Jack Frost looked forth one still, clear night,
And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight;
So, through the valley, and over the height,
In silence I'll take my way.
I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain;
But I'll be as busy as they!"
Then he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest;
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed
In diamond beads; and over the breast
Of the quivering lake he spread
A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The glittering point of many a spear,
Which he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock could rear its head.
He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept:
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped,
By the morning light were seen
Most beautiful things!--there were flowers and trees;
There were bevies of birds, and swarms of bees;
There were cities with temples and towers; and these
All pictured in silvery sheen!
But he did one thing that was hardly fair;
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there
That all had forgotten for him to prepare.--
"Now, just to set them a-thinking,
I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he;
"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three;
And the glass of water they've left for me,
Shall '_tchick_,' to tell them I'm drinking."
_Hannah F. Gould._
* * * * *
CREST, top or summit.
COAT OF MAIL, a garment of iron or steel worn by warriors in olden
times.
BEVIES, flocks or companies.
SHEEN, brightness.
TCHICK a combination of letters whose pronunciation is supposed to
resemble the sound of breaking glass.
What did Jack Frost do when he went to the mountain?
How did he dress the boughs of the trees? What did he spread over the
lake? Why?
What could be seen after he had worked on "the windows of those who
slept?"
What mischief did he do in the cupboard, and why?
Is Jack Frost an artist? In what kind of weather does he work? Why does
he work generally at night?
* * * * *
_50_
re' al ize
pen' du lum
dil' i gent ly
sig nif' i cance
auc tion eer'
per sist' ent ly
in ex haust' i ble
un der stood'
hope' less ly
nev er the less
"GOING! GOING! GONE!"
The other day, as I was walking through a side street in one of our
large cities, I heard these words ringing out from a room so crowded
with people that I could but just see the auctioneer's face and uplifted
hammer above the heads of the crowd.
"Going! Going! Going! Gone!" and down came the hammer with a sharp rap.
I do not know how or why it was, but the words struck me with a new
force and significance. I had heard them hundreds of times before, with
only a sense of amusement. This time they sounded solemn.
"Going! Going! Gone!"
"That is the way it is with life," I said to myself;--"with time." This
world is a sort of auction-room; we do not know that we are buyers: we
are, in fact, more like beggars; we have brought no money to exchange
for precious minutes, hours, days, or years; they are given to us. There
is no calling out of terms, no noisy auctioneer, no hammer; but
nevertheless, the time is "going! going! gone!"
The more I thought of it, the more solemn did the words sound, and the
more did they seem to me a good motto to remind one of the value of
time.
When we are young we think old people are preaching and prosing when
they say so much about it,--when they declare so often that days, weeks,
even years, are short. I can remember when a holiday, a whole day long,
appeared to me an almost inexhaustible play-spell; when one afternoon,
even, seemed an endless round of pleasure, and the week that was to come
seemed longer than does a whole year now.
One needs to live many years before one learns how little time there is
in a year,--how little, indeed, there will be even in the longest
possible life,--how many things one will still be obliged to leave
undone.
But there is one thing, boys and girls, that you can realize if you will
try--if you will stop and think about it a little; and that is, how fast
and how steadily the present time is slipping away. However long life
may seem to you as you look forward to the whole of it, the present hour
has only sixty minutes, and minute by minute, second by second, it is
"going! going! gone!" If you gather nothing from it as it passes, it is
"gone" forever. Nothing is so utterly, hopelessly lost as "lost time."
It makes me unhappy when I look back and see how much time I have
wasted; how much I might have learned and done if I had but understood
how short is the longest hour.
All the men and women who have made the world better, happier or wiser
for their having lived in it, have done so by working diligently and
persistently. Yet, I am certain that not even one of these, when
"looking backward from his manhood's prime, saw not the specter of his
mis-spent time." Now, don't suppose I am so foolish as to think that all
the preaching in the world can make anything look to young eyes as it
looks to old eyes; not a bit of it.
But think about it a little; don't let time slip away by the minute,
hour, day, without getting something out of it! Look at the clock now
and then, and listen to the pendulum, saying of every minute, as it
flies,--"Going! going! gone!"
_Helen Hunt Jackson._
From "Bits of Talk." Copyright, Little, Brown & Co., Publishers.
* * * * *
PROSING, talking in a dull way.
In the following sentences, instead of the words in italics, use others
that have the same general meaning:
I heard these words _ringing_ out from a _room_ so _crowded_ with
_people_ that I could _but_ just _see_ the man's _face._ How _fast_ and
_steadily_ the present time is _slipping_ away!
Punctuate the following:
Go to the ant thou sluggard consider her ways and be wise.
* * * * *
_51_
yearn
car' ol
mus' ing
stee' ple
mag' ic al