Scene 3.

LXXII. THE OLD HOUSE CLOCK.

1. Oh! the old, old clock of the household stock,

Was the brightest thing, and neatest;

Its hands, though old, had a touch of gold,

And its chimes rang still the sweetest;

'T was a monitor, too, though its words were few,

Yet they lived, though nations altered;

And its voice, still strong, warned old and young,

When the voice of friendship faltered:

"Tick! tick!" it said, "quick, quick, to bed:

For ten I've given warning;

Up! up! and go, or else you know,

You'll never rise soon in the morning!"

2. A friendly voice was that old, old clock,

As it stood in the corner smiling,

And blessed the time with merry chime,

The wintry hours beguiling;

But a cross old voice was that tiresome clock,

As it called at daybreak boldly;

When the dawn looked gray o'er the misty way,

And the early air looked coldly:

"Tick! tick!" it said, "quick out of bed:

For five I've given warning;

You'll never have health, you'll never have wealth,

Unless you're up soon in the morning!"

3. Still hourly the sound goes round and round,

With a tone that ceases never:

While tears are shed for bright days fled,

And the old friends lost forever!

Its heart beats on, though hearts are gone

That beat like ours, though stronger;

Its hands still move, though hands we love

Are clasped on earth no longer!

"Tick! tick!" it said, "to the churchyard bed,

The grave hath given warning;

Up! up! and rise, and look at the skies,

And prepare for a heavenly morning!"

LXXIII. THE EXAMINATION

Daniel Pierce Thompson (b. 1193, d. 1868) was born at Charlestown, Mass.,

but soon removed with his father to Vermont, where he lived until twenty

years of age, on a farm. His means of schooling were most limited, but he

was very ambitious and seized every opportunity. By his own efforts he

earned enough money to carry him through Middlebury College, where he

graduated in 1820. He then went to Virginia as private tutor, and while

there was entered at the bar. He shortly returned to Vermont, and opened a

law office in Montpelier. In time he was elected a judge, and later

secretary of state. From his college days Mr. Thompson was a writer for

the various magazines. Among his novels may be mentioned "Locke Amsden,

the Schoolmaster," "May Martin, or the Money Diggers," "The Green Mountain

Boys," and "The Rangers, or the Tory's Daughter."

1. "Have you any questions to ask me in the other branches, sir?" asked

Locke.

"Not many," replied Bunker. "There is reading, writing, grammar, etc.,

which I know nothing about; and as to them, I must, of course, take you by

guess, which will not be much of a guess, after all, if I find you have

thought well on all other matters. Do you understand philosophy?"

2. "To what branch of philosophy do you allude, sir?"

"To the only branch there is."

"But you are aware that philosophy is divided into different kinds; as,

natural, moral, and intellectual."

"Nonsense! philosophy is philosophy, and means the study of the reasons

and causes of the things which we see, whether it be applied to a crazy

man's dreams, or the roasting of potatoes. Have you attended to it?"

"Yes, to a considerable extent, sir."

3. "I will put a question or two, then, if you please. What is the reason

of the fact, for it is a fact, that the damp breath of a person blown on a

good knife and on a bad one, will soonest disappear from the well-tempered

blade?"

"It may be owing to the difference in the polish of the two blades,

perhaps." replied Locke.

4. "Ah! that is an answer that don't go deeper than the surface," rejoined

Bunker, humorously. "As good a thinker as you evidently are, you have not

thought on this subject, I suspect. It took me a week, in all, I presume,

of hard thinking, and making experiments at a blacksmith's shop, to

discover the reason of this. It is not the polish; for take two blades of

equal polish, and the breath will disappear from one as much quicker than

it does from the other, as the blade is better. It is because the material

of the blade is more compact or less porous in one case than in the other.

5. "In the first place, I ascertained that the steel was, made more

compact by being hammered and tempered, and that the better it was

tempered the more compact it would become; the size of the pores being

made, of course, less in the same proportion. Well, then, I saw the reason

I was in search of, at once. For we know a wet sponge is longer in drying

than a wet piece of green wood, because the pores of the first are bigger.

A seasoned or shrunk piece of wood dries quicker than a green one, for the

same reason.

6. "Or you might bore a piece of wood with large gimlet holes, and another

with small ones, fill them both with water, and let them stand till the

water evaporated, and the difference of time it would take to do this

would make the case still more plain. So with the blades: the vapor

lingers longest on the worst wrought and tempered one, because the pores,

being larger, take in more of the wet particles, and require more time in

drying."

7. "Your theory is at least a very ingenious one," observed Locke, "and I

am reminded by it of another of the natural phenomena, of the true

explanation of which I have not been able to satisfy myself. It is this:

what makes the earth freeze harder and deeper under a trodden path than

the untrodden earth around it? All that I have asked, say it is because

the trodden earth is more compact. But is that reason a sufficient one?"

8. "No," said Bunker, "but I will tell you what the reason is, for I

thought that out long ago. You know that, in the freezing months, much of

the warmth we get is given out by the earth, from which, at intervals, if

not constantly, to some extent, ascend the warm vapors to mingle with and

moderate the cold atmosphere above.

9. "Now these ascending streams of warm air would be almost wholly

obstructed by the compactness of a trodden path, and they would naturally

divide at some distance below it, and pass up through the loose earth on

each side, leaving the ground along the line of the path, to a great depth

beneath it, a cold, dead mass, through which the frost would continue to

penetrate, unchecked by the internal heat, which, in its unobstructed

ascent on each side, would be continually checking or overcoming the frost

in its action on the earth around.

10. "That, sir, is the true philosophy of the case, you may depend upon

it. But we will now drop the discussion of these matters; for I am

abundantly satisfied that you have not only knowledge enough, but that you

can think for yourself. And now, sir, all I wish to know further about you

is, whether you can teach others to think, which is half the battle with a

teacher. But as I have had an eye on this point, while attending to the

others, probably one experiment, which I will ask you to make on one of

the boys here, will be all I shall want."

"Proceed, sir," said the other.

11. "Ay, sir," rejoined Bunker, turning to the open fireplace, in which

the burning wood was sending up a column of smoke, "there, you see that

smoke rising, don't you? Well, you and I know the, reason why smoke goes

upward, but my youngest boy does not, I think. Now take your own way, and

see if you can make him understand it."

12. Locke, after a moment's reflection, and a glance round the room for

something to serve for apparatus, took from a shelf, where he had espied a

number of articles, the smallest of a set of cast-iron cart boxes, as are

usually termed the round hollow tubes in which the axletree of a carriage

turns. Then selecting a tin cup that would just take in the box, and

turning into the cup as much water as he judged, with the box, would fill

it, he presented them separately to the boy, and said,

"There, my lad, tell me which of these is the heavier."

13. "Why, the cart box, to be sure," replied the boy, taking the cup,

half-filled with water, in one hand, and the hollow iron in the other.

"Then you think this iron is heavier than as much water as would fill the

place of it, do you?" resumed Locke.

"Why, yes, as heavy again, and more too--I know it is," promptly said the

boy.

14. "Well, sir, now mark what I do," proceeded the former, dropping into

the cup the iron box, through the hollow of which the water instantly rose

to the brim of the vessel.

"There, you saw that water rise to the top of the cup, did you?"

"Yes, I did."

"Very well, what caused it to do so?"

15. "Why, I know well enough, if I could only think: why, it is because

the iron is the heavier, and as it comes all around the water so it can't

get away sideways, it is forced up."

"That is right; and now I want you to tell what makes that smoke rise up

the chimney."

16. "Why,--I guess," replied the boy, hesitating, "I guess,--I guess I

don't know."

"Did you ever get up in a chair to look on some high shelf, so that your

head was brought near the ceiling of a heated room, in winter? and did you

notice any difference between the air up there and the air near the

floor?"

17. "Yes, I remember I have, and found the air up there as warm as

mustard; and when I got down, and bent my head near the floor to pick up

something, I found it as cold as could be."

"That is ever the case; but I wish you to tell me how the cold air always

happens to settle down to the lower part of the room, while the warm air,

somehow, at the same time, gets above."

18. "Why, why, heavy things settle down, and the cold air--yes, yes,

that's it, I am sure--the cold air is heavier, and so settles down, and

crowds up the warm air."

"Very good. You then understand that cold air is heavier than the heated

air, as that iron is heavier than the water; so now we will go back to the

main question--what makes the smoke go upwards?"

19. "Oh! I see now as plain as day; the cold air settles down all round,

like the iron box, and drives up the hot air as fast as the fire heats it,

in the middle, like the water; and so the hot air carries the smoke along

up with it, just as feathers and things in a whirlwind. Well! I have found

out what makes smoke go up--is n't it curious?"

20. "Done like a philosopher!" cried Bunker. "The thing is settled. I will

grant that you are a teacher among a thousand. You can not only think

yourself, but can teach others to think; so you may call the position

yours as quick as you please."

DEFINITIONS.--2. In-tel-lec'tu-al, treating of the mind. 3. Tem'-pered,

brought to a proper degree of hardness. 4. Com-pact', closely and firmly

united, solid, dense. 4. Por'ous, full of pores or minute openings. 6.

E-vap'o-rat-ed, passed off in vapor. 7. In-gen'ious (pro. in-jen'yus),

well formed, skillful. 7. Phe-nom'e-non, whatever is presented to the eye.

8. In'ter-vals, spaces of time. 12. Ap-pa-ra'tus, utensils for performing

experiments.

NOTE.--Locke Amsden is represented as a bright young student in search of

a position as teacher of a district school in Vermont. Mr. Buuker, the

"Examining Committee," is a queer, shrewd old farmer, who can neither read

nor write, but by careful observation has picked up a large amount of

valuable information. The story opens in the midst of the examination.

LXXIV. THE ISLE OF LONG AGO.

Benjamin Franklin Taylor (b. 1819, d. 1887) was born at Lowville, N.Y. He

graduated at Madison University, of which his father was president. In

1845 he published "Attractions of Language." For many years he was

literary editor of the "Chicago Journal." Mr. Taylor wrote considerably

for the magazines, was the author of many well-known favorite pieces both

in prose and verse, and achieved success as a lecturer.

1. Oh, a wonderful stream is the river of Time,

As it runs through the realm of tears,

With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme,

And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime,

As it blends with the ocean of Years.

2. How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow,

And the summers, like buds between;

And the year in the sheaf--so they come and they go,

On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow,

As it glides in the shadow and sheen.

3. There's a magical isle up the river of Time,

Where the softest of airs are playing;

There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime,

And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,

And the Junes with the roses are staying.

4. And the name of that isle is the Long Ago,

And we bury our treasures there;

There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow--

There are heaps of dust--but we love them so!--

There are trinkets and tresses of hair;

5. There are fragments of song that nobody sings,

And a part of an infant's prayer,

There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings;

There are broken vows and pieces of rings,

And the garments that she used to wear.

6. There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore

By the mirage is lifted in air;

And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar,

Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before,

When the wind down the river is fair.

7. Oh, remembered for aye be the blessed Isle,

All the day of our life till night--

When the evening comes with its beautiful smile,

And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,

May that "Greenwood." of Soul be in sight

DEFINITIONS.--1. Realm, region, country. Rhythm, the harmonious flow of

vocal sounds. Rhyme, a word answering in sound to another word. Surge, a

great, rolling swell of water. 3. Ves'per, pertaining to the evening

service in the Roman Catholic Church. 6. Mi-rage' (pro. me-razh'), an

optical illusion causing objects at a distance to seem as though suspended

in the air. 7. Aye (pro. a), always, ever.

NOTES.--5. A lute unswept, that is, unplayed.

7. Greenwood is a notes and very beautiful cemetery at the southern

extremity of Brooklyn, N.Y. The expression means, then, the resting place

of the soul.

LXXV. THE BOSTON MASSACRE.

George Bancroft (b. 1800, d. 1891) was born at Worcester, Mass. He was an

ambitious student, and graduated at Harvard College before he was eighteen

years of age. He then traveled in Europe, spending some time at the German

universities. On his return, in 1822, he was appointed tutor in Greek at

Harvard. His writings at this time were a small volume of original poems,

some translations from Schiller and Goethe, and a few striking essays. Mr.

Bancroft has held numerous high political offices. In 1838 he was

appointed collector of the port at Boston; in 1845 he was made secretary

of the Navy; in 1849 he was sent as United States Minister to Great

Britain; and in 1867 he was sent in the same capacity to Prussia. The work

which has given Mr. Bancroft his great literary reputation is his "History

of the United States, from the Discovery of the American Continent." The

first volume appeared in 1834. Philosophical in reasoning, interesting,

terse in style, and founded on careful research, under the most favorable

advantages, the work stands alone in its sphere.

1. The evening of the fifth came on. The young moon was shining brightly

in a cloudless winter sky, and its light was increased by a new-fallen

snow. Parties of soldiers were driving about the streets, making a parade

of valor, challenging resistance, and striking the inhabitants

indiscriminately with sticks or sheathed cutlasses.

2. A band, which poured out from Murray's barracks, in Brattle Street,

armed with clubs, cutlasses, and bayonets, provoked resistance, and a fray

ensued. Ensign Maul, at the gate of the barrack yard, cried to the

soldiers: "Turn out, and I will stand by you; kill them; stick them; knock

them down; run your bayonets through them." One soldier after another

leveled a firelock, and threatened to "make a lane" through the crowd.

3. Just before nine, as an officer crossed King Street, now State Street,

a barber's lad cried after him: "There goes a mean fellow who hath not

paid my father for dressing his hair;" on which, the sentinel stationed at

the westerly end of the customhouse, on the corner of King Street and

Exchange Lane, left his post, and with his musket gave the boy a stroke on

the head, that made him stagger and cry for pain.

4. The street soon became clear, and nobody troubled the sentry, when a

party of soldiers issued violently from the main guard, their arms

glittering in the moonlight, and passed on, hallooing: "Where are they?

where are they? Let them come."

5. Presently twelve or fifteen more, uttering the same cries, rushed from

the south into King Street, and so by the way of Cornhill towards Murray's

barracks. "Pray, soldiers, spare my life," cried a boy of twelve, whom

they met. "No, no, I'll kill you all," answered one of them, and knocked

him down with his cutlass. They abused and insulted several persons at

their doors and others in the street; "running about like madmen in a

fury," crying, "Fire!" which seemed their watchword, and, "Where are

they? Knock them down." Their outrageous behavior occasioned the ringing

of the bell at the head of King Street.

6. The citizens, whom the alarm set in motion, came out with canes and

clubs; and, partly by the interference of well-disposed officers, partly

by the courage of Crispus Attucks, a mulatto, and some others, the fray at

the barracks was soon over. Of the citizens, the prudent shouted, "Home!

home!" others, it is said, cried out, "Huzza for the main guard! there is

the nest;" but the main guard was not molested the whole evening.

7. A body of soldiers came up Royal Exchange Lane, crying, "Where are the

cowards?" and, brandishing their arms, passed through King Street. From

ten to twenty boys came after them, asking, "Where are they? where are

they?" "There is the soldier who knocked me down," said the barber's boy;

and they began pushing one another towards the sentinel. He loaded and

primed his musket. "The lobster is going to fire," cried a boy. Waving his

piece about, the sentinel pulled the trigger.

8. "If you fire you must die for it," said Henry Knox, who was passing by.

"I don't care," replied the sentry, "if they touch me, I'll fire." "Fire!"

shouted the boys, for they were persuaded he could not do it without leave

from a civil officer; and a young fellow spoke out, "We will knock him

down for snapping," while they whistled through their fingers and huzzaed.

"Stand off !" said the sentry, and shouted aloud, "Turn out, main guard!"

"They are killing the sentinel," reported a servant from the customhouse,

running to the main guard. "Turn out! why don't you turn cut?" cried

Preston, who was captain of the day, to the guard.

9. A party of six, two of whom, Kilroi and Montgomery, had been worsted at

the ropewalk, formed, with a corporal in front and Preston following. With

bayonets fixed, they "rushed through the people" upon the trot, cursing

them, and pushing them as they went along. They found about ten persons

round the sentry, while about fifty or sixty came down with them. "For

God's sake," said Knox! holding Preston by the coat, "take your men back

again; if they fire, your life must answer for the consequences." "I know

what I am about," said he hastily, and much agitated.

10. None pressed on them or provoked them till they began loading, when a

party of about twelve in number, with sticks in their hands, moved from

the middle of the street where they had been standing, gave three cheers,

and passed along the front of the soldiers, whose muskets some of them

struck as they went by. "You are cowardly rascals," they said, "for

bringing arms against naked men." "Lay aside your guns, and we are ready

for you." "Are the soldiers loaded?" inquired Palmes of Preston. "Yes," he

answered, "with powder and ball." "Are they going to fire upon the

inhabitants?" asked Theodore Bliss. "They can not, without my orders,"

replied Preston; while "the town-born" called out, "Come on, you rascals,

you bloody backs, you lobster scoundrels, fire, if you dare. We know you

dare not."

11. Just then, Montgomery received a blow from a stick which had hit his

Musket; and the word "fire!" being given by Preston, he stepped a little

to one side, and shot Attucks, who at the time was quietly leaning on a

long stick. "Don't fire!" said Langford, the watchman, to Kilroi, looking

him full in the face; but yet he did so, and Samuel Gray, who was standing

next Langford, fell lifeless. The rest fired slowly and in succession on

the people, who were dispersing. Three persons were killed, among them

Attucks, the mulatto; eight were wounded, two of them mortally. Of all the

eleven, not more than one had any share in the disturbance.

12. So infuriated were the soldiers that, when the men returned to take up

the dead, they prepared to fire again, but were checked by Preston, while

the Twenty-ninth Regiment appeared under arms in King Street. "This is our

time," cried the soldiers of the Fourteenth; and dogs were never seen more

greedy for their prey.

13. The bells rung in all the churches; the town drums beat. "To arms! to

arms!" was the cry. "Our hearts," said Warren, "beat to arms, almost

resolved by one stroke to avenge the death of our slaughtered brethren;"

but they stood self-possessed, demanding justice according to the law.

"Did you not know that you should not have fired without the order of a

civil magistrate?" asked Hutchinson, on meeting Preston. "I did it,"

answered Preston, "to save my men."

14. The people would not be pacified or retire till the regiment was

confined to the guardroom and the barracks; and Hutchinson himself gave

assurances that instant inquiries should be made by the county

magistrates. One hundred persons remained to keep watch on the

examination, which lasted till three hours after midnight. A warrant was

issued against Preston, who surrendered himself to the sheriff; and the

soldiers of his party were delivered up and committed to prison.

DEFINITIONS.--1. In-dis-crim'i-nate-ly, without distinction. 2. En-sued',

followed, resulted from. En'sign (pro. en'sin). an officer of low rank.

Fire'lock, an old-style musket, with flintlock. 7. Bran'-dish-ing,

waving, flourishing. 13. Self'-pos-sessed, undisturbed, calm in mind,

manner, etc. 14. Pac'i-fied, calmed, quieted. War'rant, a writ authorizing

an officer to seize an offender.

NOTES.--This massacre took place Monday, March 5, 1770.

5. Cornhill is the name of a street in Boston.

7. Lobster was the epithet applied to a British soldier by the Americans

on account of his red coat.

8. Henry Knox (b. 1750, d. 1806) was then a bookseller in Boston. He

afterwards became one of the American generals.

8. Ropewalk. The active trouble resulting in the massacre arose from a

soldier's being thrashed the Friday before at Gray's ropewalk, where he

had challenged one of the workmen to fight; other soldiers joined in the

affray from time to time, but were always worsted.

13. Warren. This was Joseph Warren (b. 1741, d. 1775), the American

patriot, killed shortly after at Bunker Hill.

Thomas Hutchinson was at this time lieutenant governor of Massachusetts.

Although born in Boston, he sided with the British government in the

troubles before the Revolution, and sailed for England in 1774.

LXXVI. DEATH OF THE BEAUTIFUL.

Eliza Lee Fallen (b. 1787, d. 1859) was born in Boston, Mass. Her maiden

name was Cabott. In 1828, she married Charles Follen, Professor of the

German language and its literature in Harvard University. Her principal

works are "Sketches of Married Life," "The Skeptic," "Twilight Stories,"

and "Little Songs." For several years Mrs. Follen was editor of the

"Children's Friend."

1. The young, the lovely, pass away,

Ne'er to be seen again;

Earth's fairest flowers too soon decay,

Its blasted trees remain.

2. Full oft, we see the brightest thing

That lifts its head on high,

Smile in the light, then droop its wing,

And fade away and die.

3. And kindly is the lesson given;

Then dry the falling tear:

They came to raise our hearts to Heaven;

They go to call us there.

LXXVII. SNOW FALLING.

John James Piatt (b. 1835,--) was born in Dearborn County, Ind., and is

of French descent. He began to write verses at the age of fourteen, and

has been connected editorially with several papers. Several editions of

his poems have been issued from time to time, each edition usually

containing some additional poems. Of these volumes we may mention: "Poems

in Sunshine and Firelight," "Western Windows," "The Lost Farm," and "Poems

of House and Home."

1. The wonderful snow is falling

Over river and woodland and wold;

The trees bear spectral blossom

In the moonshine blurr'd and cold.

2. There's a beautiful garden in Heaven;

And these are the banished flowers,

Falling and driven and drifted

Into this dark world of ours.

DEFINITIONS.--1. Wold, a plain or open country, a country without wood

whether hilly or not. Spec'tral, ghostly. 2. Ban'ished, condemned to

exile, driven away.

LXXVIII. SQUEERS'S METHOD.

Charles Dickens (b. 1812, d. 1870). This celebrated novelist was born in

Portsmouth, England. He began his active life as a lawyer's apprentice, in

London; but soon became a reporter, and followed this occupation from 1831

to 1836. His first book was entitled "Sketches of London Society, by Boz."

In 1837 he published the "Pickwick Papers," a work which established his

reputation as a writer. His other works followed with great rapidity, and

his last, "Edwin Drood," was unfinished when he died. He visited America

in 1842 and in 1867. He is buried in Westminster Abbey. Mr. Dickens

excelled in humor and pathos, and was particularly successful in

delineating the joys and griefs of childhood. His writings have a tendency

to prompt to deeds of kindness and benevolence. The following extract is

taken from "Nicholas Nickleby," one of the best of his novels.

1. "Come," said Squeers, "let's go to the schoolroom; and lend me a hand

with my school coat, will you?"

Nicholas assisted his master to put on an old fustian shooting jacket,

which he took down from a peg in the passage; and Squeers, arming himself

with his cane, led the way across a yard to a door in the rear of the

house.

"There," said the schoolmaster, as they stepped in together; "this is our

shop, Nickleby."

2. It was such a crowded scene, and there were so many objects to attract

attention, that at first Nicholas stared about him, really without seeing

anything at all. By degrees, however, the place resolved itself into a

bare and dirty room with a couple of windows, whereof a tenth part might

be of glass, the remainder being stopped up with old copy books and paper.

3. There were a couple of long, old, rickety desks, cut and notched, and

inked and damaged in every possible way; two or three forms, a detached

desk for Squeers, and another for his assistant. The ceiling was supported

like that of a barn, by crossbeams and rafters, and the walls were so

stained and discolored that it was impossible to tell whether they had

ever been touched by paint or whitewash.

4. Pale and haggard faces, lank and bony figures, children with the

countenances of old men, deformities with irons upon their limbs, boys of

stunted growth, and others whose long, meager legs would hardly bear their

stooping bodies, all crowded on the view together. There were little faces

which should have been handsome, darkened with the scowl of sullen, dogged

suffering; there was childhood with the light of its eye quenched, its

beauty gone, and its helplessness alone remaining.

5. And yet this scene, painful as it was, had its grotesque features,

which, in a less interested observer than Nicholas, might have provoked a

smile. Mrs. Squeers stood at one of the desks, presiding over an immense

basin of brimstone and treacle, of which delicious compound she

administered a large installment to each boy in succession, using for the

purpose a common wooden spoon, which might have been originally

manufactured for some gigantic top, and which widened every young

gentleman's mouth considerably, they being all obliged, under heavy

corporeal penalties, to take in the whole bowl at a gasp.

6. "Now," said Squeers, giving the desk a great rap with his cane, which

made half the little boys nearly jump out of their boots, "is that

physicking over?"

"Just over," said Mrs. Squeers, choking the last boy in her hurry, and

tapping the crown of his head with the wooden spoon to restore him. "Here,

you Smike: take away now. Look sharp!"

7. Smike shuffled out with the basin, and Mrs. Squeers hurried out after

him into a species of washhouse, where there was a small fire, and a large

kettle, together with a number of little wooden bowls which were arranged

upon a board. Into these bowls Mrs. Squeers, assisted by the hungry

servant, poured a brown composition which looked like diluted pincushions

without the covers, and was called porridge. A minute wedge of brown bread

was inserted in each bowl, and when they had eaten their porridge by means

of the bread, the boys ate the bread itself, and had finished their

breakfast, whereupon Mr. Squeers went away to his own.

8. After some half-hour's delay Mr. Squeers reappeared, and the boys took

their places and their books, of which latter commodity the average might

be about one to eight learners. A few minutes having elapsed, during which

Mr. Squeers looked very profound, as if he had a perfect apprehension of

what was inside all the books, and could say every word of their contents

by heart, if he only chose to take the trouble, that gentleman called up

the first class.

9. Obedient to this summons there ranged themselves in front of the

schoolmaster's desk, half a dozen scarecrows, out at knees and elbows, one

of whom placed a torn and filthy book beneath his learned eye.

"This is the first class in English spelling and philosophy, Nickleby,"

said Squeers, beckoning Nicholas to stand beside him. "We'll get up a

Latin one, and hand that over to you. Now, then, where's the first boy?"

10. "Please, sir, he's cleaning the back parlor window," said the

temporary head of the philosophical class.

"So he is, to be sure," rejoined Squeers. "We go upon the practical mode

of teaching, Nickleby; the regular education system. C-l-e-a-n, clean,

verb active, to make bright, to scour. W-i-n, win, d-e-r, der, winder, a

casement. When the boy knows this out of book, he goes and does it. It's

just the same principle as the use of the globes. Where's the second boy?"

11. "Please, sir, he is weeding the garden," replied a small voice.

"To be sure," said Squeers, by no means disconcerted, "so he is. B-o-t,

bot, t-i-n, tin, n-e-y, ney, bottinney, noun substantive, a knowledge of

plants. When he has learned that bottinney means a knowledge of plants,

he goes and knows 'em. That's our system, Nickleby: what do you think of

it?"

"It's a very useful one, at any rate," answered Nicholas, significantly.

12. "I believe you," rejoined Squeers, not remarking the emphasis of his

usher. "Third boy, what's a horse?"

"A beast, sir," replied the boy.

"So it is," said Squeers. "Ain't it, Nickleby?"

"I believe there is no doubt of that, sir," answered Nicholas.

"Of course there is n't," said Squeers. "A horse is a quadruped, and

quadruped's Latin for beast, as everybody that's gone through the grammar

knows, or else where's the use of having grammars at all?"

"Where, indeed!" said Nicholas, abstractedly.

13. "As you're perfect in that," resumed Squeers, turning to the boy, "go

and look after my horse, and rub him down well, or I'll rub you down. The

rest of the class go and draw water up till somebody tells you to leave

off, for it's washing day to-morrow, and they want the coppers filled."

DEFINITIONS.--1. Fus'tian, a kind of cotton stuff, including corduroy,

velveteen, etc. 2. Re-solved', made clear, disentangled. 4.

De-form'i-ties, misshapen persons. Stunt'ed, checked in growth. Mea'ger,

thin, lean. 5. Gro-tesque' (pro. gro-tesk'), fanciful, absurd.

Ad-min'is-tered, gave, dispensed. In-stall'ment (literally, part of a

debt), part, portion. Cor-po're-al, bodily. 6. Phys'ick-ing, doctoring,

treating with medicine. 7. Di-lut'ed, weakened by the addition of water.

8. Com-mod'i-ty, article, wares. Pro-found', intellectually deep, wise.

Ap-pre-hen'sion, comprehension, knowledge. 10. Tem'po-ra-ry, for the time

being. 11. Dis-con-cert'ed, confused, abashed. Sig-nif 'i-cant-ly, with

meaning. 12. Ab-stract'-ed-ly, in an absent-minded way.

NOTES.--1. Mr. Squeers is represented as an ignorant, brutal teacher, many

of whom were to be found in Yorkshire, England, at the time of this story.

Nicholas Nickleby is a well-educated, refined young man, who has just

obtained the position of assistant teacher, not knowing Squeers's true

character.

6. Smike is a poor scholar, disowned by his parents, and made almost

idiotic by harsh treatment.

The novel from which this story is abridged, aided greatly in a

much-needed reform in the Yorkshire schools; and the character of Squeers

was so true to life, that numerous suits were threatened against Mr.

Dickens by those who thought themselves caricatured.

LXXIX. THE GIFT OF EMPTY HANDS.

Mrs. S. M. B. Piatt (b, 1835,--) was born near Lexington, Ky. While still

a young girl she began to write poetry, which was well received. In 1861

she was married to the poet John James Piatt. Mrs. Piatt's poetry is

marked by tender pathos, thoughtfulness, and musical flow of rhythm. The

following selection is from "That New World."

1. They were two princes doomed to death;

Each loved his beauty and his breath:

"Leave us our life and we will bring

Fair gifts unto our lord, the king."

2. They went together. In the dew

A charmed bird before them flew.

Through sun and thorn one followed it;

Upon the other's arm it lit.

3. A rose, whose faintest flush was worth

All buds that ever blew on earth,

One climbed the rocks to reach; ah, well,

Into the other's breast it fell.

4. Weird jewels, such as fairies wear,

When moons go out, to light their hair,

One tried to touch on ghostly ground;

Gems of quick fire the other found.

5. One with the dragon fought to gain

The enchanted fruit, and fought in vain;

The other breathed the garden's air

And gathered precious apples there.

6. Backward to the imperial gate

One took his fortune, one his fate:

One showed sweet gifts from sweetest lands,

The other, torn and empty hands.

7. At bird, and rose, and gem, and fruit,

The king was sad, the king was mute;

At last he slowly said: "My son,

True treasure is not lightly won.

8. Your brother's hands, wherein you see

Only these scars, show more to me

Than if a kingdom's price I found

In place of each forgotten wound."

DEFINITIONS.--1. Doomed, destined, condemned. 2. Charmed, bewitched,

enchanted. 3. Blew, blossomed, bloomed. 4. Weird, tainted with witchcraft,

supernatural. Quick, alive, living. 6. Im-pe'ri-al, royal. 7 Mute, silent.

LXXX. CAPTURING THE WILD HORSE.

1. We left the buffalo camp about eight o'clock, and had a toilsome and

harassing march of two hours, over ridges of hills covered with a ragged

forest of scrub oaks, and broken by deep gullies.

2. About ten o'clock in the morning we came to where this line of rugged

hills swept down into a valley, through which flowed the north fork of Red

River. A beautiful meadow, about half a mile wide, enameled with yellow,

autumnal flowers, stretched for two or three miles along the foot of the

hills, bordered on the opposite side by the river, whose banks were

fringed with cottonwood trees, the bright foliage of which refreshed and

delighted the eye, after being wearied by the contemplation of monotonous

wastes of brown forest.

3. The meadow was finely diversified by groves and clumps of trees, so

happily dispersed that they seemed as if set out by the hand of art. As we

cast our eyes over this fresh and delightful valley, we beheld a troop of

wild horses quietly grazing on a green lawn, about a mile distant, to our

right, while to our left, at nearly the same distance, were several

buffaloes; some feeding, others reposing, and ruminating among the high,

rich herbage, under the shade of a clump of cottonwood trees. The whole

had the appearance of a broad, beautiful tract of pasture land, on the

highly ornamented estate of some gentleman farmer, with his cattle grazing

about the lawns and meadows.

4. A council of war was now held, and it was determined to profit by the

present favorable opportunity, and try our hand at the grand hunting

maneuver which is called "ringing the wild horse." This requires a large

party of horsemen, well mounted. They extend themselves in each direction,

at a certain distance apart, and gradually form a ring of two or three

miles in circumference, so as to surround the game. This must be done with

extreme care, for the wild horse is the most readily alarmed inhabitant of

the prairie, and can scent a hunter a great distance, if to windward.

5. The ring being formed, two or three ride toward the horses, which start

off in an opposite direction. Whenever they approach the bounds of the

ring, however, a huntsman presents himself, and turns them from their

course. In this way they are checked, and driven back at every point, and

kept galloping round and round this magic circle, until, being completely

tired down, it is easy for hunters to ride up beside them and throw the

lariat over their heads. The prime horses of the most speed, courage, and

bottom, however, are apt to break through and escape, so that, in general,

it is the second-rate horses that are taken.

6. Preparations were now made for a hunt of this kind. The pack horses

were now taken into the woods and firmly tied to trees, lest in a rush of

the wild horses they should break away. Twenty-five men were then sent

under the command of a lieutenant to steal along the edge of the valley

within the strip of wood that skirted the hills. They were to station

themselves about fifty yards apart, within the edge of the woods, and not

advance or show themselves until the horses dashed in that direction.

Twenty-five men were sent across the valley to steal in like manner along

the river bank that bordered the opposite side, and to station themselves

among the trees.

7. A third party of about the same number was to form a line, stretching

across the lower part of the valley, so as to connect the two wings.

Beatte and our other half-breed, Antoine, together with the ever-officious

Tonish, were to make a circuit through the woods so as to get to the upper

part of the valley, in the rear of the horses, and drive them forward into

the kind of sack that we had formed, while the two wings should join

behind them and make a complete circle.

8. The flanking parties were quietly extending themselves out of sight, on

each side of the valley, and the residue were stretching themselves like

the links of a chain across it, when the wild horses gave signs that they

scented an enemy; snuffing the air, snorting, and looking about. At length

they pranced off slowly toward the river, and disappeared behind a green

bank.

9. Here, had the regulations of the chase been observed, they would have

been quietly checked and turned back by the advance of a hunter from among

the trees. Unluckily, however, we had our wildfire, Jack-o'-lantern little

Frenchman to deal with. Instead of keeping quietly up the right side of

the valley, to get above the horses, the moment he saw them move toward

the river he broke out of the covert of woods and dashed furiously across

the plain in pursuit of them. This put an end to all system. The

half-breeds, and half a score of rangers, joined in the chase.

10. A way they all went over the green bank. In a moment or two the wild

horses reappeared, and came thundering down the valley, with Frenchman,

half-breeds, and rangers galloping and bellowing behind them. It was in

vain that the line drawn across the valley attempted to check and turn

back the fugitives; they were too hotly pressed by their pursuers: in

their panic they dashed through the line, and clattered down the plain.

11. The whole troop joined in the headlong chase, some of the rangers

without hats or caps, their hair flying about their ears, and others with

handkerchiefs tied round their heads. The buffaloes, which had been calmly

ruminating among the herbage, heaved up their huge forms, gazed for a

moment at the tempest that came scouring down the meadow, then turned and

took to heavy, rolling flight. They were soon overtaken; the promiscuous

throng were pressed together by the contracting sides of the valley, and

away they went, pellmell, hurry-skurry, wild buffalo, wild horse, wild

huntsman, with clang and clatter, and whoop and halloo, that made the

forests ring.

12. At length the buffaloes turned into a green brake, on the river bank,

while the horses dashed up a narrow defile of the hills, with their

pursuers close to their heels. Beatte passed several of them, having fixed

his eye upon a fine Pawnee horse that had his ears slit and saddle marks

upon his back. He pressed him gallantly, but lost him in the woods.

13. Among the wild horses was a fine black mare, which in scrambling up

the defile tripped and fell. A young ranger sprang from his horse and

seized her by the mane and muzzle. Another ranger dismounted and came to

his assistance. The mare struggled fiercely, kicking and biting, and

striking with her fore feet, but a noose was slipped over her head, and

her struggles were in vain.

14. It was some time, however, before she gave over rearing and plunging,

and lashing out with her feet on every side. The two rangers then led her

along the valley, by two strong lariats, which enabled them to keep at a

sufficient distance on each side to be out of the reach of her hoofs, and

whenever she struck out in one direction she was jerked in the other. In

this way her spirit was gradually subdued.

15. As to Tonish, who had marred the whole scene by his precipitancy, he

had been more successful than he deserved, having managed to catch a

beautiful cream-colored colt about seven months old, that had not strength

to keep up with its companions. The mercurial little Frenchman was beside

himself with exultation. It was amusing to see him with his prize. The

colt would rear and kick, and struggle to get free, when Tonish would take

him about the neck, wrestle with him, jump on his back, and cut as many

antics as a monkey with a kitten.

16. Nothing surprised me more, however, than to witness how soon these

poor animals, thus taken from the unbounded freedom of the prairie,

yielded to the dominion of man. In the course of two or three days the

mare and colt went with the led horses and became quite docile.

--Washington Irving.

DEFINITIONS.--1. Gul'lies, hollows in the earth worn by water.

Di-ver'si-fied, distinguished by numerous aspects, varied. 3. Ru'

mi-nat-ing, chewing over what has been slightly chewed before. Herb' age

(pro. erb' aj), pasture, grass. 4. Prai'rie, an extensive, level tract

without trees, but covered with tall grass. Wind'ward, the point from

which the wind blows. 5. Lar'i-at, a long cord or thong of leather, with a

noose, for catching wild horses. Bot'tom, power of endurance. 8.

Flank'ing, overlooking or commanding on the side. 9. Jack-o'-lan'tern, a

light seen in low, moist grounds, which disappears when approached. 9.

Cov'ert, a covering place, a shelter. 10. Pan'ic, sudden fright (usually,

causeless fright). 11. Pro-mis'cu-ous, mingled, confused. 15. Marred,

interrupted, spoiled. Mer-cu'ri-al, sprightly, full of fire.

LXXXI. SOWING AND REAPING.

Adelaide Anne Procter (b. 1825, d. 1864) was the daughter of Bryan Waller

Procter (better known as "Barry Cornwall "), a celebrated English poet,

living in London. Miss Procter's first volume, "Legends and Lyrics,"

appeared in 1858, and met with great success; it was republished in this

country. A second series, under the same name, was published in 1860; and

in 1862 both series were republished with additional poems, and an

introduction by Charles Dickens. In 1861 Miss Procter edited "Victoria

Regia," a collection of poetical pieces, to which she contributed; and in

1862 "A Chaplet of Verses," composed of her own poems, was published.

Besides these volumes, she contributed largely to various magazines and

periodicals.

1. Sow with a generous hand;

Pause not for toil and pain;

Weary not through the heat of summer,

Weary not through the cold spring rain;

But wait till the autumn comes

For the sheaves of golden grain.

2. Scatter the seed, and fear not,

A table will be spread;

What matter if you are too weary

To eat your hard-earned bread;

Sow, while the earth is broken,

For the hungry must be fed.

3. Sow;--while the seeds are lying

In the warm earth's bosom deep,

And your warm tears fall upon it--

They will stir in their quiet sleep,

And the green blades rise the quicker,

Perchance, for the tears you weep.

4. Then sow;--for the hours are fleeting,

And the seed must fall to-day;

And care not what hand shall reap it,

Or if you shall have passed away

Before the waving cornfields

Shall gladden the sunny day.

5. Sow;--and look onward, upward,

Where the starry light appears,--

Where, in spite of the coward's doubting,

Or your own heart's trembling fears,

You shall reap in joy the harvest

You have sown to-day in tears.

LXXXII. TAKING COMFORT.

1. For the last few days, the fine weather has led me away from books and

papers, and the close air of dwellings, into the open fields, and under

the soft, warm sunshine, and the softer light of a full moon. The

loveliest season of the whole year--that transient but delightful interval

between the storms of the "wild equinox, with all their wet," and the

dark, short, dismal days which precede the rigor of winter--is now with

us. The sun rises through a soft and hazy atmosphere; the light mist

clouds melt gradually before him; and his noontide light rests warm and

clear on still woods, tranquil waters, and grasses green with the late

autumnal rains.

2. One fine morning, not long ago, I strolled down the Merrimac, on the

Tewksbury shore. I know of no walk in the vicinity of Lowell so inviting

as that along the margin of the river, for nearly a mile from the village

of Belvidere. The path winds, green and flower-skirted, among beeches and

oaks, through whose boughs you catch glimpses of waters sparkling and

dashing below. Rocks, huge and picturesque, jut out into the stream,

affording beautiful views of the river and the distant city.

3. Half fatigued with my walk, I threw myself down upon a rocky slope of

the bank, where the panorama of earth, sky, and water lay clear and

distinct about me. Far above, silent and dim as a picture, was the city,

with its huge mill masonry, confused chimney tops, and church spires; near

it rose the height of Belvidere, with its deserted burial place and

neglected gravestones sharply defined on its bleak, bare summit against

the sky; before me the river went dashing down its rugged channel, sending

up its everlasting murmur; above me the birch tree hung its tassels; and

the last wild flowers of autumn profusely fringed the rocky rim of the

water.

4. Right opposite, the Dracut woods stretched upwards from the shore,

beautiful with the hues of frost, glowing with tints richer and deeper

than those which Claude or Poussin mingled, as if the rainbows of a summer

shower had fallen among them. At a little distance to the right, a group

of cattle stood mid-leg deep in the river; and a troop of children,

bright-eyed and mirthful, were casting pebbles at them from a projecting

shelf of rock. Over all a warm but softened sunshine melted down from a

slumberous autumnal sky.

5. My reverie was disagreeably broken. A low, grunting sound, half

bestial, half human, attracted my attention. I was not alone. Close beside

me, half hidden by a tuft of bushes, lay a human being, stretched out at

full length, with his face literally rooted into the gravel. A little boy,

five or six years of age, clean and healthful, with his fair brown locks

and blue eyes, stood on the bank above, gazing down upon him with an

expression of childhood's simple and unaffected pity.

6. "What ails you?" asked the boy at length. "What makes you lie there?"

The prostrate groveler struggled halfway up, exhibiting the bloated and

filthy countenance of a drunkard. He made two or three efforts to get upon

his feet, lost his balance, and tumbled forward upon his face.

"What are you doing there?" inquired the boy.

"I'm taking comfort," he muttered, with his mouth in the dirt.

7. Taking his comfort! There he lay,--squalid and loathsome under the

bright heaven,--an imbruted man. The holy harmonies of Nature, the sounds

of gushing waters, the rustle of the leaves above him, the wild flowers,

the frost bloom of the woods,--what were they to him? Insensible, deaf,

and blind, in the stupor of a living death, he lay there, literally

realizing that most bitterly significant eastern malediction, "May you eat

dirt."

--Whittier.

DEFINITIONS.--l. Tran'sient (pro. tran'shent), of short duration.

E'qui-nox, the time of year when the days and nights are of equal length,

i.e., about September 23d or March 21st. Rigor, severity. 2.

Pic-tur-esque' (pro. pik-tur-esk'), fitted to form a pleasing picture. 3.

Pan-o-ra'ma, a complete or entire view in every direction. 5. Rev'er-ie,

an irregular train of thoughts occurring in meditation. Bes'tial (pro.

bes'chal), brutish. Lit'er-al-ly, according to the first and natural

meaning of words. 6. Pros'trate, lying at length. Grov'el-er, a base

wretch. Bloat'ed, puffed out. 7. Im-brut'ed, reduced to brutality.

Har'mo-ny, the fitness of parts to each other in any combination of

things. Re'al-iz-ing, making one's own in experience. Mal-e-dic'tion, a

curse.

NOTES.--The localities named in this selection are in the vicinity of

Haverhill, Mass., where the old Whittier homestead is situated.

4. Claude Lorrain (b. 1600, d. 1682), whose proper name was Claude Gelee,

was a celebrated landscape painter, born in Champagne, Vosges, France.

Nicolas Poussin (b. 1594, d. 1665) was a French painter, who became one of

the most remarkable artists of his age. His fame chiefly arises from his

historical and mythological paintings.

LXXXIII. CALLING THE ROLL.

1. "CORPORAL GREEN!" the orderly cried;

"Here!" was the answer, loud and clear,

From the lips of a soldier standing near;

And "here!" was the word the next replied.

"Cyrus Drew!" and a silence fell;

This time no answer followed the call;

Only his rear man saw him fall,

Killed or wounded he could not tell.

2. There they stood in the fading light,

These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,

As plain to be read as open books,

While slowly gathered the shades of night.

The fern on the slope was splashed with blood,

And down in the corn, where the poppies grew,

Were redder stains than the poppies knew;

And crimson-dyed was the river's flood.

3. For the foe had crossed from the other side

That day, in the face of a murderous fire

That swept them down in its terrible ire;

And their lifeblood went to color the tide.

"Herbert Cline!" At the call there came

Two stalwart soldiers into the line,

Bearing between them Herbert Cline,

Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.

4. "Ezra Kerr!" and a voice said "here!"

"Hiram Kerr!" but no man replied:

They were brothers, these two; the sad wind sighed,

And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.

"Ephraim Deane!"--then a soldier spoke:

"Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said,

"When our ensign was shot; I left him dead,

Just after the enemy wavered and broke.

5. "Close to the roadside his body lies;

I paused a moment and gave him to drink;

He murmured his mother's name, I think;

And death came with it and closed his eyes."

'T was a victory--yes; but it cost us dear;

For that company's roll, when called at night,

Of a hundred men who went into the fight,

Numbered but twenty that answered "here!"

--Shepherd.

LXXXIV. TURTLE SOUP.

Charles Frederick Briggs (b. 1804, d. 1877) was born on the island of

Nantucket. When quite young, however, he became a resident of New York

City. In 1845, in conjunction with Edgar A. Poe, he began the publication

of the "Broadway Journal;" he was also connected with the "New York

Times," and the "Evening Mirror;" also as editor from 1853 to 1856 with

"Putnam's Magazine." Mr. Briggs wrote a few novels, some poetry, and

numerous little humorous tales and sketches. The following selection is

from "Working a Passage; or, Life on a Liner," one of his best stories.

1. Among the luxuries which the captain had provided for himself and

passengers was a fine green turtle, which was not likely to suffer from

exposure to salt water, so it was reserved until all the pigs, and sheep,

and poultry had been eaten. A few days before we arrived, it was

determined to kill the turtle and have a feast the next day.

2. Our cabin gentlemen had been long enough deprived of fresh meats to

make them cast lickerish glances towards their hard-skinned friend, and

there was a great smacking of lips the day before he was killed. As I

walked aft occasionally, I heard them congratulating themselves on their

prospective turtle soup and forcemeat balls; and one of them, to heighten

the luxury of the feast, ate nothing but a dry biscuit for the twenty-four

hours preceding, that he might be prepared to devour his full share of the

unctuous compound.

3. It was to be a gala day with them; and though it was not champagne day,

that falling on Saturday and this on Friday, they agreed to have champagne

a day in advance, that nothing should be wanting to give a finish to their

turtle. It happened to be a rougher day than usual when the turtle was

cooked, but they had become too well used to the motion of the ship to

mind that.

4. It happened to be my turn at the wheel the hour before dinner, and I

had the tantalizing misery of hearing them laughing and talking about

their turtle, while I was hungry from want of dry bread and salt meat. I

had resolutely kept my thoughts from the cabin during all the passage but

once, and now I found my ideas clustering round a tureen of turtle in

spite of all my philosophy.

5. Confound them, if they had gone out of my hearing with their exulting

smacks, I should not have envied their soup, but their hungry glee so

excited my imagination that I could see nothing through the glazing of the

binnacle but a white plate with a slice of lemon on the rim, a loaf of

delicate bread, a silver spoon, a napkin, two or three wine glasses of

different hues and shapes, and a water goblet clustering round it, and a

stream of black, thick, and fragrant turtle pouring into the plate.

6. By and by it was four bells: they dined at three. And all the

gentlemen, with the captain at their head, darted below into the cabin,

where their mirth increased when they caught sight of the soup plates.

"Hurry with the soup, steward," roared the captain. "Coming, sir," replied

the steward. In a few moments the cook opened the door of his galley, and

out came the delicious steam of the turtle.

7. Then came the steward with a large covered tureen in his hand, towards

the cabin gangway. I forgot the ship for a moment in looking at this

precious cargo, the wheel slipped from my hands, the ship broached to with

a sudden jerk; the steward had got only one foot upon the stairs, when

this unexpected motion threw him off his balance, and down he went by the

run, the tureen slipped from his hands, and part of its contents flew into

the lee scuppers, and the balance followed him in his fall.

8. I laughed outright. I enjoyed the turtle a thousand times more than I

should have done if I had eaten the whole of it. But I was forced to

restrain my mirth, for the next moment the steward ran upon deck, followed

by the captain, in a furious rage, threatening if he caught him to throw

him overboard. Not a spoonful of the soup had been left in the coppers,

for the steward had taken it all away at once to keep it warm. In about an

hour afterwards the passengers came upon deck, looking more sober than I

had seen them since we left Liverpool. They had dined upon cold ham.

DEFINTIONS.--1. Re-served', kept back, retained. 2. Lick'er. ish, eager or

greedy to swallow. Aft, toward the stern of a vessel. Pro-spec'tive,

relating to the future. Force'meat, meat chopped fine and highly seasoned.

Unc'tu-ous, fat. 5. Glaz'ing, glass or glass-like substance. Bin'na-cle, a

box containing the compass of a ship. 6. Gal'ley, the kitchen of a ship.

7. Tu-reen', a large deep vessel for holding soup. Gang'way, a passageway.

Lee, pertaining to the side opposite that against which the wind blows.

Scup'pers, channels cut through the side of a ship for carrying off water

from the deck. Cop'pers, large copper boilers.

NOTE.--6. Four bells; i.e., two o'clock.

LXXXV. THE BEST KIND OF REVENGE.

1. Some years ago a warehouseman in Manchester, England, published a

scurrilous pamphlet, in which he endeavored to hold up the house of Grant

Brothers to ridicule. William Grant remarked upon the occurrence that the

man would live to repent of what he had done; and this was conveyed by

some talebearer to the libeler, who said, "Oh, I suppose he thinks I shall

some time or other be in his debt; but I will take good care of that." It

happens, however, that a man in business can not always choose who shall

be his creditors. The pamphleteer became a bankrupt, and the brothers held

an acceptance of his which had been indorsed to them by the drawer, who

had also become a bankrupt.

2. The wantonly libeled men had thus become creditors of the libeler! They

now had it in their power to make him repent of his audacity. He could not

obtain his certificate without their signature, and without it he could

not enter into business again. He had obtained the number of signatures

required by the bankrupt law except one. It seemed folly to hope that the

firm of "the brothers" would supply the deficiency. What! they who had

cruelly been made the laughingstock of the public, forget the wrong and

favor the wrongdoer? He despaired. But the claims of a wife and children

forced him at last to make the application. Humbled by misery, he

presented himself at the countinghouse of the wronged.

3. Mr. William Grant was there alone, and his first words to the

delinquent were, "Shut the door, sir!" sternly uttered. The door was shut,

and the libeler stood trembling before the libeled. He told his tale and

produced his certificate, which was instantly clutched by the injured

merchant. "You wrote a pamphlet against us once!" exclaimed Mr. Grant. The

suppliant expected to see his parchment thrown into the fire. But this was

not its destination. Mr. Grant took a pen, and writing something upon the

document, handed it back to the bankrupt. He, poor wretch, expected to see

"rogue, scoundrel, libeler," inscribed; but there was, in fair round

characters, the signature of the firm.

4. "We make it a rule," said Mr. Grant, "never to refuse signing the

certificate of an honest tradesman, and we have never heard that you were

anything else." The tears started into the poor man's eyes. "Ah," said Mr.

Grant, "my saying was true! I said you would live to repent writing that

pamphlet. I did not mean it as a threat. I only meant that some day you

would know us better, and be sorry you had tried to injure us. I see you

repent of it now." "I do, I do!" said the grateful man; "I bitterly repent

it." "Well, well, my dear fellow, you know us now. How do you get on? What

are you going to do?" The poor man stated he had friends who could assist

him when his certificate was obtained. "But how are you off in the

meantime?"

5. And the answer was, that, having given up every farthing to his

creditors, he had been compelled to stint his family of even common

necessaries, that he might be enabled to pay the cost of his certificate.

"My dear fellow, this will not do; your family must not suffer. Be kind

enough to take this ten-pound note to your wife from me. There, there, my

dear fellow! Nay, do not cry; it will all be well with you yet. Keep up

your spirits, set to work like a man, and you will raise your head among

us yet." The overpowered man endeavored in vain to express his thanks; the

swelling in his throat forbade words. He put his handkerchief to his face

and went out of the door, crying like a child.

DEFINITIONS.--1. Ware'house-man (English usage), one who keeps a wholesale

store for woolen goods. Scur'ril-ous, low, mean. Li'bel-er, one who

defames another maliciously by a writing, etc 2. Au-dac'i-ty, bold

impudence. Sig'na-ture, the name of a person written with his own hand,

the name of a firm signed officially. De--fi'cien-cy, want. 3.

De-lin'quent, an offender. Parch'ment, sheep or goat skin prepared for

writing upon. 5. Stint, to limit.

NOTE.--l. Acceptance. When a person upon whom a draft has been made,

writes his name across the face of it, the draft then becomes "an

acceptance." The person who makes the draft is called "the drawer;" the

person to whom the money is ordered paid writes his name on the back of

the draft and is called "an indorser." Paper of this kind frequently

passes from hand to hand, so that there are several indorsers.

LXXXVI. THE SOLDIER OF THE RHINE.

Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton (b. 1808, d. 1877) was the grand-daughter

of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. She wrote verses and plays at a very early

age. "The Sorrows of Rosalie," published in 1829, was written before she

was seventeen years old. In 1827 she was married to the Hon. George

Chapple Norton. The marriage was an unhappy one, and they were divorced in

1836. Her principal works are "The Undying One," "The Dream, and Other

Poems," "The Child of the Islands," "Stuart of Dunleith, a Romance," and

"English Laws for English Women of the 19th Century." She contributed

extensively to the magazines and other periodicals.

1.

A soldier of the 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 lifeblood 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 nevermore 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.

2.

"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.

3.

"Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age,

For I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage.

For my father was a soldier, and, even when 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.

4.

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,

When the troops come 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.

5.

"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,--

O friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning!

Tell her the last night of my life--(for, ere the moon be risen,

My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison),

I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine

On the vine-clad hills of Bingen,--fair Bingen on the Rhine.

6.

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along: I heard, or seemed to hear,

The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;

And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,

The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still;

And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk,

Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk;

And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,--

But we'll meet no more at Bingen,--loved Bingen all the Rhine."

7.

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse; 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 battlefield, with bloody corses strewn;

Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene, her pale light seemed to shine,

As it shone on distant Bingen,--fair Bingen on the Rhine.

DEFINITIONS.--1. Le'gion (pro. le'jun), division of an army. Dearth (pro.

derth), scarcity. Ebbed, flowed out. 2. Corse, a dead body. 4. Stead'fast,

firm, resolute. 5. Co-quet'ry, trifling in love. 6. Cho'rus, music in

which all join. Yore, old times.

NOTE.--l. Bingen is pronounced Bing'en, not Bin'gen, nor Bin'jen.

LXXXVII. THE WINGED WORSHIPERS.

Charles Sprague (b. 1791, d. 1875) was born in Boston, Mass. He engaged in

mercantile business when quite young, leaving school for that purpose. In

1825, he was elected cashier of the Globe Bank of Boston, which position

he held until 1864. Mr. Sprague has not been a prolific writer; but his

poems, though few in number, are deservedly classed among the best

productions of American poets. His chief poem is entitled "Curiosity."

1. Gay, guiltless pair,

What seek ye from the fields of heaven?

Ye have no need of prayer,

Ye have no sins to be forgiven.

272 ECLECTIC SERIES.

2. Why perch ye here,

Where mortals to their Maker bend?

Can your pure spirits fear

The God ye never could offend?

3. Ye never knew

The crimes for which we come to weep;

Penance is not for you,

Blessed wanderers of the upper deep.

4. To you 't is given

To wake sweet Nature's untaught lays;

Beneath the arch of heaven

To chirp away a life of praise.

5. Then spread each wing,

Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,

And join the choirs that sing

In yon blue dome not reared with hands.

6. Or, if ye stay

To note the consecrated hour,

Teach me the airy way,

And let me try your envied power.

7. Above the crowd,

On upward wings could I but fly,

I'd bathe in yon bright cloud,

And seek the stars that gem the sky.

8. 'T were Heaven indeed,

Through fields of trackless light to soar,

On Nature's charms to feed,

And Nature's own great God adore.

DEFINITIONS.--2. Perch, to light or settle on anything. 3. Pen'-ance,

suffering for sin. 4. Lays, songs. 5. Choir (pro. kwir), a collection of

singers. Dome, an arched structure above a roof; hence, figuratively, the

heavens. 6. Con'se-crat-ed, set apart for the service of God. 8.

Track'less, having no path.

NOTE.--This little poem was addressed to two swallows that flew into

church during service.

LXXXVIII. THE PEEVISH WIFE.

Maria Edgeworth (b. 1767, d. 1849) was born near Reading. Berkshire,

England. In 1782 her father removed with his family to Edgeworthtown,

Ireland, to reside on his estate. She lived here during the remainder of

her life, with the exception of occasional short visits to England,

Scotland, and France. She was educated principally by her father, and they

were colaborers in literary productions, among which were "Essays on

Practical Education," and the "Parent's Assistant." Her novels and tales

were written without assistance, and her fame as a writer rests on them.

The best known of these are "Castle Rackrent," "Moral Tales," "Tales of

Fashionable Life," "Frank," "The Modern Griselda," and "Helen." Miss

Edgeworth excels in the truthful delineation of character, and her works

are full of practical good sense and genuine humor.

Mrs. Bollingbroke. I wish I knew what was the matter with me this morning.

Why do you keep the newspaper all to yourself, my dear?

Mr. Bolingbroke. Here it is for you, my dear; I have finished it. Mrs. B.

I humbly thank you for giving it to me when you have done with it. I hate

stale news. Is there anything in the paper? for I can not be at the

trouble of hunting it.

Mr. B. Yes, my dear; there are the marriages of two of our friends.

Mrs.B. Who? Who?

Mr. B. Your friend, the widow Nettleby, to her cousin John Nettleby.

Mrs. B. Mrs. Nettleby? Dear! But why did you tell me?

Mr. B. Because you asked me, my dear.

Mrs. B. Oh, but it is a hundred times pleasanter to read the paragraph

one's self. One loses all the pleasure of the surprise by being told.

Well, whose was the other marriage?

Mr. B. Oh, my dear, I will not tell you; I will leave you the pleasure of

the surprise.

Mrs. B. But you see I can not find it. How provoking you are, my dear! Do

pray tell me.

Mr. B. Our friend Mr. Granby.

Mrs. B. Mr. Granby? Dear! Why did you not make me guess? I should have

guessed him directly. But why do you call him our friend? I am sure he is

no friend of mine, nor ever was. I took an aversion to him, as you

remember, the very first day I saw him. I am sure he is no friend of mine.

Mr. B. I am sorry for it, my dear; but I hope you will go and see Mrs.

Granby.

Mrs. B. Not I, indeed, my dear. Who was she?

Mr. B. Miss Cooke.

Mrs. B. Cooke? But, there are so many Cookes. Can't you distinguish her

any way? Has she no Christian name?

Mr. B. Emma, I think. Yes, Emma.

Mrs. B. Emma Cooke? No; it can not be my friend Emma Cooke; for I am sure

she was cut out for an old maid.

Mr. B. This lady seems to me to be cut out for a good wife.

Mrs. B. Maybe so. I am sure I'll never go to see her. Pray, my dear, how

came you to see so much of her?

Mr. B. I have seen very little of her, my dear. I only saw her two or

three times before she was married.

Mrs. B. Then, my dear, how could you decide that she was cut out for a

good wife? I am sure you could not judge of her by seeing her only two or

three times, and before she was married.

Mr. B. Indeed, my love, that is a very just observation.

Mrs. B. I understand that compliment perfectly, and thank you for it, my

dear. I must own I can bear anything better than irony.

Mr. B. Irony? my dear, I was perfectly in earnest.

Mrs. B. Yes, yes; in earnest; so I perceive; I may naturally be dull of

apprehension, but my feelings are quick enough; I comprehend too well.

Yes, it is impossible to judge of a woman before marriage, or to guess

what sort of a wife she will make. I presume you speak from experience;

you have been disappointed yourself, and repent your choice.

Mr. B. My dear, what did I say that was like this? Upon my word, I meant

no such thing. I really was not thinking of you in the least.

Mrs. B. No, you never think of me now. I can easily believe that you were

not thinking of me in the least.

Mr. B. But I said that only to prove to you that I could not be thinking

ill of you, my dear.

Mrs. B. But I would rather that you thought ill of me than that you should

not think of me at all.

Mr. B. Well, my dear, I will even think ill of you if that will please

you.

Mrs. B. Do you laugh at me? When it comes to this I am wretched indeed.

Never man laughed at the woman he loved. As long as you had the slightest

remains of love for me you could not make me an object of derision;

ridicule and love are incompatible, absolutely incompatible. Well, I have

done my best, my very best, to make you happy, but in vain. I see I am not

cut out to be a good wife. Happy, happy Mrs. Granby!

Mr. B. Happy, I hope sincerely, that she will be with my friend; but my

happiness must depend on you, my love; so, for my sake, if not for your

own, be composed, and do not torment yourself with such fancies.

Mrs. B. I do wonder whether this Mrs. Granby is really that Miss Emma

Cooke. I'll go and see her directly; see her I must.

Mr. B. I am heartily glad of it, my dear; for I am sure a visit to his

wife will give my friend Granby real pleasure.

Mrs. B. I promise you, my dear, I do not go to give him pleasure, or you

either, but to satisfy my own curiosity.

DEFINITIONS.--I'ron-y, language intended to convey a meaning contrary to

its literal signification. De-ri'sion, the act of laughing at in contempt.

In-com-pat'i-ble, that can not exist together.

LXXXIX. THE RAINY DAY.

1. The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;

It rains, and the wind is never weary;

The vine still clings to the moldering wall,

But at every gust the dead leaves fall.

And the day is dark and dreary.

2. My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;

It rains, and the wind is never weary;

My thoughts still cling to the moldering Past,

But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,

And the days are dark and dreary.

3. Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;

Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;

Thy fate is the common fate of all,

Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

--Longfellow.

XC. BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.

Alfred Tennyson (b. 1809, d. 1892) was born in Somersby, Lincolnshire,

England. He graduated at Trinity College, Cambridge. His first volume of

poems was published in 1830, but it made little impression and was

severely criticised. On the publication of his third series in 1842, his

poetic genius began to receive general recognition. Mr. Tennyson was made

poet laureate in 1850, and was regarded as the foremost living poet of

England. For several years his residence was on the Isle of Wight. In

1884, he was raised to the peerage.

1. Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter

The thoughts that arise in me.

2. Oh, well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play!

Oh, well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

3. And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;

But oh for the touch of a vanished hand,

And the sound of a voice that is still!

4. Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never come back to me.

XCI. TRANSPORTATION AND PLANTING OF SEEDS.

Henry David Thoreau (b. 1817, d. 1862). This eccentric American author and

naturalist was born at Concord, Mass. He graduated at Harvard University

in 1837. He was a good English and classical scholar, and was well

acquainted with the literature of the East. His father was a maker of lead

pencils, and he followed the business for a time, but afterwards supported

himself mainly by teaching, lecturing, land surveying, and carpentering.

In 1845 he built himself a small wooden house near Concord, on the shore

of Walden Pond, where he lived about two years. He was intimate with

Hawthorne, Emerson, and other literary celebrities. His principal works

are "Walden, or Life in the Woods," "A Week on Concord and Merrimac

Rivers," "Excursions," "Maine Woods," "Cape Cod," "A Yankee in Canada,"

and "Letters to Various Persons." In descriptive power Mr. Thoreau has

few, if any, superiors.

1. In all the pines a very thin membrane, in appearance much like an

insect's wing, grows over and around the seed, and independent of it,

while the latter is being developed within its base. In other words, a

beautiful thin sack is woven around the seed, with a handle to it such as

the wind can take hold of, and it is then committed to the wind, expressly

that it may transport the seed and extend the range of the species; and

this it does as effectually as when seeds are sent by mail, in a different

kind of sack, from the patent office.

2. There is, then, no necessity for supposing that the pines have sprung

up from nothing, and I am aware that I am not at all peculiar in asserting

that they come from seeds, though the mode of their propagation by Nature

has been but little attended to. They are very extensively raised from the

seed in Europe, and are beginning to be here.

3. When you cut down an oak wood, a pine wood will not at once spring up

there unless there are, or have been quite recently, seed-bearing pines

near enough for the seeds to be blown from them. But, adjacent to a forest

of pines, if you prevent other crops from growing there, you will surely

have an extension of your pine forest, provided the soil is suitable.

4. As I walk amid hickories, even in August, I hear the sound of green

pignuts falling from time to time, cut off by the chickaree over my head.

In the fall I notice on the ground, either within or in the neighborhood

of oak woods, on all sides of the town, stout oak twigs three or four

inches long, bearing half a dozen empty acorn cups, which twigs have been

gnawed off by squirrels, on both sides of the nuts, in order to make them

more portable. The jays scream and the red squirrels scold while you are

clubbing and shaking the chestnut trees, for they are there on the same

errand, and two of a trade never agree.

5. I frequently see a red or a gray squirrel cast down a green chestnut

burr, as I am going through the woods, and I used to think, sometimes,

that they were cast at me. In fact, they are so busy about it, in the

midst of the chestnut season, that you can not stand long in the woods

without hearing one fall.

6. A sportsman told me that he had, the day before--that was in the middle

of October--seen a green chestnut burr dropped on our great river meadow,

fifty rods from the nearest wood, and much farther from the nearest

chestnut tree, and he could not tell how it came there. Occasionally, when

chestnutting in midwinter, I find thirty or forty nuts in a pile, left in

its gallery just under the leaves, by the common wood mouse.

7. But especially, in the winter, the extent to which this transportation

and planting of nuts is carried on, is made apparent by the snow. In

almost every wood you will see where the red or gray squirrels have pawed

down through the snow in a hundred places, sometimes two feet deep, and

almost always directly to a nut or a pine cone, as directly as if they had

started from it and bored upward,--which you and I could not have done. It

would be difficult for us to find one before the snow falls. Commonly, no

doubt, they had deposited them there in the fall. You wonder if they

remember the localities or discover them by the scent.

8. The red squirrel commonly has its winter abode in the earth under a

thicket of evergreens, frequently under a small clump of evergreens in the

midst of a deciduous wood. If there are any nut trees, which still retain

their nuts, standing at a distance without the wood, their paths often

lead directly to and from them. We, therefore, need not suppose an oak

standing here and there in the wood in order to seed it, but if a few

stand within twenty or thirty rods of it, it is sufficient.

9. I think that I may venture to say that every white-pine cone that falls

to the earth naturally in this town, before opening and losing its seeds,

and almost every pitch-pine one that falls at all, is cut off by a

squirrel; and they begin to pluck them long before they are ripe, so that

when the crop of white-pine cones is a small one, as it commonly is, they

cut off thus almost everyone of these before it fairly ripens.

10. I think, moreover, that their design, if I may so speak, in cutting

them off green, is partly to prevent their opening and losing their seeds,

for these are the ones for which they dig through the snow, and the only

white-pine cones which contain anything then. I have counted in one heap

the cores of two hundred and thirty-nine pitch-pine cones which had been

cut off and stripped by the red squirrel the previous winter.

11. The nuts thus left on the surface, or buried just beneath it, are

placed in the most favorable circumstances for germinating. I have

sometimes wondered how those which merely fell on the surface of the earth

got planted; but, by the end of December, I find the chestnut of the same

year partially mixed with the mold, as it were, under the decaying and

moldy leaves, where there is all the moisture and manure they want, for

the nuts fall fast. In a plentiful year a large proportion of the nuts are

thus covered loosely an inch deep, and are, of course, somewhat concealed

from squirrels.

12. One winter, when the crop had been abundant, I got, with the aid of a

rake, many quarts of these nuts as late as the tenth of January; and

though some bought at the store the same day were more than half of them

moldy, I did not find a single moldy one among those which I picked from

under the wet and moldy leaves, where they had been snowed on once or

twice. Nature knew how to pack them best. They were still plump and

tender. Apparently they do not heat there, though wet. In the spring they

are all sprouting.

13. Occasionally, when threading the woods in the fall, you will hear a

sound as if some one had broken a twig, and, looking up, see a jay pecking

at an acorn, or you will see a flock of them at once about it, in the top

of an oak, and hear them break it off. They then fly to a suitable limb,

and placing the acorn under one foot, hammer away at it busily, making a

sound like a woodpecker's tapping, looking round from time to time to see

if any foe is approaching, and soon reach the meat, and nibble at it,

holding up their heads to swallow while they hold the remainder very

firmly with their claws. Nevertheless, it often drops to the ground before

the bird has done with it.

14. I can confirm what William Barton wrote to Wilson, the ornithologist,

that "The jay is one of the most useful agents in the economy of nature

for disseminating forest trees and other nuciferous and hard-seeded

vegetables on which they feed. In performing this necessary duty they drop

abundance of seed in their flight over fields, hedges, and by fences,

where they alight to deposit them in the post holes, etc. It is remarkable

what numbers of young trees rise up in fields and pastures after a wet

winter and spring. These birds alone are capable in a few years' time to

replant all the cleared lands."

15. I have noticed that squirrels also frequently drop nuts in open land,

which will still further account for the oaks and walnuts which spring up

in pastures; for, depend on it, every new tree comes from a seed. When I

examine the little oaks, one or two years old, in such places, I

invariably find the empty acorn from which they sprung.

DEFINITIONS.--1. Mem'brane, a thin, soft tissue of interwoven fibers. 2.

Prop-a-ga'tion, the continuance of a kind by successive production. 4.

Port'a-ble, capable of being carried. 7. Trans-por-ta'tion, the act of

conveying from one place to another. 8. De--cid'u-ous, said of trees whose

leaves fall in autumn. 11. Ger'mi-nat-ing, sprouting, beginning to grow.

14. Or-ni-thol'o-gist, one skilled in the science which treats of birds.

E-con'o-my, orderly system, Dis-sem'i-nat-ing, scattering for growth and

propagation. Nu-cif 'er-ous, bearing nuts.

XCII. SPRING AGAIN.

Celia Thaxter (b. 1836, d. 1894), whose maiden name was Laighton, was born

in Portsmouth, N.H. Much of her early life was passed on White Island, one

of a group of small islands, called the Isles of Shoals, about ten miles

from the shore, where she lived in the lighthouse cottage. In 1867-68, she

published, in the "Atlantic Monthly," a number of papers on these islands,

which were afterwards bound in a separate volume. Mrs. Thaxter was a

contributor to several periodicals, and in strength and beauty of style

has few equals among American writers. The following selection is from a

volume of her poems entitled "Drift Weed."

1. I stood on the height in the stillness

And the planet's outline scanned,

And half was drawn with the line of sea

And half with the far blue land.

2. With wings that caught the sunshine

In the crystal deeps of the sky,

Like shapes of dreams, the gleaming gulls

Went slowly floating by.

3. Below me the boats in the harbor

Lay still, with their white sails furled;

Sighing away into silence,

The breeze died off the world.

4. On the weather-worn, ancient ledges

Peaceful the calm light slept;

And the chilly shadows, lengthening,

Slow to the eastward crept.

5. The snow still lay in the hollows,

And where the salt waves met

The iron rock, all ghastly white

The thick ice glimmered yet.

6. But the smile of the sun was kinder,

The touch of the air was sweet;

The pulse of the cruel ocean seemed

Like a human heart to beat.

7. Frost-locked, storm-beaten, and lonely,

In the midst of the wintry main,

Our bleak rock yet the tidings heard:

"There shall be spring again!"

8. Worth all the waiting and watching,

The woe that the winter wrought,

Was the passion of gratitude that shook

My soul at the blissful thought!

9. Soft rain and flowers and sunshine,

Sweet winds and brooding skies,

Quick-flitting birds to fill the air

With clear delicious cries;

10. And the warm sea's mellow murmur

Resounding day and night;

A thousand shapes and tints and tones

Of manifold delight,

11. Nearer and ever nearer

Drawing with every day!

But a little longer to wait and watch

'Neath skies so cold and gray;

12. And hushed is the roar of the bitter north

Before the might of the spring,

And up the frozen slope of the world

Climbs summer, triumphing.

XCIII. RELIGION THE ONLY BASIS OF SOCIETY.

William Ellery Channing (b. 1780, d. 1842), an eminent divine and orator,

was born at Newport, R.I. He graduated from Harvard with the highest

honors in 1798, and, in 1803, he was made pastor of the Federal Street

Church, Boston, with which he maintained his connection until his death.

Towards the close of his life, being much enfeebled, he withdrew almost

entirely from his pastoral duties, and devoted himself to literature. Dr.

Channing's writings are published in six volumes, and are mainly devoted

to theology.

1. Religion is a social concern; for it operates powerfully on society,

contributing in various ways to its stability and prosperity. Religion is

not merely a private affair; the community is deeply interested in its

diffusion; for it is the best support of the virtues and principles, on

which the social order rests. Pure and undefiled religion is to do good;

and it follows, very plainly, that if God be the Author and Friend of

society, then, the recognition of him must enforce all social duty, and

enlightened piety must give its whole strength to public order.

2. Few men suspect, perhaps no man comprehends, the extent of the support

given by religion to every virtue. No man, perhaps, is aware how much our

moral and social sentiments are fed from this fountain; how powerless

conscience would become without the belief of a God; how palsied would be

human benevolence, were there not the sense of a higher benevolence to

quicken and sustain it; how suddenly the whole social fabric would quake,

and with what a fearful crash it would sink into hopeless ruin, were the

ideas of a Supreme Being, of accountableness and of a future life to be

utterly erased from every mind.

3. And, let men thoroughly believe that they are the work and sport of

chance; that no superior intelligence concerns itself with human affairs;

that all their improvements perish forever at death; that the weak have no

guardian, and the injured no avenger; that there is no recompense for

sacrifices to uprightness and the public good; that an oath is unheard in

heaven; that secret crimes have no witness but the perpetrator; that human

existence has no purpose, and human virtue no unfailing friend; that this

brief life is everything to us, and death is total, everlasting

extinction; once let them thoroughly abandon religion, and who can

conceive or describe the extent of the desolation which would follow?

4. We hope, perhaps, that human laws and natural sympathy would hold

society together. As reasonably might we believe that were the sun

quenched in the heavens, our torches would illuminate, and our fires

quicken and fertilize the creation. What is there in human nature to

awaken respect and tenderness, if man is the unprotected insect of a day?

And what is he more, if atheism be true?

5. Erase all thought and fear of God from a community, and selfishness and

sensuality would absorb the whole man. Appetite, knowing no restraint, and

suffering, having no solace or hope, would trample in scorn on the

restraints of human laws. Virtue, duty, principle, would be mocked and

spurned as unmeaning sounds. A sordid self-interest would supplant every

feeling; and man would become, in fact, what the theory in atheism

declares him to be,--a companion for brutes.

DEFINITIONS.--1. Com-mu'ni-ty, society at large, the public. Dif-fu'sion,

extension, spread. En-light'ened, elevated by knowledge and religion. 2.

Fab'ric, any system composed of connected parts. Erased', blotted out. 3.

Per'pe-tra-tor, one who commits a crime. Ex-tinc'tion, a putting an end

to. 4. Fer'ti-lize, to make fruitful. A'the-ism, disbelief in God.

Sen-su-al'i-ty, indulgence in animal pleasure.

XCIV. ROCK ME TO SLEEP.

Elizabeth Akers Allen (b. 1832,--) was born at Strong, Maine, and passed

her childhood amidst the picturesque scenery of that neighborhood. She

lost her mother when very young, but inherited her grace and delicacy of

thought. Shortly after her mother's death, her father removed to

Farmington, Maine, a town noted for its literary people. Mrs. Allen's

early pieces appeared over the pseudonym of "Florence Percy." Her first

verses appeared when she was twelve years old; and her first volume,

entitled "Forest Buds from the Woods of Maine," was Published in 1856. For

some years she was assistant editor of the "Portland Transcript." The

following selection was claimed by five different persons, who attempted

to steal the honor of its composition.

1. 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 watch keep;--

Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!

2. 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!

3. Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,

Mother, O 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 your presence again.

Come from the silence so long and so deep;--

Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!

4. Over my heart in the days that are flown,

No love like mother love ever has shone;

No other worship 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!

5. 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!

6. Mother, dear mother, the years have been long

Since I last listened your lullaby song;

Sing, then, and unto my 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!

XCV. MAN AND THE INFERIOR ANIMALS.

1. The chief difference between man and the other animals consists in

this, that the former has reason, whereas the latter have only instinct;

but, in order to understand what we mean by the terms reason and instinct,

it will be necessary to mention three things in which the difference very

distinctly appears.

2. Let us first, to bring the parties as nearly on a level as possible,

consider man in a savage state, wholly occupied, like the beasts of the

field, in providing for the wants of his animal nature; and here the first

distinction that appears between them is the use of implements. When the

savage provides himself with a hut or a wigwam for shelter, or that he may

store up his provisions, he does no more than is done by the rabbit, the

beaver, the bee, and birds of every species.

3. But the man can not make any progress in this work without tools; he

must provide himself with an ax even before he can cut down a tree for its

timber; whereas these animals form their burrows, their cells, or their

nests, with no other tools than those with which nature has provided them.

In cultivating the ground, also, man can do nothing without a spade or a

plow; nor can he reap what he has sown till he has shaped an implement

with which to cut clown his harvest. But the inferior animals provide for

themselves and their young without any of these things.

4. Now for the second distinction. Man, in all his operations, makes

mistakes; animals make none. Did you ever hear of such a thing as a bird

sitting on a twig lamenting over her half-finished nest and puzzling her

little head to know how to complete it? Or did you ever see the cells of a

beehive in clumsy, irregular shapes, or observe anything like a discussion

in the little community, as if there were a difference of opinion among

the architects?

5. The lower animals are even better physicians than we are; for when they

are ill, they will, many of them, seek out some particular herb, which

they do not, use as food, and which possesses a medicinal quality exactly

suited to the complaint; whereas, the whole college of physicians will

dispute for a century about the virtues of a single drug.

6. Man undertakes nothing in which he is not more or less puzzled; and

must try numberless experiments before he can bring his undertakings to

anything like perfection; even the simplest operations of domestic life

are not well performed without some experience; and the term of man's life

is half wasted before he has done with his mistakes and begins to profit

by his lessons.

7. The third distinction is that animals make no improvements; while the

knowledge, and skill, and the success of man are perpetually on the

increase. Animals, in all their operations, follow the first impulse of

nature or that instinct which God has implanted in them. In all they do

undertake, therefore, their works are more perfect and regular than those

of man.

8. But man, having been endowed with the faculty of thinking or reasoning

about what he does, is enabled by patience and industry to correct the

mistakes into which he at first falls, and to go on constantly improving.

A bird's nest is, indeed, a perfect structure; yet the nest of a swallow

of the nineteenth century is not at all more commodious or elegant than

those that were built amid the rafters of Noah's ark. But if we compare

the wigwam of the savage with the temples and palaces of ancient Greece

and Rome, we then shall see to what man's mistakes, rectified and improved

upon, conduct him.

9. "When the vast sun shall veil his golden light

Deep in the gloom of everlasting night;

When wild, destructive flames shall wrap the skies,

When ruin triumphs, and when nature dies;

Man shall alone the wreck of worlds survive;

'Mid falling spheres, immortal man shall live."

--Jane Taylor.

DEFINITIONS.--2. Dis-tinc'tion, a point of difference. Im'ple-ments,

utensils, tools. Wigwam, an Indian hut. 3. Bur'rows, holes in the earth

where animals lodge. 4. Dis-cus'sion, the act of arguing a point, debate.

5. Me-dic'i-nal, healing. 8. En-dowed', furnished with any gift, quality,

etc. Fac'ul-ty, ability to act or perform. Rec'ti-fied, corrected.

XCVI. THE BLIND MEN AND THE ELEPHANT.

John Godfrey Saxe (b. 1816, d.1887), an American humorist, lawyer, and

journalist, was born at Highgate, Vt. He graduated at Middlebury College

in 1839; was admitted to the bar in 1843; and practiced law until 1850,

when he became editor of the "Burlington Sentinel." In 1851, he was

elected State's attorney. "Progress, a Satire, and Other Poems," his first

volume, was published in 1849, and several other volumes of great merit

attest his originality. For genial humor and good-natured satire, Saxe's

writings rank among the best of their kind, and are very popular.

1. It was six men of Indostan,

To learning much inclined,

Who went to see the elephant,

(Though all of them were blind,)

That each by observation

Might satisfy his mind.

2. The first approached the elephant,

And, happening to fall

Against his broad and sturdy side,

At once began to bawl:

"God bless me! but the elephant

Is very like a wall!"

3. The second, feeling of the tusk,

Cried: "Ha! what have we here,

So very round, and smooth, and sharp?

To me 't is very clear,

This wonder of an elephant

Is very like a spear!"

4. The third approached the animal,

And, happening to take

The squirming trunk within his hands,

Thus boldly up he spake:

"I see," quoth he, "the elephant

Is very like a snake!"

5. The fourth reached out his eager hand,

And fell about the knee:

"What most this wondrous beast is like,

Is very plain," quoth he;

" 'T is clear enough the elephant

Is very like a tree!"

6. The fifth, who chanced to touch the ear,

Said: "E'en the blindest man

Can tell what this resembles most:

Deny the fact who can,

This marvel of an elephant

Is very like a fan!"

7. The sixth no sooner had begun

About the beast to grope,

Than, seizing on the swinging tail

That fell within his scope,

"I see," quoth he, "the elephant

Is very like a rope!"

8. And so these men of Indostan

Disputed loud and long,

Each in his own opinion

Exceeding stiff and strong,

Though each was partly in the right,

And all were in the wrong!

XCVII. A HOME SCENE.

Donald Grant Mitchell (b. 1822,--). This popular American writer was born

in Norwich, Conn. He graduated at Yale in 1841. In 1844 he went to

England, and, after traveling through that country on foot, spent some

time on the continent. His first volume, "Fresh Gleanings, or a New Sheaf

from the Old Fields of Continental Europe, by Ik Marvel," was published in

1847, soon after his return home. He revisited Europe in 1848. On his

return, he published "The Battle Summer." Mr. Mitchell has contributed to

the "Knickerbocker Magazine," the "Atlantic Monthly," and several

agricultural journals. His most popular works are "The Reveries of a

Bachelor," 1850, and "Dream Life," 1851. Besides these, he has written "My

Farm of Edgewood," "Wet Days at Edgewood," "Doctor Johns," a novel "Rural

Studies," and other works. He is a charming writer. In 1853 he was

appointed United States consul at Venice. In 1855 he settled on a farm

near New Haven, Conn., where he now resides. The following selection is

from "Dream Life."

1. Little does the boy know, as the tide of years drifts by, floating him

out insensibly from the harbor of his home, upon the great sea of

life,--what joys, what opportunities, what affections, are slipping from

him into the shades of that inexorable Past, where no man can go, save on

the wings of his dreams.

2. Little does he think, as he leans upon the lap of his mother, with his

eye turned to her, in some earnest pleading for a fancied pleasure of the

hour, or in some important story of his griefs, that such sharing of his

sorrows, and such sympathy with his wishes, he will find nowhere again.

3. Little does he imagine that the fond sister Nelly, ever thoughtful of

his pleasures, ever smiling away his griefs, will soon be beyond the reach

of either; and that the waves of the years which come rocking so gently

under him will soon toss her far away, upon the great swell of life.

4. But now, you are there. The fire light glimmers upon the walls of your

cherished home. The big chair of your father is drawn to its wonted corner

by the chimney side; his head, just touched with gray, lies back upon its

oaken top. Opposite sits your mother: her figure is thin, her look

cheerful, yet subdued;--her arm perhaps resting on your shoulder, as she

talks to you in tones of tender admonition, of the days that are to come.

5. The cat is purring on the hearth; the clock that ticked so plainly when

Charlie died is ticking on the mantel still. The great table in the middle

of the room, with its books and work, waits only for the lighting of the

evening lamp, to see a return to its stores of embroidery and of story.

6. Upon a little stand under the mirror, which catches now and then a

flicker of the fire light, and makes it play, as if in wanton, upon the

ceiling, lies that big book, reverenced of your New England parents--the

Family Bible. It is a ponderous, square volume, with heavy silver clasps,

that you have often pressed open for a look at its quaint, old pictures,

for a study of those prettily bordered pages, which lie between the

Testaments, and which hold the Family Record.

7. There are the Births;--your father's and your mother's; it seems as if

they were born a long time ago; and even your own date of birth appears an

almost incredible distance back. Then there are the Marriages;--only one

as yet; and your mother's name looks oddly to you: it is hard to think of

her as anyone else than your doting parent.

8. Last of all come the Deaths;--only one. Poor Charlie! How it looks!--"

Died, 12 September, 18--, Charles Henry, aged four years." You know just

how it looks. You have turned to it often; there you seem to be joined to

him, though only by the turning of a leaf.