Chapter II (4)

But these last words died away upon Daffy-down-dilly's tongue, for, happening to cast his eyes on the fiddler, whom should he behold again, but the likeness of Mr. Toil, holding a fiddle bow instead of a birch rod.

"Oh, dear!" whispered he, turning pale, "it seems as if there was nobody but Mr. Toil in the world. Who could have thought of his playing on a fiddle!"

"This is not your old schoolmaster," said the stranger, "but another brother of his, who was bred in France, where he learned the profession of a fiddler. He is ashamed of his family, and generally calls himself Mr. Pleasure; but his real name is Toil, and those who have known him best, think him still more disagreeable than his brother."

"Pray let us go a little farther," said Daffy-down-dilly. "I don't like the looks of this fiddler."

Thus the stranger and little Daffy-down-dilly went wandering along the highway, and in shady lanes, and through pleasant villages; and, whithersoever they went, behold! there was the image of old Mr. Toil.

He stood like a scarecrow in the cornfields. If they entered a house, he sat in the parlor; if they peeped into the kitchen, he was there. He made himself at home in every cottage, and, under one disguise or another, stole into the most splendid mansions.

"Oh, take me back!--take me back!" said poor little Daffy-down-dilly, bursting into tears. "If there is nothing but Toil all the world over, I may just as well go back to the schoolhouse."

"Yonder it is,--there is the schoolhouse!" said the stranger; for, though he and little Daffy-down-dilly had taken a great many steps, they had traveled in a circle, instead of a straight line. "Come; we will go back to school together."

There was something in his companion's voice that little Daffy-down-dilly now remembered; and it is strange that he had not remembered it sooner. Looking up into his face, behold! there again was the likeness of old Mr. Toil; so the poor child had been in company with Toil all day, even while he was doing his best to run away from him.

When Daffy-down-dilly became better acquainted with Mr. Toil, he began to think that his ways were not so very disagreeable, and that the old schoolmaster's smile of approbation made his face almost as pleasant as the face of his own dear mother.

_Nathaniel Hawthorne._

"Little Daffy-down-dilly and Other Stories." Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Publishers.

* * * * *

How will the following sentences read if you change the name-words from the singular to the plural form: The old schoolmaster has a rod in his hand. The boy likes his teacher. The girl goes cheerfully on an errand for her mother. The pupil attends to his book, and knows his lesson perfectly. Under the blue sky, and while the bird was singing sweetly in tree and bush, the farmer was making hay in his meadow. The man won't trouble him unless he becomes a laborer on his farm. The captain had a smart cap and feather on his head, a laced coat on his back, a purple sash round his waist, and a long sword instead of a birch rod in his hand.

From points furnished by your teacher, write a short composition on "Our School." Be careful as to spelling, capitals, punctuation, paragraphs, margin, penmanship, neatness and general appearance.

Memory Gems:

Evil is wrought by want of thought,
As well as want of heart.

_Hood._

It is not where you are, but what you are, that determines your happiness.

* * * * *

_63_

su' macs char' coal of fi' cial fres' coes in i' tial rest' less ly

IN SCHOOL DAYS

Still sits the schoolhouse by the road,
A ragged beggar sunning;
Around it still the sumacs grow
And blackberry vines are running.

Within, the master's desk is seen,
Deep scarred by raps official;
The warping floor, the battered seats,
The jackknife's carved initial;

The charcoal frescoes on its wall;
Its door's worn sill, betraying
The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out to playing!

Long years ago a winter sun
Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its western window-panes,
And low eaves' icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls,
And brown eyes full of grieving,
Of one who still her steps delayed
When all the school were leaving.

For near her stood the little boy
Her childish favor singled;
His cap pulled low upon a face
Where pride and shame were mingled.

Pushing with restless feet the snow
To right and left, he lingered;
As restlessly her tiny hands
The blue-checked apron fingered.

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
The soft hand's light caressing,
And heard the tremble of her voice,
As if a fault confessing:

"I'm sorry that I spelt the word;
I hate to go above you,
Because,"--the brown eyes lower fell,--
"Because, you see, I love you!"

Still memory to a gray-haired man
That sweet child-face is showing.
Dear girl! the grasses on her grave
Have forty years been growing!

He lives to learn, in life's hard school,
How few who pass above him
Lament their triumph and his loss,
Like her,--because they love him.

_Whittier._

From "Child Life in Poetry." Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Publishers.

* * * * *

_64_

Mars so' lar (ler) Ve' nus plan' ets Mer' cu ry di am' e ter com' pass es sat' el lite tel' e scope grad' u al ly in' ter est ing cir cum' fer ence

THE SUN'S FAMILY

"Please tell me a story, Frank" said Philip, as the two boys sat in the shade of a large tree.

"I have heard and read many wonderful stories. I will try to recall one," said Frank.

"Let me see. Well--perhaps--I think that the most wonderful story I have ever read is that of the solar system, or the sun's family."

"Solar system!" repeated Philip. "That certainly sounds hard enough to puzzle even a fairy. Please tell me all about it."

"That I should find much too hard" answered Frank. "But I'll try to tell you what little I know. You see the sun there, don't you--the great shining sun? Do you think the sun moves?"

"Of course it moves," said Philip. "I always see it in the morning when I am in the garden. It rises first above the bushes, then over the trees and houses; by evening it has traveled across the sky, when it sinks below the houses and trees, out of sight on the other side of the town."

"Now that is quite a mistake," said Frank, "You think that the sun is traveling all that way along the sky, whereas it is really we--we on this big ball of earth--who are moving. We are whirling around on the outer surface, rushing on at the rate--let me think--at the rate of more than one thousand miles a minute!"

"Frank, what do you mean?" cried Philip.

"I mean that the earth is moving many times faster than a ball moves when shot from the mouth of a cannon!"

"Do you expect me to believe that, Frank! I can hardly believe that this big, solid earth moves at all; but to think of it with all the cities, towns, and people whirling round and round faster than a ball from the mouth of a cannon, while we never feel that it stirs one inch,--this is much harder to believe than all that the fairies have ever told us."

"Yes, but it is quite true for all that," replied Frank.

"I have learned much about the motions of the planets, and viewed the stars one night through a telescope. As I looked through this instrument, the stars appeared to me much larger than ever before. The earth is a planet, and there are besides our earth seven large planets and many small ones, which also whirl around the sun. Some of these planets are larger than our world. Some of them also move much faster.

"The sun is in the middle with the planets moving around him. The one nearest to the sun is Mercury."

"It must be hot there!" cried Philip.

"I dare say that if we were in Mercury we should be scorched to ashes; but if creatures live on that planet, God has given them a different nature from ours, so that they may enjoy what would be dreadful to us.

"The next planet to Mercury is Venus. Venus is sometimes seen shining so bright after sunset; then she is called the evening star. Some of the time, a little before sunrise, she may be seen in the east; she is then called the morning star.

"Venus can never be an evening star and a morning star at the same time of the year. If you are watching her this evening before or after sundown, there is no use getting up early to-morrow to look for her again. For several weeks Venus remains an evening star, then gradually disappears. Two months later you may see her in the east--a bright morning star.

"Our earth is the third planet, and Mars is the fourth from the sun. Now let us make a drawing of what we have been talking about.

"First open the compasses one inch; describe a circle, and make a dot on its circumference, naming it Mercury. Write on this circle eighty-eight days; this shows the time it takes Mercury to travel around the sun. Make another circle three and one-half inches in diameter and make a dot on it. This represents Venus. It takes Venus two hundred twenty-five days to journey around the sun.

"The next circle we have to draw is a very interesting one to us. The compasses must be opened two and one-half inches. The path made represents the journey we take in three hundred sixty-five days.

"One more circle must be drawn to complete our little plan. This circle must be eight inches in diameter. You see Mars is much farther from the sun than our earth is. It takes him six hundred eighty-seven days to make the trip around the sun. The other planets are too far away to be put in this plan."

"O, Frank, you have missed the biggest of all--the moon!" said Philip.

"O, no, no!" exclaimed Frank. "The moon is quite a little ball. It is less than seven thousand miles around her, while our earth is twenty-five thousand miles around."

"Is that a little ball, Frank?"

"Yes, compared with the sun and the planets. The moon is what is called a satellite--that is, a servant or an attendant. She is a satellite of our earth. She keeps circling round and round our earth, while we go circling round and round the sun.

"How fast the moon must travel! If I were to go rushing round a field, and a bird should keep flying around my head, you see that the movements of the bird would be much quicker than mine."

"I can't understand it, Frank," said Philip. "The moon always looks so quiet in the sky. If she is darting about like lightning, why is it that she scarcely seems to move more than an inch in ten minutes?"

"I suppose," said Frank, after a thoughtful silence, "that what to us seems an inch in the sky is really many miles. You know how very fast the steam cars seem to go when one is quite near them, yet I have seen a train of cars far off which seemed to go so slowly that I could fancy it was painted on the sky."

"Yes, that must be the reason; but how do people find out these curious things about the sun and the stars--to know how large they are and how fast they go?" asked Philip.

"That is something we shall understand when we are older," said Frank. "We must gain a little knowledge every day."

"Is the earth the only planet that has a moon?" asked Philip.

"Mercury and Venus have no moons. Mars has two, and Jupiter has four, but we can see them only when we look through a telescope." replied Frank.

"Are all the twinkling stars which one sees on a fine clear night, planets?" inquired Philip.

"Those that twinkle are not planets; they are fixed stars," said Frank. "A planet does not twinkle. It has no light of its own. It shines just as the moon shines, because the sun gives it light."

"But our earth does not shine!" said Philip.

"Indeed it does," explained Frank. "Our earth appears to Venus and Mars as a shining planet."

"There must be many more fixed stars than planets, then, for almost every star that I can see twinkles and sparkles like a diamond. Do these fixed stars all go around the sun?" asked Philip.

"O, Philip! haven't you noticed that they are called fixed stars to show that they do not move like planets? The word _planet_ means to _wander._ These fixed stars are suns themselves, which may have planets of their own. They are so very far away that we cannot know much about them, except that they shine of themselves just as our sun does.

"We know that our sun gives light and heat to the planets and satellites with which he is surrounded. We know that without his warm rays there would not be any flowers or birds or any living thing on the earth. So we can easily imagine that all other suns are shining in the same way for the worlds that surround them."

* * * * *

Make a drawing of the sun and the three planets nearest it, as directed in the lesson.

Fill each blank space in the following sentences with the correct form of the action-word _draw_:

My boys like to --.

Yesterday they -- the picture of an old mill.

They are now -- a picture of the solar system.

The lines on the blackboard were -- by John. He -- well.

* * * * *

_65_

dew' y clos'es ca ress' twined wreaths weath'er brook' let togeth'er

WILL AND I

We roam the hills together,
In the golden summer weather,
Will and I;
And the glowing sunbeams bless us,
And the winds of heaven caress us,
As we wander hand in hand
Through the blissful summer land,
Will and I.

Where the tinkling brooklet passes
Through the heart of dewy grasses,
Will and I
Have heard the mock-bird singing,
And the field lark seen upspringing,
In his happy flight afar,
Like a tiny winged star--
Will and I.

Amid cool forest closes,
We have plucked the wild wood-roses,
Will and I;
And have twined, with tender duty,
Sweet wreaths to crown the beauty
Of the purest brows that shine
With a mother-love divine,
Will and I.

Ah! thus we roam together,
Through the golden summer weather,
Will and I;
While the glowing sunbeams bless us,
And the winds of heaven caress us,
As we wander hand in hand
O'er the blissful summer land,
Will and I.

_Paul H. Hayne._

* * * * *

CLOSES, small inclosed fields.

Write about what you and Will _saw, heard,_ and _did,_ as you roamed together over the hills, through the woods, along the brooklet, on a certain bright, clear day in early summer. You are a country boy and Will is your city cousin. If you begin your composition by saying, "It was a beautiful afternoon towards the end of June," keep the image of the day in mind till the end of the paragraph; tell what _made_ the day beautiful,--such as the sun, the sky, the trees, the grass. In other paragraphs tell the things you saw and heard in the order in which you saw and heard them. Give a paragraph to what you did in the "closes" of the cool forest, and why you plucked the wild flowers. Conclude by telling what a pleasant surprise you gave mother on your return home; and how she surprised you two hungry boys during supper.

In your composition, use as many of the words and phrases of the poem as you can.

* * * * *

_66_

themes her' e sy ramp' ant a chieved' es cort ed po ta'toes trem' u lous lux u' ri ous cre du' li ty in cred' i ble phe nom' e non pre ma ture' ly

CHRISTMAS DINNER AT THE CRATCHITS'.

Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and getting the corners of his monstrous shirt-collar (Bob's private property, conferred upon his son and heir in honor of the day) into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired. And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's they had smelt the goose, and known it for their own; and, basking in luxurious thoughts of sage and onions, they danced about the table, and exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while he (not proud, although his collar nearly choked him) blew the fire, until the potatoes, bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan-lid to be let out and peeled.

"What has ever kept your precious father, then?" said Mrs. Cratchit. "And your brother, Tiny Tim? And Martha wasn't as late last Christmas Day by half an hour!"

"Here's Martha, mother!" cried the two young Cratchits. "Hurrah! There's _such_ a goose, Martha!"

"Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!" said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet for her with officious zeal.

"We'd a deal of work to finish up last night, and had to clear away this morning, mother!"

"Well, never mind so long as you are come," said Mrs. Cratchit. "Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye!"

"No, no! There's father coming," cried the two young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once. "Hide, Martha, hide!"

So Martha hid herself, and in came the father, with at least three feet of comforter, exclusive of the fringe, hanging down before him; and his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, to look seasonable; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his limb supported by an iron frame.

"Why, where's our Martha?" cried Bob Cratchit, looking round.

"Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchit.

"Not coming!" said Bob, with a sudden declension in his high spirits; for he had been Tim's blood-horse all the way from church, and had come home rampant. "Not coming upon Christmas Day!"

Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off to the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper.

"And how did little Tim behave?" asked Mrs. Cratchit, when she had rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart's content.

"As good as gold," said Bob, "and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember, upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk and blind men see."

Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.

His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to his stool beside the fire; and while Bob compounded some hot mixture in a jug, and put it on the hob to simmer, Master Peter and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high procession.

Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter of course--and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and, mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah!

Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't eaten it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows! But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone--too nervous to bear witnesses--to take the pudding up and bring it in.

Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in turning out! Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the backyard and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose--a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid. All sorts of horrors were supposed.

Halloa! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating house and a pastry cook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that! That was the pudding! In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered--flushed, but smiling proudly--with the pudding like a speckled cannon ball, so hard and firm, smoking hot, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.

Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that, now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for so large a family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing.

At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovelful of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass,--two tumblers and a custard cup without a handle.

These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob proposed: "A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!"

Which all the family re[:e]choed.

"God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all.

He sat very close to his father's side, upon his little stool. Bob held his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the child, and wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him.

_Charles Dickens._

* * * * *

DECLENSION, a falling downward.

COPPER, a boiler made of copper.

RALLIED, indulged in pleasant humor.

UBIQUITOUS (u b[)i]k' w[)i] t[)u]s), appearing to be everywhere at the same time.

EKED OUT, added to; increased.

BEDIGHT, bedecked; adorned.

RE[:E]CHOED (reëchoed): What is the mark placed over the second _ë_ called, and what does it denote?

NOTE.--"A Christmas Carol," from which the selection is taken, is considered the best short story that Dickens wrote, and one of the best Christmas stories ever written. The Cratchits were very poor as to the goods of this world, but very rich in love, kindness, and contentment.

* * * * *

_67_

WHICH SHALL IT BE?

Which shall it be? Which shall it be?
I looked at John, John looked at me;
And when I found that I must speak,
My voice seemed strangely low and weak:
"Tell me again what Robert said,"
And then I, listening, bent my head--
This is his letter: "I will give
A house and land while you shall live,
If in return from out your seven
One child to me for aye is given."

I looked at John's old garments worn;
I thought of all that he had borne
Of poverty, and work, and care,
Which I, though willing, could not share;
I thought of seven young mouths to feed,
Of seven little children's need,
And then of this.

"Come, John," said I,
"We'll choose among them as they lie
Asleep." So, walking hand in hand,
Dear John and I surveyed our band:
First to the cradle lightly stepped,
Where Lilian, the baby, slept.
Softly the father stooped to lay
His rough hand down in loving way,
When dream or whisper made her stir,
And huskily he said: "Not her!"

We stooped beside the trundle-bed,
And one long ray of lamplight shed
Athwart the boyish faces there,
In sleep so pitiful and fair;
I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek
A tear undried. Ere John could speak,
"He's but a baby too," said I,
And kissed him as we hurried by.
Pale, patient Robbie's angel face
Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace--
"No, for a thousand crowns, not him!"
He whispered, while our eyes were dim.

Poor Dick! bad Dick, our wayward son--
Turbulent, restless, idle one--
Could he be spared? Nay, He who gave
Bade us befriend him to the grave;
Only a mother's heart could be
Patient enough for such as he;
"And so," said John, "I would not dare
To take him from her bedside prayer."

Then stole we softly up above,
And knelt by Mary, child of love;
"Perhaps for her 'twould better be,"
I said to John. Quite silently
He lifted up a curl that lay
Across her cheek in wilful way,
And shook his head: "Nay, love, not thee,"
The while my heart beat audibly.

Only one more, our eldest lad,
Trusty and truthful, good and glad,
So like his father. "No, John, no!
I cannot, will not, let him go."
And so we wrote in courteous way,
We could not give one child away;
And afterwards toil lighter seemed,
Thinking of that of which we dreamed,
Happy in truth that not one face
Was missed from its accustomed place,
Thankful to work for all the seven,
Trusting the rest to One in Heaven!

_Anonymous_.

* * * * *

Write the story of the poem in the form of a composition. Tell of the great affection of parents for their children. Even in the poorest and most numerous families, what parent could think of parting with a child for any sum of money?

Tell about the letter John and his wife received from a rich man without children who wished to adopt one of their seven. Tell about the offer the rich man made. What a great temptation this was!

The parents considered the offer, looked into each other's faces and asked, "Which shall it be?" Not the baby. Why? Not the two youngest boys. Why? Not the poor helpless little cripple. Why? Not the sweet child, Mary. Why? Not Dick, the wayward son. Why? Not, for worlds, the oldest boy. Why?

Tell the answer the parents sent the rich man.

* * * * *

_68_

Dor'o thy in her'it ance Cap pa do' ci a ob' sti na cy The oph' i lus ex e cu' tion ers

ST. DOROTHY, MARTYR

The names of St. Catherine and St. Agnes, St. Lucy and St. Cecilia, are familiar to us all; and to many of us, no doubt, their histories are well known also. Young as they were, they despised alike the pleasures and the flatteries of the world. They chose God alone as their portion and inheritance; and He has highly exalted them, and placed their names amongst those glorious martyrs whose memory is daily honored in the holy Sacrifice of the Mass.

St. Dorothy was another of these virgin saints. She was born in the city of Cæsarea, and was descended of a rich and noble family. While the last of the ten terrible persecutions, which for three hundred years steeped the Church in the blood of martyrs, was raging, Dorothy embraced the faith of Christ, and, in consequence, was seized and carried before the Roman Prefect of the city.

She was put to the most cruel tortures, and, at length, condemned to death. When the executioners were preparing to behead her, the Prefect said, "Now, at least, confess your folly, and pray to the immortal gods for pardon."

"I pray," replied the martyr, "that the God of heaven and earth may pardon and have mercy on you; and I will also pray when I reach the land whither I am going."

"Of what land do you speak?" asked the judge, who, like most of the pagans, had very little notion of another world.

"I speak of that land where Christ, the Son of God, dwells with his saints," replied St. Dorothy. "_There_ is neither night nor sorrow; _there_ is the river of life, and the brightness of eternal glory; and _there_ is a paradise of all delight, and flowers that shall never fade."

"I pray you, then," said a young man, named Theophilus, who was listening to her words with pity mingled with wonder, "if these things be so, to send me some of those flowers, when you shall have reached the land you speak of."

Dorothy looked at him as he spoke; and then answered: "Theophilus, you shall have the sign you ask for." There was no time for more; the executioner placed her before the block, and, in another moment, with one blow, he struck off the head of the holy martyr.

"Those were strange words," said Theophilus to one of his friends, as they were about to leave the court; "but these Christians are not like other people." "Their obstinacy is altogether surprising," rejoined his friend; "death itself will never make them waver. But who is this, Theophilus?" he continued, as a young boy came up to them, of such singular beauty that the eyes of all were fixed upon him with wonder and admiration. He seemed not more than ten years old; his golden hair fell on his shoulders, and in his hand he bore four roses, two white and two red, and of so brilliant a color and rich a fragrance that their like had never before been seen. He held them out to Theophilus. "These flowers are for you," said he; "will you not take them?" "And whence do you bring them, my boy?" asked Theophilus. "From Dorothy," he replied, "and they are the sign you even now asked for." "Roses, and in winter time!" said Theophilus, as he took the flowers; "yea, and such roses as never blossomed in any earthly garden. Prefect, your task is not yet ended; your sword has slain one Christian, but it has made another; I, too, profess the faith for which Dorothy died."

Within another hour, Theophilus was condemned to death by the enraged Prefect; and on the spot where Dorothy had been beheaded, he too poured forth his blood, and obtained the crown of martyrdom.

* * * * *

CÆSAREA (s[)e]s [.a] r[=e]' [.a]), an ancient city of Palestine. It is celebrated as being the scene of many events recorded in the New Testament.

Memory Gem:

Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave.

_A line from Lowell's "0de."_

* * * * *

_69_

TO A BUTTERFLY.

I've watched you now a full half hour
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little butterfly, indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless!--not frozen seas
More motionless!--and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard ground is ours;
My trees they are, my sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now!

_Wordsworth_.

* * * * *

SELF-POISED, balanced.

What is a sanctuary? In the Temple at Jerusalem, what was the Holy of Holies? Why are the sanctuaries of Catholic churches so supremely holy?

Why are "sweet childish days" as long "As twenty days are now?"

Tell what you know of the author's life.

Memorize the poem.

* * * * *

_70_

re tort' ed quizzed in cred' i ble man u fac' ture sat' ire vi o lin' ist com pre hend' me lo' di ous ly hu' mor ex hib' it a chieve' ments for' ests

THE PEN AND THE INKSTAND.

In the room of a poet, where his inkstand stood upon the table, it was said, "It is wonderful what can come out of an inkstand. What will the next thing be? It is wonderful!"

"Yes, certainly," said the Inkstand. "It's extraordinary--that's what I always say," he exclaimed to the pen and to the other articles on the table that were near enough to hear. "It is wonderful what a number of things can come out of me. It's quite incredible. And I really don't myself know what will be the next thing, when that man begins to dip into me. One drop out of me is enough for half a page of paper; and what cannot be contained in half a page?

"From me all the works of the poet go forth--all these living men, whom people can imagine they have met--all the deep feeling, the humor, the vivid pictures of nature. I myself don't understand how it is, for I am not acquainted with nature, but it certainly is in me. From me all things have gone forth, and from me proceed the troops of charming maidens, and of brave knights on prancing steeds, and all the lame and the blind, and I don't know what more--I assure you I don't think of anything."

"There you are right," said the Pen; "you don't think at all; for if you did, you would comprehend that you only furnish the fluid. You give the fluid, that I may exhibit upon the paper what dwells in me, and what I would bring to the day. It is the pen that writes. No man doubts that; and, indeed, most people have about as much insight into poetry as an old inkstand."

"You have but little experience," replied the Inkstand. "You've hardly been in service a week, and are already half worn out. Do you fancy you are the poet? You are only a servant; and before you came I had many of your sorts, some of the goose family, and others of English manufacture. I know the quill as well as the steel pen. Many have been in my service, and I shall have many more when _he_ comes--the man who goes through the motions for me, and writes down what he derives from me. I should like to know what will be the next thing he'll take out of me."

"Inkpot!" exclaimed the Pen.

Late in the evening the poet came home. He had been to a concert, where he had heard a famous violinist, with whose admirable performances he was quite enchanted. The player had drawn a wonderful wealth of tone from the instrument; sometimes it had sounded like tinkling water-drops, like rolling pearls, sometimes like birds twittering in chorus, and then again it went swelling on like the wind through the fir trees.

The poet thought he heard his own heart weeping, but weeping melodiously, like the sound of woman's voice. It seemed as though not only the strings sounded, but every part of the instrument.

It was a wonderful performance; and difficult as the piece was, the bow seemed to glide easily to and fro over the strings, and it looked as though every one might do it. The violin seemed to sound of itself, and the bow to move of itself--those two appeared to do everything; and the audience forgot the master who guided them and breathed soul and spirit into them. The master was forgotten; but the poet remembered him, and named him, and wrote down his thoughts concerning the subject:

"How foolish it would be of the violin and the bow to boast of their achievements. And yet we men often commit this folly--the poet, the artist, the laborer in the domain of science, the general--we all do it. We are only the instruments which the Almighty uses: to Him alone be the honor! We have nothing of which we should be proud."

Yes, that is what the poet wrote down. He wrote it in the form of a parable, which he called "The Master and the Instrument."

"That is what you get, madam," said the Pen to the Inkstand, when the two were alone again. "Did you not hear him read aloud what I have written down?"

"Yes, what I gave you to write," retorted the Inkstand. "That was a cut at you, because of your conceit. That you should not even have understood that you were being quizzed! I gave you a cut from within me--surely I must know my own satire!"

"Ink-pipkin!" cried the Pen.

"Writing-stick!" cried the Inkstand.

And each of them felt a conviction that he had answered well; and it is a pleasing conviction to feel that one has given a good answer--a conviction on which one can sleep; and accordingly they slept upon it. But the poet did not sleep. Thoughts welled up from within him, like the tones from the violin, falling like pearls, rushing like the storm-wind through the forests. He understood his own heart in these thoughts, and caught a ray from the Eternal Master. To _Him_ be all the honor!

_Hans Christian Andersen._

* * * * *

PIPKIN, a small pipe; a small jar made of baked clay.

Write as many synonyms as you know, or can find, of the words _vivid, exhibit, comprehend_. Consult the dictionary.

What one word may you use instead of "laborer in the domain of science?"

Seek in your dictionary the definition of the word _parable_. Relate one of our Lord's parables.

By means of the prefixes and suffixes that you have learned, form as many words as you can from the following: man, do, late, loud, art, room, blind, easy, heart, humor, vivid, maiden, famous, service, furnished.

* * * * *

_71_

THE WIND AND THE MOON.

Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out.
You stare in the air
Like a ghost in a chair,
Always looking what I am about,
I hate to be watched; I'll blow you out."

The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon.
So, deep on a heap
Of clouds, to sleep
Down lay the Wind and slumbered soon,
Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon."

He turned in his bed; she was there again!
On high in the sky,
With her one ghost eye,
The Moon shone white and alive and plain.
Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again."

The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim.
"With my sledge and my wedge
I have knocked off her edge.
If only I blow right fierce and grim,
The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."

He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread:
"One puff more's enough
To blow her to snuff!
One good puff more where the last was bred,
And glimmer, glimmer, glum, will go the thread."

He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone,
In the air nowhere
Was a moonbeam bare;
Far off and harmless the shy stars shone;
Sure and certain the Moon was gone!

The Wind he took to his revels once more;
On down, in town,
Like a merry-mad clown,
He leaped and holloed with whistle and roar,--
"What's that?" The glimmering thread once more!

He flew in a rage--he danced and he blew;
But in vain was the pain
Of his bursting brain;
For still the broader the moon-scrap grew,
The broader he swelled his big cheeks, and blew.

Slowly she grew, till she filled the night,
And shone on her throne
In the sky alone,
A matchless, wonderful, silvery light,
Radiant and lovely, the Queen of the Night.

Said the Wind: "What a marvel of power am I!
With my breath, good faith!
I blew her to death--
First blew her away right out of the sky,
Then blew her in; what a strength am I!"

But the Moon she knew nothing about the affair;
For, high in the sky,
With her one white eye,
Motionless, miles above the air,
She had never heard the great Wind blare.

_George MacDonald._

* * * * *

DOWN (7th stanza), a tract of sandy, hilly land near the sea.

GLIMMER, fainter.

GLUM, dark, gloomy.

What is a suffix? What does the suffix _less_ mean? Define _cloudless, matchless, motionless._

What class of people does Mr. Wind remind you of?

* * * * *

_72_

mi' ter can'on car' di nal dis course' di' a logue cour'te ous ly

ST. PHILIP NERI AND THE YOUTH.

St. Philip Neri, as old readings say,
Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day,
And being ever courteously inclined
To give young folks a sober turn of mind,
He fell into discourse with him, and thus
The dialogue they held comes down to us.

_Saint_.--Tell me what brings you, gentle youth, to Rome?
_Youth_.--To make myself a scholar, sir, I come.
_St_.--And when you are one, what do you intend?
_Y_.--To be a priest, I hope, sir, in the end.
_St_.--Suppose it so; what have you next in view?
_Y_.--That I may get to be a canon too.
_St_.--Well; and what then?
_Y_.-- Why then, for aught I know,
I may be made a bishop.
_St_.-- Be it so,--
What next?
_Y_.-- Why, cardinal's a high degree;
And yet my lot it possibly may be.
_St_.--Suppose it was; what then?
_Y_.-- Why, who can say
But I've a chance of being pope one day?
_St_.--Well, having worn the miter and red hat,
And triple crown, what follows after that?

_Y_.--Nay, there is nothing further, to be sure,
Upon this earth, that wishing can procure:
When I've enjoyed a dignity so high
As long as God shall please, then I must die.

_St_.--What! must you die? fond youth, and at the best,
But wish, and hope, and may be, all the rest!
Take my advice--whatever may betide,
For that which _must be_, first of all provide;
Then think of that which _may be_; and indeed,
When well prepared, who knows what may succeed,
But you may be, as you are pleased to hope,
Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope.

* * * * *

ST. PHILIP NERI, born in Florence, Italy, in 1515. Went to Rome in 1533, where he founded the "Priests of the Oratory," and where he died in 1595.

TRIPLE CROWN, the tiara; the crown worn by our Holy Father, the Pope.

Use correctly in sentences the words _canon, cannon, cañon._

NOTE.--It will prove interesting if one pupil reads the first six lines of the selection, and two others personate St. Philip and the Youth.

The whole selection might be given from memory.

* * * * *

_73_

mag' ic sta' mens de sert' ed pet' als pic' tures dis cour' aged liq' uid sat' is fied per se ver' ance

THE WATER LILY.

There was once a little boy who was very fond of pictures. There were not many pictures for him to look at, for he lived long ago near a great American forest. His father and mother had come from England, but his father was dead now. His mother was very poor, but there were still a few beautiful pictures on the walls of her house.

The little boy liked to copy these pictures; but as he was not fond of work, he often threw his drawings away before they were half done. He said that he wished that some good fairy would finish them for him.

"Child," said his mother, "I don't believe that there are any fairies. I never saw one, and your father never saw one. Mind your books, my child, and never mind the fairies."

"Very well, mother," said the boy.

"It makes me sad to see you stand looking at the pictures," said his mother another day, as she laid her hand on his curly head. "Why, child, pictures can't feed a body, pictures can't clothe a body, and a log of wood is far better to burn and warm a body."

"All that is quite true, mother," said the boy.

"Then why do you keep looking at them, child?" but the boy could only say, "I don't know, mother."

"You don't know! Nor I, neither! Why, child, you look at the dumb things as if you loved them! Put on your cap and run out to play."

So the boy wandered off into the forest till he came to the brink of a little sheet of water. It was too small to be called a lake; but it was deep and clear, and was overhung with tall trees. It was evening, and the sun was getting low. The boy stood still beside the water and thought how beautiful it was to see the sun, red and glorious, between the black trunks of the pine trees. Then he looked up at the great blue sky and thought how beautiful it was to see the little clouds folding over one another like a belt of rose-colored waves. Then he looked at the lake and saw the clouds and the sky and the trees all reflected there, down among the lilies.

And he wished that he were a painter, for he said to himself, "I am sure there are no trees in the world with such beautiful leaves as these pines. I am sure there are no clouds in the world so lovely as these. I know this is the prettiest little lake in the world, and if I could paint it, every one else would know it, too."

But he had nothing to paint with. So he picked a lily and sat down with it in his hand and tried very hard to make a correct drawing of it. But he could not make a very good picture. At last he threw down his drawing and said to the lily:

"You are too beautiful to draw with a pencil. How I wish I were a painter!"

As he said these words he felt the flower move. He looked, and the cluster of stamens at the bottom of the lily-cup glittered like a crown of gold. The dewdrops which hung upon the stamens changed to diamonds before his eyes. The white petals flowed together, and the next moment a beautiful little fairy stood on his hand. She was no taller than the lily from which she came, and she was dressed in a robe of the purest white.

"Child, are you happy?" she asked.

"No," said the boy in a low voice, "because I want to paint and I cannot."

"How do you know that you cannot?" asked the fairy.

"Oh, I have tried a great many times. It is of no use to try any more."

"But I will help you."

"Oh," said the boy. "Then I might succeed."

"I heard your wish, and I am willing to help you," said the fairy. "I know a charm which will give you success. But you must do exactly as I tell you. Do you promise to obey?"

"Spirit of a water lily!" said the boy, "I promise with all my heart."

"Go home, then," said the fairy, "and you will find a little key on the doorstep. Take it up and carry it to the nearest pine tree; strike the trunk with it, and a keyhole will appear. Do not be afraid to unlock the door. Slip in your hand, and you will bring out a magic palette. You must be very careful to paint with colors from that palette every day. On this depends the success of the charm. You will find that it will make your pictures beautiful and full of grace.

"If you do not break the spell, I promise you that in a few years you shall be able to paint this lily so well that you will be satisfied; and that you shall become a truly great painter."

"Can it be possible?" said the boy. And the hand on which the fairy stood trembled for joy.

"It shall be so, if only you do not break the charm," said the fairy. "But lest you forget what you owe to me, and as you grow older even begin to doubt that you have ever seen me, the lily you gathered to-day will never fade till my promise is fulfilled."

The boy raised his eyes, and when he looked again there was nothing in his hand but the flower.

He arose with the lily in his hand, and went home at once. There on the doorstep was the little key, and in the pine tree he found the magic palette. He was so delighted with it and so afraid that he might break the spell that he began to work that very night. After that he spent nearly all his time working with the magic palette. He often passed whole days beside the sheet of water in the forest. He painted it when the sun shone on it and it was spotted all over with the reflections of fleeting white clouds. He painted it covered with water lilies rocking on the ripples. He painted it by moonlight, when but two or three stars in the empty sky shone down upon it; and at sunset, when it lay trembling like liquid gold.

So the years passed, and the boy grew to be a man. He had never broken the charm. The lily had never faded, and he still worked every day with his magic palette.

But no one cared for his pictures. Even his mother did not like them. His forests and misty hills and common clouds were too much like the real ones. She said she could see as good any day by looking out of her window. All this made the young man very unhappy. He began to doubt whether he should ever be a painter, and one day he threw down his palette. He thought the fairy had deserted him.

He threw himself on his bed. It grew dark, and he soon fell asleep; but in the middle of the night he awoke with a start. His chamber was full of light, and his fairy friend stood near.

"Shall I take back my gift?" she asked.

"Oh, no, no, no!" he cried. He was rested now, and he did not feel so much discouraged.

"If you still wish to go on working, take this ring," said the fairy. "My sister sends it to you. Wear it, and it will greatly assist the charm."

He took the ring, and the fairy was gone. The ring was set with a beautiful blue stone, which reflected everything bright that came near it; and he thought he saw inside the ring the one word--"Hope."

Many more years passed. The young man's mother died, and he went far, far from home. In the strange land to which he went people thought his pictures were wonderful; and he had become a great and famous painter.