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THE ONTARIO READERS
THIRD BOOK
AUTHORIZED BY
THE MINISTER OF EDUCATION
The price of this book to the purchaser is not the total cost.
During the present period of abnormal and fluctuating
trade conditions, an additional sum, which may vary
from time to time, is paid to the Publisher
by the Department of Education.
Entered, according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year 1909,
in the office of the Minister of Agriculture by the
Minister of Education for Ontario.
TORONTO:
THE T. EATON Co LIMITED
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
THE MINISTER OF EDUCATION is indebted to Rudyard Kipling, Henry
Newbolt, Beckles Willson, E. B. Osborn, F. T. Bullen, Flora Annie Steel;
Charles G. D. Roberts, W. Wilfred Campbell, Ethelwyn Wetherald, Jean
Blewett, Robert Reid, "Ralph Connor," John Waugh, S. T. Wood; Henry Van
Dyke, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward, and Richard Watson Gilder for
special permission to reproduce, in this Reader, selections from their
writings.
He is indebted to Lord Tennyson for special permission to reproduce the
poems from the works of Alfred, Lord Tennyson; to Lloyd Osbourne for
permission to reproduce the selection from the works of Robert Louis
Stevenson; and to J. F. Edgar for permission to reproduce one of Sir
James D. Edgar's poems.
He is also indebted to Macmillan & Co., Limited, for special permission,
to reproduce selections from the works of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Rudyard
Kipling, and Flora Annie Steel; to Smith, Elder & Co., for the extract
from F. T. Bullen's "The Cruise of the Cachalot"; to Elkin Mathews for
Henry Newbolt's poem from "The Island Race"; to Sampson Low, Marston &
Company for the extract from R. D. Blackmore's "Lorna Doone"; to Thomas
Nelson & Sons for the extract from W. F. Collier's "History of the
British Empire"; to Chatto and Windus for the extract from E. B. Osborn's
"Greater Canada"; to Houghton Mifflin Company for "The Chase" from
Charles Dudley Warner's "A-Hunting of the Deer," "Mary Elizabeth" by
Mrs. Phelps Ward, and the poems by Celia Thaxter and by Richard Watson
Gilder; to The Century Company for Jacob A. Riis' "The Story of a Fire"
from "_The Century Magazine_"; to The Copp Clark Co., Limited, for the
selections from Charles G. D. Roberts' works; to The Westminster Co.,
Limited, for the extract from "Ralph Connor's" "The Man from Glengarry."
The Minister is grateful to these authors and publishers and to others,
not mentioned here, through whose courtesy he has been able to include
in this Reader so many copyright selections.
Toronto, May, 1909.
CONTENTS
PAGE
_To-day_
_Thomas Carlyle_
1
Fortune and the Beggar
_Ivan Kirloff_
2
_The Lark and the Rook_
_Unknown_
4
The Pickwick Club on the Ice
_Charles Dickens_
6
_Tubal Cain_
_Charles Mackay_
11
Professor Frog's Lecture
_M. A. L. Lane_
14
_A Song for April_
_Charles G. D. Roberts_
25
How the Crickets Brought Good Fortune
_P. J. Stahl_
26
_The Battle of Blenheim_
_Robert Southey_
31
The Ride for Life
_"Ralph Connor"_
34
_Iagoo, the Boaster_
_Henry W. Longfellow_
39
The Story of a Fire
_Jacob A. Riis_
40
_The Quest_
_Eudora S. Bumstead_
43
The Jackal and the Partridge
_Flora Annie Steel_
44
_Hide and Seek_
_Henry Van Dyke_
50
The Burning of the "Goliath"
_Dean Stanley_
52
_Hearts of Oak_
_David Garrick_
55
_A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea_
_Allan Cunningham_
56
The Talents
_Bible_
57
_A Farewell_
_Charles Kingsley_
59
_An Apple Orchard in the Spring_
_William Martin_
60
The Bluejay
_"Mark Twain"_
61
_A Canadian Camping Song_
_Sir James David Edgar_
65
The Argonauts
_John Waugh_
66
_The Minstrel-Boy_
_Thomas Moore_
71
Mary Elizabeth
_Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward_
72
_The Frost_
_Hannah Flagg Gould_
83
_Corn-fields_
_Mary Howitt_
84
South-West Wind, Esq.
_John Ruskin_
86
_The Meeting of the Waters_
_Thomas Moore_
97
Love
_Bible_
98
_The Robin's Song_
_Unknown_
99
Work or Play
_"Mark Twain"_
100
_Burial of Sir John Moore_
_Charles Wolfe_
106
The Whistle
_Benjamin Franklin_
108
_A Canadian Boat Song_
_Thomas Moore_
109
The Little Hero of Haarlem
_Sharpe's London Magazine_
110
_Father William_
_"Lewis Carroll"_
115
David and Goliath
_Bible_
117
_Charge of the Light Brigade_
_Alfred, Lord Tennyson_
123
Maggie Tulliver
_George Eliot_
125
_The Corn Song_
_John G. Whittier_
134
Sports in Norman England
_William Fitzstephen_
136
_A Song of Canada_
_Robert Reid_
140
A Mad Tea Party
_"Lewis Carroll"_
142
_The Slave's Dream_
_Henry W. Longfellow_
149
The Chase
_Charles Dudley Warner_
152
_The Inchcape Rock_
_Robert Southey_
158
A Rough Ride
_Richard D. Blackmore_
161
_The Arab and His Steed_
_The Honourable Mrs. Norton_
169
_The Poet's Song_
_Alfred, Lord Tennyson_
173
Adventure with a Whale
_Frank T. Bullen_
174
_The Maple_
_H. F. Darnell_
179
Damon and Pythias
_Charlotte M. Yonge_
181
_The Wreck of the Orpheus_
_C. A. L._
184
_The Tide River_
_Charles Kingsley_
185
Wisdom the Supreme Prize
_Bible_
187
_The Orchard_
_Jean Blewett_
188
Inspired by the Snow
_Samuel T. Wood_
189
_The Squirrel_
_William Cowper_
192
_Soldier, Rest_
_Sir Walter Scott_
192
Fishing
_Thomas Hughes_
193
_The Fountain_
_James Russell Lowell_
199
_Break, Break, Break_
_Alfred, Lord Tennyson_
201
The Bed of Procrustes
_Charles Kingsley_
202
_"Bob White"_
_George Cooper_
208
Radisson and the Indians
_Beckles Willson_
209
_The Brook_
_Alfred, Lord Tennyson_
212
"Do Seek Their Meat From God"
_Charles G. D. Roberts_
215
_A Song of the Sea_
_"Barry Cornwall"_
222
Little Daffydowndilly
_Nathaniel Hawthorne_
223
_The Sandpiper_
_Celia Thaxter_
234
From "The Sermon on the Mount"
_Bible_
236
_The Legend of Saint Christopher_
_Helen Hunt Jackson_
237
William Tell and His Son
_Chamber's "Tracts"_
241
_A Midsummer Song_
_Richard Watson Gilder_
244
The Relief of Lucknow
_"Letter from an officer's wife"_
246
_The Song in Camp_
_Bayard Taylor_
250
_Afterglow_
_William Wilfred Campbell_
252
King Richard and Saladin
_Sir Walter Scott_
253
_England's Dead_
_Felicia Hemans_
258
_Hohenlinden_
_Thomas Campbell_
260
The Dream of the Oak Tree
_Hans Christian Andersen_
262
A Prayer
_Robert Louis Stevenson_
266
_The Death of the Flowers_
_William Cullen Bryant_
267
_'Tis the Last Rose of Summer_
_Thomas Moore_
269
A Roman's Honour
_Charlotte M. Yonge_
270
_The Fighting Téméraire_
_Henry Newbolt_
273
Don Quixote's Fight with the Windmills
_Miguel de Cervantes_
275
_The Romance of the Swan's Nest_
_Elizabeth Barrett Browning_
281
Moonlight Sonata
_Unknown_
285
_The Red-Winged Blackbird_
_Ethelwyn Wetherald_
290
_To the Cuckoo_
_John Logan_
291
The Story of a Stone
_D. B._
293
_The Snow-Storm_
_John G. Whittier_
298
The Heroine of Verchères
_Francis Parkman_
301
_Jacques Cartier_
_Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee_
307
Ants and Their Slaves
_Jules Michelet_
310
_Lead, Kindly Light_
_John Henry Newman_
315
The Jolly Sandboys
_Charles Dickens_
316
_The Gladness of Nature_
_William Cullen Bryant_
324
Old English Life
_William F. Collier_
325
_Puck's Song_
_Rudyard Kipling_
330
The Battle of Queenston Heights
_Unknown_
332
_The Bugle Song_
_Alfred, Lord Tennyson_
337
Charity
_Bible_
338
_A Christmas Carol_
_James Russell Lowell_
339
The Barren Lands
_E. B. Osborn_
341
_A Spring Morning_
_William Wordsworth_
345
_Crossing the Bar_
_Alfred, Lord Tennyson_
346
EMPIRE DAY
I want you to remember what Empire Day means. Empire Day is the festival
on which every British subject should reverently remember that the
British Empire stands out before the whole world as the fearless
champion of freedom, fair play and equal rights; that its watchwords are
responsibility, duty, sympathy and self-sacrifice, and that a special
responsibility rests with you individually to be true to the traditions
and to the mission of your race.
I also want you to remember that one day Canada will become, if her
people are faithful to their high British traditions, the most powerful
of all the self-governing nations, not excluding the people of the
United Kingdom, which make up the British Empire, and that it rests with
each one of you individually to do your utmost by your own conduct and
example to make Canada not only the most powerful, but the noblest of
all the self-governing nations that are proud to owe allegiance to the
King.
Earl Grey.
Governor-General of Canada
THIRD READER
TO-DAY
So here hath been dawning
Another blue day;
Think, wilt thou let it
Slip useless away?
Out of Eternity
This new day is born;
Into Eternity
At night will return.
Behold it aforetime
No eye ever did;
So soon it forever
From all eyes is hid.
Here hath been dawning
Another blue day;
Think, wilt thou let it
Slip useless away?
CARLYLE
FORTUNE AND THE BEGGAR
One day a ragged beggar was creeping along from house to house. He
carried an old wallet in his hand, and was asking at every door for a
few cents to buy something to eat. As he was grumbling at his lot, he
kept wondering why it was that folks who had so much money were never
satisfied but were always wanting more.
"Here," said he, "is the master of this house--I know him well. He was
always a good business man, and he made himself wondrously rich a long
time ago. Had he been wise he would have stopped then. He would have
turned over his business to some one else, and then he could have spent
the rest of his life in ease. But what did he do instead? He built ships
and sent them to sea to trade with foreign lands. He thought he would
get mountains of gold.
"But there were great storms on the water; his ships were wrecked, and
his riches were swallowed up by the waves. Now all his hopes lie at the
bottom of the sea, and his great wealth has vanished.
"There are many such cases. Men seem to be never satisfied unless they
gain the whole world.
"As for me, if I had only enough to eat and to wear, I would not want
anything more."
Just at that moment Fortune came down the street. She saw the beggar and
stopped. She said to him:
"Listen! I have long wished to help you. Hold your wallet and I will
pour this gold into it, but only on this condition: all that falls into
the wallet shall be pure gold; but every piece that falls upon the
ground shall become dust. Do you understand?"
"Oh, yes, I understand," said the beggar.
"Then have a care," said Fortune. "Your wallet is old, so do not load it
too heavily."
The beggar was so glad that he could hardly wait. He quickly opened his
wallet, and a stream of yellow dollars poured into it. The wallet grew
heavy.
"Is that enough?" asked Fortune.
"Not yet."
"Isn't it cracking?"
"Never fear."
The beggar's hands began to tremble. Ah, if the golden stream would only
pour for ever!
"You are the richest man in the world now!"
"Just a little more, add just a handful or two."
"There, it's full. The wallet will burst."
"But it will hold a little, just a little more!"
Another piece was added, and the wallet split. The treasure fell upon
the ground and was turned to dust. Fortune had vanished. The beggar had
now nothing but his empty wallet, and it was torn from top to bottom. He
was as poor as before.
IVAN KIRLOFF
THE LARK AND THE ROOK
"Good-night, Sir Rook!" said a little lark,
"The daylight fades; it will soon be dark;
I've bathed my wings in the sun's last ray;
I've sung my hymn to the parting day;
So now I haste to my quiet nook
In yon dewy meadow--good-night, Sir Rook!"
"Good-night, poor Lark," said his titled friend
With a haughty toss and a distant bend;
"I also go to my rest profound,
But not to sleep on the cold, damp ground.
The fittest place for a bird like me
Is the topmost bough of yon tall pine tree.
"I opened my eyes at peep of day
And saw you taking your upward way,
Dreaming your fond romantic dreams,
An ugly speck in the sun's bright beams,
Soaring too high to be seen or heard;
And I said to myself: 'What a foolish bird!'
"I trod the park with a princely air;
I filled my crop with the richest fare;
I cawed all day 'mid a lordly crew,
And I made more noise in the world than you!
The sun shone forth on my ebon wing;
I looked and wondered--good-night, poor thing!"
"Good-night, once more," said the lark's sweet voice,
"I see no cause to repent my choice;
You build your nest in the lofty pine,
But is your slumber more sweet than mine?
You make more noise in the world than I,
But whose is the sweeter minstrelsy?"
UNKNOWN
What stronger breast-plate than a heart untainted?
Thrice is he armed, that hath his quarrel just;
And he but naked, though locked up in steel,
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.
SHAKESPEARE
THE PICKWICK CLUB ON THE ICE
"You skate, of course, Winkle?" said Wardle.
"Ye-yes; oh, yes," replied Mr. Winkle. "I--I--am _rather_ out of
practice."
"Oh, _do_ skate, Mr. Winkle," said Arabella. "I like to see it so much."
"Oh, it is _so_ graceful," said another young lady. A third young lady
said it was elegant, and a fourth expressed her opinion that it was
"swan-like."
"I should be very happy, I'm sure," said Mr. Winkle, reddening; "but I
have no skates."
This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had got a couple of pair,
and the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more downstairs,
whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely
uncomfortable.
Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and the fat boy
and Mr. Weller, having shovelled and swept away the snow which had
fallen on it during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a
dexterity which to Mr. Winkle seemed perfectly marvellous, and described
circles with his left leg, and cut figures of eight, and inscribed upon
the ice, without once stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant
and astonishing devices, to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick,
Mr. Tupman, and the ladies; which reached a pitch of positive
enthusiasm, when old Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by the
aforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions, which they
called a reel.
All this time, Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold,
had been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his feet, and putting his
skates on with the points behind, and getting the straps into a very
complicated and entangled state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass,
who knew rather less about skates than a Hindoo. At length, however,
with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly
screwed and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet.
"Now, then, sir," said Sam in an encouraging tone; "off vith you, and
show 'em how to do it."
"Stop, Sam, stop," said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and clutching
hold of Sam's arms with the grasp of a drowning man. "How slippery it
is, Sam!"
"Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir," replied Mr. Weller. "Hold up,
sir."
This last observation of Mr. Weller's bore reference to a demonstration
Mr. Winkle made at the instant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet
into the air and dash the back of his head on the ice.
"These--these--are very awkward skates; ain't they, Sam?" inquired Mr.
Winkle, staggering.
"I'm afeerd there's an orkard gen'lm'n in 'em, sir," replied Sam.
"Now, Winkle," cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was
anything the matter. "Come, the ladies are all anxiety."
"Yes, yes," replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. "I'm coming."
"Just a goin' to begin," said Sam, endeavouring to disengage himself.
"Now, sir, start off."
"Stop an instant, Sam," gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionately
to Mr. Weller. "I find I've a couple of coats at home that I don't want,
Sam. You may have them, Sam."
"Thank'ee, sir," replied Mr. Weller.
"Never mind touching your hat, Sam," said Mr. Winkle, hastily. "You
needn't take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you five
shillings this morning for a Christmas-box, Sam. I'll give it to you
this afternoon, Sam."
"You're wery good, sir," replied Mr. Weller.
"Just hold me at first, Sam; will you?" said Mr. Winkle. "There--that's
right. I shall soon get into the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam; not
too fast."
Mr. Winkle, stooping forward with his body half doubled up, was being
assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a very singular and un-swan-like
manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite
bank--
"Sam!"
"Sir?" said Mr. Weller.
"Here. I want you."
"Let go, sir," said Sam. "Don't you hear the governor a-callin'? Let go,
sir!"
With a violent effort, Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of
the agonized Pickwickian; and, in so doing, administered a considerable
impetus to the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of
dexterity or practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman
bore swiftly down into the centre of the reel, at the very moment when
Mr. Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty. Mr.
Winkle struck wildly against him, and with a loud crash they both fell
heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his
feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind in
skates. He was seated on the ice making spasmodic efforts to smile; but
anguish was depicted on every lineament of his countenance.
"Are you hurt?" inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety.
"Not much," said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard.
"I wish you'd let me bleed you," said Mr. Benjamin, with great
eagerness.
"No, thank you," replied Mr. Winkle hurriedly.
"I really think you had better," said Allen.
"Thank you," replied Mr. Winkle "I'd rather not."
"What do _you_ think, Mr. Pickwick?" inquired Bob Sawyer.
Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller, and
said in a stern voice:
"Take his skates off."
The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it in
silence.
"Lift him up," said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise.
Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the bystanders; and,
beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and
uttered in a low but distinct and emphatic tone these remarkable words:
"You're a humbug, sir."
"A what?" said Mr. Winkle, starting.
"A humbug, sir. I will speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor, sir."
With these words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel and rejoined
his friends.
DICKENS: "The Pickwick Papers."
TUBAL CAIN
Old Tubal Cain was a man of might,
In the days when earth was young;
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright,
The strokes of his hammer rung:
And he lifted high his brawny hand
On the iron glowing clear,
Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers,
As he fashioned the sword and spear.
And he sang--"Hurrah for my handiwork!
Hurrah for the spear and sword!
Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well,
For he shall be king and lord!"
To Tubal Cain came many a one,
As he wrought by his roaring fire;
And each one prayed for a strong steel blade,
As the crown of his desire;
And he made them weapons sharp and strong,
Till they shouted loud for glee;
And they gave him gifts of pearls and gold,
And spoils of the forest free.
And they sang--"Hurrah for Tubal Cain,
Who hath given us strength anew!
Hurrah for the smith, hurrah for the fire,
And hurrah for the metal true!"
But a sudden change came o'er his heart,
Ere the setting of the sun;
And Tubal Cain was filled with pain
For the evil he had done:
He saw that men, with rage and hate,
Made war upon their kind,
That the land was red with the blood they shed,
In their lust for carnage blind.
And he said--"Alas! that I ever made,
Or that skill of mine should plan,
The spear and the sword for men whose joy
Is to slay their fellow-man!"
And for many a day old Tubal Cain
Sat brooding o'er his woe;
And his hand forbore to smite the ore,
And his furnace smouldered low.
But he rose at last with a cheerful face,
And a bright courageous eye,
And bared his strong right arm for work,
While the quick flames mounted high.
And he sang--"Hurrah for my handiwork!"
And the red sparks lit the air;
"Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made,"
And he fashioned the first ploughshare.
And men, taught wisdom from the past,
In friendship joined their hands;
Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,
And ploughed the willing lands:
And sang--"Hurrah for Tubal Cain!
Our stanch good friend is he;
And for the ploughshare and the plough,
To him our praise shall be.
But while oppression lifts its head,
Or a tyrant would be lord;
Though we may thank him for the plough,
We'll not forget the sword!"
CHARLES MACKAY
PROFESSOR FROG'S LECTURE
Bobby was not quite sure that he was awake, but when he opened his eyes
there was the blue sky, with the soft, white clouds drifting across it,
the big pine waving its spicy branches over his head, and beyond, the
glint of sunshine on the waters of the pond. Presently Bobby heard
voices talking softly.
"This is a good specimen," said one voice. "See how stout and strong he
looks!"
"I wonder who that is, and what he has found," thought Bobby. "I wish it
wasn't such hard work to keep my eyes open." He made a great effort,
however, and raised his heavy lids. At first he could see nothing. Then
he caught a glimpse of a mossy log, with a row of frogs and toads
sitting upon it. They were looking solemnly at him. Bobby felt a little
uncomfortable under that steady gaze.
"The toads are making their spring visit to the pond to lay their eggs,"
thought the boy. "I forgot that they were due this week."
"He must have done a good deal of mischief in his day," said an old
bull-frog, gravely. A chill crept over Bobby. "In his day."--What did
that mean?
A toad hopped out from the line and came so close to Bobby that he could
have touched her but for the strange spell which held him fast.
"Yes," said she; "this is one of the species. We are very fortunate to
have caught him. Now we shall be ready to listen to Professor Rana's
remarks."
Still Bobby could not move. What were they going to do? In a moment
there was a rustling among the dry leaves and dozens of frogs and toads
were seen hurrying towards the pine tree. Among them was a ponderous
frog, carrying a roll of manuscript under his arm. He wore huge goggles,
and looked so wise that Bobby did not dare to laugh.
"I am very sleepy," murmured a portly toad near Bobby's left ear. "I
laid over eight thousand eggs last night, and I have a long journey
before me. But I must stay to hear this. We may never have such a chance
again."
"Ladies and gentlemen," began the professor, in a sonorous tone that was
easily heard for several feet, "this is a specimen of the creature known
to us as the human tadpole. You will kindly observe his long legs. They
were doubtless given to him for the purpose of protection. Being
possessed of a most mischievous and reckless spirit, the species is
always getting into difficulties, and would probably become extinct if
it had not the power to run away."
"Nonsense!" said Bobby under his breath. There was a murmur of interest
and curiosity among the crowd. Bobby felt his legs twitch nervously, but
his power over them was gone.
"Otherwise," went on the lecturer, "he is not at all adapted to his
surroundings. Observe how carefully we are dressed. The frogs have the
green and brown tints of their homes by the water-side. The toads look
like lumps of dirt, so that they may not be too readily snapped up by
birds of prey. But the Boy--to call him by his scientific name--has no
such protection. Look at this red shirt and these white trousers, and
this hat as big as a trout pool! Could anything be more ridiculous? Even
a giraffe does not look so absurd as this."
A red flush mounted to Bobby's freckled cheeks, but this time he did not
try to speak.
"Now," said the professor, "as far as we have been able to learn, the
human tadpole is absolutely useless. We are, therefore, doing no harm in
experimenting upon this specimen. There are plenty of them, and this one
will not be a serious loss."
"Stop!" said Bobby, so unexpectedly that everybody jumped. "What are you
going to do with me?"
"You will be so kind as to lie still," said the professor severely. "At
present you are only a specimen."
There was no help for it. Bobby found it impossible to move hand or
foot. He could wriggle a little,--but that was all.
"Not only is the Boy entirely useless," went on the professor, "but he
is often what might be called a pest, even to his own kind. He is
endured in the world for what he may become when he is full-grown, and
even then he is sometimes disappointing. You are familiar with many of
his objectionable ways towards the animal world, but I am sure you would
be surprised if you knew what a care and trouble he frequently is to his
own people. He can be trusted to do few kinds of work. It is difficult
to keep him clean. He doesn't know how to get his own dinner. He has a
genius for making weaker things miserable. He likes fishing, and he
longs for a gun; he collects birds' eggs; he puts butterflies on pins;
he teases his little sisters."
"Why isn't the species exterminated?" asked another frog angrily.
Then the toad near Bobby's ear spoke timidly: "I think you are a little
unjust, Professor. I have known boys who were comparatively harmless."
"It is true there may be a few, Mrs. Bufo," said the professor with
great politeness, "but as a class they may be fairly set down as of very
doubtful value. Speak up, Tadpole, and say if I have made any false
statements so far."
Bobby fairly shouted in his eagerness to be heard.
"We do work," he said. "We have to go to school every day."
"What a help that must be to your parents and to the world at large!"
said the frog with sarcasm. "I am surprised that we never see the
results of such hard labour. Do you know how useful even our smallest
tadpoles are? Without them this pond would be no longer beautiful, but
foul and ill-smelling. As for what we do when we are grown up, modesty
forbids me to praise the frogs, but you know what a toad is worth to
mankind?"
"No," said Bobby. "About two cents, I guess." Bobby didn't intend to be
rude. He thought this a liberal valuation.
"Twenty dollars a year, as estimated by the Department of Agriculture!"
cried the frog triumphantly. "What do you think of that?"
"I should like to know why," said Bobby, looking as if he thought
Professor Rana was making fun of him.
"What are the greatest enemies of mankind?" asked the professor, peering
over his goggles at poor Bobby.
"Tigers," said Bobby, promptly; "or wolves."
"Wrong," said the lecturer. "Insects. Insects destroy property on this
continent to the amount of over four hundred million dollars annually.
Insects destroy the crops upon which man depends for his food. Going to
school hasn't made you very wise, has it? Well, the toads are insect
destroyers. That's their business. If the State only knew enough to make
use of them, millions of dollars might be saved every year. Does it seem
to you that the human animal is so clever as it might be, when it allows
such numbers of toads to be destroyed?"
"It's a shame!" chimed in a voice from the front seats. "We keep out of
the way as much as we can; we eat every kind of troublesome worm and
insect,--the cutworm, canker-worm, tent caterpillar, army-worm,
rose-beetle, and the common house-fly; we ask for no wages or food or
care,--and what do we get in return? Not even protection and common
kindness. If we had places where we could live in safety, who could tell
the amount of good we might do? Yet I would not have this poor boy hurt
if a word of mine could prevent it."
"This is a scientific meeting," observed the professor; "and benevolent
sentiments are quite out of place. We will now proceed to notice the
delicate nervous system of the creature. Stand closer, my friends, if
you please."
"Nervous system, indeed!" said Bobby. "Boys don't have such silly things
as nerves!"
Suddenly Bobby felt a multitude of tiny pin pricks over the entire
surface of his body. The suffering was not intense, but the irritation
made him squirm and wince. He could not discover the cause of his
discomfort, but at the professor's command it suddenly ceased.
"That will do," said the frog. "Each hair on his head is also connected
with a nerve. Pull his hair, please!"
"Oh, don't!" said Bobby. "That hurts!"
Nobody listened to him. It did hurt, more than you would think, for tiny
hands were pulling each hair separately. When the ordeal was over,
Bobby heard a faint noise in the grass as if some very small creatures
were scurrying away, but he could see nothing. He was winking his eyes
desperately to keep from crying.
"The assistants may go now," said the professor; and the sound of little
feet died away in the distance.
"How interesting this is!" murmured a plain-looking toad who had been
watching the experiments attentively.
"I think it's mean," protested poor Bobby, "to keep a fellow fastened up
like this, and then torment him."
"Does it hurt as much as being skinned, or having your legs cut off?"
demanded the professor.
"Or should you prefer to be stepped on, or burned up in a rubbish pile?"
asked Mrs. Bufo.
"How should you like to be stoned or kicked, for a change?" said another
toad sharply.
"Perhaps you would choose a fish-hook in the corner of your mouth?" said
a voice from the pond.
"Or one run the entire length of your body?" came a murmur from the
ground under Bobby's head.
"Wait a minute," said the professor, more gently. "We will give you a
chance to defend yourself. It is not customary to inquire into the moral
character of specimens, but we do not wish to be unjust. Perhaps you can
explain why you made a bonfire the very week after the toads came out of
their winter-quarters. Dozens of lives were destroyed before that fire
was put out."
"I forgot about the toads," began Bobby.
"Carelessness!" said the professor. "Now you may tell us why you like to
throw stones at us."
"To see you jump," said Bobby, honestly.
"Thoughtlessness!" said the professor. "That's worse."
"Why do you kick us, instead of lifting us gently when we are in your
way?" inquired a toad in a stern voice.
"Because you will give me warts if I touch you," said Bobby, pleased to
think that he had a good reason at last.
"Ignorance!" cried the professor. "The toad is absolutely harmless. It
has about it a liquid that might cause pain to a cut finger or a
sensitive tissue like that of the mouth or eye, but the old story that a
toad is poisonous is a silly fable."
"Will you tell me, please," asked a toad in a plaintive voice, "if you
are the boy who, last year, carried home some of my babies in a tin pail
and let them die?"
"I'm afraid I am," said Bobby, sorrowfully.
"Do explain why you dislike us!" said Mrs. Bufo in such a frank fashion
that Bobby felt that he must tell the truth.
"I suppose it's your looks," said the boy, unable to frame his answer in
more polite terms.
"Well, upon my word!" interrupted the professor. "I thought better of a
boy than that. So you prefer boys with pretty faces and soft, curling
hair, and nice clothes, to those who can climb and jump and who are not
afraid of a day's tramp in the woods."
"Of course I don't," said indignant Bobby. "I hate boys who are always
thinking about their clothes."
"Oh, you do!" said the frog. "Now answer me a few more questions. Have
you ever stolen birds' eggs?"
"Yes," said truthful Bobby.
"Have you collected butterflies?"
"Yes," said Bobby.
"Have you taken nuts from the squirrels' cupboards?"
"Yes," said Bobby.
"Do you think we ought to have a very friendly feeling towards you?"
went on the questioner.
"No," said Bobby; "I don't."
"We have shown that you are not only useless, but careless and
thoughtless and ignorant," said the frog. "Is there any very good reason
why we should let you go?"
Poor Bobby racked his brains to think of something that should appeal to
his captors.
"I have a right to live, haven't I?" he said at last.
"Because you are so pretty?" suggested the professor, and Bobby's eyes
fell with shame.
"Any better right than we have?" came a chorus of voices. Bobby was
silent. He felt very helpless and insignificant. There was a long pause.
Then the frog professor smiled broadly at Bobby.
"Come," he said; "I like you. You are not afraid to be honest, and
that's something."
"If you will let me go," said Bobby, "I'll see that the boys don't hurt
you any more."
"I felt pretty sure that we'd converted you," said the professor; "and
I'm going to let you go back and preach to the heathen, as the grown
people say. You can see for yourself how much harm a boy can do if he
doesn't think."
Bobby felt that he was free, and scrambled to his feet, rubbing first
one arm and then the other to take the prickly feeling out of them. The
frogs had vanished; there was only the blue sky, the waving pine tree,
and the quiet pond.
"Well!" said Bobby with a long breath of amazement.
"Kerjunk!" came the warning voice of a frog, somewhere near the water's
edge.
"Yes sir, I'll remember," said Bobby in the meekest of meek tones.
M. A. L. LANE
A SONG FOR APRIL
List! list! The buds confer.
This noonday they've had news of her;
The south bank has had views of her;
The thorn shall exact his dues of her;
The willows adream
By the freshet stream
Shall ask what boon they choose of her.
Up! up! The world's astir;
The would-be green has word of her;
Root and germ have heard of her,
Coming to break
Their sleep and wake
Their hearts with every bird of her.
See! see! How swift concur
Sun, wind, and rain at the name of her,
A-wondering what became of her;
The fields flower at the flame of her;
The glad air sings
With dancing wings
And the silvery shrill acclaim of her.
CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS
[Illustration: ALEXANDRA THE QUEEN MOTHER]
HOW THE CRICKETS BROUGHT GOOD FORTUNE
My friend Jacques went into a baker's shop one day to buy a little cake
which he had fancied in passing. He intended it for a child whose
appetite was gone, and who could be coaxed to eat only by amusing him.
He thought that such a pretty loaf might tempt even the sick. While he
waited for his change, a little boy six or eight years old, in poor but
perfectly clean clothes, entered the baker's shop.
[Illustration: UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO]
"Ma'am," said he to the baker's wife, "Mother sent me for a loaf of
bread." The woman took from the shelf a four-pound loaf, the best one
she could find, and put it into the arms of the little boy.
My friend Jacques then first observed the thin and thoughtful face of
the little fellow. It contrasted strongly with the round, open
countenance of the large loaf, of which he was taking the greatest care.
"Have you any money?" said the baker's wife.
The little boy's eyes grew sad.
"No, ma'am," said he, hugging the loaf closer to his thin blouse; "but
mother told me to say that she would come and speak to you about it
to-morrow."
"Run along," said the good woman; "carry your bread home, child."
"Thank you, ma'am," said the poor little fellow.
My friend Jacques came forward for his money. He had put his purchase
into his pocket, and was about to go, when he found the child with the
big loaf, whom he had supposed to be half-way home, standing stock-still
behind him.
"What are you doing there?" said the baker's wife to the child, whom she
also had thought to be fairly off. "Don't you like the bread?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am!" said the child.
"Well, then, carry it to your mother, my little friend. If you wait any
longer, she will think you are playing by the way, and you will get a
scolding."
The child did not seem to hear. Something else absorbed his attention.
The baker's wife went up to him and gave him a friendly tap on the
shoulder. "What are you thinking about?" said she.
"Ma'am," said the little boy, "what is that that sings?"
"There is no singing," said she.
"Yes!" cried the little fellow. "Hear it! Queek, queek, queek, queek!"
My friend and the woman both listened, but they could hear nothing,
unless it was the song of the crickets, frequent guests in bakers
houses.
"It is a little bird," said the dear little fellow; "or perhaps the
bread sings when it bakes, as apples do?"
"No, indeed, little goosey!" said the baker's wife; "those are crickets.
They sing in the bake-house because we are lighting the oven, and they
like to see the fire."
"Crickets!" said the child; "are they really crickets?"
"Yes, to be sure," said she, good-humouredly. The child's face lighted
up.
"Ma'am," said he, blushing at the boldness of his request, "I would like
it very much if you would give me a cricket."
"A cricket," said the baker's wife, smiling; "what in the world would
you do with a cricket, my little friend? I would gladly give you all
there are in the house, to get rid of them, they run about so."
"O, ma'am, give me one, only one, if you please!" said the child,
clasping his little thin hands under the big loaf. "They say that
crickets bring good luck into houses; and perhaps if we had one at home,
mother, who has so much trouble, wouldn't cry any more."
"Why does your poor mamma cry?" said my friend, who could no longer help
joining in the conversation.
"On account of her bills, sir," said the little fellow. "Father is dead,
and mother works very hard, but she cannot pay them all."
My friend took the child, and with him the large loaf, into his arms,
and I really believe he kissed them both. Meanwhile the baker's wife,
who did not dare to touch a cricket herself, had gone into the
bake-house. She made her husband catch four, and put them into a box
with holes in the cover, so that they might breathe. She gave the box to
the child, who went away perfectly happy.
When he had gone, the baker's wife and my friend gave each other a good
squeeze of the hand. "Poor little fellow!" said they both together. Then
she took down her account-book, and, finding the page where the mother's
charges were written, made a great dash all down the page, and then
wrote at the bottom, "Paid."
Meanwhile my friend, to lose no time, had put up in paper all the money
in his pockets, where fortunately he had quite a sum that day, and had
begged the good wife to send it at once to the mother of the little
cricket-boy, with her bill receipted, and a note, in which he told her
that she had a son who would one day be her pride and joy.
They gave it to a baker's boy with long legs, and told him to make
haste. The child, with his big loaf, his four crickets, and his little
short legs, could not run very fast, so that when he reached home, he
found his mother, for the first time in many weeks, with her eyes raised
from her work, and a smile of peace and happiness upon her lips.
The boy believed that it was the arrival of his four little black things
which had worked this miracle, and I do not think he was mistaken.
Without the crickets, and his good little heart, would this happy change
have taken place in his mother's fortunes?
P. J. STAHL
THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM
It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found:
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by:
And then the old man shook his head,
And, with a natural sigh,
"'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,
"Who fell in the great victory.
"I find them in the garden,
For there's many here about;
And often when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out!
For many thousand men," said he,
"Were slain in that great victory."
"Now tell me what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin, he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
"Now tell us all about the war,
And what they fought each other for."
"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for,
I could not well make out;
But everybody said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory.
"My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.
"They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun;
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.
"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
And our good prince Eugene."
"Why 'twas a very wicked thing!"
Said little Wilhelmine.
"Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he,
"It was a famous victory.
"And everybody praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win."
"But what good came of it at last?"
Quoth little Peterkin.
"Why, that I cannot tell," said he,
"But 'twas a famous victory."
SOUTHEY
THE RIDE FOR LIFE
Away off towards the swamp, which they were avoiding, the long,
heart-chilling cry of a mother-wolf quavered on the still night air. In
spite of herself, Mrs. Murray shivered, and the boys looked at each
other.
"There is only one," said Ranald in a low voice to Don, but they both
knew that where the she-wolf is there is a pack not far off. "And we
will be through the bush in five minutes."
"Come, Ranald! Come away, you can talk to Don any time. Good-night,
Don." And so saying she headed her pony toward the clearing and was off
at a gallop, and Ranald, shaking his head at his friend, ejaculated:
"Man alive! what do you think of that?" and was off after the pony.
Together they entered the bush. The road was well beaten and the horses
were keen to go, so that before many minutes were over they were half
through the bush. Ranald's spirits rose and he began to take some
interest in his companion's observations upon the beauty of the lights
and shadows falling across their path.
"Look at that very dark shadow from the spruce there, Ranald," she
cried, pointing to a deep, black turn in the road. For answer there came
from behind them the long, mournful hunting-cry of the wolf. He was on
their track. Immediately it was answered by a chorus of howls from the
bush on the swamp side, but still far away. There was no need of
command; the pony sprang forward with a snort and the colt followed, and
after a few minutes' running, passed her.
"Whow-oo-oo-oo-ow," rose the long cry of the pursuer, summoning help,
and drawing nearer.
"Whw-ee-wow," came the shorter, sharper answer from the swamp, but much
nearer than before and more in front. They were trying to head off their
prey.
Ranald tugged at his colt till he got him back with the pony.
"It is a good road," he said, quietly; "you can let the pony go. I will
follow you." He swung in behind the pony, who was now running for dear
life and snorting with terror at every jump.
"God preserve us!" said Ranald to himself. He had caught sight of a dark
form as it darted through the gleam of light in front.
"What did you say, Ranald?" The voice was quiet and clear.
"It is a great pony to run," said Ranald, ashamed of himself.
"Is she not?"
Ranald glanced over his shoulder. Down the road, running with silent,
awful swiftness, he saw the long, low body of the leading wolf flashing
through the bars of moonlight across the road, and the pack following
hard.
"Let her go, Mrs. Murray," cried Ranald. "Whip her and never stop." But
there was no need; the pony was wild with fear, and was doing her best
running.
Ranald meantime was gradually holding in the colt, and the pony drew
away rapidly. But as rapidly the wolves were closing in behind him. They
were not more than a hundred yards away, and gaining every second.
Ranald, remembering the suspicious nature of the brutes, loosened his
coat and dropped it on the road; with a chorus of yelps they paused,
then threw themselves upon it, and in another minute took up the chase.
But now the clearing was in sight. The pony was far ahead, and Ranald
shook out his colt with a yell. He was none too soon, for the pursuing
pack, now uttering short, shrill yelps, were close at the colt's heels.
Lizette, fleet as the wind, could not shake them off. Closer and ever
closer they came, snapping and snarling. Ranald could see them over his
shoulder. A hundred yards more and he would reach his own back lane. The
leader of the pack seemed to feel that his chances were slipping swiftly
away. With a spurt he gained upon Lizette, reached the saddle-girths,
gathered himself into two short jumps, and sprang for the colt's throat.
Instinctively Ranald stood up in his stirrups, and kicking his foot
free, caught the wolf under the jaw. The brute fell with a howl under
the colt's feet, and next moment they were in the lane and safe.
The savage brutes, discouraged by their leader's fall, slowed down their
fierce pursuit, and hearing the deep bay of the Macdonalds' great
deer-hound, Bugle, up at the house, they paused, sniffed the air a few
minutes, then turned and swiftly and silently slid into the dark
shadows. Ranald, knowing that they would hardly dare enter the lane,
checked the colt, and wheeling, watched them disappear.
"I'll have some of your hides some day," he cried, shaking his fist
after them. He hated to be made to run.
He had hardly set the colt's face homeward when he heard something
tearing down the lane to meet him. The colt snorted, swerved, and then
dropping his ears, stood still. It was Bugle, and after him came Mrs.
Murray on the pony.
"Oh, Ranald!" she panted, "thank God you are safe. I was afraid
you--you--" Her voice broke in sobs. Her hood had fallen back from her
white face, and her eyes were shining like two stars. She laid her hand
on Ranald's arm, and her voice grew steady as she said: "Thank God, my
boy, and thank you with all my heart. You risked your life for mine. You
are a brave fellow! I can never forget this!"
"Oh, pshaw!" said Ranald, awkwardly. "You are better stuff than I am.
You came back with Bugle. And I knew Liz could beat the pony." Then they
walked their horses quietly to the stable, and nothing more was said by
either of them; but from that hour Ranald had a friend ready to offer
life for him, though he did not know it then nor till years afterward.
RALPH CONNOR: "The Man from Glengarry."
Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his
friends.
ST. JOHN, XV. 13
IAGOO, THE BOASTER
And Iagoo, the great boaster,
He the marvellous story-teller,
He the friend of old Nokomis,
Saw in all the eyes around him,
Saw in all their looks and gestures,
That the wedding guests assembled,
Longed to hear his pleasant stories,
His immeasurable falsehoods.
Very boastful was Iagoo;
Never heard he an adventure
But himself had met a greater;
Never any deed of daring
But himself had done a bolder;
Never any marvellous story
But himself could tell a stranger.
Would you listen to his boasting,
Would you only give him credence,
No one ever shot an arrow
Half so far and high as he had;
Ever caught so many fishes,
Ever killed so many reindeer,
Ever trapped so many beaver!
None could run so fast as he could,
None could dive so deep as he could,
None could swim so far as he could;
None had made so many journeys,
None had seen so many wonders,
As this wonderful Iagoo,
As this marvellous story-teller!
Thus his name became a by-word
And a jest among the people;
And whene'er a boastful hunter
Praised his own address too highly,
Or a warrior, home returning,
Talked too much of his achievements,
All his hearers cried: "Iagoo!
Here's Iagoo come among us!"
LONGFELLOW: "Hiawatha."
THE STORY OF A FIRE
Thirteen years have passed since, but it is all to me as if it had
happened yesterday,--the clanging of the fire-bells, the hoarse shouts
of the firemen, the wild rush and terror of the streets; then the great
hush that fell upon the crowd; the sea of upturned faces with the fire
glow upon it; and up there, against the background of black smoke that
poured from roof to attic, the boy clinging to the narrow ledge, so far
up that it seemed humanly impossible that help could ever come.