj To-Nhjht . . .
Early Settlers in Canada ....

Sound the Loud Tindirel

The Fish I Didn't Catch

The Norman Baron

The Stagr-Coach

The Elephant

Canada Forever

True Beauty

Evangeline (lllus/rafed)

The Viaticum

The Lakes of Killarney

The Day is Done

The Romance of Hens' Eggs . . .
Th<' Plantintj of the Apple-Tree . . . .
Robinson Crusoe Makes His Bre..i) .
William Tell and his Son . . . ,

The Ship on Fire

Little Nell's Visit to the School-
master

A Greyport Legend . . -

Moses at the Fair

Yussouf.

Champlain on the Ottawa ....
The Voice of the Wind ......

Sir Walter Scott .
T. Mellwrnith .
Ellen Forrester

Sir Walter Scott ,
Robert Southey . . .

Charles Dickens . .
Cardinal Newman .
Nathaniel Hawthorne

Robert Browning .

Francesc.a ....

Rose Hartwick Thorpe
Rev. J. R. Teefy . .
Thomas Moore . .
John O. Whittitr . .
Henry W. Longfellow
Washington Irving .

A. M. Machar . .

A dapted

Henry W. Longfellow
Cardinal Wiseman .

Adapted

Henry W. Longfellow

William Cullen Bryant
Daniel Defoe .

Charles Mackay . .

Charles Dickens . .
Bret Harte ....
Oliver Goldsmith .
James Russell Loivell.

Adelaide Anne Procter

Vll

Paob.
. 175
. 177
. 180
. 181
. 184
. 187

. 190
. 195
. 196

. 199

. 202.

. 208

. 212

. 215

. 217

. 220

. 223

. 226

. 229

. 232

. 235

. 237

. 239

. 243

. 247

. 249

. ^:51

. 254

. 256
. 259
. 261

. 262
. 268
. 270
. 273
. 274
. 278

THIRD READER.

I.-THE ANGELS' WHISPER.

A baby was sleeping,

Its mother was weeping,
For lier husband was far on tlie wild raging sea ;

And the tempest was swelling

Round the fisherman's dwelling,
And she cried, *' Dermot, darling, oh! come back to me."

Her beads while she numbered,
The babv still slumbered,
And smiled in her face as she bended her knee :
" Oh, blessed be that warning,
My child, thy sleep adorning.

For I know that the angek are whispering with thee.

" And while they are keeping

Bright watch o'er thy sleeping.
Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me !

And say thou would'st rather

They'd watch o'er thy father ! —
For I know that the angels are whispering with thee."

The dawn of the morning

Saw Dermot returning.
And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see ;

And closely caressing

Her child, with a blessing.
Said, " I knew that the angels were whispering with thee."

9 — Samuel Lover.

Third Reader.

II.-THE UNKNOWN PAINTER.

Murillo, a famous artist of Seville, often found on the
canvas of some of his pupils sketches bearing marks of
great genius. Tliey were done during the night, and he
was unable to find out the author.

One morning the pupils were at the studio before him,
and were standing before an easel, lost in wonder and
surprise, when Murillo entered. His wonder was as
great as theirs on finding a most beautiful painting.

He asked first one and then another of the young
painters, to see if any one of them would lay claim to it,
but each sadly answered " No ! He who has done this
will one day be the greatest of us all."

" Sebastian ! " said he to a young slave tliat stood by
trembling, " who is in this studio at night ? " " No one
but myself, sir." " Well, watch here to-night ; and if
you do not find out who it is that comes to this room,
thirty lashes shall be your punishment on the morrow."
Sebastian bowed and retired.

That night Sebast'an slept soundly on his mattress
until the f\nc]<. of the church struck three. He then
sprang from his poor bed, and said to himself — " Three
hours are my own, the rest are my master's." He seized
a palette and took his seat at the easel, to blot out the
work of the night before. With brush in hand, he
paused before making the fatal stroke. "I cannot! oh,
I cannot blot it out !" said lie. " Rather let me finish it."

He went to work and forgot everything else in his
'earnestness : a little color here, a touch there, a soft
jhade here; and thus three hours rolled by unnoticed.

The Unknown Painter.

The young artist slave saw nothing but the lovely
picture before him, the face of whicli seemed to smile
upon him with a look of heavenly goodness and grace.

He felt tliat he was free, when suddenly a slight noise
caused him to look up. Murillo with his pupils stood
around ! and the sun w^as shining brightly through the
window.

Again he was a slave. His eyes fell beneath their

eager gaze.

" Who is your master, Sebastian ? " " You, sir."
'* Yodr drawing-master, I mean ? " " You, sir." " I have
never given you lessons." " No, but you gave them to
these young gentlemen, and I heard them." "Yes, and
you have made better use of them than any one of these
has yet done."

" Does this boy deserve punishment or reward, my
dear pupils ? " " Reward, sir," was the quick reply.
" What shall it be ? "

One whispered a suit oi: clothes, another a sum of
money, a third his freedom, but no chord was touched in
the captive's bosom.

A cry burst from the lips of Sebastian — a cry of joy,
of pain, almost of grief — as he threw himself on his
knees before his master, clasped his hands, and raised
his streandng eyes to meet his master's gaze,

"Oh, freedom — freedom for my father !" cried he, in a
voice choked by tears and sobs.

" And yours — do you not desire your own ? " asked
Murillo.

Sebastian hung down his liead, and, with a sob,
answered, " My father first, sir."

Third Header.

" Yes, my poor child ; and yours too," said Murillo, no
longer able to restrain his tears, as he raised Sebastian
kindly.

" Oh, my master ! my good master ! " was all that
Sebastian's feelings enabled him to utter.

" You are now free, Sebastian," said Murillo.

" Free to serve you all my life, master ! " he replied,
falling again on his knees, and kissing his master's hands.

"Sebastian," said Murillo, "your pencil has proved
your genius, and your request shows that you have a
noble heart. From this day I style you an ARTIST, and
I receive you among my pupils."

In the picture galleries of Europe there are still to be
seen many beautiful paintings from the pencils of Murillo
and Sebastian Gomez.

III.-CASABIANCA.

The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled ;

The flame, that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,

As born to rule the storm ;
A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though childlike, form.

The flames rolled on, — he would not go
Without his father's word ;

That father, faint in deatli below,
His voice no longer heard.

Casabianca. 13

xle called aloud : — *' Say, Father, say

If yet my task is done ! "
He knew not that the chieftain lay

Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, Father !" once again he cried,

" If I may yet be gone ! "
And but the booming shots replied,

And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,

And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death

In still, yet brave, despair ;

And shouted but once more aloud,

" My Father ! must I stay 1"
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,

The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapped the ship in splendor wild.

They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child

Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound —

The boy — oh ! where was he 1
Ask of the winds that far around

With fragments strewed the sea ! —

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair.

That well had borne their part ! —
But the noblest thing that perished there

Was that young faithful heart. .

— Mrs. Hemans..

Third REeVDEii.

IV.— A LIVING BRIDGE.

For many days we liad been pusliin<^ our way, as best
we could, throa<^li one of the densest of South American
forests. Late one afternoon we stopped by the side of a
narrow but swiftly flowing river, and befran to prepare
our camp for the ni<^ht. Suddenly we heard, at some
distance from us on the other side of the stream, a great
chattering and screaming, as if thousands of monkeys
were moving among the trees and each trying to make
more noise than all the rest.

"An army of monkeys on the march," said our guide.
" They are coming this way, and will most likely cross
the river yonder where the baidvs are so steep, with
those tall trees growing on either side."

"How will they cross there?" I asked. "The water
runs so swiftly that they certainly cannot swim across."

" Oh, no," said the guide ; " monkeys would rather go
into fire than water. If they cannot leap the stream
they wnll bridge it."

" Bridge it ! and how will they do that ?"

" Wait, captain, and you shall see," answered the guide.

We could now plainly see the animals making their
way through the tree-tops and approaching the place
which the guide had pointed out. In front was an old
gray-headed monkey who directed all their movements
and seemed to be the general-in-chief of the army,
while here and there were other officers, each of whom
appeared to have certain duties to perform.

One ran out upon an overhanging branch, and, after
looking across the streaui as if to measure the distance.

A LiviNHi BniDiiE.

scampered back and made a report to tlie leadei". Tliere
was at once a change in the con(hict of the army. Com-
mands were given, and a nund)er of abU^-bodied monkeys
were marched to the front. Then several ran nlong the
bank, examining the trees on both sides.

At length all gatliered near a tall cottonwood, that
grew over the narrowest part of the stream, and twenty
or thirty of them climbed its trunk. The foremost — a
strrng fellow — ran out upon a limb, and, taking several
turns of his tail around it, sli[)ped oft", and hung head
downwards. The next on the limb climbed down the
body of the first, and, wrapping his tail tightly around
him, dropped oii'in his turn, and hung head downwards.
And thus the third monkey fastened himself to the
second, and the fourth to the third, and so on, until the
last one upon the string rested his forepaws upon the
ground .

The living chain now commenced swinging backward
and forward, like a pendulum. The motion was slight
at first, but gradually increased, the monkey at the lower
end striking his hands against the ground and pushing
out with all his sti-ength. This w^as kept up until the
end of the chain was thrown among the branches of the
tree on the opposite bank. One of these the lowermost
monkey caught and held fast. The chain now reached
from one side of the stream to the other, forming a
living bridge over which all the other monkeys, young
and old, passed wdthout confusiou or delay.

The army w^as soon safely aci'oss, but how were the
animals forming the bridge to get themselves over?
Should the monkey at the top of the chain let go of the

Third Reader.

Cottonwood branch, the other end of the bridge was so
much lower that he, with tliose nearest him, would be
dashed against tlie opposite bank or roused into the
water.

The question was soon answered. A powerful fellow
was seen taking firm hold of the lowest on the bridge,
then another fastened himself to him in like manner,
and this was contirnied until a dozen more were added
to the string. These last monkeys then ran up to a high
limb, and lifted that end of the bridge until it was
several feet above that on the opposite bank.

Then the monkey who had formed the first link in

the chain loosed his hold upon the cottonwood branch,

and the whole bridge swung safely over. The lowermost

links dropped lightly to the ground, while the higher

ones leaped to the branches and came down by the

trunk. The whole army then scampered away into the

forest, and the sound of their chattering was soon lost in

the distance.

— Mayne Beid.

i 1 4

v.— AS THE DEWY SHADES OF EVEN.

I I

As the dewy shades of even

Gather o'er the balmy air,
Listen, gentle Queen of Heaven,

Listen to my vesper prayer.

Holy Mother, near me hover,

Free my thoughts from aught defiled ;
With thy wings of mercy cover,

Safe from harm, thy helpless child.

The Heroic Serf.

Thine own sinless h- art was broken,
Sorrow's sword had pierced its core ;

Holy Mother, by that token,
Now thy pity I implore.

Queen of Heaven, guard an<l guide me,
Save my soul from dark despair ;

In thy tender bosom liide me,
Take me. Mother, to thy care.

Mother of my Infant Saviour,

Spouse of God, my plaint, O hear ;

Purest Virgin, (jrracious Matron,
O relieve me V)y thy prayer.

From thy happy seat in Sion,
Light me thro' this dark a\)ode ;

Smile, oh ! gently smile upon me,
Tell my sorrows to my God.

VI.— THE HEROIC SERF.

Ill the dark forests of Russia, where the snow lies on
the ground for eight months in the year, wolves roam
about in countless troops ; aiid it is a fearful thing for
the traveller, especially if night overtakes him, to hear
their famished howlings as they approach nearer and
nearer to him.

A Russian nobleman, with his wife and a young

daughter, was travelling in a sleigh over a bleak plain.

About nightfall they reached an inn, and the nobleman

called for a relay of horses to go on. Tlie innkeeper
2

Third Reader.

I !

boo-ged liim not to proceed. " There is danger ahead,"
said lie : *' tlie wolves are out."

The traveller thought the object of the man was to
keep him as a guest for the night; and, saying it was
too early in the season for wolves, ordei'cd the horses to
be put to. In spite of the repeated warnings of the
landlord, the party proceeded on their way.

The driver w^as a serf w^ho liad been born on the noble-
man's estate, and who loved his master as he loved his
life. The sleigh sped swiftly over the hard snow, and
there appeared no signs of danger. The moon began to
shed her light, so that the road seemed like polished
silver.

Suddenly the little girl said to her father, " What
is that strange, dull sound I heard just now ? " Her

The ilKiioiu Skhf.

)ble-

1ns

and

In to

&hed

^hat
[er

fatlwT i\!pli<'(l, " Nothing" but tho wind sighinj^ throu^b
the trees of the forest."

The child slnit lior eyes, and kept still for a wliile;
but in a few minutes, with a face pale with feai*, she
turned to her father, and said, " Sui'cly that is not the
wind : I hear it a<4"ain ; do you not hear it too ? Listen!"
The nobleman listened, and far, far away in the distance
behind him, but distinct enou<^h in the clear, frosty air,
he lieard a s(Mnid of which lie knew the meaning, though
those who were with him did not.

Whispering to the serf, he said, "They are after us.
Get ready your musket and jjistols; I will do the same.
We may yet escape. Drive on ! drive on ! "

The man drove wildly on; but nearei', ever nearer,
came the mournTul howlini>: which the child liad first
heard. It was })erfectly clear to the nobleman that a
pack of wolves had got scent, and was in pursuit of
them. Meanwhile he tried to calm the anxious fears of
his wdfe and child.

At last the Ijaying of the wolves was distinctly heard,
and he said to his servant, " When they come up wnth
us, single you out the leader, and tire. I will single out
the next; and, as soon as one falls, the rest will stop to
devour him. That will be some delay, at least."

By this time they could see the pack fast approacliing,
with their long, measured tread. A large dog- wolf was
the leader. The nobleman and the serf singled out two,
and these fell. The pack inunediately turned on their
fallen comrades, and soon tore them to pieces. The
taste of blood only made the others advance wdth more
fury, and they were soon again baying at the sleigh.

TiiiKi) Kkadkr.

Again the iiobleiiiati and liis Horvant tiriMl, Two otlier
wolvos fell, and wore instantly devoiire<l. Bnt the next
post-hou.se was still far distant.

The nobleman tlien cried to tlie post-boy, " Let one of
the horses loose, that we may gain a little more time."
This was done, and the horse was left on the road. In a
few minutes they heard the loud shrieks of the poor
animal as the wolves toj*e him down. The remaining
hoi'ses were urged to their utmost speed, but again the
pack was in full pursuit. Another horse was cut loose,
and he soon shared the fate of his fellow.

At length the servant said to his master, "I have
served you since I was a child, an<l I love you as I love
my own life. It is clear to me that we can not all reach
the post-house alive. I am quite prepared, and I ask
you to let me die for you."

" No, no ! " cried the master, " we will live together
or die together. You must not, must not!"

But the servant had made up his mind ; he was fully
resolved. "I shall leave my wife and children to you;
you will be a father to them ; you have been a father to
me. When the wolves next reach us, I will jump down,
and do my best to delay their progress."

The sleigh glides on as fast as the two remaining
horses can drag it. The wolves are close on their track,
and almost up with them. But what sound now rings
out sharp and loud ? It is the discharge of the servant's
pistol. At the same instant he leaps from his seat, and
falls a prey to the wolves ! But meanwhile the post-
house is reached, and the family is safe.

- n

The Soldier's Dueam.

On tlic spot where the wolves had pulled to pieces the

devoted servant, there now stands a large woo<len cross,

erected by the nobleman. It bears this inscription:

" Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay

down his life for his friends."

— Champney.

VII.-^THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ;

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamed it again.

Tiiiui) Reader.

J '

Methought from the battle-fiold's droadful array,
Far, fai" T liad roaim-d on a desolate tiack ;

'Twas autumn, — and sunsliine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed nie buck.

I Hew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft

Tn life's morning march, wlien my bosom was young;

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we tlie wine-cup, and fondly T swore

From my home and my weeping friends never to part ;

My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,
And mv wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of lieart.

"Stay, stay with us, — rest, thou art weary and worn !"
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay, —

But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

— Thomas Cnmphell.

VIII.— THE BETTER LAND.

" I hear thee speak of a better land,
Thou callest its children a happy band.
Mother ! O where is that radiant shore?
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows.
And the fireflies dance through the myrtle boughs?"
'* Not there, not there, my child."

" Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise.
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies 1
Or midst the green islands of glittering seas,

TuK Hettkr Land.

Wliere fragrant forests perfume th(i breeze,
And strange, briglit birds on their starry v/^ings
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things f*
"Not there, not there, my child."

** Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers watider o'er sands of gold ?
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand-
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land V
"Not there, not there, my child."

" Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy !
Vaw hath not heard its deep songs of joy ;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair ;
Sorrow and death may not enter there ;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless })loom ;
For beyond the clouds and beyond the tomb,
It is there, it is there, my child."

— ^frs. Henians.

There's not a flower that decks the vale,

There's not a beam that lights the mountain,
There's not a shrub that scents the gale.

There's not a wind that stirs the fountain,
There's not a hue that paints the rose,

There's not a leaf around us lying,
But, in its use or beauty, shows

True love to us, and love undying.

— Gerald Griffin.

Third Reader.

IX.— TWO PARABLES.

W !^

I. — The Tares. II. — The Good Samaritan.

The kiiigdom of heaven is likened to a man that
sowed good seed in his Held.

But while men were asleep, his enemy came and over-
sowed cockle among the wheat, and went his way.

And when the blade was sprung up, and had brought
forth fruit, then appeared also the cockle.

And the servants of the ^rood-man of the house cominor
said to him : Sir, didst thou not sow good seed in thy
field ? whence then hath it cockle ?

And he said to them : An enemy hath done this.
And the servants said to him : Wilt thou that we go
and gather it up ?

And he said : No, lest perhaps, gathering up the
cockle, you root up the wheat also together with it.

Sufier both to grow until the harvest, and in the time
of the harvest I will say to the reapers : Gather up first
the cockle, and bind it into bundles to burn, but the
wheat gather ye into my barn.

— St. Matt. xiii.

Jesus said : A certain man went down from Jerusalem
to Jericho, and fell among robbers, who also stripped
him, and having wounded him, went away leaving him
half dead.

And it chanced that a certain priest went down the
same way ; and seeing him, passed by.

In like manner also a Levite, when he was near the
place and saw him, passed by.

Two Parables.

But a certain Samaritan being on his journey, came
near him; and seeing liim, was moved witli compassion.

And going up to liim, bound up his wounds, pouring
in oil and wine : and setting him upon his own beast,
brought him to an inn, and took care of him.

And the next day he took out two pence, and gave to
the host, and said : Take care of him ; and whatsoever

thou shalt spend over and above, I at my return will
repay thee.

Which of these three in thy opinion was neighbor to
him that fell among the robbers ?

But the lawyer said : He that showed mercy to him.
And Jesus said to him : Go, and do thou in like manner.

— St. Luke X.

TiiiKi) Reader.

X.-A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS.

! 1

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The stockings were hung l)y the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

The children v/ere nestled all snug in their beds.

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads ;

And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap.

Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,—

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprung from my bed to see what was the matter.

Awa}; to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash ;

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave a lustre of mid-day to objects below ;

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh and eight ciny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must bo St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came.

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them b}'^ name :

" Now, Dasher ! now, D.ancer ! now, Prancer and Vixen !

On ! Comet, on ! Cupid, on ! Donder and lUitzen !

To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall

Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all ! "

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly

When they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky,

So up to the In » use-top the coursers they flew,

With a sleigh full of tops — and St. Nicholas, too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and i)awing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

fln

A Visit from St. Nicholas.

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a hound ;

He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot ;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes, how they twinkled ! his dimples, how merry !

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry ;

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad face and a little round belly

That shook when lie laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, — a right jolly old elf, —

And I laughed when T saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head.

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread .

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work.

And filled all the stockings : then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But T heard him exclaim, ere they drove out of sight,

" Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night ! "

— Clement C. Moore.

We must not hope to be mowers.
And to gather the ripe, golden ears.

Unless we have first been sowers
And watered the flowers with tears.

Third Ueadeu,

1 1

XL COUNT RODOLPH OF HAPSBURG.

It was a beautiful morning in spring. The courtyard
of tlie old castle of Hapslnirg presented a gay and lively
spectacle ; groups of huntsmen might be seen, some hold-
ing the reins of noble horses, whilst others were busy
with the hounds, who seemed impatient of restraint.

The young Count Rodolph of Hapsburg, one of the
noblest lords of Germany, was about to ride forth to the
chase, which was that day to take place in a forest some
miles distant from his castle. He soon appeared among
his followers, and leaping into the saddle, gave the word
to proceed onward.

What a gallant sight it was, as dogs and horses wound
through the foi'est glades, which soon echoed with the
horns of the huntsmen and the deep baying of their
hounds !

Rodolph was full of youthful spii-it, and entered
heartily into the pleasure of the day's sp(^rt. Beside
him rode his favorite page, to whom he turned now and
then, and spoke in the joyousness of his heart.

They had not gone far, when a strange sound reached
the ears of the count. It was the tinkling of a little
bell, which at first he took to be a sheep-bell ; but as it
came gradually near and nearer, he knew that it was
something very different.

In Catholic countries, whenever a priest carries the
Blessed Sacrament to the sick, he does so dressed in a
surplice and stole. A boy goes before him, carrying a
light and ringing a little bell. The object of this is to
show respect to the Adorable Body of our Lord

■■

S'^><'IjL .'"f .iK'-it'.iV.'/^.Vi, ■ J''i'W^S?*Li£^.i''

Count Rodoli'H of Hai'shuiu;.

Count R(m1()1{)1i, tlierefore, iiridorstood that the Blessed
Sacrament was being carried along the mountain-path
by which he was riding, and at once dismounting, he
knelt down, in a lowly and respectful attitude, to let it
pass.

The priest, preceded by his young attendant, soon
came in sight; he was an old man, who filled the office
of curate in a neighboring villag(^, and he was carrying
the Viaticum to a j^oor cottager who lived far among tlie
mountains.

Rodolph could not help contrasting the lowliness of
this little pi'ocession watli the pomp and magnificence of
his own retinue. Yielding to a sudden impulse, he
approached the priest with head uncovered, and lunnbly
begged that he w^ould mount the horse which he held by
the bridle, and. sutler him to conduct him on his way.

The poor priest hesitated, but the count would admit
of no denial ; and helping him to mount, he took the
bridle in his hand, and gently led the gallant animal
along the rugged path, till they reached the cottage of
the dying man.

Arrived there, Rodolph and his page knelt down, and
devoutly joined in all the prayers that were offered ;
then, when the solenni rites were over, he again obhged
the priest to mount his horse, and led him back to his
village, with the same marks of respect as before.

When they had reached the priests house, Rodolph
begged him to take the horse and keep it; as for himself,
he said, he should never presume to ride it again, after
it had borne his Lord and Redeemer. The old priest
was deeply touched.

rt'f

Third Reader.

:| '!

" Young lord," he said, " thou hast this day loyally
served thy Master, and He will not fail to reward thee.
Ere nine years have passed, thou shalt receive the
recompense of this thy service."

Before the nine years had passed away, Rodolph of
Hapsburg was chosen Enipei'or of Germany. He became
the founder of an illustrious house, from which many of
the sovereigns of Europe are descended.

The present Emperor of Austria still bears the honors
which were thus bestowed on his ancestor, in reward of
an act of piety and devotion shown towards the Most
Holy Sacrament.

XII.— THE ALLELUIA OF THE PASCH.

Alleluia ! the bells are ringing,
Up, high up, in the golden dawn ;

Alleluia ! the choirs are singing,
Passiontide and its shadow gone.

Alleluia ! the birds are trilling

Over the eggs in their new-made nests.
Field and meadow and garden filling
' With the joy o'erflowing their feathered breasts.

The world of nature round us rises,

Clad in resurrection-green ;
The world of grace all lieav'n surprises

With risen glories, earth unseen !

The Village Blacksmith.

Alleluia! chants tli(3 I'ivor

To hill and mountain, sky and sea !
Evei-niore and still forever,

Float the echoes back to me :

Kchoes of an angel chorus

(White- robed in the garden gloom),
Shouting to the welkin )'er us,

" Christ hath risen from the tomb !'

All my heart springs up in greeting
To the ra})ture of that word ;

" Alleluia ! " (glad repeating) ;

" Hail ! thrice hail, Thou Risen Lord !

XIII.-THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH

Under a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.

His hail' is crisp, and black, and long.

His face is like the tan ;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He 'earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

riiiKi) Reader.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from scliool

Lrtok in at the open door ;
They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar.
And catcli the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing floor.

Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes ;
Each morning sees some task begun,

Each evening sees it close ;
Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks, to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught !
Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought ;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought.

— Jlcnrt/ W. Loiujfellow.

Consider how unable you are to do great things, and do not
despise little things.

I) not

The White Beau. 33

XIV. -THE WHITE BEAR.

The polar bear lias quite a varied diet, depending on
the season and liis whereabouts. IT near a country
whose waters abound in seals, licre is his main suste-
nance ; and the clevernes's he displays in catching seals is
wonderful, for the Eskimo considers the seal the wariest
and sliest game in his country, and especially in the
suuuner time, when the polar bear secures the most.

When a seal comes up thi'ough the tliick ice, on a
pleasant sunnjK.'r day, he is (piite watchful at first. He
stretches himself for a comfortable snooze on the ice, so
close to his hole that the slightest motion of his body
will send him over the slippery edge ; when with a
stroke or two of his tins, and a splash of his tail, he is
out of sight beneath the ice again.

Having kept a sharp lookout in every direction for a
number of minutes, and seeing nothing suspicious, he
allows his heavy head to fall on the ice to take a nap;
but they are short naps indeed, and every two or three
minutes he raises his head and surveys the surroundings
for probable mischief.

The polar bear, seeing these movements from the top

of some high hummock of ice, crawls stealthily towards

his prey, taking advantage as nnich as possible of every

little piece of rough ice to conceal his figure, already

well protected by his white coat on the ice. Having got

as near as he possibly can by such methods, he lies fiat on

the ice and commences "hitching" himself along by

short, spasmodic actions, watching the seal keenly all

the while.
3

Third Reader.

Should lie look up from his slumbers, the bear remains
as motionless as a piece of ice, for whicli he hopes to be
taken, until th(i seal throws his head down again, when
the bear once more coir^nences "hitching" forward.

By this series of very slow and laborious creepings, lie
manages to get within from ten to twenty feet of his
victim. Watching his best opportunity, when the seal is
in the midst of one of his short slumbers, he makes a
(juick rush, striking him over the head with his paw, and
grasping him by the neck with his teeth. A single mis-
calculation in this scheme, and the seal is below the ice
through his hole, dashing a mass of spray in Mr. Bruin's
face with his tail.

Should the seal have crawled up on the edge of an ice-
floe from the water, and attempt to escape thereto, the
bear being close upon him, the latter will not hesitate —
so the Eskimos say — to dive after the seal. Although in
the water the seal is his superior in activity, occasionally
the bear is rewarded with his prey by a lucky snap of
his jaws.

The polar bear is credited with killing walrus ; but I
think he never attacks any but the smaller ones in a fair
combat, so much larger is the walrus than his bearship.

The Eskimos claim — and I think their story is true —
that the polar bear has been known to take a stone or a
huge piece of ice in his fore-paws, and from a favorable
altitude — the side of an iceberg or the top of a cliff" —
hurl this missile with such certainty as to cause it to
alight on a walrus's head, and so stun it that its capture
becomes easy afterwards.

— Schwatka,

: ' g r T o r u« y .\y.>. - /. - .:A;f

' . T »'^. ' *w ' oVVtf^wgv

A S All. oil's S()\(j OF THE Sea.

XV. A SAILOR'S SONG OF THE SEA.

The sea ! tJie sea ! the open sen !

The blue, the fresli, the ever free !

Witliout a mark, witliout a bound,

It runs the e/irth's wide regions round ;

Tt plays with tlie clouds ; it mocks the skies,

Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the sea ! I'm on the sea !

I am wliere I would ever be,

With the blue Jibove and the blue below,

And silence wheresoe'er I go ;

If a storm should come and awake the deep,

What matter 1 I shall ride and sleep.

I love, oh ! how I love to ride
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon,
Or whistles aloud his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below.
And why the southwest blasts do blow.

I never was on the dull, tame shore.
But I loved the great sea more and more,
And back I flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeks its mother's nest ;
And a mother she fvas, and is, to me,
For I was born on the deep blue sea !

And I have lived, in calm and strife,

Full fifty summers a sailor's life.

With wealth to spend and power to range,

But never have- sought or sighed for change ;

And Death, whenever he comes to me,

Shall come on the wild and boundless sea.

— Barry Cornwall.

\.:\

rmill) liKADEK.

XVI.-THE SCULLION WHO BECAME A

SCULPTOR.

In a little Italian village tlicro onco lived a Jolly
stonecutter namo<l Pisano. Everybody liked liiin. There
was one little boy, especially, who loved old Pisano,
and whom Pisano loved more than any})ody else in
the world. This was Antonio Canova, Pisano's grand-
son, who had come to live with him because his father
was dead, and his mother had married a harsh man who
was unkind to little Antonio.

While Pisano worked at stonccutting, little Antonio
played at it, and amused himself with making clay
figures. Tlie old grandfather soon saw that the pale-
faced little fellow at his side was wonderfully skilful at
such things.

It so happened that Signor Faliero, a man of great
wealth and rare understanding in matters of art, had a
palace near Pisano's house, and at certain times enter-
tained many distinguished guests there. When the
palace was very full of visitors, old Pisano was some-
times hired to help the servants with their tasks; and
Antonio sometimes did scullion's work there, for a day or
two, when some great feast was given.

At one time, when the Signor Faliero was to entertain
a very large company at dinner, young Antonio was at
work among the pots and pans in the kitchen. The
head servant came in, just before the dinner hour, in
great trouble. The man who had been at work upon the
large ornament for the table had sent word that he had
spoiled the piece. What was to be done? The poor

TiiK Scullion who Became a Sculftok.

follow whoso business it was to put tlie table in order
was at his wit's end.

While every one was wonderin^^ what it would be best
to do, the litth; seulli<jn boy came forward a!id said :

" It* you will lot nie try, I think I can make something
that will do."

" You ! " cried the servant ; " and wlio are you ? "

" 1 am Antonio Canova, the grandson of Pisano,"
answered the pale-faced little fellow.

" And, pray, what can you do ? " asked the man.

" I can make you something that w^ill do for the
middle of the table," said the boy, " if you'll let me try."

The servant, not knowing what else to do, told An-
tonio that he might try. Calling for a large (quantity of
butter, the boy quickly moulded a great crouching lion,
which everybody in the kitchen said was beautiful, and
which the now rejoicing head-servant placed carefully
upon the table.

At the dinner that day there were many of the most
noted men of Venice — merchants, princes, noblemen, and
lovers of art — and among them were many skilled critics
of art work. When these people came to the table, their
eyes fell upon the butter lion, and they forgot the pur-
pose for which they had entered the dining-room. They
saw there something of higher v»'orth in their eyes than
any dinner could be, namely, a work of genius.

They looked at the lion long and carefully, and then
began praising it, and asking Faliero to tell them what
great sculptor he had persuaded to waste his skill upon
a work in a butter, that must quickly melt away. But

til!

Third Reader.

Signor Faliero knew as little as they, and he had, in
his turn, to ask the chief servant. When the company
learned that the lion was the work of a scullion, Faliero
called the boy into the dining-room, and the dinner be-
came a sort of feast in his honor.

But it was not enough to praise the lad. These were
men who knew that such genius as his belonged to the
world, not to a village, and nothing could please them
more than to aid in giving him an education. Signor
Faliero himself declared that he w^ould pay the lad's
expenses, and place him under the instruction of the best
masters.

The boy; whose highest wish had been to become a
village stonecutter, and whose home had been in his
poor old grandfather's cottage, became at once a member
of Signor Faliero's family, living in his palace, having
at his command everything that money could buy, and
being daily instructed by the best masters in Venice.

But he was not in the least spoiled by this change in
his life. He was still the same simple, earnest, and
faithful boy. He worked as hard to gain knowledge
and skill in art as he had meant to work to become
a good stonecutter. Antonio Canova's course from the
day on which he moulded butter into a lion was steadily
upward ; and when he died he was not only one of
the greatest sculptors of his own time, but one of the
greatest of all time. —George Gary Eggkston,

III

■ ' i

Never buy what you do not want because it is cheap.

— Frankiin.

The Rudder.

XVII.— THE RUDDER.

Of what are you thinking, my little li*d, with honest eyes of blue,
As you watch the vessels that slowly glide o'er the level
ocean floor ?
Beautiful, graceful, silent as dreams they pass away from our
view,
And down the slope of the world they go, to seek some far-
off shore .

They seem to be scattered abroad by chance, to move at the
breezes' will.
Aimlessly wandering hither and yon, and melting in dis-
tance gray ;
But each one moves to a purpose firm, and the winds their
sails that fill
Like faithful servants speed them all on their appointed way.

For each has a rudder, my dear little lad, with a staunch man
at the wheel,
And the rudder is never left to itself, but the will of a man
is there ;
There is never a moment, day or night, that the vessel does
not feel
The force of the purpose that shapes her course and the
helmsman's watchful care.

Some day you will launch your ship, my boy, on life's wide
treacherous sea ;
Be sure your rudder is wrought of strength, to stand the
stress of the gale ;
And your hand on the wheel, don't let it flinch, whatever the
tumult may be, -

For the will of man with the help of God, shall conquer and
prevail.
— From St. Nicholas Magazine (by permission of the Publishers),

Third Reader.

i i!

XVIII.— THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS.

Up socared tlie lark into the air,
A shaft of song, a winged pra3'er,
As if a soul, released from pain,
Were flying back to heaven again.

St. Francis hoard ; it was to hi in
An emblem of the Seraphim ;
The upwan't motion of the fire,
Tiie 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.

*'0 brother birds," St. Francis said,
" Ye come to me and ask for bread,

But not with bi-ead alone to-day

Shall ye be fed and sent away.

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

" O, doubly are ye hound to praise
The great Creator in your lays ;
He giveth you your plumes of down.
Your crimson hoods, 3'our cloaks of brown.

" He giveth 3-ou youi* wings to fly
And breathe a purer air on high.
And careth for you everywhere,
Who for yourselves so little care ! "

The Sentry's Pouch. 41

With Hutter of swift wings and songs
Together rose the feathered i^hrongs,
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.

— Henry W. Longfellow.

XIX.-THE SENTRY'S POUCH.

One cold, wet night Jacob Meyer, a Prussian sentry,
was wearily pacing his lonely beat, glancing from time
to time at the watch-fires of the enemy, clearly visible
across the narrow stream. He was lieartily tired of
inaction and wished that the armies would come to closer
(juarters to give him something better to do than merely
shivering in the rain. Growing colder and wetter every
minute, he thought longingly of his snug cottage on the
vine-clad slope of the Harz mountains, where, every
night, after a good supper of rye bread and cabbage, he
had a (piiet smoke and was abed before ten.

" If the king had to be abroad in this soi*t of weather
he would be ao thorouglily tired of the war as I am," he
said aloud.

" How do you know that he has not to be out ? "
broke in a sharp voice at his side.

Thus unexpectedly recalled to his duty, his musket
was at once levelled at the intruder, while clear and
stern rang the challenge, " Who goes there ? "

fmr

Phi HI) Reader.

" A friend," was the only answer.

" Adv^ance, friend, and give the countersign."

"The Prussian Eagle."

" Pass, friend, all's well."

Instead, however, of passing, the stranger approached
the sentry, who by the faint moonlight could just dis-
cern that his visitor was muffled in a large mantle and
wore a slouched hat hiding much of his face.

"Your post seems rather uncomfortable, conu'ade," said
he. " Why not have a smoke to cheer yourself a bit ? "

"Smoke!" exclaimed the sentry, "why surely, brother,
you know that smoking when on duty is strictly for-
bidden ? "

" But what if the king gave you leave to smoke ? "

*• Oh, yes, the king ! But what of my captain ? "
gruffly replied the soldier. " My back would have had
an unwelcome taste of the drummer's cane long before
the king could interfere to save me."

" Pshaw, man ! your captain's not here to catch you,
and I'll tell no tales, so out with your pipe."

" Look here, you rascal," cried the soldier, now thor-
oughly aroused, " I do believe you're some idle fellow
who only wants to make trouble for me. So you had
best be oti' at once, for if you provoke me more I'll cuff
you soundly."

" Oh, come, now, I'd like to see you try it," said the
other, laughing.

The sentry's only reply was a quick blow, sending the
stranger's battered hat flying, and almost knocking him
off his feet.

The Sentry's Pouch.

" Oh, very good ! " said the unknown, in quite a
changed tone of voice. " You'll liear more of this
to-morrow, my man, when you'll get what you deserve,
never fear. I ])id you good night." So saying, he
stooped to pick up something from the ground, and then
disappeared i^ tlie darkness.

The sudden change in his visitor's voice and manner,
together witli his parting threat, caused Meyer to feel
uneasy. He feared that he had insulted an officer of
high rank — a colonel it might be, or even a general.
"But, never mind; he doesn't know my name, and as
the night is very dark he would find it difficult to
describe either my appearance or the post where I am
located."

But next moment he gave a great start, — the tobacco
pouch which usually hinig at his belt was missing.
Could this be what the stranger had picked up ? His
full name was engraved on it !

Soon afterwards relieved from duty, poor Meyer passed
a sleepless night, though he tried to keep up his courage
by the thought tliat the general would not punish him
for obeying orders. Sure enough, next morning he was
conducted as a prisoner to headquarters. There he
found all the superior officers grouped around a small,
lean, bright-eyed man, rather shabbily dressed, whom
Meyer immediately recognized as the king himself —
Frederick the Great.

" Gentlemen," said Frederick, " what does a Prussian
soldier deserve who strikes his king ? '*

"Death," replied the officers, with one accord.

t' '

I I

J: ;

■-

i ■

Ill 11

"jilli

TiiiKD Reader.

"Ri<j^])t!" Haid tlio kiii<^. " TTcn^ is tlie man." And
he sliowecl the t(jl)acco ]juiicli bearing tlie name, "Jacob
Meyer."

" Mercy, f^m, pardon me !" erie(l Meyer, rnllinor on his
knees. " How could I know it was your majesty with
whom I was speaking / "

" No, T don't suppose you did," said Frederick, chipping
him lieartily on tlie slioukler; "and 1 only wish that all
my soldiei's would obey orders as strictly as you do. I
promised you should get what you deserved, and so you
sliall, for I'll make you sergeant in my own body-guards^
Rise, Sergeant Meyer."

XX. -THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS.

It was the schomior IFcftpn'ft.^^

That sailed th'; wintry sea ;
And the skipper li;id taken his little daughter,

To bear him eonipany.

Rlue were liei* eves as the fairv tlax,

Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds

That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the lielm,

His j)ipe was in his mouth,
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow

The smoke now west, now south.

Then up and spake an old sailoi',

Had sailed the Spanish Main,
" T pray thee put into yonder port,

For T fear a hurricane.

1 1 i

The Wreck of the Hespehus.

"Last niijflit, the moon IkkI a golden ring,
And to-niglit no moon we see ! "

The skipper, he ])lew a whifT tVom Ids pijje,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and louder hlcw the wind,

A gale from the north-east ;
The snow fell hissing in tli(; hrine,

And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain

The vessel in its strength ;
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,

Then leaped her cable's length.

Come hither ! come hither 1 my little daughter,
And do not tremble so ; .
For I can wea iier the roughest gale
That ever wind did ])low."

46 Third Keadeu.

He wrapped her warm in liis seaman s coat,

Against tlie stinging ))last;
He cut a rope fn n a broken spar,

And bound her to the mast.

"O father! T hear the cliurch bells ring,

O say what may it l)e ? "
**Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast! " —

And he steered for tlie open sea.

" O father ! I hear the sound of guns,

O say what may it be 1 "
"Some ship in distress, that cannot live

In such an angry sea ! "

"O father ! I see a gleaming light,

O say wliat may it be ? "
But the father answered never a word, —

A frozen coi'pse was he.

Lashed to the helm all stiff and stark, ^

With his face turned to the skies.

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed

That saved she might be ;
And she thought of Christ who stilled the wave

On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Towards the reef of Norman's Woe.

The Wreck of the Hesperus.

And ever the fitful gusts ])otwoen

A sound came from the land ;
It was the sound of the trampling suif,

On the rcjcks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows,

She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping l)illow swept tlie crew

Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves

Looked soft as carded wool,
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side

Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts went by the board ;

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank —
Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared !

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast, *

To see the form of a maiden fair
Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her Ijreast,

The salt tears in her eyes ;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,

On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,

In the midnight and the snow !

Christ save us all from a death like this,

On the reef of Norman's Woe !

^-Henry W. Longfellow,

IM I

48 Third Reader

XXI. THE SULTANA OF THE DESERT.

Part I.

Near tlie close of tlie last century, while the French
army under Bonaparte occupicMl E^ypt, a soldier was
captured by the Arabs and carried far away.

But at night, when tlie Frenchman saw that he was
not watched, he unloosed with his teeth the knot which
bound him and regained his liberty. He seized a car-
bine and some dried dates, and, armed with a scimitar,
he started otl'in the direction of the French army.

All night and far into the next day he walked on ;
but at length his strength gave out, and he was obliged
to stop. The day was finished ; the oriental night was
full of freshness and beauty. At a little distance he dis-
covered a cluster of palms. To these he dragged his
weary limbs, and lay down and slept.

He was awakened by the pitiless rays of the sun.
The prospect around tilled him with despair. In every
direction nothing met his eye but a wide ocean of vsand
sparkling and glancing in the sunshine. The pure
brilliancy of the sky left nothing for the imagination to
conceive. Not a cloud obscured its splendor; not a
zephyr moved the face of the desert. There was a wild
and awful majesty in the universal stillness. God in all
his infinite majesty seemed present to the soul.

Sad and gloomy the desolate wanderer walked around
the little eminence on which the palm-trees grew. To
his great joy he discovered on the opposite side a sort of
natural grotto, formed in a ledge of granite. Hope was

Tfie Sultaxa of the Deseht.

awrtkenerl in liis breast. Here lie might rest in safety.
The pahns would t'ui'nisli Iiiin with dates for food, and
before these were exhausted human bein^rH miglit come
that way.

Wearied hy the extreme heat of tlie day, lie crawled
into the grotto and soon fell into a pi'ofound sleep.
In the night he was awakened by a startling noise*. He
started up and listened, and in the deep silence he could
hear the loud breathing of an animal. The hair rose
upon his head, and lie strained his eyes to the utmost to
perceive the object of his terror. By tlu^ rays of the
moon that entered the chinks of the cave, he discovered
an enormous animal lying but a few feet away. There
was not sufficient light to distinguish what animal it
was. It might be a lion, a tiger, a crocodile ; but there
was no doubt of the presence of some large and tei-rible
creature.

Wlien the moon rose so as to shine directly into the
grotto, its beams lighted up the beautiful spotted hide
of a huge panther. This lion of Egypt slept with her
head upon her paws with the comfortable dignity of
a great house-dog. The soldier dared not make the
slightest noise lest he should awaken her. Nothing
broke the deep silence but the breath of the panther
and the strong beatings of his own heart.

To attempt her destruction and fail, ^vould be certain
death. She was too near for him to use his carbine.
Twice he put his hand upon his scimitar; but the thought
of her hard rough skin made him relinquish his project.
Day came at last, and showed the jaws of the sleeping
panther covered with blood. " She has eaten lately,"

TiiiKi) Readek.

said the Frenchinau tc hiinscll* ; "she will not awake in
hunger."

WIkmi the sun arose, the panther sinMonly opened her
eyes, stretclied out lier paws, and piped, showing a
tri^litt'ul row of teeth and a ^reat tongues as har<l and
rou^h as a fik\ She then began to wash lier paws,
passing them over lier cars from time to time as prettily
as a kitten. "Very well done," thought the soldier;
"she does her toilet very handsomely." He seized a
little dagger whici j had taken i'rom the Ara})s, and
prepared to bid her go()d-?norning. At this moment the
panther turned her head and saw him.

The fixedness of her bright metallic eyes made the
soldier tremble. She arose and moved towards him.
With great presence of mind he looked her directly in
the eye. When she came up to him he gently scratched
her head and smoothed her fur. Her eyes gradually
softened, and at last she purred like a petted cat; but
so deep and stror were her notes of joy that they
resounded througli cave like the rolling of a church

organ.

|l!'l

XXII.— THE SUPPEF OF ST. GREGORY.

A tale for Roman guides to tell

To careless, sight-worn travellers still,

Who pause beneath the narrow cell
Of Gregory on the Ceelian Hill.

One day before the monk's door came,
' A beggar, stretching empty palms.

Fainting and fast-sick, in the name
Of the Most Holy asking alms.

Till-: Si IM'KK OK St. OKi:(i()KY\

AikI the monk uuHwored : '' All T have
In this pfjoi- cell of inino I give;

The silver cup my mother gave :
III Chi'ist'a luime take it, and live."

V^ears passed ; and, called at last to })ear
The pastoral crook and keys of Home,

The poor monk in St. Peter's chair

Sat the crowned Lord of Christendom.

" Prepare a feast," St. (Gregory cried,
"And let twelve beggars sit thereat."

The Ijeggars came, and one beside,

An unknown stranger, with them sat.

"I asked thee not," the Pontiff spake,
"O stranger; but if need be thine,

I bid thee welcome for the sake

Of Him Who is thy Lord and mine."

A grave, calm face the stranger raised.
Like His Who on Genesareth trod.

Or His on Whom the Chaldeans gazed.
Whose form was as tlie Son of God.

"Know'st thou," he said, '-thy gift of old?"

And in the hand he lifted up
The Pontiff marvelled to behold

Once more his mother's silver cup.

"Thy prayers and abns have risen and bloom
Sweetly among the flowers of heaven.

I am the Wonderful, through Whom
Whate'er thou seekest shall be given."

I^^i

I ; 5;

Thikj:) Reader.

lie spake and vanished. Gregory fell
With his twelve guests in mute accord

Prone on their faces, knowing well
Their eyes of liesh had seen the Lord

Still, wheresoever pity shares

Its bread with sorrow, want, and sin,

And love the beggar's feast prepares.
The uninvited Guest comes in;

Unheard, because our ears are dull,
Unseen, because our eyes are dim.

He walks our earth, the Wonderful,
And all good deeds are done to Him.

— John G\ Whittier.

XXIII.~THE SULTANA OF THE DESERT.

Part II.

Tlie Frenchman redoubled his caresses, and turned and
went out of the grotto. The panther came bounding after
liim, lifting up her back and rubbing against him like an
afiectionate kitten. He felt of her ears and throat, and,
perceiving that she was pleased with it, he began to
tickle the back of her head with the point of his dagger,
lioping to find an opportunity to stab her; but her
strength and size made him tremble lest he should not
succeed.

The beautiful sultana of the desert tried the courajxe
of her companion by stretching out her neck and rubbing
against liim. He raised his arm to give the fatal blow ;

The Sultana of the Desert.

but at tliat moment she crouched gently at his feet and
looked up in his face with a strange niixtui-e of aflection
and native fierceness. The soldier's arm fell, and she
licked his shoes and purred. During the whole day the
panther attended him as a dog does his master, and
never suffered him to be out of sight.

When the sun went down she lettered a deep, melan-
choly cry. "She is well educated," said tlie soldier;
" she has learned to say her pra^^ers ! " He was rejoiced
to s(^e lier grow drowsy. "That is right," said he, "you
had better go to sleep first!" When she was sound
asleep, he rose silently and set ofi* vigorously for the
Nile ; but he had not gone a quarter of a league over the
sand when he heard the panther bounding after him,
uttering at intervals a loud, sharp cry.

Before she came up, the Frenchman fell into a danger-
ous trap of loose sand, from which he could not extricate
himself. The panther seized him by the collar, drew him
out of the sand, and brought him safe to the other side
of the treacherous ditch at a single bound. "My dear
Julia," exclaimed the soldier as he caressed her, "our
friendship is for life and for death." He retraced his
steps. Having hung out his shirt as a signal to any
human being who might come near, he lay down and
slept.

When ue awoke, Julia was gone. He went out and
soon sa\^ her at a distance clearing the desert with
her long and high bounds. She arrived with bloody
jaws. When receiving caresses, she purred and fixed her
eyes \ipon him with more fondness than usual. The
soldier patted her neck and talked to her as lie would
to a companion.

'•! '

li:

Third Reader.

I i

This animal was so fond of caresses and play, that if
her companion sat many minutes without noticing her
she would put her paws upon his lap to attract attention.
In this way several days passed. The j)anther became
used to the inflections of the soldier's voice and under-
stood the expressions of his face. While her beauty
pleased, she delighted him most when she was on a frolic.
She showed the perfection of grace and agility as she
glided swiftly along, jxnnping, bounding, and rolling over
and over. When she was darting away at full speed,
she would stop suddenly when the Frenchman called
" Julia ! "

This account was given me by the soldier himself as
we met near a panther's cage in the menagerie at Paris.
"I do not know," continued he, " what I had done to dis-
please Julia, or whether the creature was merely in
sport; but she turned around, snapped her teeth at me,
and seized hold of my leg. Thinking she was about to
destroy me, I plunged the dagger into her neck. The
poor creature uttered a cry that froze my very heart.
She made no attempt to avenge n^y blow, but looked
mildly upon me in her dying agonies. I would have
given all the world to have recalled her to life. It was
as if I had murdered a friend. Some French soldiers
who saw my signal found me some hours afterward
weeping beside her dead body.

Kind hearts .ire the gardens,
Kind thouglits are the roots,

Kind words ai'e the blossoms,
Kind deeds are the fruits.

Robert of Lincoln.

XXIV.— ROBERT OF LINCOLN.

Merrily swinging on brier and weed, ^

Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain-side or mead,

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name :
Bob-o'-link, lx.b-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
Snug and safe is that nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers,

Ciiee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gaily dressed,

Wearing a bright black wedding-coat ;
White are his shoulders and white his crest.
Hear him call in his merry note :
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spi.ik ;
Look, what a nice new coat is mine,
Sure there was never a bird so fine.

Chee, chee, chee.

|:lii

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife.

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,
Passing at home a patient life,

Broods in the grass while her husband sings :
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink ;
Brood, kind cieature ; you need not fear
Thieves and robbers while I am here.

Chee, chee, chee.

Third Reader.

Modest and shy as a nun is she ;

One weak cliirp is her only note.
Bra<^gart ami prince of braggarts is he,
Pouring boasts from his Httle throat :
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spiuk ;
Never was I afraid of man ;
Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can !

Chee, chee, chee.

Six wliite eggs on a bed of hay.

Flecked with purple, a pretty sight !
Tliere as the mother sits all day,

Robert is singing with all his might :
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink ;
Nice good wife, that never goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic about.

Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell,

Six wide mouths are open for food ;
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well.
Gathering seeds for the hungry brood.
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink ;
This new life is likely to be
Hard for a gay young fellow like me.

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made
Sober with work, and silent with care ;

Off is his holiday garment laid.
Half forgotten that merry air :

Hunting the Hoxey-Bee. 57

Bob-o'-liiik, })f)l)-o'-link,

Spink, s})aMk, spink ;
No})0(ly knows but my mate and I
Where our nest and our nestlings lie.

Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes ; the chilch^en are grown •

Fun and frolic no more he knows ;
Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone ;
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes :
Bob-o'-link, ])ob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink ;
When you can pipe that merry old strain,
Robert of Lincoln, come back again.

Chee, chee, chee.

— William Cullen Bryant.

XXV.— HUNTING THE HONEY-BEE.

It is not every novice that can find a bee-tree. Tlie
sportsman may track his game to its retreat by the aid
of his dog, but in hunting tlie honey-bee one must be his
own dog, and track his game tlu'ough an element in
whicli it leaves no trail. It is a task for a sharp, (piick
eye, anrl may test the resources of tlie best woodcraft.

So, witli haversacks filled with grapes and peaches
and apples, and a bottle of milk, — for we shall not be
home to dinner, — and armed with a compass, a hatchet,
a pail, and a box with a piece of comb-honey neatly
fitted into it, we sally forth. After a refreshing walk of
a couple of miles we reach a point where we w^ill make

Third Reader.

1^ ll!'*

our first trial — a high stone wall that runs parallel with
a wooded ridge, and separated from it by a broad field.

There are bees at work there on \ hat goldenrod, and
it requires but little manfEuvring to sweep one into our
box. Almost any other creature rudely and suddenly
arrested in its career and clapped into a cage in this
way would show great confusion and alarm. The bee
is alarmed for a moment, but the bee has a passion
stronger than its love of life or fear of death, namely,
desire for honey, not simply to eat, but to carry home as
booty. " Such rage of honey in their bosoms beats," nays
Virgil. It is quick to catch th3 scent of honey in the
box, and as quick to fall to filling itself.

We now set the box down upon the wall, and gently
remove the cover. The bee is head and shoulders in one
of the half-filled cells, and is oblivi(nis to everything else
about it. Come rack, come ruin, it will die at work.
We step back a few paces, and sit down upon the
ground so as to bring tlie box against the blue sky as
a background.

It is a singular fact that when the bee first finds the
hunter's box its first feeling is one of anger. But its
avarice soon gets the better of its indignation, and it
seems to say, " Well, I had better take possession of this
and carry it home." So it settles down and fills itself.

It does not entirely cool off* and get soberly to work
till it has made two or three trips home with its booty.
When other bees come, even if all from the same swarm,
they (piarrel and dispute over the box. A bee will
usually make three or four trips from the hunter's box
before it brings back a companion. I suspect the bee

Hunting the Honey-Bee.

does not tell its fellows what it has found, but that they
smell out the secret : it doubtless bears some evidence
with it, upon its feet or proboscis, that it has been upon
honey-comb and not upon flowers, and its c(jmpanions
take the hint and follow.

In about half an hour we have three well-defined lines
of bees established, — two to farm-houses and one to the
woods, and our box is being rapidly depleted of its
honey. About every fourth bee goes to the woods. The
woods are rough and dense, and the hills steep, and we
do not like to follow the line of bees until w^e have tried
at least to settle the problem as to the distance they go
into the woods, — whether the tree is on this side of the
ridge, or in the depth of the forest on the other side. So
w^e shut up the box wdien it is full of bees, and carry it
about three hundred yards along the wall.

Other bees have followed our scent, and it is not many
minutes before a second line to the woods is established.
This is called croHS-lming the bees. The new line
makes a sharp angle with the other line, and we know
at once that the tree is only a few rods \\\U) the woods.
The tw^o lines we have established form two sides of a
triangle, of which the wall is the base ; at the apex of
the triangle, or where the two lines meet in the woods,
we are sure to find the tree. We (juickly follow up
these lines, and where they cross each other on the side
of the hill we scan every tree closely.

But not a bee is seen or heard ; we do not seem as
near the tree as we were in the fields; vet if some
divinity would only whisper the fact to us, we are within
a few rods of the coveted prize, which is not in one of

Third Reader.

the large hemlocks or oaks that absorb our attention, but
in an old stump not six feet hit;li, and whicli we have seen
and passed several times without givin<j; it a thought.

After much searching, and after tlie mystery seems
rather to deepen tlian to clear up, we cliance to pause
beside this old stump. A bee comes out of a small
opening like that made by ants in decayed wood, rubs
its eyes and examines its anfrnvn^, as bees always do
before leaving their hive, then takes flight. At the same
instant several bees come by us loaded with ou/r honey,
and settle home with that peculiar low, complacent buzz
of the well-filled insect. Here, then, is our prize, in a
decayed stump of a hendock tree. We could tear it
open with our hands, and a bear would find it an easy
prize, and a rich one, too, for we take from it fifty
pounds of excellent honey. —Burrou(jh.s.

XXVI.— THE NAMES OF OUR LADY.

Through the wide world thy children raise

Their prayers, and still we see
Calm are the nights and hiight the days

Of those who trust in thee.

Around thy starry crown are wreathed

So many names divine :
Which is the dearest to my heart,

And the most worthy thine 1

Star of the Sea : we kneel and pray
When tempests raise tlieir voice;

Star of the Sea ! the haven reached,
We call thee and rejoice.

navammn

The Names of Ouk Lady.

JlfiJp of the Christian: in our need

Thy mighty aid we claim :
If we are faint and weary, then

AV^e trust in thy dear name.

Our Lahj of the lioi^ary :

AV hat name can })e so sweet
As wliat we call thee when we place

Our chaplets at thy feet.

Briyht Queen of Heaven : when we are sad,

Best solace of our pains : —
It tells us, though on earth we toil,

Our mother lives and reigns.

Our Lady of Jfoniit Carmel : thus
Sometimes thy name is known ;

It tells us of the badge we wear,
To live and die thine own.

Our Lady dear of Victories :

We see our faith oppressed,
And, praying for our erring land.

We love that name the best.

Refuge of Siyiners : many a soul.

By guilt cast down, and sin,
Has learned through this dear name of thine

Pardon and peace to win.

Health of the Sick : when anxious hearts

Watch by the suiferer's bed.
On this sweet name of thine they lean,

Consoled and comforted.

Third Keadkr.

[ilij

Mother of Sorroirs : many a lieart

Half broken by despair
Has laid its burden by tbe Cross

And found a mother there.

Queen of nfl Sahits : tlie Church appeals

For her lov(!d dead to tht^e ;
She knows they wait in patient pain

A bright eternity.

Fai?' Queen of Virrfins : thy pure band,

The lilies round thy throne,
Love the dear title which they bear

Most that it is thine own.

True Queen of Martyrs : if we shrink

From want, or pain, or woe,
We think of the sharp sword that pierced

Thy heart, and call thee so.

Mary : the dearest name of all,

The holiest and the best ;
The first low word that Jesus lisped,

Laid on Plis mother's breast.

Mary : the name that Gabriel spoke.

The name that conquers hell ;
Mary, the name that through high heaven

The angels love so well.

Mary, — our comfort and our hope, —

O may that word be given
To be the hist we sigh on earth, —

The first we breathe in heaven.
— Adelaide Anne Procter (by permission of the Publishers).

TiiK Desikei) Haven.

XXVII.— THE DESIRED HAVEN.

Takt I.

THE iMESSEN(3EIl OF THE (iKKAT K1N(J.

Five l)()y.s were playinjjj in ji garden by the sea-
shore. It was a lovely sniiuner clay, and the li^dit
^deamed on the dc^ep blue water; the flowers spread
their bosoms to the golden sun, while the gentle breezes
wafted their fragrance all around. The boys had been
twining garlands and playing until they wearily threw
themselves down upon the garden lawn. So intent were
they with their talk that they failed to notice the
approach of a stranger. His face shone as if he had
been on the holy mount with God ; his hands were
clasped on his breast as he passed ; and, when he spoke
his words fell like sweetest music on the ear.

"My children," he said, "I have brought you a message
from the King of the land that is afar off' beyond the
ocean." He led them through the garden gate to the
golden sands. What was the boys' surprise to see before
them, dancing on the merry waves five little boats, each
of pure gold, in the shape of a heart. To each boat was
fastened a crystal lamp, from which the light shone like
stars on a frosty night.

" These boats," said the King's messenger, '* are yours,
given you by my Master, the King. Look ! " — and he
pointed to an island far away — " that is the Land of
Fame ; if you seek it you will have to pass through
many dangers. There too are the Islands of Riches, of
Folly, of Luxury, and many others. Many have been

illi

riiiUD Keadek.

sliipwrocked in trying to reach them — thoy are called
the Islands of False Happiness. But farther away — so
far that you cannot see it — is the country of the Great
Kintr. If you make for that country, and persevere in
your course, He will send you His messengers to help
you in times of need. Do not visit these other islands.
Pass on, press on, to the country of the (Jreat King, where
nil is joy and love for evermore — where He Himself will
welcome you, and crown your bravery, and if you have
fought with the pirates on the sea, will place in your
hands the palm of victory."

"Are there pirates on the sea?" asked one boy, timidly.

"Yes; but the King will not sufier you to be van-
quished by them if you fight- with valor and implore His
aid. Nay, be not so cast down, nor fear the storms," he
added encouragingly, " for the King will not let you
come to grief if you trust in Him in times of danger.
See that your little boats are seaworthy. Now I shall
give you charts which you must study carefully. In
conclusion, the King wishes you to go first into the city
near your home and find some sick and lonely child.
Him you must carry in your boat over the sea, for the
King loves you to be unselfish, and wishes you to tend
and care for those whom He has seen good to leave in
sorrow^ and suffering. And now farewell, my children —
farewell ! "

A bright cloud surrounded the stranger, so that the
children could not tell how or whither he had gone.
They loosened the cords that secured the little boats
and drew them ashore. ,

"Well," said one named Peter, "I am off at once,
but I shall not try to take any one else. I mean to sail

A Canadian Boat Sonu.

for the Island of Fame, and then when T have .ill the
pleasure it can give nie, I shall start for the country of
the King."

"But," said Francis, a boy with a beautiful, calm face
and gentle voice, " the messenger told us exactly what
the King wished us to do; and see, on our charts, the
course we are to take lies away to the right of the
islands. Think, too, of the dangers he warned us of."

" Dangers make a brave man's heart leap, not ([uail,"
answered Peter, proudly. " But I am not going to
waste the time talking here."

So saying, he pushed his boat out into the sea, jumped
in, and, with a last ringing laugh and wave of the hand
to his companions, he set off for the Islands of False
Happiness. —Adapted.

XXVIII.-A CANADIAN BOAT SONG.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time ;
Soon as the woods on the shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Anne's our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast.
The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

Why should we yet our sail unfurU

There is no' a breath the blue wave to curl ;

But when the wind blows off* the shore,

O sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.

Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,

The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.
5

TuiiU) Reader.

i» w

Ottawa's tide ! this trembling moon
Shall see us float o'er thy surges soon.
Saint of this green isle ! hear our prayers ;
O grant us cool heavens, and favoring airs.
Blow, breezes blow, the stream I'uns fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

— Thomas Moore.

XXIX.— THE DESIRED HAVEN.

Part II.

PETER STARTS FOR THE ISLAND OF FAME.

Peter started Avith a light heart : it was so merry
out on the deep sea, tossed up and down in his pretty
little boat, and carried swiftly along by the breeze. At
times he wondered where his companions were. And he
half regretted he had started so hastily without reflecting
on all the messenger had told him. Then after a while
he locked at his chart, and saw that every mile toward

The Desired Haven.

the Island of Fame drew liiiii away from the country of
the King. For a moment or two he thought of changing
his course and making straight for that country. " But
no," he said to himself, "all the more glory to me to have
accomplished the double voyage. The King will surely
admire my courage and give me a greater reward."

" Bravo, my young Peter ! " cried some one from a
boat close behind.

Peter turned around in astonishment. There, a few
yards away, was a large vessel with bright scarlet sails,
and only one man at the helm. His eyes were cruel and
cunning ; and his voice, though he tried to soften it, was
harsh and rasping.

*' How do you know my name," asked Peter, " and
where are you going ? Have you ever been to the Island
of Fame ? " continued he, his curiosity getting the better
of him. " Is it worth my while going out of the way and
running some risk to see ? "

*' Have I been there ? " laughed the man. "Why I am
one of the chief rulers : very few on the island desert my
service. As to its being worth while your going out of
the way, you are the best judge. I should say yes: but
perhaps your courage is not ecjual to facing the dangers."
With a few more words of mockini^ encouraijcement the
pretended king started away.

Shortly after, a hurricane arose which lashed the waves
into raging madness. Peter's little boat was tossed up
and down, and carried round and round by the wind-
driven whirlpools. Every moment the poor boy expected
to be drawn down beneath the angry billows and cruel
foam. Then he remembered what the Kinfj's messenjrer

Third Reader.

had said about imploring the aid of the King in danger,
and he clasped liis hands in agony, and cried aloud to
the King.

Immediately appeared a beautiful child in a pure white
robe, with a crown of thorns on His brow, and wounded
hands and feet. Rays of light streamed from His heart;
His face was most mild and loving. He stood at the
helm and guided the boat with his left hand, while he
stretched forth His right hand over the waves which at
His bidding sank to peace.

" My child," he said, after the storm was subdued,
"follow the course I have pointed o it for you. Turn
from the direction you had set your erring heart upon.
Make for the land that is afar ot!' — so beautiful that eye
hath not seen nor ear heard, neither hath the heart of
man conceived the glory and happiness there awaiting
you." And lightly caressing Peter's curly head, he
vanished in a cloud of light.

" Really," said Peter musingly, " I think I will give
up going to the Island of Fame and keep straight for the
King's beautiful country." For three days he kept his
resolution. But on the fourth day the old man who had
led him astray appeared and taunted him with cowardice.
This so wounded his feelings that he decided to follow to
the Island of Fame. He was all the more induced to this
by a boy whom the old man had this time in his boat,
and whom he was taking to the island. , When they hove
in sight of the trees and mountains their young hearts
beat fast. And then when they were very near the
island, the man left them as he said to go and encourage
others who were loiterinsf.

The Desired Haven.

As they came very near the shore tlie boat struck
against treacherous rocks, scratching tlie gold. An old
man with a long beard passed by them in a boat. He
had cast his crown into the sea and changed his purple
vestment for one of coarse brown clotli. His eyes were
full of tears, and his voice sad and gentle.

" My children," he called to them, " be not deceived ;
there is no happiness to be found there. Turn ere it be
too late, and come M'itli me to that country where alone
all is never-ending bliss."

But Peter and his companion heeded him not, and he
passed away. Peter was quite close now, but many
came and threw stones at him that he might not land.
At last he disembarked, but found that his boat was
all spoiled with mud which ate into the purest metal.
He obtained a purple robe and a crown from the
academy. But soon lie found that the island was not
so blisslul as he had imagined. Envy and jealousy were
rife ; strifes and contentions arose continually. Each
wanting to be king himself spoke evil of him who was
chosen. Peter himself was badly treated, and instead
of returning good for evil he fought and struggled like
the rest. One day when prido was gnawing at his heart
he resolved to be king himself. The thought of being
first overmastered him : he must be king at any cost,
and then he would start with his kingly robes and
crown for the country of the Great King, where he would
be welcomed as a sovereign. Poor silly boy, how little
he realized that the King of humility loves only the
simple and lowly of heart, and recognizes no concpieror
save him that overcometh the world and his own sinful
passions.

Third Reader.

" f.

C SI

« ■?

Accordingly he plotted by false evil stories against the
reigning monarch, until some of his fellow conspirators
put the king to death. Then dreadful confusion ensued.
Each wished to be king. But Peter, through his fol-
lowers and by reason of great exertions, secured the
crown. "Now at last," he said to himself, "I shall be
happy." But he was nevei' so wretched before. He was
haunted by the fear of being betrayed ; he doubted
everyone ; his heart was sore with the biting words of
his enemies. At times he thought he would set sail for
the king's country, but the sea terrified him. His faith
was shaken, and his innocence sullied. Every day the
pain at his heart grew more and more unbearable. One
day when he went out into the streets a man called a
disgraceful name after him. Some others took it up,
and mocking him, and singing jeering songs after him,
they pursued him to his palace.

"It is all over now," thought Peter. "I have
missed true happiness ; I have lost my faith ; I must
die. The king will surely not receive me, as I slighted
all His messages and warnings. My boat is disfigured
and shattered, the pieces filthy and discolored; the sail is
stained with the blood of the king I helped to kill ; the
cross is gone, I know not whither; I have lost my life."

He went to a cupboard, drew thence a little dark-
colored vial, and raising it to his lips drained it to the
last drop. The man of the painted boat came in soon
after and found poor Peter lying on his back on the
ground dead, with the little vial tightly clasped in his
fingers. And with a mocking laugh he bore Peter away
to his own unhappy country, where all is darkness,
weeping and gnashing of teeth. ^Adapted.

The Sailor Boy's Dream.

XXX.— THE SAILOR BOY'S DREAM.

The wild Weaves tossed their snowy caps,

And raved in their frenzied glee,
While they bore on their crests a human waif,

A speck on the stormy sea.
Lashed to a part of the splintered mast

That was riven by the lightning's power,
When the quivering bolts and the crashing beams

Made the bravest seamen cower.

But a few short hours, and the good ship rode

Like a queen on the w^aters wide ;
And the name she bore was a queen's indeed —

They had called her Albion's Pride ;
And now, full many a fathom below,

She lies a shapeless thing,
And the sea-birds sing, and the wild waves chant

The lost ship's requiem.

And this one spared out of all her crew.

Tender in years and Fair,
With his mother's blessing still on his brow.

And his mother's fervent prayer
Oflfered for him, her darling,

Her widowed heart's one joy,
That God would save from the sailor's grave

Her Shemus, the cabin boy.

And now, as the blinding surf enfolds

His form as he clings to the mast.
He feels that Ccach wave, as it bears him aloft,

Tdav be for him the last :
He bows his head on his trembling hands,

Third Reader.

And his tears fell fast like the rain
When he thinks of his home in the Ulster hills
He never may see again.

He feels on his neck for the rosary

That his mother's hand placed there,
When she charged him, "Be true to the dear old Faith,

And remember the Ave prayer."
Quick as a flash his thoughts traverse

The desert of trackless foam.
And he sees in a vision his childhood's haunts

Around dear old Innishowen.

His mother's cot on the green hill side,

The fishermen's fleet on the bay,
And he joins with a shout of boyish delight

His former companions at play.
Once again in his dream he bounds o'er the path

Through the emerald dew-gemmed grass,
For it seems like the hour for the morning prayer —

The hour for the blessed Mass.

The chapel, the altar, the white-haired priest,

The vestments and stole wait him there.
And he serves as of old his Sogga7'th aroon^

With a hushed and reverent air ;
And joins in the prayers for the absent.

For friends far, far on the sea,
" Out of the depths I have cried, O Lord,

Lord, hear, and deliver Thou me."

And he hears like the sound of a great amen,

That brings with it infinite rest,
And the weary sea-boy sleeps on the wave,

Like a child on its mother's breast.

The Desired Haven. 73

His prayer was heard and answered,

For one gleam of the coming day
Showed to the watch on a passing ship

The wave where the sleeper lay.

They checked the vessel's onward course,

And quickly the life-boat tlew,
Manned by strong arms and gallant hearts,

The bravest of the crew.
They thought him dead, but he only slept,

So still lay the stripling's form.
And he lived to praise, with a greatful heart,

The Master Who ruled the storm.

— ''Montreal True Witneaa."

XXXI.— THE DESIRED HAVEN. '

Part III.

Another of the boys, Eugene, was an easy-going lad,
and when once he had got his boat launched, he troubled
no more about the messenger or his Master.

He watched Peter's boat skimming along, and leaving
him behind. But he only smiled. His voyage was very
calm, and he was surprised when he found himself so
near the island. No rocks scratched his boat; he drew
it up on the sands, and was warmly welcomed by the
boys and girls playing on the shore. Then they took
Eugene around to show him the wonders of the island.

The very shells and stones were sweet, real candy.
He tasted some and they proved to be chocolate creams.
All the houses were palaces of gold or silver. The trees
in the woods all bore delicious fruits, and the cocoa-nuts

Third Reader.

**:!

wliich grew in such abundance each contained a pretty
toy.

So for weeks and weeks Eugene did nothing but eat
and drink and sleep ; until one day he betliuught himself
of his boat. When he reached it he was horrified to find
great, crawling, hideous creatures that left a slimy trail
after them, which no rubbing could remove. He looked
for his chart and could not find it. And his pleasures
had made him forget all that the King's messenger had
told him.

He therefore left the boat to the crawling creatures
and went back to his palace. Here he spent his time
in eating .and drinking and sleeping, growing lazier
every day. Slaves waited upon his every wish, but he
was cruel to them. Pleasure and self-indulijfence made
him forget all. But he was soon punished for his
greediness. His liver troubled him and caused him so
much pain that he had a loathing for life. Then he
began to drink large doses of a kind of spirits which
was supposed to cause forgetfulness.

Once he had a dream. On a bush in a garden, where
he was playing with his brothers, grew large red sweet
berries. He and Michael were plucking them by hand-
fuls and eating them, when suddenly an angel appeared,
and touching the bush, it withered away, and the berries
fell to the ground,

Eugene awoke ; and as he lay in a dark chamber he
decided to start in the morning for the country of the
Great King. But in the moniing when the slaves drew
back the curtains, and the golden sunlight streamed in at
the window, he thought that no country could possibly

When I was a Boy.

be more beautiful. And the spirits and the wine he
drank gradually effaced the dream from his memory.

At last, one day when he felt a longing for some

change he started for the seashore, but on the way

drank such (juantitii^s of wine that he fell senseless on

the road, and the man in the painted boat came and

carried him away to the dark regions of endless pain,

where those dwell who sought in this world sensual

pleasure.

— Adapted.

XXXII.-WHEN I WAS A BOY.

Often I think of the beautiful town

That is seated by the sea ;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still :
"A b6y's will is tlie wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,

And catch in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas.
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my ])oyish dreams.

And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still :
''A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

FiiiKD Reader.

Ilif

I remember tlie black wharves and the slips,

And the sea-tides tossing free ;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.

And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still :
*'A })ov's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long tlioughts.'

I remember the bulwarks by the shore,

And the fort upon the hill :
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er,
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still :
*'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

Strange to me now are the forms T meet

When I visit the dear old town ;
But the native air is pure and sweet.
And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street,
As they balance up and down.
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still :
"A boy's will is the wind's will.
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair,

And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were,

The Desired Haven.

I find my lost youtli apjnin.

And the stran«^(^ and hoaiitiful song,
The groves are repc^ating it still :
**A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long tlioughta."

— Htnry W. LongftUow.

XXXIII.— THE DESIRED HAVEN.

Part IV.

Francis porsuadod his ])rotliers, Michael and John, to
follow him to the city, that they nn'ght find a poor
beggar boy to take with them. They did so, but wanted
many times to return. Francis made them keep on till
they came to a wretched hovel half in ruins. Here in a
room they found three beggar children — one lame, one
blind, and the thii'd ccwered with loathsome leprosy.
Francis invited them all, and took charge of the poor
leper himself. Michael led the blind boy by the hand,
while John bore the lame one in his arms. Thus they
started for the seashore.

Many people flocked around them in the streets,
curious to know where they were going or what they
were about to do. Some mocked at them ; others tried
to discourage them: others again even ill-treated them.
But they passed en bravely, and at last reached the
shore in safety. . ►

" Come," said Francis, " we will go and gather flowers
from the garden to decorate our boats."

TuNn) Readku.

Ill lib

At the pardon ^ate thoy met the Kinp^'s iiiossen^er.
In liis liaiul he held three thorny crowns and tlu*ee
garhind.s of flowers.

"Choo.se," lie said. "The crown of thorns is wliat
your King Himself wore when He passed through this
country."

" Give me what my King wore," said Fi-anci.s, taking a
thorny crown and pressing it on his head. The other
two boys chose the flowers — Michael a garland of blue
and white violets, and John a crown of crimson roses.

Soon after they had embarked Michael besought
Francis to keep near hinij for he was afraid of being left
alone.

" Yes, we will keep as close as possible," answered
Francis, " and we shall thus encourage one another."

The sea was rough, and violent winds swept across the
water. Their boats drifted so far apart that in the
deepening gloom of night they could not even see one
another. They seemed in danger. Then Francis knelt
in his boat and prayed not only for himself, but also for
his companions.

The enemy drew near, and with a loud mocking
laugh, cried : " Ha, John, seest thou the clouds and the
angry sea ? Thou wilt never reach that distant shore.
Come with me ; I will help and guide thee to the Islands
of Riches and Pleasure and Fame. Come, for thou wilt
never reach the country thou art seeking."

"No, no, John, do not go," said the lame boy. '* This is
an enemy. See, his boat is not gold like ours ; ai I his
sails are not white." . ,

PMPPPmi

The I)i:siki-:i) Haven.

•ee

Hut John no lonmT liavini; Francis at Iwitid to en-
coura<^(' him, (^avo way and i'ollowiMl tlie enemy, ho<^jj;ing
only to bo taivon quickly from the utorm and the dant^ers.

The little lame boy resolved not to follow the temptin<^
foe. He cast himself into the sea, praying to th<', Kin<^
to deliver him. And lo ! two angels bore him away, and
laid him at the feet of the Kin<^, wIkj kissed him tenderly
and gave him a glorious crown for his patience in suttbr-
ing and a heavenly harp that he might sing the song of
those who are redeemt^d.

John in the meantime was tempted to land on tlie
Island of Riches, where he picked up so nuich gold — for
even the stones were money — that he locked himself up
in a large cellar to count it. But when he wished to
leave it, he could not unfasten the door. No one knew
where he was — so that he died of starvation in the midst
of gold which had brought him no happiness.

All this while Francis and Michael remained steadfast
in spite of storms and the attacks of enemies. They
trusted the promises of the King, and knew they would
land safely home. At last an adverse wdnd drove them
apart again. And Francis looking out for his companion
saw a bright light in the distance. His heart boat fast,
for he knew it was the promised land. A high wall of
shining jasper built on all kinds of precious stones rose
before him. Through a gate of pearl lie saw the streets
of the city of pure gold, like crystal, glittering in the
light of the glory of God and of the Lamb. And lie
heard the voice of many waters and the voice of a great
multitude, the sound of harpers, singing : "Alleluia! for
the Lord God reigneth.'*

-^.*|

Third Reader.

But suddenly all round him lie saw huge monsters,
and heard loud mocking cries of hatred and jealous de-
spair. The atmosphere became thick and dark. He
looked for the leper to whom he had been so kind, but
he was gone, and Francis was alone in the darkness.

He knelt and prayed: ''Lord, save me: I perish."
The storm ceased — the air became bright and clear
again. He was just at the shore of the eternal sea, at
the very gates of the city.

As his boat touched the shore the pearly gate opened.
There, amid countless throngs of angels and saints, stood
the King, who wore a crown of thorns, which shone like
no earthly light. His welcoming, outstretched hands
were pierced. He ^miled so kindly as He drew Francis
to His breast, and the love from His heart thrilled the
boy's soul while a chorus of praise rang through the
courts as the King said : " Faithful servant, enter into
the joy of thy Lord."

And there amongst the great multitude of white-robed

saints, Francis saw his brother Michael and the poor

leper boy joining in the eternal song of praise. What

joy ! They were home at last in the beautiful country

of the great King.

— ^apted.

He prayeth best who loveth best
All things both great and small ;

For the dear God who loveth us
He made and loveth all.

— Ccieridge.

A Vision.

XXXIV.-A VISION.

Gloomy and black are the cypress trees,
Drearily waileth the chill night breeze.
The long grass waveth, the tombs are white,
And the black clouds flit o'er the chill moonlight.

Silent is all save the dropping rain,
When slowly there cometh a mourning train ;
The lone churchyard is dark and dim,
And the mourners raise a funeral hymn .

'•' Open, dark grave, and take her ;
Though we have loved her so.
Yet we must now foi'sake her,
Love will no more awake her,

(O bitter woe !)
Open thine arms and take her

To rest below !

"Vain is our mournful weeping.
Her gentle life is o'er ;
Only the worm is creeping.
Where she will soon be sleeping

Forevermore :
Nor joy nor love is keeping

For her in store ! "

Gloomy and black are the cypress trees.
And drearily wave in the chill night breeze.
The dark clouds part and the heavens are blue.
Where the trembling stars are shining through,
6

Third Reader.

Slowly across the gleaming sky,

A crowd of white angels are passing by.

Like a fleet of

they float along,

Or the silver

swans
notes of a dying song.

Like a cloud of incense their pinions rise,
Fading away up the purple skies.
But liush ! for the silent glory is stirred
Bv a strain such as earth has never heard :

*' Open, O Heaven ! we bear her,
This gentle maiden mild,
Earth's grief we gladly spare her,
From earthly joys we tear her,

Still undefiled ;
And to thine arms we bear her,
Thine own, thy child.

" Open, O Heaven ! no morrow
Will see this joy o'ercast ;
No pain, no tears, no sorrow,
Her gentle heart will borrow ;

Sad life is past ;
Shielded and safe from sorrow,

i^t home at last."

But the vision faded, and all was still
On the purple valley and distant hill.
No sound was there save the wailing breeze,
The rain, and the rustling cypress trees.

— Adelaide Anue Procter (by permission of the Publishers).

A wicked intention destroys the good which we do, and
a good intention is not sufficient to excuse the evil which it
produces. —St. Bernard,

Acres of Turtle-Eggs.

XXXV. ACRES OF TURTLE-EGGS.

One pleasant evenintj^, a few years ago, a young lad
and an Indian guide landed from a canoe on a great
baidv of sand tliat extended for miles along the river
AuiMZon. Here tliey made preparations for passing the
night. A heap of dry driftwood was collected, and a
large fire kindled to keep oft* the wild beasts that haunt
those savage shores. Tlie travellers were to keep watch
in turn.

The lad, whose turn came first, seating himself upon a
pile of sand that he had gathered up, did his best to keep
awake. But in about an hour he fell into a nap, from
which he was awakened by sliding down the sand-hill,
and tumbling over on his side. He arose and rubbed his
eyes. He then looked around to see if any creature had
ventured near.

He had scarcely turned his liead when he perceived a
pair of e3^es glancing at him from the other side of the
fire. Close to tliem he saw another pair, then another,
and another, until, having looked on every side, he saw
himself surrounded by a complete circle of glittering
eyes ! It is true they were small eyes, and some of the
heads which he could see by the blaze were small. They
had an ugly look, like the heads of serpents.

Brought suddenly to his feet, the lad stood for some
moments uncertain how to act, as he felt that a move-
ment on his part would be the signal for attack.

He now saw that the snake-like heads were attached
to large oval bodies, and that, besides the half-hundred
or 60 that surrounded the tire, there were whole droves

riiiKD Reader.

upon the sandy beacli bej^ond. As far as he could see on
all sides, the white surface was literally covered with
black moving masses ; and where the rays of the moon
fell upon the beach, there was a broad belt that (glistened
and sparkled, like pieces of glass in constant motion. A
singular sight it was, and most fearful. For his life he
could not make out what it meant, or by what sort of
wild creatures he was surrounded.

His view was indistinct; but he could see that their
bodies were not larger tfian those of small sheep; and,
from the way in which they glistened under the moon,
he was sure they were water animals and had come out
of the river. He did not stay to speculate any longer.
He resolved to wake the guide, who started to his feet
in some alarm. The noise and movements had their
effect on the nocturnal visitors ; for, before the lad could
explain himself, those creatures innnediately round the
fire, and for some distance beyond, rushed to the shore,
and were heard plunging by hundreds into the water.

The Indian's ear caught the sounds, and his eyes, after
ranging along the sandy shore, took in at a glance the
whole thing.

"Turtles," he said.

" Oh," said the young man ; " turtles, is it ? "

"Yes, master," replied the guide. "This is, I suppose,
one of their great hatching places. They are going to
lay their eggs in the sand. They do so every year."

These large turtles assemble from all parts of the
river. Each one of these armies chooses for itself a place
to breed — some sandy island or great sand-bank. This
they approach very cautiously, reconnoitering it with

Acres of Turtle-Eggs.

ith

)on

[led

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01 r

only their heads above water. They then crawl ashore
at night in vast ninltitiides, and each turtle, with the
strong crooked claws of her hind feet, digs a hole in the
sand three feet in diameter and two feet deep. In this
she deposits her eggs — from seventy to one liundred and
twenty in number — white, hard-shelled, and in size be-
tween the egg of a pigeon and that of a hen.

She then covers the whole with sand, levelling the toj:)
to make it look like the rest of the surface, so that the
precious treasure may not be found by vultures, jaguars,
or any other beasts of prey. When this is done, the
labor of the turtle is at an end. The great army betakes
itself to the water, and scatters in every direction. The
sun, acting upon the hot sand, does the I'est ; and in less
than six weeks the young turtles, about one inch in
diameter, crawl out of the sand and at once find their
way to the watei*.

They are afterwards seen in shallow pools or' lakes far
irom the place where they were hatched. How they
find these pools, or whether the mothers distinguish their
own young and con<luct them thither, as do crocodiles
and allio-ators, no one knows. An old female turtle is
frequently seen swimming with as many as a hundred
little ones after her. It would seem impossil)le that each
turtle-mother should know her own young; yet there
may be some maternal instinct that guides her to distin-
guish her own oftspring from all the rest. Who can say?

— Mayne Bcid.

Let us gather up the sunbeams
Lying all around our path ;

Let us keep the wlieat and roses,
Casting out the thorns and chaff.

Third Header.

fit.

XXXVI.— THE FIRST SNOW-FALL.

The snow had begun in the gloaming,

And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway

With a silence deep and white.

Every pine, and fir, and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,

And the poorest twig on the elm tree
Was ridged inch -deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
Came Chanticleer's umtiied crow ;

The stiff rails were softened to swan's down.
And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,

And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn,
Where a little headstone stood,

How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,

Saying, "Father, who makes it snow I"

And I told of the good All Father
Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snow-fall,
And thought of the leaden sky

That arched o'er our first great sorrow.
When vhat mound was heaped so high.

The Indians at Home. 87

I remeral)ered the gradual patience

That fell from that cloud-like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding

The scar of our deep-plunged woe.

And again to the child I wliispered,

''The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father

Alone can make it fall."

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her ;

And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister.

Folded close under deepening snow.

— James JRussell Loivell.

XXXVII.— THE INDIANS AT HOME.

When the Indian chiefs and their braves were away
on the war-path they very seldom took their wives and
children with them. The families remained at home
in tV>e camps or villages, the squaws with the little
babies, and the young boys and girls, all living together
very happily, while their husbands, fathers or brothers
were absent on their terrible raids.

No doubt the young boys of the camp looked with
longing eyes after the warriors in war-paint and feathers,
wishing that they, too, might go alonij. Yet the life of
an Indian boy or girl of long ago was a very happy life.
Indeed to us it seems to have been nothing but a big
picnic, lasting all the year round. There, in the large
clearing bordered with a thick, dark forest of trees, was

rmiii) Reader.

iift.r.'

U-:

the oToup of bark wi^waius wliicli formed their camp or
viUage. Near by might be seen tlie gleam of the waters
of a lake, a river, or a stream. In front of the wigwams
sat the "squaws," busily engaged in making clothes of
skins, shaping moccasins, weaving fish-nets, making
willow wands into baskets, or moulding clay into pots
and kettles.

All around them were the boys and girls merrily
playing, laughing, brown-skinned, happy savages, with-
out a care in the world. They did not need to worry
about school or about lessons, for their only school-room
was the great world ; and tlie only lessons they learned
were those tauglit them by the liowers, the birds, the
trees, and the animals. But how free they were, oirls

The Indians at Home.

as well as boys. The girls were allowed perfect liberty
till tiiey were old enough to help with tin; work of the
camp (for the women do all tlie work in an Indian
camp), or to marry some young brave. So they played
ball together, they fished in the streams, they climbed
tlie trees, they hunted the animals in the woods with
their bows and arrows, they dived like fishes in the cool
waters, they ran long races with one another.

But the Indian boy's great ambition was to be a great
warrior like his father. From the time when as a little
" papoose " he was strapped into liis little wooden box,
and laid at the foot of a tree in the sun, or carried lonji:
miles on his mother's back, his little staring, bead-like
eyes, in a round, copper-colored face, had looked out on
many strange scenes of adventure. He had seen Jiis
father and other braves painting their faces, dancing the
war-dance, screeching the war-whoop, and scalping and
torturing prisoners.

When a young Indian boy grew to be a man, he was
allowed by the custom of his nation to change his name.
He could take a name that told the story of something
he had done, some great deed or wonderful exploit of
strength or courage. Sometimes he took his name from
things around him — mountains, hills, valleys, groves, or
as he loved all animals he could take his name from
them, as did the great Huron chief we read of, who was
called the Rat.

When the Indians returned from their wars or their
attacks on the while people, they very ofteri brought
back prisoners with them. Strange to say they were
usually very kind to all such excepting those whom

Tin III) Readkr.

*i.

they kept to torture. Soiiu'tinios little white children
would be brought in. Tlie Indian mothers received
them very kindly, and they ^lew up with their little
Indian brothers, contented and happy. For the Indians
were not unkind to their children, and very seldom
punished them. When they di<l punish them, it was
usually by throwing water over them.

Sometimes when the white settlers came to claim their
children from the Indians, they could hardly tell their
own white children from the savage ones. One mother
tried in vain to get back her boy, wdio, stolen when a
little child and now grown to be a stalwart brave, clung
more to his Indian motlier than to the strange white
woman, whom he scarcely i*emembered. Another mother
could not get her daughter to remember her until she
started to sing a song she had sung to her as a little
child. Then the girl burst into tears at the sound of
her mother's voice, which she had missed for so long a
time. A young Indian brave had grown to love his
white sister so much that when they took her away
he followed her, glad if lie could lie around the camp
fire at night and watch over her.

The savage red-man was not wholly wild and wicked ;
he was often very kind, noble and true-hearted when
treated fairly by his white brothers.

— Katherine A. Youny (author of " Stones of the Maple Land '^ ).

It is not just as we take it,
This wonderful world of ours ;

Lite's field will yield as we make it,
A harvest of thorns or of flowers.

HlAVVATILi AND THE BlACK-RoBE.

XXXVIII.-HIAWATHA AND THE BLACK-

ROBE.

By the shore of (xitche Gumee,
By the sliiniiig Big-Sea- Water,
At the doorway of his wigwam,
In the pleasant summer morning,
Hiawatha stood and waited.

Towards the sun his hands were lifted,
Both tlie palms spread out against it,
And between the parted fingers
Fell the sunshine on his features,
Flecked with light his naked shoulders
As it falls and flecks an oak-tree
Through tlie rifted leaves and branches.

O'er the water floating, flying,
Through the shining mist of morning.
Came a birch canoe with paddles.
Rising, sinking on the water,
Dripping, flashing in the sunshine.-
And within it came a people
From the farthest realms of morning,
Came the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet,
He, the Priest of Prayer, the Pale-face,
With his guides and his companions.

And the noble Hiawatha,
With his hands aloft extended.
Held aloft in sign of welcome.
Waited, full of exultation,
TiU the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face,
With the cross upon his bosom,
Landed on the sandy margin.

Then the joyous Hiawatha
Cried aloud and spake in this wise :

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Third Reader.

" Beautiful is the sun, O strangers,

When you come so far to see us !

All our town in peace awaits you,

All our doors stand open for yuu ;

You shall enter all our wigwams,

For tlie heart's right hand we give you."

And the Black-Kobe chief made answer,
Stammered in his speech a little,
Speaking words yet unfamiliar :
" Peace be with you, Hiawatha,
Peace be with you and your people,
Peace of prayer, and peace of pardon,
Peace of Christ, and joy of Mary."

All the old men of the village,
All the warriors of the nation,
Came to bid the strangers welcome,
Waiting to receive their message :
"It is well," they said, "O brother,
That you come so far to see us ! "

Then the Black-Ilol)e chief, the prophet.
Told his message to the people,
Told them of the holy Virgin,
And her blessed Son, the Saviour :
How in distant lands and ages
He had lived on earth as we do ;
How he fasted, prayed, and labored ;
How the Jews, the tribe accursed,
Mocked him, scourged him, crucified him ;
How he rose from where they laid him.
Walked again with his disciples,
And ascended into heaven.

And the chiefs made answer, saying :
"We have listened to your message,
We have heard your words of wisdom,
We will t\vr\ on what you tell us."

— Henri/ W. Longfellow,

rii

The Land of the Midnight Sun.

XXXIX.— THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT

SUN.

From tlie last of May to tlie end of July, in the
northern part of the Scandinavian Peninsula, the sun
shines both by day and by night upon the mountains,
the fiords, the rivers, the lakes, the forests, the valleys,
the towns, the villages, the fields, and the farms. For
this reason, Norway and Sweden may be called the Land
of the Midnight Sun. During this period of continuous
daylight, the stars are never seen, the moon appears pale
and sheds no bright light ujwn the earth. Sunnner is
short, giving just time enough for the wild fiowers to
grow, to bloom, and to fade away, and barely time for
the farmer to gather his harvest, wliich all too often is
nipped by a summer frost.

A few weeks after the midnight sun has passed, the
hours of sunshine shorten rapidly, and by the middle of
August the air becomes chilly and the nights colder,
although during the day the sun is still warm. Then
the grass turns yellow, the leaves change color, and
wither and fall ; the swallows fly south ; twilight comes
once more ; the stars one by one make their appearance
shining brightly in the pale blue sky ; the moon shows
itself again as the queen of the night, to light and cheer
the long, dark days of Scandinavian winter. The time
comes at last, when the sun disappears entirely from
sight ; the heavens appear in a blaze of light and glory,
and both moon and stars pale before the aurora borealis.

How great the contrast between winter and summer
in the peninsula of Scandinavia ! In December, in the

Third Reader.

<'r.l *.

far north, a sunless sky hangs over the country; for the
days of continuous sunshine in summer, there are now as
many days without the sun appearing above the horizon.
During tliat time, even at the end of December, which is
the darkest period, one can read in clear weather from
eleven o'clock in the morning until one o'clock in the
afternoon without artificial light ; but if it is cloudy, or
the snow is falling, lamps are needed. Tlie moon takes
the place of the sun, the stars shine briglit, the atmos-
phere is pure and clear, and the sky is very blue. The
aurora sends its flashes and streamers of light high up
towards the zenith, presenting a spectacle never to be
forgotten. I have travelled in n>any lands, and within
the tropics, but have never seen such glorious nights as
those of winter in the Land of the Midniglit Sun.

The long twilights which, fartlier south, blend the
evening and the morning into one, are here succeeded by
long dark nights, and short days. All nature seems to
be in deep repose; the gurgling brook is silent; the
turbulent streams are frozen ; the waves of the lakes
upon which the summer sun had played, strike no more
on the pebbled shores ; long crystal icicles hang from the
mountain sides and ravines ; tlie rocks upon which the
water dripped in summer appear like sheets of glass.
The land is clad in a mantle of snow, and the pines are
the winter jewels of the landscape. Day after day, the
atmosphere is so still that not a breath of wind seems to
pass over the hills ; but suddenly, these periods of repose
are succeeded by dark and threatening skies, and violent
tempests. On the Norwegian Coast fearful and terrific
storms lash the sea with fury, breaking the waves into a
thousand fragments on the ragged, rocky shores. Under

NPP

The Land of the Midnight Sun.

the fierce winds, the pines bend their heads, the moun-
tain snow is swept away with blinding force, and roads
and houses are buried beneatii its drifts.

Summer is the best season in which to visit the cities
of Scandinavia. The month of June, especially the last
two weeks, is the most pleasant time of the year. Rich
and poor pass then* leisure hours in the open air, and in
the afternoons and evenings the pleasure gardens and
parks are thronged with people.

The breaking up of tlie long w^inter opens the ice

blockade to the north, and at lirst the docks are lively

with the loading and re-loading of vessels bound for

ports of the Baltic and other European ports of all

nations. The longest days in the south of Sweden have

come. The sun rises in Stockholm from the seventeenth

to the twenty-first of June at a quarter to three in the

morning, and sets about a quarter after nine in the

evening. For many days there is no darkness, and only

about three hours of twilight. After that the days

shorten gradually, minute by minute, until September,

when in this latitude the sun rises at six in the morning

and sets at five in the evening.

— Paul Du Chaillu, from " The. Land of the Midnight Sun "

(by permission of the Publishers).

A mother's love — how sweet the name !

What is a mother's love 1
A noble, pure, and tender flame,

Enkindled from above,
To bless a heart of earthly mould ;
The warmest love that can't grow cold ;

This is a mother's love. —J. Montgomery.

!'l

;

96 Third Reader.

XL.~OH! BALMY AND BRIGHT.

Oh ! balmy and bright as moonlit night,
• Is the love of our Blessed Mother ;
It lies like a beam
Over life's cold stream,
And life knows not such another.
Oh, life knows not such another !

The month of May with a grace a day
Shines bright with our Blessed Mother;

The angels on high

In the glorious sky,
Oh, they know not such another.
Nay, they know not such another !

The angels' Queen, the beautiful Queen,
Is the sinner's patient mother ;
With pardon and peace
And the soul's release,
Where shall we find such another?
Where shall we find such another?

O Mary's Heart, the Immaculate Heart,

The Heart of the Saviour's Mother ;

All heaven shows bright

In its clear, sweet light

God hath not made such another,

God hath not made such another.

But Mary's love, her plentiful love,
Lives not in earthly mother;
'Twill show us at last.
When the strife is past,
Our merciful God as our Brother,
Our merciful God as our Brother !

The Legend on the Locket.

XLL— THE LEGEND ON THE LOCKET.

I was in my first sleep when the sound of the door-
bell awakened nie, whereupo)i I sprang from my bed,
and, after a hurried preparation, hastened to throw open
the door.

It was a bitter cold night in January, and without,
the moon threw its pale light over the wan and spectral
snow-covered landscape. The sharp gust that swept
into the *hall as I opened the door made me pity the
delicate-looking child who stood at the threshold.

Her hair gleamed with a strange and rare effect in the
moonlight, long golden hair that fell in graceful ripples
about her shoulders. She was lightly dressed, this little
child, as she stood gazing straight and frankly into my
eyes with an expression at once so beautiful and calm
and earnest that I shall never forget it.

Her face was very pale, her complexion of the fairest.
The radiance about her hair seemed to glow in some
weird yet indescribable fashion upon her every feature.

These details I had not fairly taken in when she
addressed me :

" Father, can you come with me at once ? My mother
is dying, and she is in trouble."

"Come inside, my little girl," I said, "and warm your-
self. You must be half frozen."

"Indeed, Father, I am not in the least cold." I had
thrown on my coat and hat as she made answer.

" Your mother's name, my child ? "

ri^

Third Reader.

iih

" Catharine Morgan, Father ; she's a widow, and has
lived like a saint. And now that she's dying, she is in
awful trouble. She was taken sick a few hours ago."

" Where does she live ? "

"Two miles from here, Father, on the border of the
Great Swamp; she is a stranger in these parts, and
alone. I know the way perfectly ; you need not be
afraid of getting lost."

A few minutes later we were tramping through the
snow, or rather I was tramping ; for the child beside me
moved with so slight and tender a step, that had there
been flowers instead of snow-flakes beneath our feet I
do not think a single petal would have been crushed
under the airy fall of her fairy feet.

Her hand was in mine with the confiding clasp of
childhood. Her face, for all the trouble that was at
home, wore a gravely serene air, such as is seldom seen
in years of sprightly, youthful innocence.

How beautiful she looked ! more like a creature fresh
from the perfect handiwork of God than one who walked
in the valley of sin, and sorrow, and trouble, and death.

Upon her bosom I observed a golden locket fashioned
in the shape of a heart.

She noticed my glance, and with a quick movement of
her fingers released the locket and handed it to me.

"It's a heart," I said.

" Read what's on it. Father."

" I can't, my little friend ; my eyes are very good, but
are not equal to making out reading on gold lockets by
moonlight." •

The Legend on the Locket.

"Just let iiie hold it for you, Father — now look."

How this mite contrived, I cannot say ; but certain it
is, that at once, as she held the locket at a certain angle,
there stood out clearly, embossed upon its surface, the
legend —

" Cease ! tJte Heart of Jesus is ivitli vie."

" Manuiia placed that upon my bosom one year ago,
when I was very sick, Father." And kissing the locket,
the child restored it to its place.

We went on for a time in silence. I carried the
Blessed Sacrament with me ; and, young as she was, the
girl seemed to appreciate this fact. Whenever I glanced
at her, I observed her lips moving as in prayer, and her
eyes seemed, in very truth, fixed upon the "^lace where
rested in His sacramental veil the Master or -.ife and of
Death.

Suddenly the girl's hand touched my sleeve — oh, so
gently !

" This is the place. Father," she said in soft tones that
thrilled me as they broke upon the stillness ; and she
pointed to a little hut standing back in the dim shadows
of three pine trees.

I pushed open the door, which hung loosely upon its
hinges, and turned to await her entrance. She was gone.
Somewhat startled, I was peering out into the pallid
night, when a groan called me to the bedside of the
dvinir woman.

A glance told me there was no time to lose. The
woman lying in that room had hardly reached middle
life, but the hand of Death had touched her brow, upon

100

Third Reader.

which stood the drops of sweat, and in her face I read a
great trouble.

I was at lier side in an instant ; and, God be thanked
for it, soon cahned and (|uieted the poor creature. She
made her confession, and in sentiments of faith and love
such as I have rarely seen, received the last Sacraments
of the Church.

Standing beside her, I suggested those little prayers
and devices so sweet and consoling at the dread hour. I
noticed, as the time passed on, that her eyes frequently
turned towards a little box at the farther end of the
room.

" Shall I bring you that box ? " I asked.

Slie nodded assent. •

On placing it beside her, she opened it with trembling
hands and took out the dress of a child.

"Your little daughter's dress ? " I said.

She whispered, and there was love in her tones : " My
darling Edith's."

"I know her," I continued. "She brought me liere,
you know."

I stopped short and caught my breath. The woman
half rose in her bed ; she looked at me in wonder that
cannot be expressed. I, no less amazed, was staring at a
golden, heart-shaped locket fastened to the bosom of the
child's dress which the woman was holding in her hands.

" Madam," I cried, " in the name of God, tell me, where
is your daughter ? Whose is that locket ? "

" The locket is Edith's. I placed it here on the bosom
of her dress when my little girl lay dying a year ago.

Napoleon and the En(;lish Sailor Boy. 101

Tlie last tiling my darling (lid was to hold this locket to
her lips and say :

' Cease! the Heart of Jesus is with me.'

She died a year ago.**

Then the mother's face grew very sweet and very
ra<liant.

Still holding the locket in her hands, she fixed her
eyes straixjfht before her.

"Edith, my dear Edith, we are at last to be united in
the Sacred Heart. I see yon, my darling : * Cease ! the
Heart of Jesus is with me.'"

With the last syllable her voice faded into silence.

Edith and she were again united.

— Fathn- Finn.

XLII.— NAPOLEON AND THE ENGLISH

SAILOR BOY.

'Twas when his banners at Boulogne
Armed in our island every freeman ;

His navy chanced to capture one
Poor British seaman.

They suffered hiin — I know not how —
Uuprisoned on the shore to roam ;

And aye was Ijent his longing brow
On England's home.

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight
Of birds to Britain half-way over,

With envy — they could reach the white,
Dear cliffs of Dover.

I I

102 Thihd "Reader.

A stormy TTiidni<j;ljt watcli, he tlioucflit,

Than this sojourn would hav(i })een dearer,

If but the storm his vessel brought
To England nearer.

At last, wlien care had ])anishpd sleep,
He saw one in()rnin«ij — dreaming — doting,

An empty hogshead from the deep
Come shoreward floating.

He hid it in a cave, and wrought
The li vehmg day laborious ; lurking

Until he launched a tiny boat
By mighty working.

Heaven help us ! 'twas a thing beyond
Description wretched : such a wherry

Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond,
Or crossed a ferry.

For ploughing in the salt sea field,

It would have made the boldest shudder ;

Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled,
No sail — no rudder !

From neighl)oring woods he interlaced

His sorry skifi' with wattled willows ;
And thus equipped he would have passed

The foaming billows.

But Frenchmen caught him on the beach,
His little Argo sorely jeering ;

Till tidings of him chanced to reach
Napoleon's hearing.

NAPOLt')N AND THE li^NGLISlI SaILOH BoY. 10^^

With folded arms Napoleon stood,

Serene alike in peace and danger,
And in his wonted attitude

Addressed the stranger :

" Rash man, that wouldst yon channel pass
On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned !

Thy heart with some sweet British lass
Must be impassioned."

"I have no sweetheart," said the lad ;

" But, absent long from one another,
Great was the longing that I had

To see my mother."

" And so thou shalt ! " Napoleon said ;

" YeVe both my favor fairly won ;
A noble mother must have bred

So brave a son."

He gave the tar a piece of gold.

And with a flag of truce commanded

He should be shipped to England Old,
And safely landed.

Our sailor oft could scantily shift

To find a dinner plain and hearty ;

But never changed the coin and gift

Of Bonaparte.

— Thomas Campbell.

When St. Aloysius was a^^ school he never sought to excuse
himself when he was reproached with anything. If he was
wrong, he was wrong ; if he was right, he said to himself : " I
have certainly been wrong some other time."

104

Third Reader.

' 'S,,

XLIII.— CHASE OF THE PET FAWN.

A pretty little fawn had been brought in from the
woods when very young and nursed and petted until it
had become perfectly tame. It was graceful as those
little creatures always are, and so gentle and playful
that it became a great favorite.

One morning after gamboling about, ns usual, until
weary, it threw itself down in the sunshine, at the feet
of one of its friends, upon the door-step of a store.
There came along a countryman, who lor several years
had been a hunter, and who still kept several hounds,
one of which came witii him to the village on this
occasion.

The dog, as it approached the spot where the fawn
lay, suddenly stopped. The little animal saw him and
sprang to its feet. Notwithstanding it had lived more
than half its life among the dogs of tlie village, and had
apparently lost all fear of them, yet it seemed now to
know instinctively that an enemy was at haiid.

In an instant a change cam-' over it ; it was the
rousing of instinct in that beautiful creature. Its whole
ch-^racter and appearance seemed changed; all its habits
were forgotten, every wild impulse was awake; its head
erect, its nostrils dilated, its eye flashing.

In another instant, before the spectators had tliought
of danger, before its friends could secure it, the fawn
was leaping wildly through the street, and the hound
in full pursuit. The bystanders were eager to save it.
Several persons instantly followed its track. The

Chase of the Pet Fawn.

105

friends wlio had long fed and fondled it v/ere calling the
name it had hitherto known, Lnt in vain.

The hunter endeavored to call back his dog, but with
no better success. In half a minute the fawn had
turned the first corner, dashed onward toward the lake
and thrown itself into the water. For a moment the
startled creature believed itself safe in the cool bosom
of the lake, but it was soon undeceived. The hound
followed in hot and eager chase, while a dozen village
dogs joined blindly in pui-suit.

A crowd collected on the bank — men, women and
children — anxious for the fate of the little animal.
Some jumped into boats, hoping to intercept the hound
before he reached his prey. The splashing of the oars,
the eager voices of the men and boys, and the barking of
the dogs, must have filled the beating heart of the poor
fawn with terror and anguish, as though every creature,
where it once had been caressed and fondled, had
suddenly turned into a deadly foe.

It was soon seen that the little animal w^as directing
its course across a bay toward the nearest borders of the
forest, and immediately the owner of the hound crossed
the bridge, running at full speed in the same direction,
hoping to stop his dog as he landed. On swam the
fawn, as it never swam before, its delicate head scarcely
seen above the water, but leaving a disturbed track,
which betrayed its course alike to anxious friends and
fierce enemies.

As it approached the land, the excitement became
intense. The hunter was already on the same side of
the lake, calling loudly and angrily to his dog, but the

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Third Reader.

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animal seemed to have quite forgotten liis master's voice
in the pitiless pursuit. The fawn touched the land ; in
one leap it crossed the line of beach, and in another
instant it was in the woods.

The hound followed, true to the scent, aiming at the
same spot on the shore. His master, anxious to meet
him, had run at full speed and was now coming up at a
most critical moment. Would the dog hearken to his
voice, or could the hunter reach him in time to seize and
control him ?

A shout from the villagers proclaimed tliat the fawn
had passed out of sight into tlie forest ; at the same
instant, the hound, as he touched the land, felt tlie
hunter's strong arm clutching his neck. The worst was
believed to be over; the fawn was leaping up tlie moun-
tain side, and its enemy under restraint. The other
dogs, seeing their leader cowed, were easily managed.

A number of men and boys dispersed themselves
through the wood in search of their favorite ; but with-
out success. They returned to the village, reporting
that the animal liad not been seen by them. Some
persons thought tliat after its fright had passed over, it
would return of its own accord.

It had worn a pretty collar, with its owner's name
engraved upon it, so that it could be easily known from
any other fawn that might be straying about the woods.
Before many hours had passed, a hunter presented him-
self to the lady whose pet the little creature had been,
and showed a collar with her name upon it.

He said that he had been out in the woods and saw a
fawn in the distance ; the little a;nimal instead of bound-

St. Patrick.

107

ing away, as he liad expected, moved toward him, and he

took aim, fired, and sliot it to the lieart. When he

found the collar about its neck, he was very sorry that

he had killed it. Thus the poor thing lost its life. One

would have thought that such a terrible chase would

have made it afraid of man ; but no, it forgot the evil

and remembered the kindness only, and came to meet as

a friend the hunter who shot it.

— Cooper.

XLIV.-ST. PATRICK.

Full steep uprose the grassy hill,
And steep it downward fell ;

Sparkling, amid the moss and fern,
Sprang forth a crystal well.

Above, the branching trees so green,
Below, the lake's clear wave.

Where luirror'd lie the mountains dark,
Whose feet its water's lave.

There stands, in solemn, earnest speech,

A man of awful brow,
Upon whose words do listening hang,

Crowds, trembling, weeping now.

Crowds, wild, untaught, of savage eye,
Untamed and fierce of mc.od ;

The wild deer's hi<le, or war wolf's skin,
Their vesture scant and rude,

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Third Reader.

He speaks — that stern, yet winning man,

Of Jesus' saving hlood,
That stream'd on Calvary's dark niount

From off tlie cruel rood.

He telleth of our Lady dear,

Whose love is ever nigli ;
Of heavenly hosts that us do aid

With holy prayers on high.

He telleth of Home's city, where

Christ's vicar reigns in might ;
Of golden key St. Peter left,

To ope heaven's portal bright.

At touch of holy, cleansing flood,

How sin and hell do flee ;
How the dear feast of Jesus' Blood

Is spread for such as we.

Of sin he speaketh, and the tears

Stain many a rugged cheek ;
Of pardoning grace — that grace to share

Soon eager crowds do seek.

Still eager press they on, to where

Springs forth the crystal well ;
Ah, Christ ! what child-like souls were there

On whom Thy blessing fell.

The blessing theirs, of who believe

Without or touch or sight ;
O Lord ! forgive our harden'd hearts,

Where sinful pride hath might !

St. Patrick.

Give us a miracle, we say,

And then we will believe ,
Ah ! were but ours the humble faith,

Tha'.) will heaven's grace receive.

Sparkled the morning dew, while rose
~ The sun o'er lake and fell.
When the Saint his holy work began,
By that clear mountain well.

Press on the crowds, and press yet more
The cleansing grace to share ;

For heaven's garners gather'd there
A liar vest rich and fair.

Fell o'er the grassy slope the dew

Of sultry sunnuer's e'en ;
Red o'er the lake did set the sun,

Ere done that work, I ween .

Parted the Saint — 'mid tear and prayer-
Far o'er the salt sea-wave ;

But budded forth the seed he sow'd
Here, and beyond the grave.

And when — his life's toil o'er — to die,

Weary he laid him down ;
A bright array he found on high,

Of gems to grace his crown.

109

.>!

He that is good at making excuses is seldom good at any-
tliing else.

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IJO Third Ueaoer.

XLV.— THE TWO HERD BOYS.

Two boys named Otto and Hans used to spend most
of tlieir time taking care of small herds of cows. There
was a deep liollow between the pastures situated on the
side of a mountain in Germany. One day, rambling
around, I came upon them, and met Otto first, for he was
nearer the town where I was staying.

"How much," I asked him, "do you get for taking
care of tlie cattle ? "

" I am to have four dollars for the whole summer," he
answered. " But it doesn't go to me ; it is for father. I
make more money by knitting, and that's for my winter
clothes. Since the cattle know me so well, I have only
to talk and they mind me ; and that, you see, gives me
plenty of time to knit."

"I see," I said; "it is a very good arrangement. I
suppose the cattle over on the other pasture don't know
their boy? He has not got them out of the woods yet."

" Yes, they know him," said Otto, " and that's the
reason they slip away. But then cattle mind some
persons better than others; I've seen that much." Here
he stopped, and seemed anxious to do as much knitting
as possible.

Not bad I thought for a boy of twelve. And I
i-esolved to pay the other lad a visit. I found him
walking along the mountain side with his eyes fixed on
the ground.

The cattle were no doubt acquainted with his ways,
and they began immediately to move tow^ards the forest.

The Two Heud Bovs.

Ill

"You don't keep a very good watch, my boy !" I said.
" Have you lost something ? "

He replied that he had not, and that he was not
looking for anything. But his manner as well as his
restless look convinced me that he was searching for
somethintr real or fancied.

I crossed over to Otto, who was as busy and cheerful
as ever.

" Otto," said I, " do you know what Hans is hunting
all over the pasture ? Has he lost anything ? "

" No," Otto answered, " he has not lost anything, and I
don't believe he will find anything, either. But Hans is
looking, sir, for wdiat the shepherd found about here a
great many hundred years ago. '

" What is that ? " I asked.

" He is looking for the key-flower, sir," was the boy's
reply.

" I wish you would tell me all about it," I said.

" Well," he began, " some say it was true, and some
tliat it wasn't. At any rate a long, long while ago a
shepherd walking along after his sheep saw a wonderful
flower, the like of which he had never seen before. He
stooped down and plucked it ; but just as he was taking
it up he saw a door in the side of a mountain.

"So in he went. After forty or fifty steps he found
himself in a large hall full of chests of gold and
diamonds. There was an old goblin with a white beard
sitting in a chair beside a large table in the middle of
the hall.

" The shepherd w'as at first frightened, but the goblin

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Third Reader.

looked at liim with a friendly air and said, 'Take what
you want, and don't forget the best.'

" So the sheplierd kiid the flower on the table and
then filled his pockets with gold and diamonds. When
he had as much as his pockets would hold, the goblin
said again, * Don't forgot the best.' The shepherd then
filled his hat, and started away staggering undor his
heavy load. As he was leaving the hall, and again as
he reached the door on the mountain side, the goblin's
warning reached his ear, * Don't forget the best.'

"The next minute he was out on the pasture. When
he looked around the door had disappeared ; his pockets
and hat grew light all at once, and instead of gold and
diamonds he found nothing but dry leaves and pebbles.
He was as poor as ever, and all because he had forgotten
the best.

" Now, sir, do you know what the best was ? Why it
was the flower which he had left on the table in the
goblin's hall. That was the key-flower. When you And
it and pull it, the door is open to all the treasures under
ground."

As I walked down the mountain and thought of these
two boys, I said to myself : There is a key-flower still
growing here, and Otto has found it. Hans forgets the
best all the time. Otto, happy and contented, does not
work half so hard knitting as Hans does hunting for his
flower. When the fall comes and the wages are paid
Otto has gold which does not turn to leaves. And in
his cheerful contentment he has more than gold and
diamonds. And I thought again, how many a bne has
a key-flower in every circumstance of life, L.id yet we
so often forget the best. -

A Swarm of Locusts.

113

XLVL— THE SCULPTOR BOY.

Chisel in hand stood a sculptor boy,

With his marble block before him,
And his face lit up with a smile of joy

As an angel dream passed o'er him.
He carved that dream on yielding stone

With many a sharp incision ;
In Heaven's own light the sculptor —

He had caught that angel vision.

Sculptors of life are we, as we stand

With our lives uncarved before us,
Waiting the hour, when, at God's command,

Our life-dream passes o'er us.
Let us carve it, then, on the yielding stone.

With many a sharp incision ;
Its heavenly beauty shall be our own —

Our lives that angel vision.

XLVIL— A SWARM OF LOCUSTS.

Hendrik Von Bloom, one of the Dutch settlers of Cape
Colony, in Africa, had removed to the interior, among
the Bushmen. Here he had a farm, covered with
promising crops. One day, while he was in the field,
he saw along the lower part of the sky what appeared
to be a dun-colored mist or smoke, as if the plain at a
great distance was on fire. Could that be so? Had
some one fired the bushes ? Or was it a cloud of dust ?

He continued to gaze at the strange phenomenon,
8

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tLi

114

Third Readeu.

which seemed to be rising hi<;hor in the sky — now
resembling dust, now like the smoke of a wide-spreading
conflagration, and now like a rcMldish cloud. It was in
the west, and alin^ady the setting sun was obscured by it.
It had passed over the sun's disk lik" a scr"en, and his
light no longer fell upon tlie plain. Was it the fore-
ruiuier of some terrible storm ?

All at once the (hirk-red mass seemed to envelop the
cattle r.pon the plain, and they could be seen running to
and fro, as if afl righted. The voice of Swart])oy, a
Bushman who lived with Vun Bloom, could now be
heard crying out, " The locusts ! the locusts ! the
locusts!" Swartboy knew them well. Although he
announced their approach in a states of great excitement,
it was the excitement of joy; for the Bushmen eat the
locusts with the greatest avidity.

The children laughed, clapped their hands, and waited
with curiosity until tlie locusts should come nearer. All
had heard enough of locusts to know that they were
only grasshop})ers, which neither bite nor stir:; Even
Von Bloom himself was at first very little concerned
about them. But suddenly his eye rested upon his fields
of maize and buckwheat, upon his garden of melons and
fruits and vegetables. A new alarm seized him. All
his crops were threatened with utter destruction.

He stood watching the flight with painful emotions.
But as the swarm was full half a mile distant, and
appeared to be coming no nearer, he still had some hope.
His countenance grew brighter. The children noticed
this, and were glad, but said nothing. All stood silently
watching. The swarm kept extending to the south ; in

A SwAHM OF Locusts.

115

fact, it now stretclied along tlie wliole western horizon,
and was gradually getting lower down; that is, its upper
edge was sinking in the heavens.

Were the locusts p^issing off to the west ? No. " They
are going to roost for the night. Now we will get them
in bagfuls," said Swartboy, with a pleased look. The
sun had set. The cool breeze weakened the wings of the
insect travellers, and they were compelled to halt for the
night upon the trees, bushes, and grass. In a few
minutes the dark mist that had hidden the blue rim of
the sky was seen no more ; but the distant plain looked
as if a fire had swept over it.

Von Bloom and his companions then went to take a
nearer view. On approaching the locusts they beheld a
singular sight. The ground was covered with these
reddish-brown creatures, in some spots to the depth of
several inches. On the low bushes they were clustered
on the leaves and branches, like swarms of bees. Not a
leaf or blade of grass tliat was not covered with them.
They moved not, but remained as if torpid or asleep.
The heavy dews loaded their wings, and the cold of the
evening had deprived them of the power of flight.

Von Bloom slept but little that night. Anxiety kept
him awake. When the first ray of light appeared he
rushed out. A strong breeze was blowing from the
west ! He had no longer any hope of escaping the
terrible visitation. Half an hour afterwards the sun
rose in African splendor, and its hot rays warmed the
hosts of locusts into life and activity. They began to
crawl about; and then, as if by one impulse, myriads
rose in the air. The breeze drove them in the direction
of the devoted fields.

11()

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TiiiKD Reader.

I' i

In a fuw minutes they were dropping by tens of
thousands upon tlie tieldH. Slow was their flight, and
gentle their descent ; and they presented the appearance
of a shower of black snow falling in large, feathery
flakes. Soon the ground was completely covered ; every
stalk of maize, every plant and bush, carried its hun-
dreds. The great flight having now passed eastward
of the house, the sun was again hidden by them, as if
eclipsed .

At the end of two hours Von Bloom looked forth.
The thickest of the flight had passed. The sun was
again shining — but on what ? No longer on green flelds
and a flowery garden. Around the house, on every side,
was black desolation. Not a blade of grass, not a leaf,
could be seen. The very bark was stripped from the
trees, which now stood as if withered by the hand of
God ! A fire sweeping the ground could not have left it
more naked and desolate. His house stood in the midst
of a desert.

— Mayne Beid.

There's a wideness in God's mercy,
Like the wideness of the sea :

There's a kindness in His justice,
Which is more than liberty.

There is no place where earth's sorrows
Are more felt than up in Heaven ;

There is no place where earth's failings
Have such kindly judgment given.

Jack Frost.

117

XLVIII.-JACK FROST.

The Frost looked forth on a 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,
That make such a bustle and noise in vain ;

But I'll be as busy as they ! "

So he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest ;
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed
With diamonds and pearls ; 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 window 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 and temples and towers ; and these

All pictured in silvery sheen !

— Hannah F. Gould.

A great French preacher used to say that he required for
his happiness three things : (1) God ; (2) a friend ; and (3)
books.

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Third Readeu.

XLIX.— THE PASSION OF OUR LORD

JESUS CHRIST.

Part I.

When Jesus had said these things, he went forth with
his disciples over the brook Cedron, where there was a
garden, into which he entered with liis discip ^s.

And Jnchis also, wlio betrayed him, knew the place:
because Jesus had often resorted thither together with
his disciples.

Judas therefore having received a band of soldiers,
and servants from the chief priests and the Pharisees,
cometli thither with lanterns and torches and weapons.

Jesus therefore knowing all uhings that should come
upon him, went forth, and said to them : Whom seek ye?
They answered him: Jesus of Nazareth. Jesus saith
to them : I am he. And Judas also, who betrayed him,
stood with them. A^ soon therefore as he had said to
them : I am he : they went backward, and fell to the
ground.

Aofain therefore he asked them : Whom seek ye ? And
they said : Jesus oi' Nazareth. Jesus an.swered, I have
told you, that I am he. If therefore you seek me, let
tliese go their way. That the word might be fulfilled,
which he .said : Of thenv wlu^m thou hast given me, I
have not lost any one. Then Simon Peter having a
sword, drew it; and struck the servant of the high-
pi'iest, and cut off his right ear. And the name of the
servant was Malchus. Jesus therefore said to Peter:
Put up thy sword into the scabbard. The chalice which
my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it ?

Descent from the Cross.

119

120

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Third Reader.

Tlicn tlie band and the tribune, and the servants of
the Jews, took Jesus, and bound him : And they led him
away to Annas first, for he was father-in-law to Caiphas,
who was the high-priest of that year. Now Caiphas
was he w^ho had given the counsel to the Jews, that it
was expedient that one man should die for the people.

And Simon T iter followed Jesus, and so did another
disciple. And ti *i.t disciple was known to the high-
priest, and went in with Jesus into the court of the
high-priest. But Peter stood at the door without. The
other disciple therefore who was known to the high-
priest, went out, and spoke to the portress, and brought
in Peter. The maid therefore that was portress, saith to
Peter : Art not thou also one of this man's disciples ? He
saith : I am not.

Now the servants and ministers stood at a fire of coals,
because it was cold, and warmed themselves. And with
them was Peter also standing, warming himself. The
high -priest therefore asked Jesus of his disciples, and
of his doctrine. Jesus answered him : I have spoken
openly to the world : I have always taught in the syna-
gogue, and in the temple, whither all the Jews resort;
and in secret I have spoken nothing. Why askest thou
me ? ask them who have heard what I have spoken
unto them : behold they know what things I have said.

And when he had said these things, one of the ser-
vants standing by gave Jesus a blow, saying : Answerest
thou the high-priest so ? Jesus answered him : If I have
spoken evil, give testimony of the evil : but if well, why
strikes t thou me ?

And Annas sent him bound to Caiphas the high-priest.

The Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ. 121

And Simon Peter was standing, and warming himself.
They said therefore to liini : Art not thou also one of his
disciples ? He denied it, and said : I am not. One of the
servants of the high-priest (a kinsman to him whose ear
Peter cut off) saith to him : Did I not see thee in the
garden with him ? Again therefore Peter denied : and
immediately the cock crew. Then they led Jesus from
Caiphas to the governor's hall. And it was morning:
and they went not into the hall, that they might not be
defiled, but that they might eat the Pasch.

Pilate therefore went out to them, and said : What
accusation bring you against this man ? They answered
and said to him : If he were not a malefactor, we would
not have delivered him up to thee. Pilate therefore said
to them : Take him you, and judge him according to
your law. The Jews therefore said to him : It is not
lawful for us to put any man to death. That the word
of Jesus might be fulfilled which he said, signifying
what death he should die.

Pilate therefore went into the hall again, and called
Jesus, and said to him : Art thou the king of the Jews ?
Jesus answered : Sayest thou this thing of thyself, or
have others told it thee of me ? Pilate answered : Am I
a Jew ? Thy own nation and the chief priests have
delivered thee up to me : what hast thou done ? Jesus
answered: My kingdom is not of this world. If my
kingdom were of this world, my servants would certainly
strive that I should not be delivered to the Jews : but
now my kingdom is not from hence. Pilate therefore
said to him: Art thou a king then? Jesus answered:
Thou sayest, that I am a king. For this was I born, and

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Thikd Reader.

for this came T into tlie world : tliat I hIiouM give testi-
mony to the truth. Every one tluit is of the truth,
heareth my voice. Pihite saith to him : What is trutli ?

And wlien lie said this he went out again to the Jews,
and saith to them: I find no cause in him. But you
have a custom that I should release one unto you at the
pasch : will you therefore that I release unto you the
king of the Jews ? Then cried they all again, saying :
Not this man, but Barabbas. Now Barabbas was a
robber.

— St. John xoiii

L.— GIVE ME THY HEART.

With echoing stepf% the worshippers

Departed one by one :
The organ's pealing voice was stilled,

The vesper liymn was done ;
The shadows fell from roof and arch,

Dim was the incensed air,
One lamp alone with treml)ling ray,

Told of the r'resence there !

In the dark church she knelt alone;

Her tears were falling fast ;
" Help, Lord," she cried, " the shadows of death

Upon my soul are cast !
Have I not shunned the p.ath of sin,

And chosen the better part ? "
What voice came through the sacred air ?

" My child, give me thy heart /'*

iii

Give Me Thy Heart.

" Have I not laid before Thy slirine

My wealth, O Lord ?" she cried ;
" Have I kept aught of gems or gold,

To minister to pride ?
Have I not bade youth's joys retire,

And vain delights depart?"
But sad and tender was the voice, —

" My child, ylve me thy heart ! "

" Have I not. Lord, gone day by day

Where Thy poor children dwell ;
And carried help, and gold, and food?

O Lord, Thou knowest it well !
From many a house, from many a soul

My hand bids care depart : " —
More sad, more tender, was the voice, —

" My child, give me thy heart /"

" Have I not worn my strength away

With fast and penance sore ?
Have I not watched and wept?" she cried.;

" Did thy dear Saints do more ?
Have I not gained Thy grace, O Lord,

And won in heaven my part?"
It echoed louder \n her soul, —

*' ^My child, give ine thy heart ! "

" For I have loved t):ee with a love

No mortal heart can show ;
A love so deep, my Saints in heaven

its depths can never know :
When pierced and wounded on the Cross,

Man's sin and doom were mine,
I loved thee with undying love,

Immortal and divine !

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124 Thiud Reader.

" I loved thee ere the skies were spread ;

My soul bears all thy pains ;
To gain thy love my Sacred Heart

In earthly shrines remains :
Vain are thy offerings, vain thy sighs,

Without one gift divine,
Give it, my child, thy heart to me,

And it shall rest in mine ! "

In awe she listened, and the shade

Passed from her soul away ;
In low and trembling voice she cried,

" Lord, help me to obey !
Break Thou the chains of earth, O Lord,

That bind and hold my heart ;
Let it be Thine, and Thine alone,

Let none with Thee have part.

" Send down, O Lord, Thy sacred fire !

Consume and cleanse the sin
That lingers still within its depths :

Let heavenly love begin.
That sacred flame Thy Saints have known,

Kindle, O Lord, in me.
Thou above all the rest forever,

And all the rest in Thee."

The blessing fell upon her soul ;

Her angel by her side
Knew that the hour of peace was come ;

Her soul was purified :
The shadows fell from roof and arch,

Dim was the incensed air, —
But Peace went with her as she left

The sacred Presence there !
— Adelaide Aniie Procter (by permisaion of the Publishers).

v.j,r;\i2

The Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ. 125

LL— THE PASSION.

Part II.

Then therefore Pilate took Jesus, and scourged him.

And the soldiers platting a crown of thorns, put it
upon his head : and they put on him a purple garment.

And they came to him, and said : Hail, king of the
Jews: and they gave him blows.

Pilate therefore went forth again, and saith to them:
Behold I bring him forth unto you, that you may know
that I find no cause in liim.

(Jesus therefore came forth bearing the crown of
thorns, and the purple garment.) And he saith to them:
Behold the Man.

When the chief priests therefore and the servants had
seen him, they cried out, saying : Crucify him, crucify
him. Pilate saith to them: Take him you, and crucify
him; for I find no cause in him. The Jews answered
him : We have a law ; and according to the law he ought
to die, because he made himself the Son of God. When
Pilate therefore had heard this saying, he feared the
more.

And he entered into the hall again, and he said to
Jesus : Whence art thou ? But Jesus gave him no
answer. Pilate therefore saith to him : Speakest thou
not to me? knowest thou not that I have power to
crucify thee, and I have power to release thee ? Jesus
answered : Thou shouldest not have any power against
me, unless it were given thee from above. Therefore he
that hath delivered me to thee, hath the greater sin.

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Third Reader.

And from thenceforth Pihite souo^ht to release liiiii.
But the Jews cried out, sayint^ : If thou release this man,
thou art not Cesar's friend. For whosoever maketh him-
self a king, speakt^th a<.^ainst Cesar.

Now when Pilate had heard these words, he brought
Jesus forth ; and sat down in the judgment-seat, in the
place that is called Lithostrotos, and in Hebrew Gab-
batha. And it was the parasceve of thci pasch, about the
sixth hour, and he saith to the Jews: Behold your king.
But they cried out: Away with him, away with him,
crucify him. Pilate saith to them : Shall I crucify your
king ? The chief priests answ^ered : We have no king
but Cesar.

Then therefore he delivered him to them to be cruci-
fied. And they took Jesus, and led him forth. And
bearing his own cross he went forth to that place which
is called Calvary, but in Hebrew Golgotha. Where they
crucified him, and with him two others, one on each side,
and Jesus in the midst. And Pilate wrote a title also:
and he put it upon the cross. And the writing was:
Jesus of Nazareth the king of the Jews.

This title therefore many of the Jews did read : because
the place where Jesus was crucified was nigh to the city:
and it was written in Hebrew, in Greek, and in Latin.
Then the chief priests of the Jews said to Pilate : Write
not, the king of the Jews ; but that he said : I am the
king of the Jews. Pilate answered : What I have
written, I have written. The soldiers therefore wdien
they had crucified him, took his garments (and they
made four parts, to every soldier a part) and also his
coat. Now the coat was without seam, woven from
the top throughout.

The Pa.ssion of our Loud Jesus Christ. 127

They said tlien one to jiiiotljor: Let us not cut it, but
lot us cast lots for it whose it shall be; that the scrip-
ture mi <^ht be fulHll(Ml, sayint^: "They have parted my
garments among them : and upon my vesture they have
cast lot." And the soldiers indeed did these things.
Now there stood by the cross of Jesus, his mother,
and his mother's sister, Mary of Cleophas, and Mary
Magdalen.

When Jesus therefore had seen his mother and the
disciple standing, whom h<; loved, he saith to his mother :
Woman, behold thy son. After that, he saith to the
disciple: Behold thy mother. And from that hour the
disciple took her to liis own. Afterwards Jesus knowing
that all things wero now accomplished, that the scrip-
ture might be fulfilled, said : I thirst. Now there was a
vessel set there full of vinegar. And they putting a
sponge full of vinegar about hyssop, put it to his mouth.
Jesus therefore when he had taken the vinegar, said:
It is consunnnated. And bowing his head, he gave up
the ghost.

Then the Jews (because it was the parasceve) that the
bodies might not remain upon the cross on the sabbath-
day (for that was a great sabbath-day) besought Pilate
that their legs might be broken, and that they might be
taken away. The soldiers therefore came : and they
broke the legs of the first, and of the other that was
crucified with him.

But after they were come to Jesus, when they saw
that he was already dead, they did not break his legs.
But one of the soldiers w^ith a spear opened his side,
and innnediately there came out blood and water, And

.1:

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(ii

III

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it ' !

'If

1-'^ :1i

lis ■■;■"!

128

Third Reader.

he that saw it hath given testimony : and his testimony
is true. And he knoweth that he saith true ; that you
also may beheve. For these things were done that the
scriptui'e might be fulfilled : You shall not break a bone
of him. And agfiin another scripture saith : They shall
look on him whom they pierced.

After these things Joseph of Arimathea (because he
was a disciple of Jesus, but secretly for fear of the
Jews) besought Pilate that he might take away the body
of Jesus. And Pilate gave leave. He came therefore
and took away the body of Jesus.

And Nicodemus also came, he who at first came to
Jesus by night, bringing a mixture of myrrli and aloes,
about an hundred pound weight.

They took therefore the body of Jesus, and bound it
in linen cloths with the spices, as the manner of the Jews
is to bury.

Now there was in the place, where he was crucified, a
garden ; and in the garden, a new sepulchre, wherein no
man yet had been laid.

There therefore because of the parasceve of the Jews,
they laid Jesus, because the sepulchre was nigh at hand.

— St. John xix.

LIL— BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to tlie rampart we hurried ;

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

a
no

Burial of Sir John Moore. 129

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning ;
By tliQ struggHng moonbeam's misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ;

But he lay like a warrior taking bis rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short wei*e the prayers we said.

And we spoke not a word ot* sorrow ;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed.

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow !

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, —
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ;

A'ld we heard the distant and random gun '

That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down.

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ;

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, —

But we left him alone with his glory.

— Charles WoJfe,
9

I;-

130

Iniiii) Readeu.

LIII.— THE BIRCH.

Every boy and <(irl knows liow nseful the pine tree
has been to Canada. It has formed nearly all our
country houses. In fact we may say that we have lived
in the pine. Its vast trunk has formed the masts of
ships. Its planks have paved our cities, while its bark
has tanned the leather of our boots. But the pine forests
are gone. Their logs have been carried down streams
and lakes, in millions, to be brought to the great mar-
kets of the world. The pine trees are still to be found
in more remote parts. But there is another tree wdiich
is quite plentiful in Canada and very useful. It is the
birch. It stays more at home than the pine, or if it does
travel it does not tower over ship-deck like the pine
mast. It has a great many humble every-day uses, and
can be turned to more account than any other tree.

It seems to be made especially for the woodman and
the camper. It is a magazine, a furnishing store set up
in the wilderness, whose goods are free to every comer.
The w4iole equipment of the camp lies folded in it, and
comes forth at the beck of the woodman's axe; tent,
waterproof roof, boat, camp utensils, buckets, cups,
plates, spoons, napkins, tablecloths, paper for letters or
your journal, torches, candles, kindling-wood and fuel.
The canoe-birch yields you its vestments with the
utmost liberality. Ask for its coat, and it gives you its
waistcoat also. Its bark seems wrapped about it layer
upon layer, and comes off with great ease. We saw
many rude structures and cabins shingled and sided
with it.

The Birch.

131

Near a maple-sugar camp there was a large pile of
birch-bark sap-buckets, — each bucket made of a piece of
bark about a yard S(juare, folded up as a tinman folds up
a slieet of tin to make a s(iuare vessel, the corners bent
around against the sides and held by a wooden pin.
When, one day, we were overtaken by a shower in
travelling through the woods, our guide quickly stripped
large sheets of the bark from a near tree, and we had
each a perfect umbrella as by magic. When the rain
was over, and we moved on, I wrapped mine about me
like a large leather apron, and it shielded my clothes
from the wet bushes. When we came to a spring, our
guide would have a birch-bark cup ready, before any of
us could get a tin one out of his knapsack, and I think
water never tasted so sweet as from one of these bark
cups. It is exactly the thing. It just fits the mouth,
and it seems to give new virtues to the water.

In our camp we made a large birch-bark box to keep
the butter in ; and the butter in this box, covered with
some leafy boughs, I think improved in flavor day by day.
In camp our guide often drank his tea and coffee from a
bark cup ; the china closet in the birch- tree was always
handy, and our vulgar tinware was generally a good
deal mixed, and the kitchen-maid not at all particular
about dish-washing. We all tried the oatmeal with the
maple syrup in one of these dishes, and the stewed
mountain cranberries, using a birch-bark spoon, and
never found service better. Our guide declared he could
boil potatoes in a bark kettle, and I did not doubt him.
Instead of sending our soiled napkins and table-spreads
to the wash, we rolled them up into candles and torches,
and drew daily upon our stores in the forest for new ones.

132

Third Reader.

But the great triumph of the birch is of course the
bark canoe. What a wild, free, sylvan life it promised
as I saw it first. Its supple curves and swells, its
sinewy stays, its tomahawk stem and stern rising
quickly and sharply from its frame, all vividly sug-
gested the Indian race from which it came. Tl>ree
trees contribute to the making of a canoe besides the
birch, namely, the white cedar for ribs and lining, the
spruce for fibres to sew its joints and bind its frame,
and the pine for pitch to stop its seams and cracks.
When finished it looks more like the thought of a poet
than the design of a savage. It is one of the fairest
flowers blooming on the thorny plant of necessity.

— Adapted from Bmiroughs.

LIV.— THE BURIAL OF MOSES.

By Nebo's lonely mountain,

On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,

There lies a lonely grave.
And no man knows that sepulchre,

And no man saw it e'er ;
For the angels of God upturned the sod,

And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral

That ever passed on earth ;
But no man heard the trampling,

Or saw the train go forth ; — •
Noiselessly as the da}/ light • .

Comes when the night is done,
And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek

Grov/s into the great sun ;

The Burial of Moses.

133

Noiselessly as the spring-time

Her crown of verdure weaves,
And all the trees on all the hills

Open their thousand leaves ;
So, without sound of music.

Or voice of them that wept.
Silently down from the mountain's crown

The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle,

On gray Beth-peor's height,
Out of his lonely eyrie

Looked on the wondrous sight ;
Perchance the lion stalking,

Still shuns that hallowed spot ;
For beast and bird have seen and heard

That which man knoweth not.

But when the warrior dieth.

His comrades in the war,
With arms reversed and muffled drum, .

Follow his funeral car ;
They show the banners taken,

They tell his battles won.
And after him lead his masterless steed.

While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land.

We lay the sage to rest ;
And give the bard an honored place.

With costly marble dressed,
In the great minster transept,

Wliere lights like glories fall.
And the sweet choir sings, and the organ rings

Along the emblazoned wall.

. ; ;., ■■' ' 'I

134

Third Reader.

This was the bravest warrior

That ever buckled sword ;
This the most gifted poet

That ever breathed a word ;
And never earth's philosopher

Traced, with his golden pen,
On the deathless page, truths half so sage,

As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor, —

The hill-side for his pall ;
To lie in state while angels wait,

With stars for tapers tall ;
And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes.

Over his bier to wave ;
And God's own hand, in that lonely land,

To lay him in the grave ; —

In that strange grave "ithout a name.

Whence his uncoffined clay
Shall break again — O wondrous thought !

Before the Judgment-day,
And stand with glory wrapped around

On the hills he never trod.
And speak of the strife that won our life,

With the Incarnate Son of God t

O lonely grave in Moab's land !

O dark Beth-peor's hill !
Speak to these curious hearts of ours,

And teach them to be still.
God hath His mysteries of grace, —

Ways that we cannot tell ;
He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep.

Of liim He loved so well 1

— Mrs. Cecil Frances Alexander.

The Woodpecker.

135

LV.— THE WOODPECKER.

One of my winter neiglibors tliat rap most regularly
at my door is the woodpecker. His retreat is a cavity in
the decayed limb of an old apple tree. This hole a red-
plumed male bird drilled some few years ago. He
occupied this till the spring, and then abandoned it.
The next fall lie began a liole in an adjoining limb,
and when it was about half completed a female took
possession of his old quarters.

This enraged the male very much, and he persecuted
the poor bird whenever she appeared upon the scene.
He would fly at her spitefull}^ and drive her off. After
a few days of such treatment, and not succeeding by
open fighting, he had recourse to an ingenious plan. He
drilled a hole into the bottom of the cavity which she
had striven to occupy. Light and cold being thus let
in, the poor female had to leave. I saw her no more.

My bird is a genuine little savage, doubtless, but I
value him as a neighbor. He is a late riser, especially if
it is cold or disagreeable, and seldom leaves his tree
before the school hour of nine. On the other hand, he
comes home early. He lives all alone, and where his
mate is I do not know.

Another point that endears woodpeckers to me is their
habit of drunmiing in spring. They are songless birds,
and yet all are musicians. The measured beat that
breaks upon the silence of the forest, first three strokes
following each other rapidly, then tw o louder ones with
longer intervals between them, suggests nothing but a
musical performance. The bird is not rapping at the

TTMT

i :

136

TiiUiD Reader.

¥''

door of a grub ; he is rapping at the door of spring.
Instead of the music of the voice which so many birds
possess, the woodpeckers have found out that there
is music in a dry, seasoned limb, which can be called
forth beneath the stroke of their beaks.

A friend of mine tells me of a woodpecker in his
neighborhood that used to drum on a lightning rod. I
know another bird that enjoys his leisure time drum-
ming away on a telegraph pole, and making the wires
sing.

The following year one of these drummers tapped a
maple tree in front of my window in as many as fifty-
six places. When the day was sunny, and the sap came
oozing out, he spent most of his time there sipping out
the sap. He made a row of wells near the foot of the
tree, and other rows higher up, and he would hop up
and down ''^e trunk as these became filled. He was,
judging from his plumage, a young bird, yet he knew
which tree to tap and where to tap it. I saw where he
bored several maples, but no oaks or chestnuts. As
spring approached he took his departure, for this kind
of woodpecker rarely abounds in my vicinity, and only
an odd one may be met with in the colder months.

— J. Burroughs.

Rise ! for the day is passing,

And you lie dreaming on ;
The others have buckled their armor,

And forth to the fight have gone ;
A place in the ranks awaits you,

Each man has some part to play ;
The past and the future are nothing,

In the face of the stern To-day.

Our Own Dear Land.

137

LVI.— OUR OWN DEAR LAND. ,

Our own dear land of Maple Leaf,

So full of hope and splendor,
With skies that smile on rivers wide,

And lend them charms so tender ;
From east to west in loud acclaim

We'll sing your praise and story,
While with a faith and purpose true

We'll guard your future glory,
Our own dear land !

Your flag shall ever be our trust,

Your temple our devotion.
On every lip your paean be sung

From ocean unto ocean ;
The star that lights your glorious path

We'll hail with rapture holy,
And every gift of heart and hand

Be yours forever solely,

Our own dear land !
— Thomas O'Hagan (by permission of the Author).

Dare to speak kindly, and ever be true,

Dare to do right, and you'll find your way through

Dare to be brave in the cause of the right,

Dare with the enemy ever to fight.

Dare to bf honest, good and sincere,

Dare to please God, and you never need fear.

Dare to be gentle and ordeily too.

Dare shun the evil, whatever you do.

Dare to be loving and patient each day.

Dare speak the truth, whatever you say.

138

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Third Reader.

LVIL— THE HUMMING-BIRD.

The humming-bird is called by the Indians a "living
sunbeam." And so it is ; it brings into dancing, dashing,
darting life all the bright colors that are folded asleep
in the sunbeam . It has no voice, no sweet note for the
ear; but it has life and beauty for the eye.

Nature has not bestowed every variety of her treasure
on any one bird. Where she gives song and a sweet
note, she clothes with a sober and modest dress. And
where she lavishes her richest tints, she withliolds the
beauty of music. Neither does she tire the eye nor the
ear. The birds of most gaudy color must be sought in
the wild tropical forest ; the finest singers put up their
instruments after nesting time ; and if you would see
the richest hues of precious stones flashing from the
humming-bird's feathers, you must look quickly. It is
here, but in an instant it is gone.

The humming-bird is one of the busiest of feathered
workers. All its tools are fitted for the particular use
required. The bill is curiously made, and in each
variety is suited to the particular flower it is to feed
upon. Some bills are straight, and some are slightly
curved, but every bill is long and sharp-pointed. Its
tongue reminds us of the woodpecker. Far out beyond
the end of the beak this tongue can be thrust, so that
the bird can sound the depths of honeysuckle and
trumpet-flower. Its food is the sweet or honey in the
flower, and the insect that may happen to linger within
the petals of the blossom.

And now can you see any reason why the humming-

The Humming-Bird.

139

bird should be so very small, or why its feet are so tiny
and weak, while its wings are so strong and never tire ?
Look at the flowers when their season conies : how they
lift themselves away from the ground and extend their
forms far beyond the end of the twig that bears them,
and away from any standing support. To reach the
calyx of the flower, where the sugar is, the bird must be
either as small as a bee, so that it can crawl in, or it
must be able to stand on the air while its long bill and
tongue reach to the bottom of the tube.

This is just what the humming-bird does. It is so
small, and its wings are so strong and lively, that it can
stand on the air and suck nectar from the lips of a
flower, the vibrations of its wings being so rapid that
no person can count or estimate them. Its little pump
works briskly, and its wing hums and buzzes long.
More than a hundred flowers a minute are thus n)ade to
yield their sweets. And, besides the honey, finy small
insect beyond the reach of the bill is touched by the
tongue, and attached by the muoilage on the end of the
tongue.

The humming-bird is a rare little artist. Its nest is a
masterpiece of skill. In the air this bird is protected by
its smallness and swiftness. In the nest its small size
and its cunning are defence. The male brings the mate-
rials, and the female arranges them. The outside of the
nest is of lichen or moss, and the inside of soft or woolly
substance. In the most artistic manner these materials
are woven together, and cemented with the bird's saliva.
The finishing on the inside is composed of the finest silky
fibres gathered from plants.

This pretty little fairy cradle is no larger than a large

^im

140

Third Reader.

hickory nut ; is suspeiulcfl from a leaf, or twig or bundle
of rushes, according to the particular species of bird that
builds it. The outside is covered with moss and other
substances so arratiged that you could scarcely tell it
from a small, dry knot. The female lays in this little
disguised pocket, twice a year, two pure white eggs, each
about the size of a pea. Though so very small, these
birds are brave. Often they defend their nests against
larger birds, and against the sly attacks of a great spider
that spins his net over the nest, or lies within it awaiting
the return of the absent occupants.

It is not surprising that the charms of these winged
jewels should have suggested the wish to win them to
the condition of pets. But the little creatures will not
bear confinement. They are creatures of the air, and
they must be free.

The region where they are most numerous is in the
tropical portions of South America. Here there are
over three hundred species.

Since their richly-colored plumes have become an
article of dress, the catching of these feathered dwarfs
has grown into a large business. The manner in which
they are captured is thus described :

"Let us follow little Dan, the oldest and sharpest of
the humming-bird hunters, as he goes out for birds.
First he goes to a tree called the mountain palm.
Beneath the tree are some fallen leaves fifteen feet in
length ; these he seizes and strips, leaving the midrib
bare — a long, slender stein tapering to a point. Upon
this tip he places a lump of bird-lime, to make which
he had collected the thickened juice of the bread-fruit,
and chewed it to the consistency of soft wax.

Farm-Yard Song.

141

"Scattered over the savanna arc clumps of flowerings
buslies, over whose crimson and snowy blossoms hum-
minfr-birds are dashing, inserting their beaks into the
honeyed corollas, and resting upon some bare twig
preening their feathers. Cautiously creeping toward a
bush, upon which one of these little beauties is resting,
the hunter extends the palm-rib with its treacherous
coating of gum. The bird eyes it curiously, but fear-
lessly, as it approaches his resting-place, even pecking at
it; but the next moment he is dangling helplessly, beat-
ing the air witli buzzing wings in vain eftbrts to escape
the clutches of that treacherous gum."

LVIIL— FARM-YARD SONG.

Over the hill the farm- boy goes, *

His shadow lengthens along the land,
A giant staff in a giant hand ;
In the poplar-tree, above the spring,
The katydid begins to sing ;

The early dews are falling; —
Into the stone-heap darts the mink ;
The swallows skim the river's brink ;
And home to the woodland fly the crows,
When over the hill the farm-boy goes,
Cheerily calling, —

" Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' !
Farther, farther over the hill,
Faintly calling, calling still, —

" Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' I "

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142

Third Reader.

.1. ' .

til

< I

Into the yard the farmer goes,

With grateful heart, at the close of day ;

Harness and chain are hung away ;

In the waggon-shed stand yoke and plough ;

The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow,

The cooling dews are falling ; —
The friendly sheep his welcome bleat,
The pigs come grunting to his feet,
The whinnying mare her master knows,
When into the yard the farmer goes,
His cattle calling, —

" Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' ! "
While still the cow-boy, far away.
Goes seeking those that have gone astray, —

" Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! "

Now to her task the milkmaid goes.

The cattle come crowding through the gate,

Lowing, pushing, little and great ;

About the trough, by the farm-yard pump.

The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump.

While the pleasant dews are falling ; —
The new-milch heifer is quick and shy,
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye ;
And the white stream into the bright pail flows,
When tio her task the milkmaid goes.
Soothingly calling, —

" So, boss ! so, boss ! so ! so ! so ! "
The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool.
And sits and milks in the twilight cool.

Saying, " So ! so, boss ! so ! so ! "

To supper at last the farmer goes.
The applef are pared, the paper read.
The stQrids are told, then all to bed,

Waterspouts at Sea.

143

Without, the crickets' ceaseless sonj:^
Makes shrill the silence all night long;

The heavy clews are falling.
The housewife's hand has turned the lock;
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock ;
The household sinks to deep repose;
But still in sleep the farm-boy goes

Hinging, calling, —

" Co', l)Oss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' ! "

And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams,

Drums in the pail with the flashing streams.

Murmuring, " So, boss ! so ! "

— tA y. Trowltridge.

LIX.-WATERSPOUTS AT SEA.

Who has not noticed, during a sultry summer after-
noon, the little whirlwind in the middle of the dusty
road, caused by two breezes coming together ? First
there will be seen a column of light dust revolving
upward ; next, movintr here and there, it picks up stray
bits of paper and leaves ; then, as its whirling grows
stronger and covers more ground, it adds to its strange
collection of objects small sticks and tufts of grass ; at
last away it goes, whirling and dancing its elfin waltz
until some immovable object interferes with its freedom
of movement, when it ceases its wild play, and down
come the sticks and leaves and paper, and the whirlwind
is gone.

In the Western United States, the same kind of
whirlwind grows to such proportions that, through the
thickest woods, great tracks are mown as if cut by a

144

TmuD Reader.

giant scythe. Rut tliese bi<^ storms very appropriately
receive the iiivore diaiiifit'd name of tornadoes.

On tlie ocean, tliese wlnrlwinds or tornadoes have, of
course, no dust or trees to toss abo in their giant
hands, so they seize upon and suck up iie water as the
only plaything they can find, and, twisting it into a long
glittering rope of trembling liijuid, lift it up to the
clouds, whence it is soon dispersed again in the form of
rain. When performing such antics as these, the tornado
is known as a waterspout.

The ship's crew which has so patiently steered its
craft past treacherous rocks, over dangerous shoals, and
through all kinds of storm, is often confronted by a new
and unexpected danger — the watersp Waterspouts

most often make their appearance beneaoh a black and
lowering sky ; but sometimes they start up mysteriously
in clear weatlier to move along the ocean's rim in clear
fantastic attitudes, looking for all the world li._o captive
balloons dancing up and down and tugging at their
ropes — now near the sea, now near the sky.

Sometimes a spout can be broken by the firing of a
cannon close by ; and then the singular spectacle will
often be presented of the upper half of it going up into
the clouds, while the lower part subsides into the sea.

According to report, a large ocean steamer once had
a most uncomfortable experience with these wandering
giants of the ocean, near the Bermuda Islands. There
she met a cyclone upon whose outer edge hung a great
number of spouts — all dancing and pirouetting here and
there, twisting and turning and balancing to partners as
if engaged in an elephantine quadrille.

Watersi'outs at Sea.

145

The captain became bewildered, for whichever way he
turned hin steamer, he was headed ofi' by the surround-
ing waterspouts. At hist, just as he imagined he had
steamed safely away, two of them made a rush, headed
him off', and struck the starboard side of the steamer's
iron bow a tremendous blow. Then there was a commo-
tion indeed. The broken columns of water dropped in
tons on the forward deck, smashing the pilot-house and
bridge-ladder, tearing down thirteen ventilators, and
severely wounding two sailors by dashing them to the
deck. The ship staggered and rolled as the weight of
water poured over her sides in a Niagara of foam and
spray, and for some time she could make no headway.

While these two spouts were having their frolic with
the sorely beset steamer, the others were whirling about,
as if dancing in glee at the commotion they had caused.
From the black clouds above, there shot down blinding
streaks of lightning, wdiich, although they missed the
ship, so filled the air about her with electricity that it
settled upon the metal tips of all the spars, glowing and
sparkling ther3 steadily, with the beautiful light known
as ''St. Elmo's fire."

— From St. Nicholas Magazine (by permission of the Publishers).

My God and Father, while I stray
Far from my home, on life's rough way,
Oh, teach me from my heart to say,
Thy will be done !

Renew my will from day to day ;
Blend it with Thine, and take away
All that now makes it hard to say,
Thy will be done !

J'il

146 Third Reader.

LX— THE RED RIVER VOYAGEUR.

Out and in the river is winding
The links of its long, red chain,

Through belts of dusky pine-land
And gusty leagues of plain.

Only, at times, a smoke-wreath

With the drifting cloud-rac-c joins —

The smoke of the hunting-lodges
Of the wild Assiniboins !

Drearily blows the north wind
From the land of ice and snow ;

The eyes that look are weary,
And heavy the hands tho-t row.

And with one foot on the water,

And one upon the shore.
The Angel of Shadow gives warning

That day shall be no more.

Is it the clang of wild-geese 1

Is it the Indian's yell,
That lends to the voice of the north wind

The tone of a far-off bell 1

The voyageur smiles as he listens
To the sound that grows apace ;

Well he knows the vesper ringing
Of the bells of St. Boniface, —

The bells of the Roman Mission,
^ That call from their turrets twain
To the boatmen on the river,
To the hunter on the plain.

How THE Mountain was Clad.

Even so in our mortal journey
The bitter north winds blow ;

And thus upon life's Red River
Our hearts as "oarsmen row.

And when the Angel of Shadow
Rests his ieet on wave and shore ;

And our eyes grow dim with watching,
And our hearts faint at the oar ;

Fappy is he who heareth

'^'^■e signal of his release
In the bells of the Holy City,

The chimes of eternal peace !

147

-J. G. W/iiUier.

LXL— HOW THE MOUNTAIN WAS CLAD.

There was a deep gorge between two mountains.
Through this gorge a large full stream flowed heavily
over a rough and stony bottom. Both sides were high
and steep, and one side was bare; but close to its foot,
and so near the stream that the latter sprinkled it with
moisture every spring and autunm, stood a group of
fresh-looking trees gazing upward and onward, yet
unable to advance this way jr that.

" What if we should cloth 5 the mountain," said Juniper
one day to the foreign oak, 10 which it stood nearer than
all others. The oak looked down to find out who it was
that spoke, and then it looked up again without deigning
a reply. The river rushed along so violently that it
worked itself into a white foam ; the north wind forced
its way through the gorge, and shrieked in the clefts of

148

Third Reader.

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the rocks; the naked mountain, with its great weight,
hung heavily over and felt cold. " What if we should
clothe the mountain," said the juniper to the fir on the
other side. " If anybody is to do it I suppose it must be
we," said the fir, taking hold of its beard and glancing
toward the birch. ''What do you think?" But the
birch peered cautiously up the mountain, which hung
over it so threateningly that it seemed as if it could
scarcely breathe. " Let us clothe it in God's name ! " said
the birch. And so, though there were but these three,
they undertook to clothe the mountain. The juniper
went first.

When they had gone a little way they met the heather.
The juniper seemed as though about tc pass it. " Nay,
take the heather along," said the hr. And the heather
joined them. Soon it began to glide on before the
juniper. " Catch hold of me," said the heather. The
juniper did so, and where there was only a small crevice
the heather thrust in a finger, and where it first had
placed a finger, the juniper took hold with its whole
hand. They crawled and crept along, the fir laboring on
behind, the birch also. " This is well worth doing," said
the birch.

But the mountain began to ponder on what manner
of insignificant objects these might be that were clam-
bering up over it. And after it had been considering
the matter a few hundred years, it sent a little brook
down to incjuire. It was yet in the time of the spring
freshets, and the brook stole on until it reached the
heather. " Dear, dear heather, cannot you let me pass ?
I am so small." The heather was very busy; it only
raised itself a little and pressed onward. In, under, and

How THE Mountain was Clad.

149

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tie

onward went the brook. "Dear, dear juniper, cannot
you let me pass ? I am so small." The juniper looked
sharply at it; but if the heather had let it pass, why, in
all reason, I must do so too. Under and onward went the
brook ; and now it came to the spot where the fir stood
puffing on the hill-side. "Dear, dear fir, cannot you let
me pass ? I am really so small," said the brook, and it
kissed the fir's feet and made itself so very sweet. The
fir became bashful at this, and let it pass, but the birch
raised itself before the brook asked it. " Hi, hi, hi ! "
said the birch, and grew. " Ha, ha, ha ! " said the brook,
and grew. " Ho, ho, ho ! " said the brook, and flung the
heather and the juniper and the fir and the birch fiat on
their faces and backs, up and down these great hills.
The mountain sat up for many hundred years musing on
whether it had not smiled a little that day.

It was plain enough the mountain did not want to be
clad. The heather fretted over this until it grew green
again, and then started forward. "Fresh courage!"
said the heather.

The juniper had half raised itself to look at the
heather, and continued to keep this position, until at
length it stood upright. It scratched its head, and set
forth again, taking such a vigorous footliold that it
seemed as though the mountain must feel it. " If you
will not have me then I will have you." Tlie fir crooked
its toes a little to find out whether they were whole, then
lifted one foot, found it whole, then the other, which
proved also to be whole, then both of them. It first
investigated the ground it had been over ; next, where it
had been lying, and, finally, where it should go. After
this, it began to wend its way slowly along, and acted as

iibs:

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150

Third Reader.

though it had never fallen. The birch liad become most
wretchedly soiled, but now rose up and made itself tidy.
Tlien they sped onward, faster and faster upward, and
on either side in sunshine and in rain. "What in the
world can this be," said the mountain, all glittering with
dew, as the sunnner sun slione down on it. Tlie birds
sang, the wood-mouse piped, the hare hopped along, and
the ermine hid itself and screamed.

Tlien the day came when the heather could peep with

one eye over the edge of the mountain. " Oh dear, oh

dear, oh dear," said the lieather, and away it went.

" Dear me ! what is it the heatlier sees ? " said the

juniper, and moved on until it could peer up. "Oh dear,

oh dear!" it shrieked, and was o-one. "What's the matter

with the juniper to-day?" said the fir, and took long

strides onward in the heat of the sun. Soon it could

raise itself on its toes and peep up. " Oh dear ! "

Branches and needles stood on end in wonderment. It

worked its way forward, came up, and was gone. " What

is it all the others see, and not I ! " said the birch ; and

lifting well its skirts it tripped after. It stretched its

whole head up at once. "Oil — oh — is not here a great

forest of fir and heather, of jiniiper and birch standing

on the tableland waiting for us ?" said the birch; and its

leaves quivered in the sunshine so that the dew trendjled.

" Ay, this is what it is to reach the goal ! " said the

juniper.

— Bjornstjerne (hy periimdon of Honyhton, Mifflin d: Co. J,

How empty learning and how vain is art,
But as it mends the life, an<l guides the heart !

The Lamp of the Sanctuary.

151

Wf^.

LXIL— GOD IN NATURE.

There's not a tint that paints the rose

Or decks the lily fair,
Or marks the humblest flower that grows,

But God has placed it there.

There's not of grass a simple blade.

Or leaf of lowliest mien,
Where heavenly skill is not displayed,

And heavenly goodness seen.

There's not a star whose twinkling light

Illumes the spreading earth ;
There's not a cloud so dark or bright.

But wisdom gave it birth.

There's not a place on earth's vast round,

In ocean deep or air,
Where love and beauty are not found,

For God is everywhere.

LXIIL— THE LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY.

High up in the Pyrenees mountains, not far from the
Spanish border, on a hill called Mount Mary, stood a
little chapel, the exterior of which was as plain as the
interior was rich. Massive silver candlesticks orna-
mented the altar, and the walls were covered with votive
tablets, the gifts of pious souls.

Over the altar, on which was a handsome tabernacle,
stood a beautiful white marble statue of the Blessed

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152

Third Reader.

Virgin, bearing in lier arms her Divine Son, and in the
sanctuary liung a richly-chased silver lamp, the light
from which shone through a window, far down the
narrow mountain-path.

By the piety of the people, an abundance of the purest
olive oil was supplied, and the lamp was kept burning

day and night. This was important, as it was a sure
guide to the traveller at night. The path which led to
the main road ran for some distance along the side of a
precipice. The direction given to the traveller was, " Go
boldly forward as long as the light of the chipel is
visible, but as soon as it disappears, turn sharp to the
right and fearlessly descend."

Beside the chapel was a little cottage wherein lived

The Lamp of the Sanctuary.

153

the herinit-priest wlio iniiiistered to t]i(3 spiritual wants
of the neighboring village, whicli was inhabited chietiy
by woodmen who worked in the forests.

Anionfj the villaixers, none was so distintruished for
piety and industry as the woo<l-cutter Peter and his
wife Annette. And yet this good couple had a terrible
grief tugging at their hearts. Their only child, Mary, a
sweet little girl not yet three years old, had suddenly
become pale and weak, and was every day growing
thinner.

Such simple medicines as could be had in the village
were of no avail; and to take the child to the city, which
was a two days' journey, was almost impossible. All
hope of saving her seemed lost, when the pious heart of
Annette suom'sted a means of relief. 'I'his was no other
than to take the child to church, and there seek lielp
from heaven.

It was a fine autunni evenint^ wlien the sorrowinor
parents set out for the church, Annette carrying little
Mary, who was warmly wrapped up. When they
reached the chapel, they found many of their neighbors
there, who liad stopped on their way home to visit the
Blessed Sacrament.

Peter and his wife advanced to the steps leading to
the sanctuary, and oh these Annette laid down her
precious burden. Then, kneeling, the sorrowing parents
prayed long and fervently.

When they raised their heads, the chapel was deserted.
All was silent, and there was no liuht save thnt of the
sanctuary lamp. In that peaceful stillness, they offered
up a vow to heaven that if their beloved child recovered,

154

Third Reader.

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slie should be for tlie next seven years clothed in white,
the emblem of her dedication to the purest of maids;
and her parents would fast once a week durin^^ the same
period. "Spare lier, all-merciful God!" cried Peter.
" Let not death touch her now that she is consecrated to
Thee ! "

When they prepared to leave, Mary was sleeping
cahnly. The next morning she was better than she had
been for some time. From that day, she grew in health
and virtue. For hours she would kneel at the altar
absorbed in prayer, and as the mild light of the sanc-
tuary lamp fell on lier spotless garments, the villagers
whispered, "See, one of God's angels !"

Six years had j^assed since Peter and his wife made
their vow, when a, change occurred which brought care
and sorrow to their home. About this time, two strange
men with their families settled in the mountains. They
were a rough set and avoided the vilhigers, and though
no one knew anything about them, there was evidently
a mystery connected with them.

Shortly after their arrival, Peter's habits began to
change. Instead of huiTying home from his work, as
had been his custom, he was out until late. His old
cheerful manner was gone ; there was evidently some
secret which he strove to keep from his wife.

His conduct deeply affected Annette and their child.
One day, little Mary knelt in her usual place before the
altar. The poor child was very sad ; she was thinking
of the change that had come over their once happy
home. Earnestly she prayed for her father, whom she
deeply loved, and before the altar she offered herself to

ri^

The Lamp of the kSanctuary.

155

God, throngli His Blessed Mother, for her father's return
to liis former pious life.

The newcomers were smugglers, who were engaged in
carr^'ing French goods into vSpain without paying duty
on them. They wanted some man to join them who was
familiar with the mountain-passes, and fixed upon poor
Peter as their victim.

They began by pretending to take a great interest in
him and his family, expressed surprise that he should
work so hard for such poor pay, and hinted that they
could put liim in the way of making money easily and
honestly. Then they tohl him their business. At first
Peter was startled, but they overcame liis scruples, and
he joined in one of their expeditions. He was now in
their power, and they threatened to give liim up to the
police, if he left them.

Meanwhile the time was at liand when Mary was to
lay aside her white dress. She was unwilling to do this,
but as she was now old enouo'h to worl' in the fields, she
was obliged to dress like other children. She and her
mother decided to rise very early on the morning of the
anniversary of the vow, and go to the chapel, there to
spend some time in prayer before receiving Holy Com-
munion. They felt the need of consolation, and at the
foot of the altar they would unite in asking God to
restore happiness to their home.

When the novelty of his wild life had worn away,
Peter began to regret his folly and wickedness. His
conscience constantly reproached him, and the sad faces
of his wife and child were a continual reproof. So he
determined, no matter what might be the result, to for-

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156

Third Reader.

sake his companions and live an honest life. But it is
hard to break bad habits, and liis companions, by threats
and coaxing, persuaded him to accompany them once
more, and for the last time.

It was not until the nioht of this last expedition
that Peter learned, to iiis horror, that his companions
intended to rub the village chapel. Before this, they had
confined themselves to smuggling, but as they meant to
leave the place, never to return, they decided to strip the
little chapel of all its treasures, and then decamp. In
this sacrilegious work Peter refused to take part, but
the threats of the scoundrels prevailed, and he was
forced to accompany them.

It was almost dav-bi'eak when the robbers reached
the chapel. As they entered, the light from the sanc-
tuary hrmip shone full in their faces, and Pe^;er started
back, terrified at the crime he was about to connnit.
The others lost no time, ho\v^ever, but hastily collecting
the sacr'id vessels and other vahiables, packed them in
bags which they had brought. "Down with that lamp!"
they called to Peter, who stood as if in a dream. Re-
called to his senses, he stretched out his hand, and seizing
the lamp, extinguished the light.

At that moment, a shriek rent the air, so sudden and
so full of agony that it seemed to come from no earthly
voice. The terrified robbers, dropping their plunder,
fled, leaving Peter to find his way liome as best he
might.

Trembling in every limb, he hastened down the
mountain-path, when suddenly he spied his wife,
Annette, standing on the edge of the precipice, and

The Lamp of the Sanctuahy.

157

looking down intently into its depth. She neither saw
nor lieard him as he approached, and even when he
touched lier she did not move, but kept her eyes fixed
on a white object in the valley below,

"Annette," he exclaimed, a new fear seizing him,
" what are you staring at ? What do you see ? Is
that a stray lamb down there?" She turned her stony
eyes upon him, and answered in a hard, unnatural voice,
" Yes, a lamb, — our lamb — Mary."

"What!" cried the wretched man, "Mary! our child?
What is she doing there?" These words seemed to
recall the unhappy mother to her senses. She burst
into tears, and it was some minutes before she could
answer. " Peter," she said, " you may have forgoiCi-n
that this is the anniversary of our child's recovery to
health. She was going to the chapel with me, to pray
a little while, and was tripping along cheerfully, when
sudderdy we lost sight of the light fi'om the chapel lamp.
Thinking it was time to turn, she did so, and fell over
the precipice. I gave but one shriek, and fainted."

Peter felt as if a sword was driven through his heart,
and crying out, " I have murdered my child ! It was I
who put out the lamp ! " he dashed down the precipice,
flying from rock to rock, until he stood, or rather knelt,
beside the body of his child.

She lay as if asleep ; not a limb was broken, not a
scratch or tear on her or her garments; even the
wreath she had borne as an offering to the Blessed
Mother was still in her hand. So light and brisk
had been her step that she did not stumble or slip,
but seemed rather to have flown. Life must have been
extinct before she reached the ground.

ill

If ^

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158

Third Readeu.

Tenderly Peter lifted lier in his arms and bore her
to the chapel, where he laid her on the altar steps; and
while he told the story of his crime to the priest, the
mother related the offering their child had made for
her father's conversion.

Her ofierin<^ was accepted. Peter devoted the I'est
of his life to making atonement for his sins. And
years after, beside three graves in the village cemetery,
mothers would tell their children the story of Mary's life,
her father's crimes, his punishment, his repentance and
forgiveness, all so wonderfully connected with the Lamp
of the Sanctuary.

— Cardinal Wlneinan.

LXIV— ROCK ME TO SLEEP.

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight !
Make me a child again, just for to-night ;
Mother, come back from the echoless shore ;
Take me again to your heart as of yore ;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair ;
Over my slumbers your loving watcli keep —
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep.

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years !
I am so weary of toil and of tears —
Toil without recompense — tears all in vain —
Take them and give me my childhood again !
I have grown weary of dust and decay —
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap —
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep.

KucK Me to Sleep.

159

Tired of llie hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, mother, my heart calls for you.
Many a summer the grass has grown green.
Blossomed and faded, our faces between ;
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain
Long I to-night for 3''our presence again.
Come from the silence, so long and so deep-
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep.

Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone ;
No other worsliip abides and endures —
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours ;
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain .
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep —
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep.

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders, again, as of old ;
Let it drop over my forehead to-night.
Shading my faint eyes away from the light ;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore ;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; —
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep.

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened your lullaby song ;
Sing, then, and unto ray soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream .
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep —
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep.

— Elizabeth Akers Allen,

: t

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160 Third Reader.

LXV.-THE BIRTH OF MONTREAL.

On the seventeenth of May, 1642, Maisonneuve's little
flotilla — a pinnace, a flat-bottomed craft moved by sails,
and two row-boats — approached Montreal ; and all on
board raised in unison a hymn of praise. On the
following day, they glided along the green and solitary
shores now thronged with the life of a busy city, and
landed on the spot which Champlain, thirty-one years
before, had chosen as the fit site of a settlement. It
was a tongue or triangle of land, formed by the junction
of a rivulet wdth the St. Lawrence. The rivulet was
bordered by a meadow, and beyond rose the forest with
its vanguard of scattered trees. Early spring flowers
were blooming in the young grass, and birds of varied
plumage flitted among the boughs.

Maisonneuve sprang ashore, and fell on his knees.
His followers imitated his example ; and all joined their
voices in enthusiastic songs of thanksgiving. Tents,
baggage, arms, and stores were landed. An altar was
raised on a pleasant spot near at hand, and it was
decorated with a taste which was the admiration of the
beholders. Now all the company gathered before the
shrine. Hero stood the Jesuit father Vimont, in the rich
vestments of his office ; the Governor, and Maisonneuve,
a war-like figure, erect and tall, his men clustering
around him, — soldiers, sailors, artisans, and laborers, —
all alike soldiers at need. They kneeled in reverent
silence as the Host was raised aloft ; and wdien the rite
was over, the priest turned and addressed them : —

" You are a grain of mustard-seed, that shall rise and
grow till its branches overshadow the earth. You are

Story of Montreal.

IGl

few, but your work is the work of God. His smile is on
you, and your children sliall fill the land."

The afternoon waned ; the sun sank behind the
western forest, and twilight came on. Fireflies were
twinkling over the darkened meadow. They caught
them, tied thein with threads into shining festoons, and
hung them before the altar, where the Host remained
exposed. Then they pitched their tents, lighted their
bivouac fires, stationed their guards, and lay down to
rest. Sucli was the birth-nioht of JMontreal.

LXVI.— STORY OF MONTREAL.

Next day everybody was early astir and hard at work.
The men began to fell the great forest trees, and very
soon all the tents were surrounded by palisades, and the
altar was sheltered by a little chapel of birch-bark. In
a short time small wooden houses took the place of the
tents, and the little settlement had some visible exist-
ence. The first experiences of the colonists here were
all pleasant ones, with charming summer weather, with
a fair landscape spread around them, rich in noble out-
lines of distant hills and dense masses of forest.

Int

ite

With the frosts of December came the first fjreat

troubles to the settlement of Ville Marie. The swollen

river, dannned up b}^ the accumulating ice, rose rapidly

and threatened to sweep away their whole sunnner's

work. Powerless to stop the advancing flood, the

colonists had recourse to prayer.
11

nmmmmmrr

162

Third Reader.

M ;

Maisonneuve raised a wooden cross in front of the
flood, and vowed to plant another cross on the moun-
tain summit as a thank-offering for deliverance. The
advancing river stayed its course just as the waves were
threatening to sap the powder-magazine ; and as it soon
began to recede, the colonists felt that they were safe.
Maisonneuve at once prepared to fulfill his vow. A
path was cleared through the forest to the top of the
mountain, and a lanfQ wooden cross was made and
blessed for the purpose. On the sixteenth of January
a solemn procession ascended the newly-made pathway,
headed by the Jesuit Du Peron, followed by Maison-
neuve, bearing on his shoulders the heavy cross, which
had taxed even his strength to carry up the steep and
rugged ascent. When the cross had been set up, the
leaders received the sacrament on the sunnnit of Mount
Royal.

A lady in France had contributed a large sum of
money for the equipment of a hospital, which was built
accordingly, though as yet there were no patients, and
provided with all the necessary furniture, linen, and
medicines. Mademoiselle Mance was duly installed in
it, to wait for the Indian patients whose bodies and souls
were to be cared for within its walls. Meantime, she
and the other ladies made pilgrimages to the mountain
cross, to pray for the success of their work. Sometimes
fifteen or sixteen of the settlers would join in these
pilgrimages. They seized every opportunity of gaining
an influence over the Indians who came near Ville Marie.
Their eflforts were crowned with some apparent success,
and among their professed converts was numbered a

Story of Montreal.

163

chief famed for liis savage and crafty nature — Le
Borgne. He was christened by the name of Paul, and
presented with a gun, as an encouragement to others to
follow his example.

The French did all they could, however, to stimulate
the Indians to the more peaceful pursuits of agriculture,
giving them implements for tilling the ground and
showing them how to use them. But the dreaded
Irocjuois were perpetually lurking near, ready to harass
and destroy.

One March morning in 1()44, Pilot, a sagacious watch-
dog, scented Indians and rushed towards the fort over
the eastward clearing, barking furiously. The soldiers
crowded about their conunander asking if they were
never to go out to meet this invisible enemy. Maison-
neuve answered promptly that he would lead them out
himself, and would see if they were as brave as they
professed to be.

Quickly the little band was put in battle array. Guns
were shouldered, and all the available snowshoes were
tied on. At the head of his troop of thirty men, Maison-
neuve crossed the clearing, and entered the forest beyond,
where for some time they saw no sign of human presence.
But after wading for a good way through the deep snow,
they were suddenly saluted with a shower of arrows and
bullets from some eighty Iroc^uois springing from their
ambush.

Maisonneuve ordered his men to take shelter behind
the trees and fire at the enemy. For a time they stood
their ground, though three of their men were killed and

164

Third Reader.

several wounded. But their ammunition began to fail,
while the Iroquois still pressed them close with a galling
fire, which broke the steadiness of the men and made
them begin a retreat. They covered their retreat by
turning frequently to fire, but when they reached the
beaten track lea<ling to the fort, they made such a wild
rush that they were mistaken for enemies by their
friends, and, but for an accident, they would have
received a fatal fire.

Maisonneuve gallantly stood his ground to the last,
retreating backward with a pistol in each hand, with
which he kept back his pursuers. The Indians were
anxious to take him alive, and therefore would not shoot
him. The chief wished himself to have the honor of
capturing the French commander, and was in the act of
seizing him when Maisonneuve shot him dead. This
caused such a confusion among the Iroquois, w^ho rushed
to secure the dead body of their chief, that Maisonneuve
escaped during the excitement, and was soon safe in the
fort. Thenceforward his men recognized him as a hero,
and the wisdom of his generalship w^as unquestioned.
For some time after this Ville Marie enjoyed compara-
tive peace. The scene of this brilliant action of Maison-
neuve is believed to have been what is now the Place
d'Armes, clo 3 to the great church of Notre Dame.

— T. G. Marquis, from ^^ Stories from Canadian History.^*

When obstacles and trials seem

Like prison-walls to be,

I do the little I can do

And leave the rest to Thee !

— Father Faher.

Jacques Cartier. 165

LXVII.-JACQUES CARTIER.

In the seaport of Saint Malo, 'twas a smiling morn, in May,
When the Commodoie Jacques Cartier to the westward sail'd

away ;
In the crowded old cathedral all the town were on tlieir knees,
For the safe return of kinsmen from the undiscover'd seas ;
And every autumn l)last that swept o'er pinnacle and pier,
Fill'd manly hearts with sorrow, and gentle hearts witlii fear.

■*H

A year passed o'er Saint Malo — again came round tlie day
When the Commodore Jacques CJartier to the westward sail'd

away ;
But no tidings from the absent had come the way they went,
And tearful were the vigils that many a maiden spent ;
And manly hearts v/ere fill'd with gloom, and gentle hearts

with fear,
When no tidings came from Cartier at the closing of the year.

•y

But the Earth is as the Future, it hath its hidden side,
And the Captain of St. Malo was rejoicing in his pride.
In the forests of the North — while his townsmen mourn'd his

loss
He was rearing on Mount Royal the ^fleur-de-lis and cross;
And, when two months were over and added to the year,
Saint Malo hail'd him home again, cheer answering to cheer.

He told them of a region, hard, iron-bound and cold,
Nor seas of pearl abounded, nor mines of shining gold.
Where the wind from Thule freezes the word upon the lip.
And the ice in spring comes sailing athwart the early ship ;
He told them of the frozen scene until they thrill'd with fear,
And piled fresh fuel on the hearth to make him better cheer.

her.

160

Third Reader.

ij:

But when he clianged the strain — he told liow soon are cast
In early spring the fetters that hold the waters fast ;
How the winter causeway, broken, is drifted out to sea.
And the rills and rivers sing Mith pride the anthem of the

free;
How the magic wand of summer clad the landscape, to his

eyes.
Like the dry bones of the just, when they wake in Paradise.

He told them of the Algonquin braves — the hunters of the

wild.
Of liow the Indian mother in the forest rocks her child ;
Of how, poor souls ! they fancy, in every living thing
A spirit good or evil, that claims their worshipping ;
Of how they brought their sick and maim'd for him to breathe

upon,
And of the wonders wrought for them through the Gospel of

St. John.

He told them of the river whose mighty current gave

Its freshness, for a hundred leagues, to ocean's Ijriny wave ;

He told them of the glorious scene presented to his sight,

What time he rear'd the cross and crown on Hochelaga's

height,

And of the fortress cliff that keeps of Canada the key,

And they welcomed back Jacques Cartier from his perils over

sea.

— 7'. jrArct, McGee,

Dare to do right ! dare to l)e true !

The failings of others can never save you ;

Stand by your conscience, your honor, your faith, —

Stand like a hero, and battle till death!

— Wilson.

BiNGEN ON THE RhINE.

167

LXVIII.-BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

A soldier of tlip Legion lay dying in Algiers ;

There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of

woman's tears ;
But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed

away,
And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.
The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand,
And he said : "I never more shall see my own, my native land;
Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine,
For I was born at Bingen, — at Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd

around.
To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground.
That we fought the battle bravely; and when the day was done
Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun.
And 'mid the dead and dying were some grown old in wars —
The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many

scars ;
But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline ;
And one had come from Bingen, — fair Bingen on the Rhine !

"Tell my mother, that her other sons shall comfort her old age;
And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage ;
For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child.
My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and

wild ;
And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,
I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's

sword ;
And with boyish love I hung it, where the bright light used

to shine.
On the cottage wall at Bingen, — calm Bingen on the Rhine !

iiim^

IG«

rHiKi) Reader.

1 i

1 11 i

■i

1: 1

; t-i

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sol) with drooping

head,
When the troops are marching home again, with glad and

gallant tread ;
But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,
For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die.
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name,
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame ;
And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and

mine),
For the honor of old Bingen, — dear Bingen on the Rhine !

" There's another — not a sister ; — in the happy days gone by
You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her

eye;
Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning —

friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest

mourning !
Tell her the last night of my life, — for ere this moon be risen.
My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison —

1 dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, — fair Bingen on the Rhine I"

His voice grew faint and hoarser ; his grasp was childish

weak ;
His eyes put on a dying look ; he sighed, and ceased to speak.
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled, —
The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land — was dead !
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strewn;
Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene, her pale light seemed to

shine.
As it shone on distant Bingen, — fair Bingen on the Rhine !

— Hon. Mrti. .Norton.

A Fox Hunt.

169

LXIX.-A FOX HUNT.

We toiled up the lon^ steep hill where only an occa-
sional mullein-stalk or other tall weed stood above the
snow. Near the top the hill was girded with a bank of
snow that blotted out the stone wall and every vestige
of the earth beneath.

But what is that black speck creeping across that
cleared field near the top of the mountain at the head
of the valley, three-(piartei\s (f a mile away ? It is like
a fly moving across an illuminated surface. A distant
mellow bay floats to us, and we know it is the hound.
He picked up the trail of the fox half an hour since,
where he had crossed the ridge early in the morning,
and now he has routed him, and Reynard is steering for
the Big Mountain. We press on, attain the shoulder of
the range, where we strike a trail, two or three days
old, of some former hunters, which leads us into the
woods along the side of the mountain.

We see several fresh fox- tracks, and wish for the
hound; but there are no tidings of him. After half an
hour's floundering and cautiously picking our way
through the woods, we emerge into a cleared field that
stretches up from the valley below, and just laps over
the back of the mountain.

Hark ! Is that the hound, or doth expectation mock
the eager ear ? With open mouths, and bated breaths,
we listen. • Yes, it is old "Singer"; he is bringing the
fox over the top of the range toward Butt End, the
utmost limit of the hunters' tramps in this section. In
a moment or two the dog is lost to hearing again. We
wait for his second turn ; then for his third.

T 'iMt:

! 4

i •ii!
■ I

1 'if:
I! 31

l!ii;i

I ;

I I

I :

170

Third Reader,

" He is playiii*^ about tlie suniiiiit," says my companion.

" Let us go there," say I, and we were oti".

A half-liour's heavy tramping" brings us to the broad,
level sunnnit, and to where the fox and hound have
crossed and recrossed niany times. As we are walking
along discussing the matter, we suddenly hear the do^
coming straight on to us.

"We have turned the fox!" we both exclaim, much
put out.

Sure enough, we have. The dog appears in sight, is
puzzled a moment, then turns sharply to the left, and is
lost to eye and to ear as quickly as if he had plunged
into a cave. We take up positions and wait. These old
hunters know exactly where to stand.

"If the fox comes back," said my companion, "he will
cross up there or down here," indicating two points not
twenty rods asunder.

We stood so that each commanded one of the runways
indicated. There! that is the hound. Does his voice
come across the valley from the spur off against us, or is
it on our side down under the mountain ? After an
interval, just as I am thinking the dog is going away
from us along the opposite range, his voice comes up
astonishingly near. A mass of snoAv falls from a branch,
and makes one start; but it is not the fox. Then
through the white vista below me I catch a glimpse of
something red or yellow, yellowish-red or reddish-yel-
low ; it emerges from the lower ground, and, with an
easy, jaunty air, draws near. I am ready, and just in
the mood to make a good shot.

The fox stops just out of range and listens for the

afll

■V.

A Fox Hunt.

171

the

IiouikI. Ho looks ns l)i*iL»lit as an autumn loaf upon
tho spotlosH Hurt'aco. Thou ho stai-ts on, ])ut ho is not
coming to mo, ho is going- to tho othor man. O foolish
fox, you are going straight into tho jaws of death !
My conu'ado stands just there beside that tree. I would
gladly have given Reynard the wink, or signalled to
him if I could. It did seem a pity to shoot him, now
he was out of my roach. I cringe for him, when, crack
goes the gun ! The fox Sfpialls, })ioks himself up, and
plunges over the brink of the mountain. The hunter
has not missed his aim, but the oil in his gun, he says,
has weakened the strono'th of his Dowder, The hound,
hearing the report, came like a whirlwind and was off
in hob pursuit. But fox and dog now bleed, — the dog
at his lu;ols, the fox from his wounds.

In a few minutes there came up from und((r the moun-
tain that long, peculiar bark which the hound always
makes when he has run the fox in, or when something
new and extraordinary has happened. In this instance
ho said plainly enough, " The race is up, the coward has
taken to his hole, ho-o-o-le." Plunging down in the
direction of the sound, tho snow literally to our waists,
wo were soon at tho spot, a great lodge thatched over
with three or four iaet of snow, into which the dog, on
a little encouragement from liis master, made his way.
I thrust my head into tho ledge's mouth, and in the
dim light watched tho dog.

He progressed slowly and cautiously till only his
bleedinfif heels wore visible. Here some obstacle
impeded him a few moments, when he entirely dis-
appeared and was presently face to face with the fox,
and en<ra<rod in mortal combat with him. It was a

■■I

lifflt

172

Timii) Reader.

a fierce encounter there beneatli tlio rocks, the f:x
.silent, the dog very vociferous. But after a time the
superior weitj^ht and strength of tlie latter prevails, and
the fox is brought to light nearly dead. Reynard winka
and eyes me suspiciously a^ I stroke his head and praise
his heroic defence ; but the hunter (juickly and merci-
fully puts an end to his fast ebbing life. His canine
teeth seem unusually largi^ and formidable, and the
dog bears the mai'k of them in many deep gashes upon
his face and nose. His pelt was (quickly stripped off,

revealing his lean, sinewy form.

— Juhii Bun'ouijhs.

LXX. -HUNTING SONG.

1808.

Waken, lords and ladies gay,

On the mountain dawns tlie day,

All the jolly chase is here,

With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear /

Hounds are in their couples yelling,

Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling.

Merrily, merrily, mingle they,

" Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Waken, lords and ladies gay.

The mist has left the mountain gray,

Springlets in the dawn are steaming.

Diamonds on the hrake are gleaming :

And foresters have busy heen.

To track the buck in thicket green ;

Now we come to chant our lay,

"Waken, lords and ladies gay."

The Stoiiv of the Fokty-Nine Martyrs. 173

Waken, loi'ds and ladies gay,
To the green-wood haste away ;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot, and tall of size ;
We can show the marks he made,
When, 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;
You shall see him brought to bay,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Louder, louder chant the lay,

Waken, lords and ladies gay !

Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,

Kun a course as well as we ;

Thiie, stern huntsman ! wlio can })aulk,

Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk ;

Think of this, and rise with day.

Gentle lords and ladies gay.

—Sir Waller Scott.

LXXL— THE STORY OF THE FORTY-NINE

MARTYRS.

In the year 1200 the whole of Poland was overrun by
barbarous Scythian or Tartar tribes. Unable to resist
their violence in the open country the Polish nobles with
mauy peasants took refuge in a strong fortress called
Sandomir. Here was a Dominican convent of forty-nine
monks whose prior was a very holy man named Sadoc.

For some time the people withstood the siege, and
w^ould have triumphed but for the treachery of the
Russian inhabitants. They induced the leaders of the
Poles to go to the Scythian camp to make peace. The

^mp

tt^

174

Third Readeii.

poor chiefs were detained in the camp, while the town
was given up to tire and 8W(n'd by tlie connnon soldiers
of the Tartars.

On the night when tliis liappened tlie monks had met
to sing the sacred office. And when it came fo>' one of
them to recite the names of the martyrs who in different
ages had snfJ'ered for the faith, the monk saw in letters
of glorious light the words : " At 8andomir tlie Suffering
of Forty-nine Martyrs."

These words, which he read in a clear Noice, fell on the
astonished ears of all like a clap of thunder. The book
was handed to the prioi'. There indeed were the words,
and the Holy Spirit revealed to Sadoc that they were
written of iiimself and his comj)anior.s. And he said:
"Who should these be, O brothers, but ourselves? To-
morrow therefore will see the golden gates open to
receive us, and doubtless it will be the swords of the
Tartars that are to carve a short way for us to heaven."

Morning dawned. They prepared for death by assist-
ing with special devotion at Mass and receiving Holy
Communion from the hands of the Blessed Sadoc who
celebrated. The day, which appeared more quiet than
usual, passed on without anything strange. At last
when they were at evening prayer, they chanted : " He
that dv, elleth in the help of the Most High, shall abide
under the pi'otection of the God of heaven. Thou shalt
not be afraid for the terror of the night." " Into thy
hands, O Lord, we connnend our spirit."

Already the Tartar war-cry was heard. The door of
the church was burst open. But a strange sight met the
^-yes of tlie cruel soldiers — forty-nine figures clothed in

.UliS

town
Idiers

(1 met
)ne of
ferent
letters
i'eriiig

Eos A BELLE.

175

wliite, kneeling, in prayer : " And after this our exile
show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus."
With a yell of savage malice the barbarians ruslied ui)on
them and slaughtered them where they knelt.

— Adapted from Ave Maria (hij perniissioti of the Publishers).

LXXIL— ROSABELLE.

on the
3 book
words,
Y were
3 said:
? To-
)en to
of tlie
'aveu."

Holy

3C who

than

Vt last

"He

abide

u shalt

ito tliy

door of
net the
thed in

O listen, listen, ladies gay !

No haughty feat of arms 1 tell ;
Soft is the note, and sad the lay,

That mourns the lovely Kosabelle :

— "Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew 1
And, gentle lady, deign to stay,

Rest thee in Castle Ivavensheuch,
Nor tempt the stormy lirtli to-day.

"The blackening wave is edged with white :
To inch and rock the sea mews lly ;

The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,
Whose screams forbode tliat wreck is nigli,

" Last night the gifted Seer did view
A wet shroud swathed round lady gay ;

Then stay thee. Fair, in Ravensheuch :
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day ? "

'*'Tis not l^ecause Lord Lindesay's heir
To-night at Roslin leads the ball.

But that my lady-mother there
^its lonely in her castle-hall ,

176

Third Reader.

** 'Tis not because tlie ring tliey ride,
And Lindesay at the ring rides well,

But that my sire the wine will cliide,
If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle."—

O'er Eoslin all that dreary night

A wondrous Ijlaze was seen to irleam ;

'Twas })roader than the watch-fire's light,"
And redder than the bright moonbeam.

1 I"! I

'i5,!

It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
It ruddied all the copse-wood glen,

'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak.
And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.

Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud.
Where Roslin's chiefs uncot!hi'd lie,

Each Baron, for a saljle shroud.
Sheathed in his iron panoply.

1
i

The Kokin. 177

Seem'd all on fire, within, around,

Deep sacristy and altar's pale,
Shone every pillar foliage-lxmnd,

And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.

Blazed battlement and pinnet high,

Blazed every rose-carved })uttress fair —

So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
The lordly line of high St. Clair.

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold *■
Lie buried within that proud chapelle ;

Each one the holy vault doth hold —
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle !

And each St. Clair was buried there.

With candle, with book, and with knell ;

But the sea-caves rung, and the m ild winds sung,

The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

— Sir Walter Scott.

LXXIII.— THE ROBIN.

The robin is well known and widely distributed
throughout Ontario. In the south it is most abundant
during the period of migration, but great numbers breed
all over the province, and along the southei'n border it is
no unconnnon thing to meet with individuals spending
the winter in sheltered hollows, from which they are
ready to start out and hail the first indication of return-
ing spring. As the season advances, nortliern-bound
individuals of this species arrive from the south and pass
on with little delay ; but t^ jse which are satisfied to

remain, at once become engaged in the great business of
12

i;^

178

Third Reader.

the season, tliat of raisin^^ their young. The males are
the first to arrive, and are occasionally heard rehearsing
their sununer song, evidently somewhat out of practice.
In a few days the females make their appearance and
receive every attention.

The site for the nest is soon selected, and both birds
work diligently till the structure is completed. The first
set of eggs is laid in April, and during the tedious days
of incubation the male often mounts his perch to cheer
his faithful mate with what to her may seem delightful
strains of music. To human ears the song does not rank
as a brilliant performance, but it is given with great
earnestness and liberality, and is welcomed as the pre-
lude to the grand concert of bird nuisic which is soon to
be heard in the woods and fields all over the country.
At this season the food of the robin consists chiefly of
worms and various insects. It is a fine exhibition of
bird-life to boe him, early in the dewy morning, hop
daintily over the newly cut grass to where an earthworm
is exposing himself near the surface. With his head on
one side, the bird watches every wriggle of the worm
with intense gusto. If it is well out of the ground, it
is seized, and with a jerk thrown clear of its hole, but if
only a part of the woi'iii is exposed, the course is different.
It is then caught quickly and held firmly while it strug-
gles hard to get into its hole. Robin knows that now a
sudden jerk will part the animal and give him only a
portion, but he knows how much strain the material will
bear, and lie holds on till the exhausted worm relaxes its
hold, is tossed out and pounded till fit for use.

As the season advances a second and even a third
brood of young may be raised. The birds acquire a

The Robin.

179

are
sing
itice.

and

birds
) first
days
cheer
rhtful
, rank
great
e pre-
Don to
►untry.
efly of
on of
g, hop
iworm
ad on
worm
und, it
but if
fferent.
strug-
now a
only a
ial will
xes its

third

huire

fondness for fruit, and now come the charges against
them of robbing the cherry tree. No doubt they do
take a few for themselves and families, but after all they
are entitled to some consideration on account of the
number of noxious insects which they destroy in the
garden, and for my own part I would sacrifice a good
many cherries rather than have the robins banished from
around the house.

Those which travel to the far north have a different
experience. The male, it is said, is one of the loudest
and most assiduous songsters which frecpient the fur
countries, beginning his chant immediately on his arrival.
Within the Arctic circle the woods are silent during the
bright light of noonday, but towards midnight when the
sun travels near the horizon, and the shades of the forest
are lengthened, the concert commences and continues till
six or seven in the morning. Nests have been found as
high as the 54t]i parallel of latitude about the beginning
of June. The snow even then partially covers the ground,
but there is in these high latitudes abundance of berries
w^hich, after having been frozen up all winter, are
exposed by the first melting of snow, full of juice and
in high flavor. Thus is formed a natural hiding-place
for the supply of the birds on their arrival, and soon
afterwards their insect food becomes abundant.

In Southern Ontario large numbers are seen congre-
gating together, feeding on tlie berries of tlie mountain
ash, poke weed, red cedar, etc. If the weather is mild
they remain till November, but usually we have a cold
blast from the north in October, which Inu-ries the bulk

of them off to their \vinter-(|uarters in the south.
— Fro7)i Mcllwraitli's '' Birds of (hifaiio,"

(by permission of the Author and Publishers).

^►■Si.t#^

'ill

'll

180

Third Reader.

LXXIV.-THE WIDOW'S MESSAGE TO

HER SON.

** Remember, Denis, all I bade you say ;

Tell him we're well and happy, thank the Lord ;
But of our troubles, since he went away,

You'll mind, my son, and never say a word ;

Of cares and troubles, sure, we've all our share ;
The finest summer isn't always fair.

"Tell him a little calf was born in May ;

It died, poor thing ; but that you needn't mind ;
Nor how the constant rain destroyed the hay ;
But tell him God to us was ever kind ;

And when the fever spread the country o'er,
His mercy kept the * sickness ' from our door.

*' The neighbors came our heavy toil to share —

'Twas then I missed him most — my own right hand :
I felt, although kind hearts were around me there,
The kindest heart beat in a foreign land.

Strong hand ! brave heart ! oh, severed far from me
By many a weary league of shore and sea.

"Tell him old Pincher fretted many a day,

And moped, poor dog, 'twas well he didn't die.
Crouched by the roadside how he watched the way,
And sniffed the travellers as they passed him by —
Hail, rain, or sunshine, sure 'twas all the same,
He listened for the foot that never came.

"Tell him the house is lonesome-like, and cold,

The fire itself seems robbed of half of its light ;
But maybe 'tis my eyes are grov/ing old,

One of God's Storehouses.

181

And things look dim before my failing sight :
For all that, tell him 'twas myself that spun
The shirts you bring, and stitched them every one.

" Give him my blessing, morning, noon, and night ;

Tell him my prayers are oflFered for his good,
That he may keep his Maker still in sight,
And firmly stand, as his brave father stood.
True to his name, his country, and his God,
Faithful at home, and steadfast still abroad."

•Ellen Forrester (by permission Walter Scott, Ltd., Publishers, London).

LXXV.— ONE OF GOD'S STOREHOUSES.

Perhaps yon would like to go Vvnth me to examine one
of God's storehouses that was opened a good many years
ago, but contains such valuable things that the uses of
all of them have not yet been found out, and their
beauty is just beginning to be known.

The doorway of this storehouse lias in the side of a
hill. It is twice as wide as tlie great barn-door where
the hay-carts are driven in ; and two railroad tracks run
out at it, side by side, with a litthi footpath between
them. The entrance is light, because it opens so wide.
We can see that the floor slopes downward, and the way
looks dark and narrow before us.

We shall need a guide; and here comes one — a rough-
looking TTian, with smutty clothes, and an odd little lamp
covered with wire gauze, fastened to the front of his cap.
He is one of the workmen employed to brin^ the treas-

\"i'i'

■'■■k

182

Third Reader.

ures out of this dark storehouse. He will show us, by
the light of his lamp, some of the wonders of the place.
Walk down the sloping footpath now. Be careful to
keep out of the way of the little cars tliat are coming
and going on each side of you, loaded on one side, and
empty on the other, and seeming to run up and down
by themselves. But you will find that they are really
pulled and pushed by an engine that stands outside
the doorway and reaches them by long chains.

At last we reach the foot of the slope; and as our eyes
become accustomed to the faint light, we can see pas-
sages leading to the right and the left, and square
chambers cut out in the solid hill. So this great green
hill, upon which you might run or play, is inside like
what I think some of those large ant-hills must be —
traversed by galleries, and full of rooms and long pas-
sages. All about we see men like our guide, working by
the light of their little lamps. We hear the echoing
sound of the tools ; and we see great blocks and heaps
that they have broken away, and loaded into little cars
that stand ready, here and there, to be drawn by mules
to the foot of the slope.

Now, are you curious to know what this treasure is ?
Have you seen already that it is only coal, and do you
wonder that I think it is so precious ? Look a little
closer, while our guide lets the light of his lamp fall
upon the black wall at your side. Do you see the
delicate tracery of ferns, more beautiful than the fairest
drawing? See, beneath your feet is the marking of
great tree-trunks lying aslant across the floor, and the
forms of gigantic palm-leaves strewed among them.

liiitt

One of God's Storehouses.

183

Here is something different, rounded like a nutshell ;
you can split off one side, and behold there is the nut
lying snugly as does any chestnut in its bur !

Did you notice the great pillars of coal that are left to
uphold the roof ? Let us look at them ; for perhaps we
can examine them more closely than we can the roof,
and the sides of these halls. Here are mosses and little
leaves, and sometimes an odd-looking little body that is
not unlike some of the sea-creatures we found at the
beach last summer; and everything is made of coal,
nothing but coal. How did it happen, and what does it
mean ? Ferns and palms, mosses and trees and animals,
all perfect, all beautiful, and yet all hidden away under
this hill, and turned into shining black coal.

Now, I can very well remember when I first saw a
coal fire, and how it looked to see what seemed to be
burning stones. For when I was a little girl, we always
had logs of wood blazing in an open fireplace, and so did
many other people, and coal was just coming into use for
fuel. What should we have done, if everybody had
kept on burning wood to this day ? There would have
been scarcely a tree left standing ; for think of all the
locomotives and enginas in factories, besides all the fires
in houses and churches and schoolhouses.

But God knew that we should have need of other fuel
besides wood, and so he made great forests to grow on
the earth before he had made any men to live upon it.
These forests were of trees, different in some ways from
those we have now, great ferns as tall as this house,
and mosses as high as little trees, and pah -leaves of
enormous size. And, when they were all prepared, he

-1.4:.

»».

184

Third Reader.

planned how they should best be stored up for the use
oi* his children, who would not be here to use them
for many thousand years to come.

So lie let them t^row and ripen and fall to the
ground, and then the great rocks were piled above
them to crowd them compactly together. They were
heated and heavily pressed until, as the ages went by,
they changed slowly into these hard, black, shining
stones, and became better fuel than any wood, because
the substance of wood was concentrated in them. Then
the hills were piled up on top of it all ; but here and
there some edge of a coal-bed was tilted up, and appeared
above the ground. This served for a hint to curious men,
to make them ask, "What is this?" and "What is it
gcjod for ? " and so at last, following their questions, to
find their way to the secret stores, and make an open
doorway, and let the world in.

iiEtltf

LXXVL— EDINBURGH CASTLE.

While Robert Bruce was gradually getting possession
of the country and driving out the English, Edinburgh,
tlie principal town of Scotland, remained, with its strong
castle, in possessioii of the invaders. Sir Thomas Ran-
dolph was extremely desirous to gain this important
place ; but, as is well known, the castle stands upon a
very steep and lofty rock, so that it is difficult or almost
impossible even to get up to the foot of the walls, much
more to climb over them.

So, while Randolph was considering what was to be
done, there came to him a Scottish gentleman named

!'iV 'll

Edinburgh Castle.

185

Francis, who had joined Bruce *s standard, and asked to
speak with him in private. He then told Randolph, that
in his youth he had lived in the castle of Edinburgh, and
that his father had then been keeper of the fortress.

It happened at tha'; time that Francis paid frequent
visits to friends who lived in a part of the town beneath
the castle, which is called the Grassmarket. Now, as he
could not get out of the castle by day, he had practised a
way of clambering by night down the castle rock on the
south side, and returning at his pleasure. When he
came to the foot of the wall, he made use of a ladder to
get over it, as it was not very high at this point, those
who built it having trusted to the steepness of the crag
— and for the same reason no watch was placed there.

Francis had gone and come so often in this dangerous
manner, that, though it was now long ago, he told
Randolph he knew the road so well, that he would
undertake to guide a small party by night to the bottom
of the wall ; and, as they might bring ladders with them,
there would be no ditiJculty in scaling it. The great
risk was that of being discovered by the watchmen
while in the act of ascending the cliff, in which case
every man of them must have perished.

Nevertheless, Randolph did not hesitate to attempt
the adventure. He took with him only thirty men (you
may be sure they were chosen for activity and courage),
and came one dark night to the foot of the rock, which
they began to ascend under the guidance of Francis.

He went before them, upon his hands and feet, up one
cliif, dov/n another, and round another where there was
scarce room to support themselves. All the while, these

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186

Third Reader.

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thirty men were obliged to follow in a line, one after the
other, by a path that was fitter for a cat than a man.
The noise of a stone falling, or a word spoken from one
to another, would have alarmed the watchmen. They
were obliged, therefore, to move with the greatest
possible precaution.

When they were far up the crag, and near the foun-
dation of the wall, they heard the guards going their
rounds, to see that all was safe in and about the castle.
Bandolph and his party had nothing for it but to lie
close and quiet, each man under the crag, as he happened
to be placed, and trust that the guards would pass by
without noticing them.

While they were thus waiting in breathless alarm,
they got a new cause of fright. One of the soldiers of
the castle, wishing to startle his comrades, suddenly
threw a stone from the wall, and cried out, "Aha ! I see
you well ! "

The stone came thundering down over the heads of
Randolph and his men, who naturally thought them-
selves discovered. If they had stirred, or made the
slightest noise, they would have been entirely destroyed;
for the soldiers above might have killed every man of
them merely by rolling down stones. But being cour-
ageous and chosen men, they remained quiet, and the
English soldiers thought their comrade was merely
playing them a trick. Indeed he had no other meaning
in what he did and said ; and the guard passed on,
without further examination.

Then Randolph and h\» men got up and came in haste
to the foot of the wall, which was not above twice a

i, :< u!

The Inchcape Rock.

187

man's height in that place. They planted the ladders
they had brought, and Francis mounted first to show
them the way ; Sir Andrew Grey, a brave knight, fol-
lowed him, and Randolph himself was the third man
who got over.

Then the rest followed. When once they were within

the walls, there was not so much to do, for the garrison

were asleep and unarmed, excepting the watch, who

were speedily destroyed. Thus was Edinburgh Castle

taken in March of the year 1313.

—Sir Walter Scott.

LXXVIL— THE INCHCAPE ROCK.

No stir in the air, no stir iii the sea,
The ship was as still as she could be ;
Her sails from heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock,
The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock ;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The pious Abbot of Aljerbrothock
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock ;
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning rung.

When the rock was hid by the surge's swell,
The mariners heard the warning bell ;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothock.

188 Third Reader.

The sun in heaven was shining gay;

All things were joyful on that day ;

The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round,

And there was joyance in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen,
A darker speck on the ocean green ;
Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck.
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power of spring ;
It made him whistle, it made him sing :
His heart was mirthful to excess.
But the Rover's mirth war wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float ;
Quoth he : " My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothock."

The boat is lowered, the boatmen row.

And to the Inchcape Rock they go ;

Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,

And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.

Down sank the bell, with a gurgling sound,

The bubbles rose and burst around ;

Quoth Sir Ralph: "The next who comes to the Rock

Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothock."

Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away ;
He scoured the seas for many a day ;
And now, grown rich with plundered store,
He steers his course for Scotland's shore.

*^^

The Inchcape Rock. 189

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky
They cannot see the sun on hi<'h ;
The wind hath blown a gale all day,
At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand ;
So dirk it is, they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph, " It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising moon."

"Canst hear," said one, " the breakers roar?
For methinks we should be near the shore."
" Now where we are I cannot tell.
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell."

They hear no sound ; the swell is strong ;
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock ;
Cried they : " It is the Inchcape Rock ! "

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair.
He cursed himself in his despair :
The waves rush in on every side ;
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

But, even in his dying fear,
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear, —
A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell,
The fiends below were ringing his knell.

— Robert Southey.

.' a

I count this thing to be grandly true,

That a noble deed is a step toward God, —
Lifting the soul from the common clod

To a purer air and a broader view.

190

Third Reader.

LXXVIII.— THE CRATCHITS' CHRISTMAS

DINNER.

Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchits wife, dressed
out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in
ribbons, which are cheap and make a goodly show for
sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda
Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons ;

while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the
saucepan of potatoes, and getting the corners of his
monstrous shirt-collar (Bob's private property, conferred
upon his son and heir in honor of the day) into his
mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired, and
yearned to show his linen in tlie fashionable parks.

^'■i.

The Cratchits' Christmas Dinner.

191

And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came
tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's they had
smelt the goose, and known it for their own ; and,
basking in luxurious thoughts of sage and onion, these
young Cratchits danced about the table, and exalted
Master Peter Cratchit to tlie skies, while he (not proud,
although his collar nearly choked him) blew the tire,
until the slow potatoes, bubbling up, knocked loudly at
the saucepan-lid to be let out and peeled.

"There's father coming," cried the two young Cratchits,
who were everywhere at once. " Hide, Martha, hide !"

So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the
father, with at least three feet of comforter, exclusive
of the fringe, hanging down before him ; and his thread-
bare clothes darned up and brushed, to look seasonable;
and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he
bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an
iron frame !

" Why, where's our Martha ? " cried Bob Cratchit,
looking round. •

'' Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchit.

" Not coming ! " said Bob, with a sudden declension in
his high spirits ; for he had been Tim's blood horse all
the way from church, and had come home rampant.
" Not coming upon Christmas Day ! "

Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were
only in joke ; so she came out prematurely from behind
the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two
young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him oH' into

192

Third Reader.

the wash-house, that he mi^ht liear the pudding singing
in the copper.

"And how did little Tim behave?" asked Mrs. Cratchit,
when she had rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had
hugged his daughter to his heart's content.

"As good as gold," said Bob, "and better. Somehow
he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and
thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told
me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in
the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be
pleasant to tliem to remember, upon Christmas Day, who
made lame beggars walk and blind men see."

Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and
trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing
strong and hearty.

His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and
back came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken,
escorted by his brother and sister to his stool beside the
fire; and while Bob, turning up liis cuffs, — as if, poor
fellow, they were capable of being made more shabby, —
compounded some hot mixture in a jug with spirits and
lemons, and stirred it round and round, and put it on the
hob to simmer. Master Peter and the two ubiquitous
young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which
they soon returned in high procession.

Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a
goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon,
to which a black swan was a matter of course, — and
in truth it was something very like it in that house.
Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in i.
little saucepan) hissing hot j Master Peter ma.shed the

The Cratchits' Christmas Dinner.

193

potatoes with incredible vigor ; Miss Belinda sweetened
up the apple-sauce ; Martha dusted the hot plates ; Bob
took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table ;
the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not
forgetting themselves, and, mounting guard upon their
posts, crannned spoons into their mouths, lest they should
shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At
last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was
succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking
slowly all along the carving knife, prepared to plunge it
in the breast ; but when she did, and when the long-
expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of
delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim,
excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table
with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah !

There never was such a goose. Bob said he di< n't
believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its ten jox-
ness and flavor, size and cheapness, were the themes of
universal admiration. Eked out by apple-sauce and
mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole
family ; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight
(surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they
hadn't ate it all at last ! Yet every one had had enough,
and the youngest Cratchits in particular were steeped in
sage and onion to the eyebrows ! But now, the plates
being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the
room alone — too nervous to bear witnesses — to take the
pudding up and bring it in.

Suppose it should not be done enough ! Suppose it
should break in turning out ! Suppose somebody should
have got over the wall of the back-yard, and stolen it,
13

m. :

194

- TiiiHi) Readeu.

Ifiil

while they were merry with tlie j^oose, — a supposition at
which the two youiit^ Cratchits became livid 1 All sorts
of horrors were supposed.

Hallo ! A great deal of steam ! The pudding was out
of the copper. A smell like a washing-day 1 That was
the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastry-
cook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next
door to that ! That was the pudding ! In half a minute
Mrs. Cratchit entered — flushed, but smiling proudly —
with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard
and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quatern of ignited
brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into
the top.

Oh, a wonderful pudding ! Bob Cratchit said, and
calmly, too, that he regarded it as the greatest success
achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs.
Cratchit said that, now the weight was off her mind, she
would confess she had her doubts about the quantity of
flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but
nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding
for a large family. It would have been flat heresy to
do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at
such a thing.

At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared,
the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound
in the jug being tasted, and considered perfect, apples
and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovelful of
chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family
drew round the hearth in what Bob Cratchit called a
circle, meaning half a one ; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow
stood the family display of glass, — two tumblers, and a
custard -cup without a handle,

The Queen of Seasons.

195

These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well
as golden goblets would have done ; and Bob served it
out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire
sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob proposed : —

" A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless
us!"

Which all the family re-echoed.

" God bless us every one ! " said Tiny Tim, tlie last
ot all. — Charles Dickens.

LXXIX.— THE QUEEN OF SEASONS.

All is divine whicli the Highest has made,

Through the days that He wrought till the day when He

stayed ;
Above and below, within and around.
From the centre of space to its uttermost Ixjund.

In beauty surpassing the universe smiled
On the morn of its birth, like an innocent child.
Or like the rich bloom of some delicate flower ;
And the Father rejoiced in the work of His power.

Yet worlds brighter still, and a brighter than those.
And a brighter again, He had made, had He chose ;
And, you never could name that conceivable best,
To exhaust the resources the Maker possessed.

But I know of one work of His infinite Hand,
Which special and singular ever must stand ;
So perfect, so pure, and of gifts such a store.
That even Omnipotence ne'er shall do more.

196 Third Reader.

The freshness of May, and the sweetness of June,
And the fire of July in its passionate noon.
Munificent August, September serene,
Are togetlier no match for my glorious <<^ueen.

O Mary, all months and all days are thine own,
In thee lasts their joyousness, when they are gone ;
And we give to thee May, not because it is best.
But because it comes first, and is pledge of the rest.

— Cardinal Newman,

LXXX.— THE TOWN PUMP. .

Noon, by the north clock ! Noon, by the east ! High
noon, too, by those hot sunbeams which fall, scarcely
avslope, upon my head, and almost make the water bubble
and smoke in the trough under my nose. Truly, we
public characters have a tough time of it !

Among all the town officers, chosen at the yearly
meeting, where is he that sustains, for a single year,
the burden of such manifold duties as are imposed,
in perpetuity, upon the Town Pump ?

The title of town treasurer is rightfully mine, as
guardian of the best treasure the town has. The over-
seers of the poor ought to make me their chairman,
since I provide bountifully for the pauper, without
expense to him that pays taxes.

I am at the head of the fire department, and one of
the physicians of the board of health. As a keeper of
the peace, all water-drinkers confess me equal to the
constable. Like a dram-seller on the public square, on

The Town Pump.

197

a muster-day, I cry aloud to all and sundry, in my
plainest accents, and at the very tiptop of my voice : —

" Here it is, gentlemen ! Here is the good liquor !
Walk up, walk up, gentlemen ; walk up, walk up !
Here is the superior stuff! better than Cognac, Hollands,
Jamaica, strong beer, or wine of any price ; here it is by
the hogshead or the single glass, and nothing to pay !
Walk up, gentlemen, walk up, and help yourselves ! "

It were a pity if all tliis outcry should draw no
customers. Here they come. — A hot day, gentlemen.
Quaff and away again, so as to keep yourselves in a nice
cool sweat. — You, my friend, will need another cupful to
wash the dust out of your throat. I see that you have
trudged half a score of miles to-day, and, like a wise
man, have passed by the taverns, and stopped at the
running brooks and the wells.

Drink, and make room for that other fellow, who
seeks my aid to quench the fiery fever of last night's
potations, which he drained from no cup of mine. —
Welcome, most rubicund sir ! You and I have been
strangers hitherto ; nor, to confess the truth, will my
nose be anxious for a closer intimacy till the fumes of
your breath be a little less potent.

Fill again, and tell me, on the v/ord of an honest man,
did you ever, in cellar, tavern, or any other kind of
dram-shop, spend the price of your children's food for
anything half so delicious ? Now, for the first time
these ten years, you know the flavor of cold water.

Good-bye ; and whenever you are thirsty, recollect
that I keep a constant supply at the old stand. This
thirsty dog, with his red tongue lolling out, does not

198

Third Reader.

scorn my hospitality, but stands on his hind legs snd
laps eagerly out of the trough. See how lightly he
capers away again !

Your pardon, good people ! I must interrupt my
stream of eloquence, and spout forth .1 stream of water,
to replenish the trough for this teamster and his two
yoke of oxen, which have come all the way from
Staunton, or somewhere along that way. No part of
my business gives me more pleasure than the watering
of cattle.

I hold myself to be the grand reformer 01' the age.
From my spout, and such spouts as mine, must flow the
stream that shall cleanse our earth of a vast portion of
its crime and anguish, whicli iiave gushed from the ii^ry
fountains of the still. In this mighty enterprise, the
cow shall be my great confederate. Milk and water !

The Town Pump and the Cow ! Such is the glorious
partnership that shall finally monopolize the whole
business of quenching thirst. Blessed consummation !
Then Poverty shall pass away from the land, finding no
hovel so wretched that her squalid iurm may shelter
itself there. Then Disease, for lack of other victims,
shall gi. iw his own heart and die. Then Sin, if she do
not die, shall lose half her strength.

Then there will be nc war of households. The
husband and the wife, drinking deep of peaceful joy, a
calm bliss of temperate affections, shall pass hand in
hand through life, and lie down, not reluctantly, at its
protracted close.

Drink, then, and be refreshed ! The water is as pure
and cold as when it slaked the thirst of the red hunter,

mms

rn and
bly he

)t my
water,
is two
from
lart of
itering

e age.
3W the
tion of
e fiery
se, the
:er !

lorious
whole
ation !
intj^ no
shelter
ictims,
she do

The

iiid in
at its

bs pure
lunter,

Peter the Great and the Russian Capital. 199

and flowed beneath the aged bough. Still is this
fountain the source of health, peace, and happiness ;
and I behold with certainty and joy the approach of
the period when the virtues of cold water, too little
valued since our fathera' days, will be fully appreciated
and recognized by all. —Nathaniel Hawthorne.

LXXXL— PETER THE GREAT AND THE
RUSSIAN CAPITAL.

Peter the Great was a man of iron will. Let his mind
be set upon a purpose, and no power on earth could
change him. He was a tyrant; human life and happi-
ness were of no value, no significance other than as they
might serve to build up the power and glory of the
Russian Government.

He set forth from the ancient inland capital of
Moscow, and travelled from country to country, from
port to port, from kingdom to kingdom, eagerly seizing
upon and jealously guarding every method and every
scheme by which these countries had made themselves
rich and powerful among nations

He returned to Moscow and thundered out before the
Russian court, " Russia must have a northern seaport
capital ! "

" But there is no port ! " answered his oflScers.

" Make one ! " roared the Czar.

" But there is no coast ! "

" Make one ! "

}

200

Thihd Header.

And a northern seaport capital was built — the St.
Petersburg of to-day — the seaport and the coast being
made, as one might say, upon which to build the capital.

If you look at the map you will see that much of
Russia's sea-coast lies within or close bordering upon
the icy, frozen, Arctic region — a most unpromising
location for a capital, a most discouraging one to any
but a Russian Government.

More than that, the shores of the country are so very
low and level that if there is the least unusual rise in
the sea-level, the country for miles inland is submerged,
leaving it for the remainder of the year a mere un-
healthy, malarial marsh land.

But the Czar had ordered that a capital be built ; and
tides, malaria, low-lands, and marshes notwithstanding, a
capital must be built; and as you and I and all the
world know, a capital was built.

A site was chosen, not where the country was highest
or best drained, and where the city would be most easily
built and afterward be freest from danger and destruc-
tion. Oh, no ; that was not the Russian way. Instead,
the site was chosen just where it was most convenient
and profitable that Russia's capital should be built as
regarded future commerce and nothing else. " We will
build up the shore to suit the site ; not choose the site
to suit the shore," was Peter's growling reply to any
courtier who dared suggest any hindrance to the success
of his heart's ambition.

And certainly Peter's officers honestly carried out
their ruler's design. The spot faxv^red of nature was

Peter the Great and the Russian Cax*ital. 201

cliosen, if we may trust to the writings of the men of
the times. For nowhere along the coast was there a
swampier tract, nor one of lower level than the one upon
which stands the now elegant capital — the city of St.
Petersburg.

Work upon the city was at once begun. Piles were
driven, streets were built, and houses were erected.
Armies^ upon armies of men died from malaria and from
exposure to the cold and wet. But what of that ?
Might a man not as well die building a capital for his
country as fighting in battle for her? So Peter
thought ; and so, no doubt, the sturdy Russian workmen
thought.

Among the very first to move his family to the new
capital, defying for himself as well as for them its
dangers and its climate, was the Czar himself. ** Cer-
tainly I shall live in my own civpital, ' said he, as he set
forth from Moscow with his long caravan of household
goods and royal treasures.

One by one the families of the Russian nobility
followed. Year by year, the city crept farther and
farther inland ; year by year, the tidal waves were
driven back and the city at last made free from inunda-
tion. . For years no traveller, no peasant, no farmer was
allowed to enter the city without bringing as a part of
his cart-load, stones and soil, with which to help fill up
the city morasses.

" We have now," was Peter's comment, when at last
the new capital was acknowledged a success, " a window
through which Russia can look out upon civilized
Europe."

^m^{

|»

202 Third Reader.

LXXXII.-THE PIED PIPER.

Hanielin Town's in Brunswick,

By famous Hanover oity ;

The river We.ser, deep and wide,

Washes its wails on the soutliern side ;

A pleasanter spot you never spied ;

But, when begins my ditty,
Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so

From vermin, was a pity.

Rats !
They fought the dogs and killed the cats,

And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats.

And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles,

ii^f

The Pied Piper.

203

Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men's Sunday bats,
And even spoiled the women's chats

By drowning their speaking

With shrieking and scjueakin^
In fifty different sharps and flats.

At last the people in a body

To the Town Hall came flockin|^ :
"'Tis Clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy ;

And as for our Corporation — shocking
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine
For dolts tiiat can't or won't determine
What's best to rid us of our vermin !
Rouse up, sirs ! Give your brains a racking
To find the remedy we're lacking,
Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing ! "
At this the Mayor and Corporation
Quaked with a mighty consternation.

An hour they sat in council,

At length the Mayor broke silence :
^^ For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell ;

I wish I were a mile hence I
Its easy to hid one rack one^s brain —
Vm. snre 'my poor head aches again,
Fve scratched it so, and all in vain.
for a trap, a trap, a trap ! "
Just as he said this, what should hap
At the chamber door but a gentle tap ?
^^ Bless us,^' cried the Mayor, *' what's that ?
Only a scrapi?ig of shoes on the mat ;
Anything like tJie sound of a rat
Makes my heart go pit-a-jjat I "

RMP

204

Third Reader.

** Come in I " — the Mayor cried, looking bigger :

And in did come the strangest figure !

His queer long coat from heel to head

Was half of yellow and half of red,

And he himself was tall and thin,

With sharp blue eyes each like a pin,

And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,

No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin,

But lips where smiles went out and in ;

There was no guessing his kith and kin ;

And nobody could enough admire

The tall man and his quaint attire.

Quoth one : " It's as my great grandsire,

Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone,

Had walked this way from his painted tombstone ! "

He advanced to the council-table :

And, " Please your honors," said he, "I'm able,

By means of a secret charm, to draw

All creatures living beneath the sun,

That creep or swim or fly or run.
After me so as you never saw !
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm.
The mole and toad and newt and viper ;
And people call me the Pied Piper."

(And here they noticed round his neck

A scarf of red and yellow stripe.
To match with his coat of the self-same check ;

And at the scarfs end hung a pipe ;
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying
As if impatient to be playing
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled
Over his vesture so old-fangled). ♦

»»

The Pied Piper.

" And as for what your brain bewilders,

If I can rid your town of rats
Will you give me a thousand guilders ? "
** One 1 fifty thousand !" — was the exclamation
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

Into the street the Piper stept,

Smiling first a little smile.
As if he knew what magic slept

In his quiet pipe the while ;
Then, like a musical adept,
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled.
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,
Like a candle -flame where salt is sprinkled ;
And ere three shrill notes the piper uttered.
You heard as if an army muttered ;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling ;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling ;

Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats.
Grave old plodders, gay young f riskers,

Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins.
Curling tails and pricking whiskers.

Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — ,

Followed the Piper for their lives.

From street to street he piped advancing,
And step by otep they followed dancing.
Until they came to the river Weser,
Wherein all plunged and perished !

205

206 Third Reader.

— Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar,
Swam across and lived to carry

(As he, the manuscript he cherished)

To Rat-land home his commentary.

You should have heard the Hamelin people
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple.
" Go," cried the Mayor, ^^ and get I on ff poles,
Poke out the nests and block up the holes !

Consult with carpenters and builders,
And leave iri our torvn not even a trace
Of the rats ! " — when suddenly, up the face
Of the Piper perked in the market-place.

With a "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"

A thousand guilders ! The Mayor looked blue ;

So did the Corporation too.

To pay this sum to a wandering fellow

With a gipsy coat of red and yellow !

*^ So, friend, u^e're not the folks to shi'ink

From the daty of giving you something to drink.

And a matter of money to piit in your poke ;

But as for the guilders, tvhat we spoke

Of them, as you very well kttow, was in joke.

Besides, our losses have made us thrifty ; —

A thousand guilders I Come, take fifty ! "

The Piper's face fell, and he cried

" No trifling ! I can't wait ;

And folks who put me in a passion

May find me pipe to another fashion."

^^How?" cried the Mayor, ''dye think Vll brook

nil

The Pied Piper.

207

Being loorse treated than a cook ? ,

Insulted by a lazy rihaldy

With idle pipe and vesture piebald ?

You threaten us, fellow 1 Do your worst ;

Blow your pijw,, then, till you burst /"

Once more he stepfc into the street,

And to his lips again

Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane ;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musician's cunning

Never gave the enraptured air).

There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling and pitching and hustling ;
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering.
Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering.
And, like fowls in a farm-j^ard when barley is scat-
tering,
Out came the children running. - .

All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

And now the Mayor was on the rack,

And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,

As the Piper turned from the High Street , •

To where the Weser rolled its waters

Right in the way of their sons and daughters !

However, he turned from South to West,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,
And after him the children pressed ; —

208 Third Reader.

Great was the joy in every breast.

" He never can cross that mighty top /

He^s forced to let the piping drop,

Aiid we shall see our children stop /"

When, lo, as they reached the niuuntain-side,

A wondrous portal opened wide,

As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed ;

And the Piper advanced and the children followed,

And when all were in to the very last.

The door in the mountain-side shut fast.

— Robert Browning.

LXXXIIL— THE LAST MARTYR OF THE

COLISEUM.

In every town built by the Romans there are still to
be seen, where there are any ruins at all left, the remains
of amphitheatres where public sports or games were held.
These amphitheatres usually consisted of long rows
of seats encircling the arena, which took its name from
the white sand with which it was strewn, arena being
the Latin equivalent of sand. To-day we would call the
arena a ring, and the amphitheatre a circus.

The largest and best known of all these buildings was
the celebrated Coliseum, w4th which we have been made
familiar by numberless pictures. It was built in the
reign of Vespasian, and many captive Jews passed the
long days of their exile in toil upon its noble walls. The
work was wonderfully well done, and the Coliseum is one
of the best preserved ruins in the world. Its extent was
enormous, about five acres being enclosed ; and so much

The Last Martyu of the Coliseim.

200

stone and marble was employed in its construction tliat
several entire palaces in Home have been built IVom its
fragments without ap[)ai'('ntly diminishin<j; their extent.

Writers disa<rree in their estimate of the numl.'er of
persons who could be acconnnodated on the seats of this
gigantic structure, but it is safe to say tliat they would
easily hold ninety thousand. The Coliseum, like other
Roman amphitheatres, had no roof; but when it was

necessary, beautiful awnings of silk could be unfurled
above tlie spectators to protect them from the sun or
rain.

At the time when eager crowds poured into that great
enclosure, the fashionable hours differed from those of
to-day. The common people went at an early hour in
the morning, the dignitaries arriving later, and being
saluted with shouts. Usually these were cries of wel-
come, but sometimes they were the reverse; for there
14

210

Third Reader.

;.»'i

were favorites among the rulers then as now, and the
populace did not hesitate to hoot or deride an unpopular
senator who ventured to show his robes in public. • . >

The appearance of the emperor was always the signal
for the sports to begin. These games were often harm-
less, but sometimes the savage temper of the people was
aroused, and they grew tired of looking at such tame
sights as dancing beasts .c rope -walking elephants.
Animals were set to fight one another ; and then, as the
taste for blood became stronger, men were brought in
and made to defend themselves against wild beasts.
This latter was a favorite way of disposing "of captives
taken in war ; and, as time went on, certain slaves were
trained to be gladiators, or professional fighters of one
another. When one was wounded, the victor would
glance up to where the noble ladies sat to see what the
verdict was. If the dainty thumbs w^ere turned down,
"Fight to the death" was meant. The victorious gladi-
ator would then soon put an end to his unfortunate
victim. > %

After the introduction into Rome of the religion of
our Blessed Lor^, Christian martyrs were employed to
feed with their own bodies the savage beasts of the
arena, and this continued until the Emperor Constantino
embraced the faith. It was determined then to stop this
sacrifice of human lives; but the lust for blood was in
the veins of the semi-barbaric people, and if a man
wished to be elected to a high office his quickest
way to gain influence was to treat the multitude to
some wild, horrible spectacle in the Coliseum. The
emperors were called to Constantinople or elsewhere,

The Last Martyr of the Coliseum.

211

d the
)pular

signal
harui-
le was
L tame
)hants.
as the
ght in
beasts,
aptives
}s were
of one

would
hat the

down,
s gladi-
rtunate

nnon of

3yed to
of the
tantine
op this
was in
a man
uickest
tude to
The
ewhere,

and so it often came about that the old sports were
still carried on.

At tlie beginning of the fifth century, Honorius, a
feeble boy, was emperor. The fierce Gothic hordes had
been driven back by the brave Roman general, and Rome
was saved Many Goths were taken prisoners, and in
the excitement of the moment a grand combat was
arranged to commemorate the victory. The beauty and
bravery of Rome gathered in the Coliseum to celebrate
the escape from the d/eaded enemy. At first the sports
were innocent enough, but after a while the Gothic slaves
were brought to be slain by wild beasts; and then the
gladiators, as in old heathen times, began to slay one
another.

Suddenly the slender form of an unknown man was
seen upon the sand of the arena. His feet were bare
and his garb was humble. He held up a warning arm,
and called to the combatants in the name of God, to
desist. The crowds screamed: "Back, old man!" But
he did not falter. They cried to the gladiators to cut
him down, but he stood there firm, still calling upon
the others to cease from committing murder. At that
moment a shower of stones rained upon him, and the
sharp swords of the ghdiators soon felled him to the
earth. .

But who was he, this humble man in rough garments ?
He was a holy hermit Ivom. the desert, Telemachus by
name, and had come to spend his Christmas in the City
of St. Peter.

And so this martyr died, but not in vain. A great
revulsion of feeling set in, and from that day to this no

r i

■ a

212

Third Reader.

human blood has stained the silver sand of the Coliseum.

Harmless lizards sun themselves where once the voices of

victims ascended ; little flowers peep out of the crannies

of the old wall, and all is peace and beauty; but the

thoughtful still remember the holy man who laid down

his life^when Rome was young, the hermit Telemachus.

— *^ Francesca,^' in the "Ave Maria^^

(by permission of the Puhhshers).

■■;i'

LXXXIV.— THE QUEEN OF THE NIGHT.

No orb in the sky has attracted more attention than
the moon. There is a charm about its light that has
ruled the poet and colored the arti.st's sketch. Its silver
radiance denotes peace ; and like charity it casts a
shadow over clefects.

In myth and ancient story the moon was a pure and
lonely maiden, fond of silence, hunting and shady forests.
Increasing knowledge has shown it to us, not as goddess
or maiden, but as satellite of the earth. Aiid by the
earth it is held as the unfailing companion of its
heavenly travels.

At the nearest point in its orbit, the moon is distant
from us about two hundred and twenty-five thousand
miles, or about twenty-eight times the diameter of the
earth. A train travelling at thirty miles an hour would
take us there in less than a year. And if the old man in
the moon should begin to pelt stones at us, one of them
would fall and hit the earth, by the force of gravity, in a
little less "ban three days and two hour&.

The Queen of the Night.

213

seum .
ices of
annies
lit the
down
chus.

ihers).

3HT.

>n than
lat has
s silver
casts a

lire and

forests.

troddess

by the

of its

distant
ousand
of the
• would
man in
of them
ity, in a

If we examixie the motion of the moon, it differs very
much from that of the stars. It continually falls behind
the progress of the other sliining hosts. In fact it is so
attracted by the earth that its motion is entirely inde-
pendent of the stars. It requires about twenty-seven
days to complete its journey round the earth. This
motion gives rise to the lunar or moon phases. Thus
sometimes we see the full moon ; then by slowly lessen-
ing degrees we see the half, and the quarter and the
little crescent. Then we lose sight of the moon, and
again it becomes visible as a slim crescent, and so waxes
to the full. In the circle which the moon describes about
our earth, the moon passes between us and the sun once
in about thirty days, and so presents a dark side which
is called the new moon.

As the moon moves in an orbit which is sometimes
above and sometimes below the disk or face of the sun, a
moment comes when it is exactly across the face of the
sun. This is what is called an eclipse of the sun. Again,
sometimes the moon, as it passes behind the earth, has
the earth between itself and the sun . Thus is caused an
eclipse of the moon, either total or partial.

Looking at the moon itself with a telescope, we find
its surface covered with mountains and valleys. Those
dark lines which every boy and girl can see on the full
moon, are ranges of volcanic mountains.

In size the moon is about one-fourth the diameter of
the earth, and its volume or mass about one-fiftieth of
our planet. The days and nights there are not twelve
hours long. Only one side of the moon's face is ever
seen by us. Men of science maintain that the moon is a

•I

^^n

214

Third Reader.

Ij^

,1:

burnt-out, wrinkled and aged world. Its map presents
us not with oceans, but empty sea-beds, volcano craters,
and strange arid depressions. ^

The moon is the kingdom of eternal calm. It has no
atmosphere, no sea, no sky. It is the region of death ;
it is destitute of all life. No voice causes an echo in the
vast caves of the moc^ -mountains.

These mountains, h^range to say, are ring-shaped.
They are skeleton mountains, burnt-out craters, so that
if you climbed to the top of a moon-mountain, you could
walk around the rim, as a fly walks around the edge of
a cup. ' •

The surface of the moon changes, not by the motions
of life and growth, but by a slow decay. They are
caused by the crumbling of mountains and the falling
down of lands. Tims we see the mooi to be a dead,
deserted planet, the pale ghost of what was once a
world, wheeling in its orbit around tlie earth, and car-
ried along with the earth in its greater orbit around the
sun. Silvery, sweet and fair, tiiis queen of the niglit
fell in its age a prey to fire. And yet, in its silence
and gentle light, how it calls the soul to the shadows
of the world beyond.

Suppose our Blessed Lord were close to us now,
And He called you to stand l)y His knee ;

Suppose Hf should look deep down in your eyes,
Would He smile at the heart He would see 1

Are gentleness, kindness, and truth found therein ?
Is it pure as an angel's can be ?

St. Joseph. 215

LXXXV.-ST. JOSEPH.

St. Joseph was a descendant of the kingly house of
David, and was chosen by God to be the spouse of the
Blessed Virgin Mary, and the foster-father of our Divine
Lord. Nothing is known of liis early life, nor indeed of
his history at all, except what is told in the Gospel, but
it is right to conclude from these high and holy trusts
that he was a person of most pure and sanctified life.
Indeed, the Scriptures give him the praise of being a
just man, which means one who excelled in all virtues.

When he was espoused to the Blessed Virgin, whose
kinsman he was, St. Joseph was a carpenter living at
Nazareth, in Galilee. After the day of the Annunciation
he had a visit from an angel, who told him he must
harbor and protect Mary, as by the power of the Holy
Ghost she was to become the mother of the Saviour of
mankind. Later he took her to Bethlehem, where the
Divine Child was born ; and shortly afterwards, to escape
the wrath of the king, he fled with mother and babe into
the land of Egypt.

After these events the Gospel only tells us that by
the command of the angel St. Joseph took back the
Blessed Virgin and our Lord to Nazareth, where they
all then dwelt together. From this place the Holy
Family went every year to the feast at Jerusalem, where
it happened that Jesus, when he was twelve years oKl,
stayed behind them in the temple and caused them an
anxious search of three days.

After this point the Scriptures tell us no more of the
life of St. Joseph, though there are many pious tradi-

■'■fc

216

Thiri) Reader,

tions that relate to tlie lioly family in their humble
liome at Nazareth. It is certain that while St. Joseph
lived he provided for them by his work at the bench,
and <^ave every thought and care to tlie welfare of his
most sacred chartje. He died some time before our Lord
entered on His public mission, the exact year being a
question on which many great writers differ. We can-
not doubt but that he had the happiness of Jesus and
Mary comforting him in his dying moments. For this
reason St. Joseph is particularly invoked for the great
grace of a happy death.

More than these few facts have not been told, but
even these are so full of holy teachings and examples
that the Church of God delights to dwell on them. His
pure and chaste life, his ready and cheerful obedience,
his love for Jesus and liis care for both Mother and
Child, were virtues that must rank St. Joseph high
among the saints of God. While he was on this earth
our Lord Jesus Christ was constantly obedient to him,
and surely he who was so honored by the King of
Kings is woi'thy of the highest veneration from men.
In the Litany of the Saints the Church nauKjs him
among her patriarchs, and Pope Pius IX. declared
him the jmtron of the universal church.

In the experience of the faithful it lias been found
that many saints have a special power to obtain by their
intercession certain classes of favors for their devout
clients. This power, in the case of St. Joseph, would
seem to embrace our temporal needs and blessings, and
we should therefore seek his assistance in our petitions
of this nature. The gifts of Divine Providence come
easily through him who was the earthly provider for

amble
oseph
bench,
of his
• Lord
;ing a
B can-
is and
>r this
great

d, but
iniples
. His
dience,
3r and
1 high
i earth
him,
mg of
men.
!S him
!clared

found
their
levout
would
s, and
titions
; come
ler for

Curfew Must not Ring To-Night.

217

our Lord and His Blessed Mother. His life teaches
us the dignity of labor and simple resignation to
God's holy will. In him we see the poor artisan not
only belonging to a royal race, but chosen by God foi*
the highest honor, yet remaining always humble and
unknown. We see the great Saint learning great
mysteries from an angel, and we see him leaving home
and country without any question, in compliance with
the commands from Almighty God.

LXXXVI.-CURFEW MUST NOT RING

TO-NIGHT.

Slowly England's sun was setting o'er the hill-tops far away,
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day,
And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden
fair,

He with footsteps slow and weary, — she with sunny, floating
hair ;

He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips all

cold and white,
Struggling to keep back the murmur, — ''Curfew must not

ring to-night."

" Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison

old,
Vrith its turrets tall and gloomy, with its wall dark, damp,

and cold,
" I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die
At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh ;

imr

218

Third Reader.

Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her lips grew

strangely white
As she breathed th« husky whisper, — " Curfew must not ring

to-night."

"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton, — every word pierced her

young heart
Like the piercing of an arrow, like a deadly poison dart, —
" Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy,

shadowed tower ;
Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour :
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right.
Now I'm old I still must do it; curfew it must ring to-night."

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her

thoughtful brow.
And within her secret bosom Bessie made a solemn vow.
She had listened while the judges read without a tear or sigh,
"At the ringing of the curfew Basil Underwood must die."
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large

and bright ;
In an undertone she murmured, " Curfew must not ring to-
night."

She with quick steps bounded forward, sprang within the old

church door,
Left the old man treading slowly paths so oft he'd trod

before :
Not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and cheek

aglow
Mounted up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro.
As she climbed the dusty ladder on which fell no ray of

light,-
Up and up, her white lips saying, " Curfew shall not ring

to-night."

r'h^,s;irj

Curfew Must not Ring To-Night.

219

sigh,

She has reached the topmost ladder, — o'er her hangs the great

dark bell ; . .

Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to

• hell.
Lo, the pond'rous tongue is swinging, 'tis the hour of curfew
now, '

And the sight has cliilled her bosom, stopped her breatli, and

paled her brow.
Shall she let it ring? No, never! Flash her eyes with sudden

light,
And she springs and grasps it firmly — " Curfew shall not ring

to-night."'

Out she swung, far out, — the city seemed a speck of light

below, *

'Twixt heaven and earth her form suspended, as the bell

swung to and fro ;
And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the

bell,
But he thought it still was ringing fair young Basil's funeral

knell.
Still the maiden clung more firmly, and with trembling lips

and white,
Said, to hush her heart's wild beating, " Curfew shall not ring

to-night."

.?i

ring

It was o'er ; the bell ceased swaying ; and the maiden stepped

once more
Firmly, on the dark old ladder, where for hundred years

before
Human foot had not been planted . The brave deed that she

had done ' . .

Should be told long ages after, as the rays of setting sun

220

rHiRD Header.

Should illumine the sky with beauty ; aged sires, with heads

of white,
Long should tell the little children curfew did not ring that

night.

O'er the distant hills came Cromwell ; Bessie sees him, and

her brow,
Full of hope and full of gladness, has no anxious traces now.
At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised

and torn ;
And her face, so sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow pale and

worn.
Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eye with misty

light :
" Go ! your lover lives," said Cromwell ; " Curfew shall not

ring to-night."

— Rose Hartwkk Thorpe.

LXXXVIL- EARLY SETTLERS IN CANADA.

When we look around us we have many reasons for
being grateful that in town and country so many com-
forts and conveniences abound. Things were not thus
in the early days.

This country, now so rich and fair, with its fields oi
waving wheat, was, when our fathers first settled on
their farms, nothing but wild forest. In entering upon
their land many of the pioneers owned only a trusty
axe. This faithful servant of the woodsman cleared the
way for home and crop ; for the settler's first endeavor
was to erect a house or shanty and to sow a little wheat.

Early Settlers in Canada.

221

These houses were built of logs chinked with clay or
moss. They rarely had divisions, and never a second
storey, unless it might be a loft, which was reached by a
ladder. The crevices in roof and walls afforded ample
entrance tor fresh air, while the large open fire place
with its chimney, built of mud and sticks, served as an
excellent ventilating shaft. And when in winter huge
logs were heaped together in a blazing pile in this fire-
place, while outside the storm roared and the pines
moaned, a ruddy glare of comfort was cast upon the
primitive apartment and its simple occupants.

There were many privations in those early days of
bush life, but generosity and warm-hearted sympathy
prevailed through the difiV^rent settlements. One serious
want was that of mills lo grind the wheat. So scarce
were mills that many farmers had to carry their grain
upon their back a distance of ten to twenty miles.

Another and more serious want was that priests were
few. A priest had vast districts to attend, so that he
was in one place on one Sunday, and nearly a hundred
miles away the next Sunday. His visit was like that of
an angel. When he was expected scouts were on the
watch for his approach, and a signal fire spread the glad
tidings to the anxious settlement. With shouts and
tears of joy the pious people welcomed the travel-worn
missionary. The home of the most prosperous settler
was the place selected for " the station." Here confes-
sions were heard, Mass was celebrated, and Holy Com-
munion given to those who were prepared. Catechism
was taught as well as time w^ould allow, and the sick in
the neighborhood were administered to. And the priest

I 1;)

: if

■IM

222

Third Reader.

having done what he could in the cause of religion,
passed on to another station.

Social gatherings v/ere frequent and lively. Neighbors
united to help one another in their chopping, logging
and bush-burning. Every raising " bee " closed its hard
day 8 work with a night of dance and merry-making.
Another institution of those early -times was the quilt-
ing "bee," which likewise contributed its share to the
amusements of the period.

Towards the fall of the year shooting afforded fruitful
enjoyment. Water-fowl and partridges, and many fur-
bearing animals abounded. Deer were plentiful; bears
were now and again to be seen, and occasionally the
howling of a pack of wolves thrilled the settler and his
family with terror, as they sat around tlieir winter fire.

Much of the business was done by trading. It was so

much tea for so many dozens of eggs, so much cotton for

so many pounds of pork. The miller took his grist as

toll for grinding the farmer's wheat. Money was rarely

seen. Bui although it was so scarce, the farmers soon

had abundance of food for their own use, and some to

exchange for other necessaries.

—Jiev. J. R. Teefy.

The world is but the rugged road
Which leads us to the bright abode

Of peace above ;
So let us choose that narrow way,
Which leads no traveller's foot astray

From realms of love.

The Fish 1 Didn't Catch.

223

LXXXVIII.-SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL.

Miriam's sonq.

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea !
Jehovah has triumphed, — His people are free !
Sing, — for the pride of the tyrant is broken,

His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave, —
How vain was their boasting ! the Lord hath })ut spoken,

And chariots and Ir isemen arc sunk in the wave.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea !
Jehovah has triumphed, — His people are free !

Praise to the Conqueior, praise to the Ix)rd ! - .
His word was our arrow, His breath was our sword.
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story

Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride 1
For the Lord had looked out from His pillar of glory,

And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea !
Jehovah has triumphed, — His people are free !

— 7'hovia8 Moore.

nil

^■;m

LXXXIX.-THE FISH I DIDNT CATCH.

. The old homestead nestled under a long range of low
hills. It was surrounded by woods in all directions, save
to the south-east, where a break in the leafy wall
revealed a vista of low, green meadows picturesque with
wooded islands and jutting capes of upland. Through
these a small brook, noisy enough as it foamed, rippled,
and laughed down its rocky falls by our garden- side,
wound, silently, to a larger stream known as the County
Brook,

224

Third Reader.

In spring mornings the blackbirds and bob-o'-links
made the meadows musical with song ; and on summer
nights we loved to watch the white wreaths of fog rising
and drifting in the pale moonlight, like troops of ghosts,
with the fireflies throwing up ever and anon signals of
their coming. But the brook was far more attractive —
for its sheltered bathing places, clear and white-sanded ;
and weedy places, where the shy pickerel loved to linger ;
and deep pools, where the stupid sucker stirred the black
mud with his fins.

It was a quiet, romantic little river. There had, so
tradition said, once been a witch-meeting on its banks,
of six little old women in short, sky-blue cloaks ; and
a ghost had been seen bobbing for eels under County
Bridge. It turned the mills to grind our corn, and we
drove our sheep to it for the spring washing. On its
banks we could find the earliest and the latest wild
flowers, from the pale blue three-lobed hepatica, and
small delicate wood to the yellow bloom of the witch
hazel burning in the leafless October woods.

Yet, after all, I think the chief attraction of the brook
for my brother and myself w^as the fine fishing it
afforded. Our uncle, who lived with us, was a quiet,
genial man, much given to hunting and fishing; and
it was one of the great pleasures of our young life to
accompany him on his expeditions. I remember our first
fishing excursion as if it were yesterday. I have been
happy many times, but never more intensely so than
when I received my first fishing pole, and trudged off
with my uncle through the woods and meadows. It
was a sweet day of early summer; the long afternoon

The Fish I Didn't Catch.

226

quiet,
and
i£e to
first
been
than
d off
It
rnoon

shadows of the trees lay cool across our path ; the leaves
seemed gi^eener, the flowers brighter, the birds merrier
than ever before. My uncle knew where the best
haunts of pickerel were, and placed me at the most
favorable point. I threw out my line, and waited for
a bite, movintj; the bait in rapid jerks on the surface
of the pool. Nothing came of it. "Try again," said my
uncle. Suddenly the bait sank out of sight. " Now for
it," thought I ; " here is a fish at last." I made a strong
pull, and brought up a tangle of weeds. Again and
again I cast out my line with aching arms, and drew it
back empty. I looked to my uncle appealingly, " Try
once more," said he ; "we fishermen must have patience."
Suddenly something tugged at my line, and swept off
with it into deep water. Jerking it up, I saw a fine
pickerel wriggling in the sun. "Uncle!" I cried, looking
back in uncontrollable excitement, " I've got a fish ! "
"Not yet," said my uncle. As he spoke there was a
splash in the water; I caught the arrowy gleam of a
scared fish shooting into the middle of the stream ; my
hook hung empty from the line. I had lost my fish.

Overcome by my great and bitter disappointment, I
sat down on the nearest hassock, and for a time refused
to be comforted, even by my uncle's assurance that there
were more fish in the brook. He refitted my bait, and,
putting the pole again in my hands, told me to try my
luck once more.

" But remember, boy," he said, with his shrewd smile,

" never brag of catching a fish until he is on dry ground.

I've seen older folks doing that in more ways than one,

arid so making fools of themselves. It's no use to boast

226

Third Reader.

of anj^'thiiig until it's done, nor then either, for it speaks
for itself."

How often since I have been reminded of the fish I
did not catcli ! When I hear people boasting of a work
that is not yet done, and trying to anticipate credit
which belongs to actual achievement, I call to mind the
scene at the brook side, and the wise caution of mv uncle
in that particular instance takes the form of a proverb
of universal application: "Never brag of your fish
before you catch him." —John O. Whittier.

XC— THE NORMAN BARON.

Ill his chamber, weak and dying,
Was the Norman baron lying ;
Loud, without, the tempest thundered.
And the castle turret shook.

'■t;i

In this fight was Death the gainer.
Spite of vassal and retainer.
And the lands his sires had plundered,
Written in the Doomsday Book.

By his bed a monk was seated.
Who in humble voice repeated
Many a prayer and pater-noster,
From the missal on his knee ;

And, amid the tempest pealing,
Sound of bells came faintly stealing,
Bells, that, from the neighboring kloster,
Rang for the Nativity.

t speaks

he fish I
a work
:e credit
[lind the
nv uncle

proverb
our fish

Whittier.

The Norman B., >n.

In the hall, the serf and vassal

Held, that night, tlieir Christmas wassail;

Many a carol, o]d and saintly,

Sang the minstrels and the waits.

And so loud these Saxon gleemen
Sang to slaves the songs of freemen,
That the storm was heard but faintly.
Knocking at the castle-gates.

Till at length the lays they chaunted
Reached the chamber terror-haunted,
Where the monk, with accents holy,
Whispered at the baron's ear.

Tears upon his eyelids glistened,
As he paused awhile and listened,
And the dying baron slowly

Turned his weary head to liear.

'* Wassail for the kingly stranger
Born and cradled in a manger !
King, like David, priest, like Aaron,
Christ is born to set us free ! "

And the lightnin«T showed the sainted
Figures on the casement painted,
And exclaimed the shuddering baron,
. " Miserere, Domine ! "

In that hour of deep contrition,
He beheld, with clearer vision,
Through all outward show and fashion,
Justice, the Avenger, rise.

227

4' if

228

Third Reader.

All the pomp of earth had vanished,
Falsehood and deceit were banished,
Reason spake more loud than passion,
And the truth wore no disguise.

Every vassal of his banner,
Every serf born to his manor,
All those wronged and wretched creatures,
By his hand were freed again.

And, as on the sacred missal
He recorded their dismissal,
Death relaxed his iron features,

And the monk replied, " Amen ! "

Many centuries have been numbered,
Since in death the baron slum])ered
By the convent's sculptured portal,
Mingling with the com aon dust :

But the good deed, through the ages
Living in historic pages,
Brighter glows and gleams immortal,
XJnconsumed by moth or rust.

— Henry W. Longfellow.

Despise not little things, my friend,

But always give them heed ;
The flower that makes your garden bright

Came from a tiny seed ;
The mighty oak which to and fro

Its branches great will toss,
Was but a little acorn once

Buried 'neath earth and moss.

The Stage-Co ach.

229

XCL— THE STAGE-COACH.

In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode
for a long distance in one of the public coaches, on the
day preceding Christmas. I had three fine rosy-cheeked
boys for my fellow-passengers, full of the buxom health
and manly spirit which I have observed in the children
of this country. They were returning home for the
holidays in high glee, and promising themselves a world
of enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic
plans of the little rogues, and the impracticable feats
they were to perform during their week's emancipa-
tion from the abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and
pedagogue.

They were full of anticipations of the meeting with
the family and household, down to the very cat and dog,
and of the joy they were to give their little sisters by
the presents with which their pockets were crammed ;
but the meeting to which they seemed to look forward
with the greatest impatience was with Bantam, which
I found to be a pony, and, according to their talk, pos-
sessed of more virtues than any steed since the days of
Bucephalus. How he could trot! How he could run!
And then such leaps as he would take ! There was not
a hedge in the whole country that he could not clear.

They were under the particular guardianship of the
coachman, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented,
they addressed a host of questions, and pronounced him
one of the best fellows in the world.

Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity
that reigned in my own mind, that I fancied I saw

iii'
4

.♦>

r. !■

ii ■

290

Third Reader.

cheerfulness in every countenance throughout the jour-
ney. A stage-coach, however, carries animation always
with it, and puts the world in motion as it whirls along.
The horn, sounded at the entrance of a village, produces
a general bustle. Some hasten forth to meet friends;
some with bundles and band-boxes to secure places, and
in the hurry of tlie moment can hardly take leave of the
group that accompanies them. As the coach rattles
through the village, ever}' one runs to the window, and
you have glances on every side of fresh country faces
and blooming, giggling girls.

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a
more than usual animation to the country, for it seemed
to me as if everybody was in good looks and good
spirits. The housewives were stirring briskly about,
putting their dwellings in order ; and the glossy branches
of holly, with their bright-red berries, began to appear
at the windows.

I was roused from a fit of luxurious meditation by a
shout from my little travelling companions. They had
been looking out of the coach windows for the last
few miles, recognizing every tree and cottage as they
approached home ; and now there was a general burst of
joy. " There's John ! and there's old Carlo ! and there's
Bantam ! " cried the happy little rogues, clapping their
hands.

At the end of a lane there was an old, sober-looking
servant in livery, waiting for them ; he was accompanied
by a superannuated pointer, and by the redoubtable
Bantam, a little old rat of a pony, with a shaggy mane
and long, rusty tail, who stood dozing" quietly by the

,«'.

The Stage-Coach.

281

road-side, little dreaming of the bustling times that
awaited him.

I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little
fellows leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged
the poi'.iter, who wriggled his whole body for joy. But
Bantam was the great object of interest; all wanted to
mount at once, and it was with some difficulty that John
arranged that they should ride by turns, and the eldest
should ride first.

Off they set at last ; one on the pony, with the dog
bounding and barking before him, and the others holding
John's hands ; both talking at once, and overpowering
him with questions about home, and with school anec-
dotes. I looked after them with a feeling in which I do
not know whether pleasure or melancholy predominated,
for I was reminded of those days, when, like them, I had
known neither care nor sorrow, and a holiday was the
summit of earthly felicity.

We stopped a few moments afterwards to water the
horses, and on resuming our route, a turn of the road
brought us in sight of a neat country-seat. I could just
distinguish the forms of a lady and two young girls in
the portico, and I saw my little comrades, with Bantam,
Carlo, and old John, trooping along the carriage-road.
I leaned out of the coach window, in hopes of witnessing
the happy meeting, but a grove of trees shut it from my
sight. — Washing to7i Irving.

Let us then })e up and doing,
With a heart for any fate ;

Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

232

Third Reader.

XCII.-THE ELEPHANT.

, w

The elephant, which is found in both Asia and Africa,
is remarkable for his size and strength, being tlie largest
and strongest of all animals. In addition to these
(jualities the elephant presents many remarkable fea-
tures of character. It unites the fidelity of the dog and
the gentleness of the horse, with great sagacity, prudence
and courage.

Of all the animal world, elephants and dogs are the
only two creatures that will work in the absence of a
master. We all know how a dog will carry home a
basket, and go trotting along without any person to
watch him. It is the same with the elephant. For
instance, when elephants are taught in the East Indies
to pile logs, they will go on piling without any command
from their master.

A traveller in the East tells of a tame elephant he met
in a narrow part of the road. The poor animal was
laboring painfully to carry a heavy beam of timber
which he balanced across his tusks; but the pathway
being narrow, he was forced to bend his head to one side
and carry the beam endways. On meeting the traveller,
who was on horseback, the elephant dropped his load,
and backed into the bush in order to leave a pas.sage.
" As soon as we passed," writes the traveller, " the wise
creature stooped, took up his heavy burthen, balanced it
on his tusks and resumed his journey." All this took
place without there being any one to direct or command
the elephant.

An English officer relates the following interesting
story of the fidelity of the elephant : " I have often seen

The Elephant.

233

1 Africa,
3 largest
)0 these
ble fea-
dotr and
)rudence

are the
tice of a

home a
irson to
it. For
it Indies
onnnand

t he met
nal was
■ timber
pathway-
one side
raveller,
lis load,
passage,
he wise
anced it
ins took
ommand

cresting
ten seen

the wife of a camp follower give a baby in charge of an
elephant while she went out on some business, and have
been highly amused in observing the sagacity and care
of the awkward, yet gentle, nurse.

"The child would, as soon as left to itself, begin
crawling about. It would get amongst the legs of the
animal, or entangled in the branches of trees on which
the elephant was feeding. The elephant would, every
now and then, disengage its little charge in the most
tender manner, either by lifting it out of the way
with its trunk, or by removing any impediments. This
peculiar nurse was chained by the leg to a stake driven
in the ground, and if the child crawled beyond the
length of its chain it would stretch out its trunk, and
lift the child tenderly back."

But the most wonderful manner in which Asiatic
elephants show their fidelity and instinct is the way the
tame animals help to ensnare the wild ones. When a
herd of elephants is to be caught in Ceylon, an enclosure
called a corral is built, five hundred faet long by half
that width, having only a small opening at one end.
But two sides project some distance, forming a lane
which leads to the opening.

Then men go beating through the woorls for many
miles, driving the elephants towards this enclosure,
which is easily done for they are shy and gentle as long
as they are not excited. At last, when the hunters have
them all within the projecting sides, they choose a
favorable night and light a great many fires ; they dis-
charge guns, beat drums and tom-toms, and try to drive
the herd into the corral. Although sometimes they

234

Third Reader.

i ;

break away tlirough the fences, yet generally they are
captured.

The moment the herd gets inside the gate is shut,
and tlie hunters surroun<I the corral with torches which
they push through the fence at the elephants, if they
approach. The poor frightened creatures collect in the
middle of the enclosure, forming a circle with their
young in the centre.

Two trained elephants, each ridden by a driver and
his attendant, are passed stealthily in. They carry a
strong collar formed by coils of rope, from which
hang on either side cords of elk's hide, prepared with
a ready noose. With them the head man of the
" noosers " creeps in, eager to secure the honor of
taking the first elephant.

These decoy elephants show great relish for the sport.
Having entered the corral noiselessly, they move about
with a sly composure and an assumed air of easy in-
difference. They approach the circle, and afford the
nooser an opportunity to stoop and slip the noose over
the hind foot of a wild one. The two tame elephants
instantly fall back, one dragging out the captive, the
other placing itself between the first and the herd, in
order to prevent any interference. Sometimes the one
elephant cannot drag its prisoner close enough to secure
it to a tree. The second tame one returns from the herd,
and confronts the captive, which has been dragged back-
wards all this time, and pusliing it, shoulder to shoulder
and head to head, forces it up to the foot of the tree
where it is made fast. In a similar way, one by one, the
wild elephants are all captured. ...

Canada Forever.

^35

During all these proceedings the conduct of the tame
elephants is truly wonderful. They seem to understand
every movement, and show the utmost enjoyment in all
that goes on. And their caution and sagacity frequently
prevent very serious accidents. Of course elephants are
trained for this purpose, in some degree, by their drivers;
but all accounts agree that the chief skill is shown by
the animals themselves.

XCIII.— CANADA FOREVER.

Our Canada, strong, fair and free,

Whose sceptre stretches far,
Whose hills look down on either sea,

And front the polar star ;
Not for thy jifreatness — hardly known —

Wide plains, or mountains grand.
But as we claim thee for our own.

We love our native land.

God bless our mighty forest land
Of mountain, lake and river :

Thy loyal sons from strand to strand
Sing "Canada Forever."

Wrapped in thy dazzling robe of snow,

We proudly call thee ours,
We crown thee, when the south winds blow,

" Our Lady of the Flowers ! "
We love thy rainbow-tinted skies —

The glamour of thy Spring —
For us thine Autumn's gorgeous dyes,

For us thy song-birds sing. -

::|

I' »J

tic.

m
Hi

236

Third Reader.

For us thy brooding Summer wakes

The corn-fields' waving gold,
The quiet pastures, azure lakes.

For us their treasure hold ;
To us each hill and dale is dear,

Each rock and stream and glen,
Thy scattered homes of kindly cheer,

Thy busy haunts of men.

Our sires their old traditions brought.

Their lives of faithful toil.
For home and liberty they fought,

On our Canadian soil.
Queenston, Quebec and Lundy's Lane

Can stir our pulses still,
The land there won through blood and pain

A loyal people fill !

Saxon and Celt and Norman we :

Each race its memory keeps,
Yet o'er us all from sea to sea

One Red Cross Banner sweeps.
Long may our "Greater Britain " stand

The bulwark of the free ;
But Canada, our own dear land, *

Our first love is for thee.

God bless our own Canadian land
Of mountain, lake and river;

The chorus ring from strand to strand
Of "Canada Forever."

— A. M. Machar (by arrangement with the Author).

True Beauty.

237

XCIV.— TRUE BEAUTY.

" Handsome is as lianclsome does — hold up your heads,
girls ! " were the words of Primrose in the play when
addressing her daughters. She was right. Be good, be
womanly, be gentle, generous in your sympathies, heed-
ful of the well-being around you, and, my word for it,
you will not lack kind words of admiration — and what
is better than such vain rewards, you will have God's
blessing.

Never mind the reflection which your glass may give ;
that mirror has no heart. You make quite another pic-
ture when reflected upon the looking-glass of all who
know you. There the beauty of holiness, of purity, of
gentleness and inward grace shines forth, softening the
less pleasing features of your soul. It is like the calm
moonlight reflecting the water of lake or river, and
throwing a shadow upon the rough banks.

"The beauty of the King's daughter is from within."
It is a beauty of soul much more than of body. Every
mother's daughter of you can, and should, be beautiful.
You can envelop yourselves in an atmosphere of spiri-
tual, moral and intellectual beauty, through which your
faces will look like those of angels. How sweet is the
voice of a mother to her erring boy ! How gentle the
hand of a Sister of Charity smoothing the pillow of
some fevered patient in an army hospital. How winning
the smile of kindness when it pours its sympathy upon
sufferers and the poor !

The soul is like a summer sea with the sunlight of
God's love beaming upon its waters. Its waves ripple

'! '

238

Tiiiiii) Rkadeii.

and dance while tie breeze of life's duties j:jently blows.
It is dark when God's light no longer shines upon it, and
the storm of passion stirs its depths. Again, our soul is
a harp, and the mind, the will and the passions are its
strings. God tunes this wonderful instrt it to His
own sweet harmony, and the angels listen i^j the music
which our life plays upon it. From morning until night
we play upon this harp. Its best tunes are patience,
obedience and love.

Quite the ugliest face we ever saw was that of a
woman whom the world called beautiful. Through its
silver veil the ungentle passions looked out, hideous and
hateful. On the otlier hand, there are faces which at
first glance one would pronounce homely r 1 unattrac-
tive, but who are always recognized with r nn heart-
thrill. Not for the world would we chaufje one feature :
they please us as they are. They are hallowed by kind
memories. Thcv are beautiful throuijh their un.^^^'lsh
devotion and their hoMie virtues ; and they are enshrined
in the affection and admiration of all who know them.

— Adapted.

How cheering the thought, that the spirits in their bliss
Will bow their bright wings to a world such as this ;
Will leave the sweet songs of the mansion above
To breathe o'er our bosoms some message of love.

They come, on the wings of the morning they come,
Impatient to lead some poor wanderer borne ;
Some pilgrim to snatoh from his stormy abode.
And lay him to rest on the arms of his God.

. '—Cunningham.

EVANOEUNE.

230

XCV.-EVANGELINE.

of a

THE ACADIAN VILLAGE, TFIH HOME OF EVANCiELlNK.

There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the AcJuHan village.
Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of

chestnut,
•Such as the peasants of Normandy built in tlie reign of the

Henrys.

Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows ; and gables

projecting
Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.
There, in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the

sunset /

Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the

chimneys, ,

240

Third Reader.

Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles
Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden
Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors
Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the

songs of the maidens.
Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the

children
Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them.
Reverend walked he among them ; and up rose matrons and

maidens, ,

Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome.
Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the

sun sank ' ,

Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the

belfrj''
Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village
Columns of pale-blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,
Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and

contentment.
Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers —
Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free

from
Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the voice of

republics.
Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their

windows ;
But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the

• OM'ners ;
There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.
Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of

Minas,
Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pr^,
Dwelt on his goodly acres ; and with him, directing hi*}
household, ,

les

;olden
doors
d the

d the

them.
US and

slcome.
Bly the

the

village
ending,
ce and

mers —
ey free

oice of

|o their

of the

idance .
pasin of

ing his

Evangeline.

241

Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.

Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters ;

Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-
flakes ;

White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as
the oak-leaves.

Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.

Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by
the wayside —

Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade
of her tresses !

Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the
meadows.

When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide

Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah ! fair in sooth was the maiden .

Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its
turret

Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his
hyssop

Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,

Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and
her missal,

Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-
rings.

Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heir-
loom,

Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.

But a celestial brightness — a more etherea beauty —

Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after
confession,

Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon
her.

When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite

nmsic.
10 ■ .

242

ri"^

Third Reader.

51 '

: i

till' -I

■Iff

Firmly l)uilded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer
Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady
Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing

around it.
Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath ; and a

footpath
Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow.
Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse.
Such as the traveller sees in regions remote bv the road-side,
Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.
Farther down, on the slope, of the liill, was the well with its

moss-grown
Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.
Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns

and the farmyard :
There stood the broad- wheeled wains and the antique ploughs

and the harrows ;
There were the folds for the sheep ; and there, in his feathered

seraglio.
Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the

selfsame
Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.
Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In

each one
Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch ; and a staircase.
Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft.
There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent

inmates
Murmuring ever of love ; while above in the variant breezes
Numberless uoisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation.
Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of

Grand- Pre
Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his

household .

— Henry ' . Longfellow.

The Viaticum.

243

XCVI.-THE VIATICUM.

In times of martyrdom, while the persecutors prepared
a feast foi* the bodies of the poor victims, tlie Church,
their Mother, prepared a much more dainty banquet
for the souls of her children. They were constantly
attended by deacons who, in addition to providing for
their temporal wants, arranged with tlie priests that
there should be sufficient portions of the Bread of life, to
feed early in the morning of their battle the champions
of Christ. On this day that the hostile passions of
heathen Rome were unusually excited by the common
slaughter of so many Christians, it was a work -of more
than connnon danger. The present occasion, during
Domitian's persecution, was especially trying. Spies had
entered during the celebration of the sacred mysteries,
and had carefully noted every one of the ministers of the
sanctuary.

The Holy Bread was prepared, and the priest tui-ned
round from the altar on which it was placed, to see who
would be its safest bearer. Before any other could step
forward, a young acolyte named Tarcisius knelt at his
feet.

" Thou art too young, my child," said the kind priest,
filled w^ith 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. 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

244

Third Reader.

Mysteries wrapped up carefully in a linen cloth, then in
an outer covering, and p :t them in his hands, 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 expres-
sion of his years stamped upon his countenance as he
tripped lightly along the streets, avoiding eijually the
more public and the too low, thoroughfares.

Tarcisius, with his thoughts fixed on better things
than his 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 ige. He used to be an
excellent hand at all sports. Come, Tarcisius," he addend,
stopping him by seizing his arm ; " whither so fast ?
Take a part in our game, that's a good fellow."

"I can't, Petilius, 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."

The Viaticum.

245

eu m

Ded to

ilong,

red to

keep

id the
bosom
on his
sxpres-
as he
ily the

things

ne into

school,

" I entreat yon," said the poor boy feelingly, " do let

me go.

-e

shall

I'cisins,
be an
added,
fast?

)ing on

strong
11 have
ne, join

" No such thing," replied the other. " What is that
you seem to be carrying so carefully in your bosom ? A
If tter, 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." And he snatched at the sacred
deposit in his breast.

" Never, never," answered the child, looking up toward
heaven.

"I will see it," insisted the other rudely; "I will
know what is this wonderful secret." And he com-
menced pulling him roughly about. A crowd of men
from the neighborhood soon got round ; and all asked
eagerly what v/as the matter. They saw a boy, who,
with folded arms, seemed endowed with a supernatural
strength, as he resisted every effort of on<* 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 ass, bearing the Mysteries."

This was ( nough. Fulvius, while he scorned such
unprofitable prey, knew well the effect of his word.
Heathen curiosity, to see the Mysteries of the Christian

Third Reader.

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 liis arms crossed fast
upon his brenst, he fell heavily on the ground. The
mob closed upon liim, 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 farther 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 over-
throw. 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, Inadratus," answered he, opening
his eyes with a smile ; " but I am bearing the Divine
Mysteries; take care of them."

The soldier raised the boy in his arms with tenfold

reverence, as if bearing, not only the swe^t 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.

— Cardinal Wiseman.

ineral
arge.
blow
blood
owed,
d fast
The

tear
selves
mgth.
r^uare,
■j how,
before

over-
lan he
sed up
iiother

1 him,

Dening
3ivine

enfold
lim of
King
ternal
on the
er left
id his
double

eman.

The Lakes of Killahney. 247

XCVII.— THE LAKES OF KILLARNEY.

These well-known lakes are situated in the County of
Kerry, Ireland, and presi nt to the traveller some of the
most pictures((ue scenery to be found in the world.
They are three in nuinl)er, the I^)wer, the Upper and
the Middle, or Tore Lake. The three in reality form
one lake, for they are connected by narrow channels.
Their appearance is quite distinct. The Lower Lake is
studded with islands, nearly all of which are clothed
with evergreens. The Upper Lake is remarkable for
its wild magnificence, the mountains almost completely
enclosing it. And the Mid<lle Lake possesses the fea-
tures of both, being not inferior to the one in grace
and beauty, or to the other in majestic grandeur.

The charm of the lakes does not consist in the varied
foliage which aboun<ls luxuriantly, nor in the grandeur
of the encompassing mountains, nor in the number of
green or rocky islands, nor the delicate elegance of the
shore, nor in the perpetual occurrence of bays. It con-
sists in all these together, in the changing shadow of the
mountains as sun and cloud pass over them, in the glitter
of the rippling water and in the white stone of some wall
of monastery or castle that shows itself from behind the
green .

Killarney's romantic beauties were celebrated ages
ago, and in an anc-ient poem these lakes are classed
as the tenth wonder of Ireland. The Irish name is
Loch Lene — " the Lake of Learning," according to some
authorities — a name derived from the monasteries built
around it, Innisf alien, Mucross and Aghadoe.

248

Third Reader.

v ~.

Many legends account for the existence of the lakes.
They all attribute them to the neglecting to close the
entrance to an enchanted fountain, which neglect caused
water to How in, and cover in a single night fertile fields,
houses and palaces. We are told that a wicked chief
despised the tradition which doomed to destruction the
person who should displace the stone which rested over
the well. He removed it to his castle at night; and
when daylight came he looked down into the valley, and
saw nothing but a broad sheet of water.

Mucross Abbey, between the Lower and Tore Lakes, is
one of those ruined monasteries which are to be "found
in many parts of Ireland, England and Scotland. Its
site was chosen with great taste, for it overlooks the
clear waters and the countless islands which like stars
bedeck the lake. A church existed on the same spot,
but it was consumed by fire in 1192. The abbey was
built later for Franciscan monks. The building consists
of two principal parts — the convent and the church.
The church is about one hundred feet in length and
twenty-four in breadth. Its principal extrance is by a
handsome pointed doorway, luxuriantly overgrown with
ivy, through which the tourist may see the fine eastern
window.

One of the roads by which we proceed to make our
run down the lakes is through the gap of Dunloe This
is a deep ravine of wild grandeur and stern, magnificent
scenery. It is fabled to have been produced by a stroke
of the sword of one of the giants of old, which divided
the mountains. The eye is charmed by the rugged,
gloomy pass and the gentle beauty that surrounds it
on either side. The ear no longer hears the song of

The Day is Done.

249

ikes.
! the
bUsed
ields,
chief
1 the
over
; and
', and

bird, but tho gurgling of the river Loe, and occasionally

the sound of the bugle waking the echoes of the mighty

hills. But the best echo is farther on, the famed Eagle's

Nest. Here the bugler played a single note. It was

caught up, and repeated loudly, softly — again loudly,

again softly, and then as if by a hundred instruments,

twirling and twisting around the mountain and at length

dying away in the distance until it was heard as a mere

whisper, farther and farther away.

— Adapted.

ces, IS
found
. Its
:s the
stars
spot,
/ was
insists
lurch,
and
by a
with
istem

e our
This
ficent
troke
vided
igged,
nds it
Dng of

XCVIIL— THE DAY IS DONE.

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,

As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me.

That my soul cannot resist :

A feeling of sadness and longing,

That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,

That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day. <

250

Third Readkr.

Not from tho grand old masters,

Not from tho bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo

Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,

Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor ;

And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some hum})]er poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer.
Or tears from the eyelids start ;

Who, through long days of labor,

And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet

The restless pulse of care.
And come like the benediction

That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares, that infest the day,

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

—Henry W. Longfellow.

The Romance of Hens' Egos.

251

XCIX.-THE ROMANCE OF HENS' EGGS.

low.

Born in the country, our amusements were few and
simple ; but what they lacked in themselves we supplied
from a buoyant and overflowing spirit of enjoyment.
A string and a stick went further vvlth us, and atibrded
more hearty enjoyment, than forty dollars' worth of
trinkets to our own children. Indeed, it would seem as
if the enjoying part of our nature dependeel very much
upon the necessity of providing its own pleasures. There
are not many of our earlier experiences which we should
particularly care to renew. We are content to renew
our wading and grubbing after sweet flag-root only in
memory. The nuttings were excellent in their way, the
gathering of berries, the building of snow-houses, and
the various games of summer and winter, on land, ice, or
snow. We keep them as a pleasant background of re-
collection, without any special wish to advance them
again into the foreground.

One thing we shall never get over. We shall never
lose enthusiasm for hens'-nests. The sudden cackling
outcry of a faithful old hen, proclaiming the wonder of
her eggs, we shall never hear without the old flush and
wish to seek and bring in the vaunted trophy. The old
barn was very large. It abounded in nooks, sheds, com-
partments, and what-nots, admirably suited to a hen's
love of egg-secretiveness. And no lover ever sought the
post-office for an expected letter with half the alacrity
with which we used to search for eggs.

Every barrel, every manger and bin, every pile of
straw or stack of cornstalks, every mow and grain-room,

^\}

252

Thiui) Reader.

§^

was inspected. And there was always the dehghtful
hope that a new nest would suddenly open up to us.
For every one properly l)orn and well brought up knows
that hens'-nests are fortuitous, and are always happening
in the most surprising manner, and in the most unex-
pected places. And though you bring all your great
human brain to bear upon the matter, a silly old hen
will tuck away a dozen eggs, right under your eyes, and
will walk forth daily after each instalment with a most
domestic air and tone of taunting, saying, as plain as
inarticulate sounds can proclaim it, "I've laid an egg\
I've laid an egg I I've laid another ! You can't find it !
You won't find it ! I know you won't ! "

And sure enough we can't find it, and don't find it,
until, after a due time, the gratified old fuss leads forth
all her eggs with infinite duckings responsive to endless
peepings! Behold, there was a nest in a clump of grass
not a yard from a familiar path.

The knowledge that a nest might dawn upon us at
any time kept our youthful zeal more alert than ever
Columbus was to discover this little nest of a continent.
Sometimes we detected the sly treasure in the box of a
chaise ; sometimes an old hat held more in it when cast
into a corner than in its palmy days. The ash-bin was
an excellent spot. The fire-place under an old, aban-
doned Dutch oven w^as a favorite haunt. We have
crept, flat as a serpent, under the whole barn, fearless
of all the imaginary monsters which, to a hoy's, imagina-
tion, populate dark holes, and have come forth flaxed
from head to foot with spiders' webs, well rewarded if
only a few eggs were found.

The Romance of Hens' Eggs.

253

Now, it soiBotiines happeiUMl that, when busy about
the " chores," foddering the horse, tlirowing down hay to
the cows, we discovered a nest brimming full of hidden
eggs. The liat was the bonded warehouse, of course.
But sometimes it was a cap not of suitable capacity.
Then the pocket came into play, and chiefly the skirt
pockets. Of course we intended to transfer them imme-
diately after getting into the house, for eggs are as dan-
gerous in the pocket, though for different reasons, as
powder would be in a forgeman's pocket. And so,
having finished the evening's work, and put the pin into
the stable door, we sauntered towards the house, behind
which, and right over Chestiuit Hill, the broad moon
stood showering all the east with silver twilight.

All earthly cares and treasures were forgot in the
dreamy pleasure ; and at length, entering the house, —
supper already delayed for us, — we drew up the chai^,
and peacefully sank into it with a suppressed and
indescribable crunch and liquid crackle underneath us,
which, brought us up again in the liveliest manner, and
with outcries which seemed made up of all the hens'
cackles of all the eggs which were now holding carnival
in our pockets ! It is easy to put eggs into your pocket;
but how to get them out again, that's thr question.
Such a hand-dripping business, — such a scene when the
slightly angry mother and the disgusted maid turned
the pockets inside out !

We were very penitent ! It should never happen
again ! And it did not — for a month or two. Then
a sudden nest, very full, tempted us, and we fortified
our courage, as, of course, the same accident could not

■/r:

254

Third Reader.

liappen twice. The memory of the old disaster would
certainly prevent any such second ridiculous experience !

But it chanced there was company in the house, —
cousins and gladly received neighbors. And amidst the
congratulations, and the laugh, and the handshakings,
they began to sit down ; and we also sat quietly down,
but rose up a great deal quicker ! Our disgrace was
total !

C— THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE.

Come, let us plant the apple-tree.
Cleave the tough greensward with the spade ;
Wide let its hollow bed be made ;
There gently lay the roots, and there
Sift the dark mould with kindlj'^ care,

And press it o'er them tenderly.
As round the sleeping infant's feet
We softly fold the cradle-sheet ;

So plant we the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree »
Buds, which the breath of summer days
Shall lengthen into leafy sprays ;
Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast,
Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest ;

We plant upon the sunny lea
A shadow for the noontide hour,
A shelter from the summer shower

When we plant the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?
Sweets for a hundred Howery springs
To load the May-wind's restless wings,
When, from the orchard row, he pours

The Planting of the Apple-Tree. 255

Its f fagnince through our open doors ;

A world of blossoms for the bee,
Flowers for the sick girl's silent room
For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,

We plant with the apple-tree .

What plant we in this apple-tree 1
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,
And redden in the August noon.
And drop when gentle airs come by,
That fan the blue September sky,

While cliildren come, with cries of glee.
And seek them where the fragn^nt grass
Betrays their bed to those who pass

At the foot of the apple-tree.

Each year shall give this apple-tree
A broader flush of roseate bloom,
A deeper maze of verdurous gloom,
And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower.
The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower.

The years shall come and pass, but we
Shall hear no longer, where we lie.
The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh,

In the boughs of the apple-tree.

"Who planted this old apple-tree?"
The children of that distant day
Thus to some aged man shall say ;
And, gazing on its mossy stem.
The gray-haired man shall answer them :

" A poet of the land was he,
Born in the rude but good old times ;
'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes

On planting the apple-tree."

— William Cullen Bryant,

256

Third Reader.

i!'!

CI.— ROBINSON CRUSOE MAKES HIS

BREAD.

About tlie latter end of December, which was our
second harvest of the year, I reaped my corn. I was
sadly put to it for a scythe or a sickle to cut it down,
and all I could do was to make one as well as I could,
out of one of the broadswords, or cutlasses, which I
saved among the arms out of the ship. Hov^'ever, as my
crop was but small, I had no great difficulty to cut it
down. In short, I reaped it my own way, for I cut
nothing off but the ears, and carried it away in a great
basket which I had made, and so rubbed it out with my
hands; and, at the end of all my harvesting, I found
that, out of my half-peck of seed I had near two bushels
of rice, and above two bushels and a half of barley —
that is to say, by my guess, for I had no measure at
that time.

However, this was a great encouragement to me ; and
I foresaw that in time it would please God to supply me
with bread. And yet here I was perplexed again, for I
neither knew how to grind nor make meal of my corn,
nor, indeed, how to clean it and part it ; nor, if made
into meal, how to make bread of it ; and if how to make
it, yet I knew not how to bake it. These things being
added to my desire of having a good quantity for store,
and to secure a constant supply, I resolved not to taste
any of this crop, but to preserve it all for seed against
the next season, and, in the meantime, to employ all my
study and hours of working to accomplish this great
work of providing myself with corn and bread.

Robinson Crusoe Makes His Bread.

257

and

It might be truly said, that I now worked for my
bread. It is a little wonderful, and what I believe few
people have thought much upon, namely, the strange
multitude of little things necessary in the providing,
producing, curing, dressing, making, and finishing this
one article of bread.

I, that was reduced to a mere state of nature, found
this to be my daily discouragement, and was made more
and more sensible of it every hour, even after I got the
tirst handful of seed corn, w^hich, as I have said, came up
unexpectedly, and indeed to a surprise.

J'irst, I had no plough to turn the earth, no spade or
shovel to dig it. Well, this I conquered by making a
wooden spade, as I observed before; but this did my
work but in a wooden manner ; and though it cost me a
great many days to make it, yet, for want of iron, it not
only wore out the sooner, but made my work the harder,
and made it be performed much worse.

However, this I bore with too, and was content to
work it out with patience, and bear with the badness
of the performance. When the corn was sowed, I
had no harrow, but was forced to go over it myself,
and drag a great heavy bough of a tree over it, to
scratch the earth, as it may be called, rather than
rake or harrow it.

When it was growing or grown, I have observed
already how many things I wanted, to fence it, secure
it, mow or reap it, cure or carry it home, thresh, part
it from the chaff, and save it. Then I wanted a mill to
grind it, sieves to dress it, yeast and salt to make it into
bread, and an oven to bake it in; and all these

lings

ffi-

258

Third Reader.

did without, as shall be observed ; and yet the corn was
an inestimable comfort and advantage to me too.

But all this, as I said, made everything laborious and
tedious to me, but that there was no help for it : neither
was my time so much loss to me, because, as I had
divided it, a certain part of it was every day appointed
to these works. And as I resolved to use none of the
corn for bread till I had a greater quantity by me, I had
the next six months to apply myself w^holly, by labor
and invention, to furnish myself with utensils proper for
the performing all the operations necessary for making
the corn, when I had it, fit for my use.

But first I was to prepare more land, for I had now
seed enough to sow above an acre of ground. Before I
did this, I had a week's work at least to make me a
spade, which, when it was done, was a very sorry one
indeed, and very heavy, and required double labor to
work with it.

However, I went through that, and sowed my seed in
two large flat pieces of ground, as near my house as I
could find them to my mind, and fenced them in with a
good hedge, the stakes of which were all cut off that
wood which I had s < before, which I knew would grow;
so that in one gear's time I knew I should have a quick
or living hedge, that would want but little repair. This
work was not so little as to take me up less than three
months ; because great part of that time was in the wet
season, when I could not go abroad .

. — Daniel De/oe.

William Tell.

259

was

CII.— WILLIAM TELL AND HIS SON.

and
ither

had
inted
f the
I had
hibor
er for
aking

d now
jf ore I
I mo a
•y one
bor to

leed in
se as I
with a
that
grow;
quick
This
three
e wet

)efoe.

The sun already shone brightly as William Tell
entered the town of Altorf, and he advanced at once to
the public plac*^, where the first object that caught his
eyes was a handsome cap, embroidered with gold, stuck
upon the end of a long pole. Soldiers were walking
around it in silence, and the people of Altorf, as they
passed, bowed their head to the symbol of authority.
The cap had been set up by Gessler, the Austrian
commander, for the pur})ose of discovering those who
were not submissive to the Austrian power, which had
ruled the people of the Swiss Cantons for a long time
with great severity. He suspected that the people were
about to break into rebellion, and with a view to learn
who were the most discontented, he had placed the ducal
cap of Austria on this pole, publicly proclaiming that
every one passing near, or within sight of it, should bow
before it, in proof of liis homage to the duke.

Tell was much surprised at this new and strange
attempt to humble the people, and leaning on his
cross-bow, gazed scornfully on them and the soldiers.
Berenger, captain of the guard, at length observed this
man, who alone amidst the cringing crowd cari'ied his
head erect. He ordered him to be seized and disarmed
by the soldiers, and then conducted him to Gessler,
who put some questions to him, which he answered so
haughtily that Gessler was both surprised and angry.
Suddenly, he was struck by the likeness between him
and the boy Walter Tell, whom he had seized and put
in prison the previous day for uttering some seditious

■ t

2()0

Third Reader.

words; he imiriediately asTjed liis name, which he no.
sooner heard tlian he knew liini to be the arclier so
famous as the best marksman in the Canton. Gessler
at once resolved to punish botli father and son at tlie -
same time, by a method wliich was perhaps the most
refined act of torture which man ever ima^ned. As
soon, then, as the youth was brought out, the governor
turned to Tell and said, " I have often heard of thy great
skill as an archer, and I now intend to put it to the
proof. Thy son shall be placed a distance of a hundred
yards, with an apple on his head. If thou strikest the
apple with thy arrow I will pardon you. both; but if
thou refusest this trial thy son shall die before thine
eyes."

Tell implored Gessler to spare him so cruel a trial, in
which he might perhaps kill his beloved boy with his
own hand. The governor would not alter his purpose;
so Tell at last agreed to shoot at the apple, as the only
chance of saving his son's life. Walter stood with his
back to a linden tree. Gessler some distance behind,
watched every motion. His cross-bow and one arrow
were handed to Tell ; he tried the point, broke the
weapon and demanded his quiver. It was brought to
him, and emptied at his feet. He stooped down, and
taking a long time to choose an arrow, managed to hide
a second in his ginlle.

After being in doubt a long time, his wliole soul
beaming in his face, his love for his son rendering him
almost powerless, he at length roused himself — drew the
bow — aimed — shot — and the apple, struck to the core,
was carried away by the arrow.

>?«

The Ship ox Fire.

261

Tlie market-place of Altorf was filled by loud cheers.
Walter flew to embrace his father, who, overcome by his
emotions, fell fainting to the ground, thus exposing the
second arrow to view. Gessler sfood over him awaiting
his recover}'^, which speedily taking place, Tell rose and
turned away from the Governor with horror, who, how-
ever, scarcely yet believing his senses, thus addressed
him — " Incomparable archer, I will keep my promise ;
but what needed you with that second arrow wliich I
see in your girdle ? " Tell replied that it was the custom
of the bowmen of Uri to have always one arrow in
reserve. " Nay, nay," said Gessler, " tell me thy real
motive ; and, whatever it may have been, speak frankly,
and thy life is spared." "The second shaft," replied
Tell, " was to pierce thy heart, tyrant, if I had chanced
to harm my son."

Pil

soul

him

V the

core,

cm.— THE SHIP ON FIRE.

There was joy in the ship as she furrowed the foam,
For, fond hearts within her were dreaming of home.
The young mother pressed fondly her babe to lier breast,
And sang a sweet song as she rocked it to rest ;
" Oh, happy ! " said she, " when our roaming is o'er,
We'll dwell in a cottage that stands by tlie shore ! "

Hark ! hark! what was that? Hark! hark to the shout !-

" Fire ! fire ! " — then a tramp, and a rusli, and a rout ;

And an uproar of voices arose in the air,

And the mother knelt down ; and the half-spoken prayer

That she offered to God, in her agony wild,

Was, " Father, have mercy ! look down on my child ! "

262

Third Reader.

Fire ! fire ! it is raging above and below ;

And the smoke and hot cinders all blindingly blow :

The cheek of the sailor grew pale at the sight,

And his eyes glistened wild in the glare of the light.

The flames in thick wreaths mounted higher and higher !-

O God, it is fearful to perish by fire !

They prayed for the light, and, at noontide about,
The sun o'er the waters shone joyously out.
" A sail, lio ! a sail ! " cried the man on the lee ;
" A sail ! " and they turned their glad eyes o'er the sea.
" They see us ! they see us ! the signal is waved !
They bear down upon us ? — thank God ! we are saved ! "

— Charles Mackay.

CIV.— LITTLE NELL'S VISIT TO THE
SCHOOLMASTER.

When little Nell and her grandfather rose up from
the ground, and took the shady track which led them
through the wood, she bounded on before, printing her
tiny footsteps in the moss, which rose elastic from so
light a pressure and gave it back as mirrors throw off
breath ; Jind thus she lured the old man on, with many a
backward look and merry beck, now pointing stealthily
to some lone bird as it perched and twittered on a branch
that strayed across their path, now stopping to listen to
the songs that broke the happy silence, or watch the sun
as it trembled through the leaves, and stealing in among
the ivied trunks of stout old trees, opened long paths of
light. As they pressed onward, parting the boughs that
clustered in their way, the serenity which the child had

LirrLE Nell's Vlsit to the Schoolmaster. 203

first assumed, stole into her breast in earnest; the old
man cast no longer fearful looks behind, but felt at ease
and cheerful, for the farther they passed into the deep
green shade, the more they felt that the tranquil mind of
God was there, and shed its peace on them.

At length the path, becoming clearer and less intricate,
brought them to the end of the wood, and into a public
road. Taking their way along it for a short distance,
they came to a lane, so shaded by the trees on either
hand that they met together overhead, and arched the
narrow way. A broken finger-post announced that this
led to a village three miles off; and thither they resolved
to bend their steps.

The miles appeared so long that they sometimes
thought they must have missed their road. But at last,
to their great joy, it led downward in a steep descent,
with overhanging banks over which the footpaths led ;
and the clustered houses of the village peeped out from
the woody hollow below.

It was a very small place. The men and boys were
playing at cricket on the green ; and as the other folks
were looking on, they wandered up and down, uncertain
where to seek a humble lodging. There \Yas but one old
man in the little garden before his cottage, and him they
were timid of approaching, for he was the schoolmaster,
and had *' School " written up over his window in black
letters on a white board. He was a pale, simple-looking
man, of a spare and meagre habit, and sat among his
flowers and beehives, smoking his pipe, in the little porch
before his door.

" Speak to him, dear," the old man whispered.

).;■:

264

Third Reader.

" I am almost afraid to disturb him," said the child
timidly. " He docs not seem to see us. Perhaps if we
wait a little, he may look this way."

They waited, but the schoolmaster cast no look towards
them, and still sat, thoughtful and silent, in the little
porch. He had a kind face. In his plain old suit of
black, he looked pale and meagre. They fancied, too, a
lonely air about him and his house, but perhaps that was
because the other people formed a merry company upon
the green, and he seemed the only solitary man in all the
place.

They were very tired, and the child would have been
bold enough to address even a schoolmaster, but for
something in his manner which seemed to denote that he
was uneasy or distressed. As they stood hesitating at a
little distance, they saw that he sat for a few minutes at
a time like one in a brown study, then laid aside his pipe
and took a few turns in his garden, then approached the
gate and looked towards the green, then took up his pipe
again with a sigh, and sat down thoughtfully as before.

As nobody else appeared, and it would soon be dark,
Nell at length took courage, and when he had resumed
his pipe and seat, ventured to draw near, leading her
grandfather by the hand. The slight noise they made in
raising the latch of the wicket-gate, caught his attention.
He looked at them kindly, but seemed disappointed too,
and slightly shook his head. .

Nell dropped a curtsy, and told him they were poor
travellers who sought a shelter for the night which they
would gladly pay for, so far as their means allowed.

Little Nell's Visit to the Schoolmasier. 2(55

The schoolmaster looked earnestly at lier as she spoke,
laid aside his pipe, and rose up directly.

" If you could direct us anywhere, Sir," said the child,
" we should take it very kindly."

" You have been walking a long way," said the school-
master.

"A long way. Sir," the child replied.

"You're a young traveller, my child," he said, laying
his hand gently on her head. "Your grandchild, friend?"

" Ay, Sir," cried the old man, " and the stay and com-
fort of my life."

" Come in," said the schoolmaster.

Without further preface he conducted them into his
little schoolroom, which was parlor and kitchen likewise,
and told them they were welcome to remain under his
roof till morning. Before they had done thanking him,
he spread a coarse white cloth upon the table, with
knives and platters ; and bringing out some bread and
cold meat and a jug of beer, besought them to eat and
drink.

The child looked round the room as she took her seat.
There were a couple of forms, notched and cut and inked
all over ; a small deal desk perched on four legs, at which
no doubt the master sat ; a few dog's-eared books upon a
high shelf; and beside them a motley collection of peg-
tops, balls, kites, fishing-lines, marbles, half-eaten apples,
and other confiscated property of idle urchins. Displayed
on hooks upon the wall in all their terrors, were the cane
and ruler; and near them, on a small shelf of its own,
the dunce's cap, made of old newspapers and decorated

266

Third Reader.

witli glaring wafers of the largest size. But, the great
ornaments of the walls were certain moral sentences,
fairly copied in good round text, and well worked sums
in simple addition and multiplication, evidently achieved
by tlie same hand, which were plentifully pasted all
round the room : for the double purpose, as it seemed,
of bearing testimony to the excellence of the school,
and kindling a worthy emulation in the bosoms of the
scholars.

" Yes," said the old schoolmaster, observing that her
attention was caught by these latter specimens. " That's
beautiful writing, my dear."

" Very, Sir," replied the child modestly, " is it yours ? "

" Mine ! " he returned, taking out his spectacles and
putting them on, to have a- better view of the triumphs
so dear to his heart. "I couldn't write like that, now-a-
days. No. They're all done by one hand; a little hand
it is, not so old as yours, but a very clever one."

As the schoolmaster said this, he saw that a small blot
of ink had been thrown on one of the copies, so he took
a penknife from his pocket, and going up to the wall,
carefully scraped it out. When he had finished, he
walked slowly backward from the writing, admiring it
as one might contemplate a beautiful picture, but with
something of sadness in his voice and manner which
(piite touched the child, though she was unacquainted
with its cause.

"A little hand indeed," said the poor schoolmaster.
" Far beyond all his companions in his learning, and his
sports, too ; how did he ever come to be so fond of me !
That I should love him is no w^onder, but that he should

Little Nell's Visit to the Schoolmaster. 267

love me — " and there the schoohiiaster stopped, and took
off his spectacles to wipe them, as though they had
grown dim.

" I hope there is nothing the matter. Sir," said Nell
anxiously.

" Not much, my dear," returned the sclioolmaster. " I
hoped to have seen him on the green to-night. He was
always foremost among them. But he'll be there to-
morrow."

" Has he been ill ? " asked the child, with a child's
quick sympathy.

" Not very. They said he was wandering in his head
yesterday, dear boy, and so they said the day before.
But that's a part of that kind of disorder ; it's not a bad
sign — not at all a bad sign."

The child was silent. He walked to the door, and
looked wistfully out. The shadows of night were
gathering, and all was still.

" If he could lean upon anybody's arm, he would come
to me, I know," he said, returning into the room. "He
always came into the garden to sfiy good night. But
perhaps his illness has only just taken a favorable turn,
and it's too late for him to come out, for it's veiy damp
and there's a heavy dew. It's much better he shouldn't
come to-night."

The schoolmaster lighted a candle, fastened the win-
dow-shutter, and closed the door. But after he had done
this, and sat silent a little time, he took down his hat,
and said he would go and satisfy himself, if Nell would
sit up till he returned. The child readily complied, and
he went out.

rm^

268

Third Reader.

She sat there half-an-hour or more, feeling the place
very strange and lonely, for she had prevailed upon the
old man to go to bed, and there was nothing to be heard
but the ticking of an old clock, and the whistling of the
wind among the trees. When he returned, he took his
seat in the chhnney-corner, but remained silent for a
long time. At length he turned to her, and speaking
very gently, hoped she would say a prayer that night
for a sick child.

" My favorite scholar ! " said the poor schoolmaster,

smoking a pipe he had forgotten to light, and looking

mournfully round about the walls. "It is a little hand

to have don^ all that, and waste away with sickness. It

is a very, very little hand ! "

— Charles Dickens.

CV.— A GREYPORT LEGEND.

They ran through the streets of the seaport town :
They peered from the decks of the ships that lay :
The cold sea-fog- that came whitening down
Was never as cold or white as rhey.

"Ho, Starbuok and Pinckney and Tenterden !

Run for your sh{)llops, gather your men,
Scatter your boats on the lower bay."

Good cause for fear ! In the thick midday
The hulk that lay by the rotting pier,
Filled with the children in happy play,
Parted its moorings and drifted clear, —
Drifted clear beyond the reach or call, —
Thirteen children they were in all, — .
All adrift in the lower bay !

e place
)on the
) heard
of the
Dok his
I for a
leaking
1 night

master,
ooking
e hand
5SS. It

Hckens,

m :

A Greyport Legend. 'r 269

Said a hard-faced skipper, " God help us all !
She will not float till the turning tide !"
Said his wife, '' My darling will hear my call,
Whether in sea or heaven she bide."

And she lifted a quavering voice and high,
• Wild and strange as a sea-bird's cry,

Till they shuddered and wondered at her side.

The fog drove down on each laboring crew.
Veiled each from each and the sky and shore :
There was not a sound but the breath they drew,
And the lap of water and creak of oar ;

And they felt the breath of the downs, fresh blown
O'er leagues of clover and cold grey stone,
But not from the lips that had gone before.

They come no more. But they tell the tale.
That, when fogs are thick on the harbor reef,
The mackerel fishers shorten sail ;
For the signal they know will bring relief :
For the voices of ciiiklren, still at play
In a phantom hulk that drifts alway

Through channels whose waters never fail.

— Bret Harte,

■■

It throbs not fast, it throbs not slow ;
Nor does it tlirob too loud, too low ;
JJut cheerful, even, is its beat.
Until the hours are all complete :
Then silent in its course doth stand,
Till wound up by the Saviour's Hand.

270

Third Reader,

CVI.— MOSES AT THE FAIR.

As we were now to hold up our heads a Httle higher
in the world, my wife suggested that it would be proper
to sell the colt, which was grown old, at a neighboring
fair, and buy us a horse that would carry us single, or
double upon an occasion, and make a pretty appearance
at church or upon a visit. This at first I opposed stoutly ;
but it was stoutly defended. However, as I weakened,
my antagonist gained strength, till at last it was resolved
to part with him.

As the fair happened on the following day, 1 had
intentions of going myself ; but my wife persuaded me
that I had got a cold, and nothing could prevail upon
her to permit me from home. " No, my dear," said she ;
" our son Moses is a discreet boy, and can buy and sell
to a very good advantage. You know all our great
bargains are of his purchasing. He always stands
out and higgles, and actually tires them till he gets a
bargain."

As I had some opinion of my son's prudence, I was
willing enough to intrust him with thi& commission ; and
the next morning I perceived his sisters mighty busy
in fitting out Moses for the fair; trimming his hair,
brushing his buckles, and cocking his hat with pins.
The business of the toilet being over, we had at last the
satisfaction of seeing him mounted upon the colt, with a
deal box before him to bring home groceries in. He had
on a coat made of that cloth they call "thunder and
lightning," which, though grown too short, was much
too good to be thrown away. His waistcoat was of

f>.-f

wsmmmfmm

Moses at the Fair.

271

was
; and
busy
hair,
pins,
t the
;^ith a

had
: and
much
as of

gosling green, and his sisters had tied liis hair with a
broad black ribbon. We all followed him several paces
from the door, bawling after him, " Good luck ! good
luck ! " till we could see him no longer.

I began to wonder what could keep our son so long
at the fair, as it was now almost nightfall. ''Never
mind our son," cried my wife ; "depend upon it, he knows
what he is about. I'll warrant we'll never see him sell
his hen of a rainy day. I have seen him bring such
bargains as would amaze one. I'll tell you a good story
about that, that w^"ll make you split your sides with
laughing. — But as I live, yonder comes Moses, without a
horse, and the box on his back ! "

As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, and sweating
under the deal box, which he had strapped round his
shoulders like a peddler. — " Welcome, welcome, Moses !
Well, my boy, what have you brought us from the fair?"
" I have brought you myself," cried Moses, with a sly
look, and resting the box on the dresser. — "Ay, Moses,"
cried my wife, " that we know ; but where is the horse?"
" I have sold him," cried Moses, " for three pounds, five
shillings and twopence." — " Well done, my good boy,"
returned she ; " I knew you would touch them off.
Between ourselves, three pounds, five shillings and
twopence is no bad day's work. Come, let us have it
then." " I have brought back no money," cried Moses
again. "I have laid it all out in a bargain, and here it
is," pulling out a bundle from his breast ; " here they
are ; a gross of green spectacles ! " repeated my wife in
a faint voice. "And you have parted with the colt, and
brought us back nothing but a grr .6 of green paltry

^fl;

272

Third Reader.

spectacles ! " " Dear mother," cried the boy. " why don't
you listen to reason ? I had them a dead bargain, or I
should not have brought them. The silver rims alone
will sell for double the money." — "A fig for the silver
rims ! " cried my wife in a passion : " I dare swear they
won't sell for above half the money at the rate of broken
silver, five shillings an ounce." — " You need be under no
uneasiness," cried I, " about selling the rims, for they are
not worth sixpe^.ice ; for I i^irceive they are only copper
varnished over." — " What ! " cried my wife ; " not silver ?
the rims not silver?" "No," cried I; "no more silver
than your saucepan." — "And so," returned she, "we have
parted with the colt, and have only got a gross of green
spectacles, with copper rims and shagreen cases ? A
murrain take such trumpery ! The blockhead has been
imposed upon, and should have known his company
better." " There, my dear," cried I, " you are w^rong; he
sliould not have known them at all." — " Marry ! hang the
idiot !" returned she, "to bring me such stuff; — if I had
them I would throw them in the tire." " There asain
you are wrong, my dear," cried I ; " for though they be
copper, we will keep them by us, as copper spectacles,
you know, are better than nothing."

By this time the unfortunate Moses was undeceived.
He now saw that he had been imposed upon by a prowl-
ing sharper, who, observing his figure, had marked him
for an easy prey. I therefore asked the circumstances of
his deception.. He sold the horse, it seems, and walked
the fair in search of another. A reverend-looking man
brought him to a tent under pretence of having one to
sell. -

YUSSOUF.

273

" Here," continued Moses, " we met another man, very
weir dressed, who desired to borrow twenty pounds upon
these, saying that he wanted money, and would dispose
of them for a third of the value. The first gentleman,
who pretended to "be my friend, whispered me to buy
them, and cautioned me not to let so good an offer pass.
I sent for Mr. Flamborougli, and they talked him up as
finely as they did me ; and so at last we were persuaded
to buy the tw^o gross between us."

— Olive?' Ooldsmith.

[ had

ived.
rowl-

him
ces of
alked

man
ne to

CVII. -YUSSOUF.

A stranger came one night to Yussouf's tent,

Saying, " Behold one outcast and in dread,

Against whose life the bow of power is bent,

Who flies, and hath not where to lay his head ;

I come to thee for shelter and for food,

To Yussouf, called through all our tribes 'The Good.'"

"This tent is mine," said Yussouf, "but no more

Than it is God's ; come in, and be at p^ace ;

Freely shalt thou partake of all my store

As 1 of His who buikleth over these

Our tents His glorious roof of night and day,

And at Whose door none ever yet heard Nay."

So Yussouf entertained his guest that night,
And, waking him ere day, said : " Here is gold ;
My swiftest horse is saddled *or thy flight ;
Depart before tlie prying day grow bold.''
As one lamp lights another, nor grows less,
So nobleness enkindleth nobleness.
18

\i!^,Mii»tiiM--.

274 Third Reader.

That inward light the stranger's face made grand,
Which shines from all self-conquest ; kneeling low,
He bowed his forehead upon Yu8.souf's hand,
Sobbing : *' O Sheik, I cannot leave thee so ;
I will repay thee ; all this thou hast done
Unto that Ibrahim who slew thy son ! "

"Take thrice the gold," said Yussouf, "for with thee

Into the desert, never to return,

My one black thought shall ride away from me ;

First-born, for whom by day and night I yearn,

Balanced and just are all of God's decrees ;

Thou art avenged, my first-born, sleep in peace ! "

— James Bus^ieU Lowell.

CVIIi.-CHAMPLAIN ON THE OTTAWA.

Champlain, one of the great explorers of New France,
as Canada was first called, believed, from the report of
one of his followers, that he could find a passage to the
northern seas by ascending the Ottawa River. Accord-
ingly he started from the Island of St. Helen, opposite
Montreal, with four Frenchmen and one Indian in two
small canoes. They passed the swift current of St.
Ann's, crossed the Lake of Two Mountains, and ad-
vanced up the Ottawa till the rapids of Carillon and
the Long Sault checked their course. So dense and
tangled was the forest that they were forced to remain
in the bed of the river, trailing their canoes along the
bank with cords, or pushing them by main force up the
current.

Cham PLAIN on the Ottawa.

27/5

)rt of
;0 the
jcord-
30site
two
St.
ad-
and
and
main
or the
p thQ

All day they plied their paddles. Night came and
they made their camp-fire in the forest. The voyagers
around the iiame, red men and Vt^hite, the latter cross-
legged on the earth, the former crouched like apes, each
feature painted in fiery light as they waited their
eveiiing meal — trout and perch cooked on forked sticks
before the scorching blaze. Then each spread his couch
— boughs of the spruce, hemlock, balsam-fir or pine — and
stretched himself to rest.

As soon as dawn appeared, the voyagers held their
coui'se. They had not been long upon their w^ay before
the falling curtain of Rideau shone like silver upon their
left, and in front, white as a snow^-drift, the cataracts of
the Chaudiere barred their advance.

On the brink of the rocky basin where the plunging
torrent boiled like a caldron, Champlain's Indians took
their stand, and witli a loud invocation, threw tobacco
into the foam, an ofiiering to the local spirit, the Manitou
of the Cataract.

Over the rocks, through the woods ; then they
launched their canoes again, and with toil and struggle
made their Wixy, pushing, dragging, lifting, paddling,
shoving with poles; till wdien the evening sun poured
its level rays across the quiet lake, they landed, and
made their camp on the verge of a woody island ,

Day by day brought a renew^al of their toils. Hour
by hour they moved prosperously \ up the long windings
of the solitary stream ; then, in quick succession, rapid
followed rapid, till the bed of the Ottawa seemed a slope
of foam. Now, h'ke a wall bristling at the top with
woody islets, the Falls of the Chats faced them with

27G

Third Reader.

W-M

the sheer plunge of their sixteen cataracts. Now they
glided beneath overhanging cliffs, where, seeing but un-
seen, the crouched wild-cat eyed them from the thicket ;
now through the maze of water-girded rocks, or among
islands where old hemlocks darken the water with deep
green shadow. Here, in the tortuous channels, the
muskrat swam and plunged, and the sphxvshing wild
duck dived beneath the alders or among the red and
matted roots of thirsty water-willows. In the weedy
cove stood the moose, neck-deep in water to escape the
flies; wading shoreward, with glistening sides, as the
canoes drew near, shaking his broad antlers, and with
clumsy trot vanishing in the woods.

After an exhausting trip they reached Muskrat Lake,
the seat of the principal Indian population of the river,
and, as the canoes advanced, unwonted signs of human
life could be seen. In a rough clearing made by burning
the trees, the soil had been feebly scratched with hoes of
wood or bone, and a crop of maize was growing. The
dwellings of these slovenly farmers, framed of poles
covered with sheets of bark, were scattered singly or in
groups, while their tenants were running to the shore in
amazement. The chief offered the calumet, or pipe of
peace, and then harangued the crowd : " These white
men must have fallen from the clouds. How else could
they have reached us through the woods and rapids
which even we find it hard to pass ? " And they
hastened to regale the hungry visitors with a repast of
fish. Champlain asked for guidance to the settlements
above, which was readily granted. Escorted by his
friendly hosts, he advanced by forest pathways to the
cabins of a chief named Tessouat, who, amazed at the

Champlain on the Ottawa.

277

apparition of the white strangers, exclaimed that he
must be in a dream.

Here was a cemetery which excited the wonder of the
French, for tlie dead were better cared for than the
living. Eiach grave was covered with a double row of
pieces of wood, inclined like a roof till they crossed at
the ridge. At one end stood an upright tablet, or
flattened post, rudely carved with an intended repre-
sentation of the features of the deceased. If a chief,
the head was adorned with a plume. If a warrior, there
were figures near it of a shield, a lance, a war-club, and
a bow and arrows; if a boy, of a small bow and one
arrow ; and if a woman or a girl, of a kettle, an earthen
pot, a wooden spoon, and a paddle. The whole was
decorated with red and yellow paint ; and beneath slept
the departed, wrapped in a robe of skins, his earthly
treasures about him, ready for use in the land of souls.

Tessouat gave a solemn feast in honor of the strangers,
sending ruiniers to summon the chiefs and elders from
the neighboring hamlets.

Champlain and his Frenchmen were given the place
of honor in the cabin, which had been swept by the
squawks for the occasion. The other guests appeared in
quick succession, each with his wooden dish and spoon,
and each muttering his salute as he entered the door.
The spacious cabin was full. Each warrior thrust forth
his dish to be served by his host in turn. First there
was a mess of pounded maize, wherein were boiled
morsels of fish and dark scraps of meat; then fish and
flesh broiled on the embers were served, with a kettle
of cold water from the river. A few minutes suflPced
for the meal. All alike vanished, and the kettles v. ^re

ill

278

Third Reader.

empty. Then pipes were filled, aiul touched with fire
by the obedient .scpiawH, while the young, who had stood
about the entrance, now modestly withdrew, and the
door was closed for counsel.

First the pipes were passed to Champlain. Then for
full half an hour the assembly smoked in silence. At
length, when the proper time came, Champlain addressed
them, and asked them for four canoes and eight men to
help him in the attainment of his object. These were
promised, and Champlain with a light heart left the
cabin to visit the fields. In his absence, the assembly
reconsidered the question, and refused the canoes. The
chiefs urged the difficulties of the journey, and the
hatred of the neighboring tribe of the Nipissings.

They informed him, moreover, that he had been basely
deceived as to the possibility of reaching the northei'n
seas by this route. Then, as no motive remained for
further advance, the whole party set forth on their
return to Montreal, which they reached in safety.

CIX.— THE VOICE OF THE WIND.

Let us throw more logs on the fire !

We have need of a cheerful light,
And close round the hearth to gather,

For the wind has risen to-night.
With the mournful sound of its wailing

It has checked the children's glee,
And it calls with a louder clamor

Than the clamor of the sea.

Hark to the voice of the wind !

The V^oice op the Wind.

Let us listen to what it is saying,

Let us hearken to where it has been ;
For it tells, in its terrible crying,

The fearful sight it has seen.
It clatters loud at the casements.

Round the house it hurries on,
And shrieks with redoubled fury

When we say, " The blast is gone ! "
Hark to the voice of the wind !

It has ])een on the field of battle,

Where the dying and wounded lie ;
And it brings the last groan they uttered.

And the ravenous vulture's cry.
It has been where the icebergs were meeting,

And closed with a fearful crash :
On shores where no foot has wandered

It has heard the waters dai.a.

Hark to the voice of the wind !

It has been on the desolate ocean

When the lightning struck the mast ;
It has heard the cry of the drowning,

Who sank as it hurried past ;
The words of despair and anguish,

That were heard by no living ear,
The gun that no signal answered,

It brings them all to us here.

Hark to the voice of the wind !

It has been on the lonely moorland,
Where the treacherous snowdrift lies,

Where the traveller, spent and weary, '
Gasped fainter and fainter cries ;

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Third Reader.

It has heard the bay of the bloodhounds
On the track of the hunted slave,

The lash and the curse of the master,
And the groan that the captive gave.
Hark to the voice of the wind !

It lias swept through the gloomy forer?t,

Where the sledge was urged to its speed,
Where the howling wolves were rushing

On the track of the panting steed.
Where the pool was black and lonely,

It caught up a splash and a cry, — -
Only the bleak sky heard it.

And the wind as it hurried by.

Hark to the voice of the wind !

Then throw more logs on the fire.

Since the air is bleak and cold.
And the children are drawing nigher

For the tales that the wind has told.
So closer and closer gather

Round the red and crackling light ;
And rejoice (while the wind is blowing)

We are safe and warm to-night.

Hark to the voice of the wind !
— Adelaide A. Procter (by permmion qf the Puhlialiers).

" Children dear, if our lives are loving.
Sweet to all, like the clover here.
Having the modest gr \ce of violets, —
Full of the buttercups' sunny cheer, —
We shall be God's little Iruman flowers.
Helping to brighten this world of ours."

rsj.