Chapter II (5)

One day he went to see a large collection of pictures in a great city. He saw many of his own pictures, and some of them had been painted before he left his forest home. All the people and the painters praised them; but there was one that they liked better than the others. It was a picture of a little child, holding in its hands several water lilies.

Toward evening the people departed one by one, till he was left alone with his masterpieces. He was sitting in a chair thinking of leaving the place, when he suddenly fell asleep. And he dreamed that he was again standing near the little lake in his native land, watching the rays of the setting sun as they melted away from its surface. The beautiful lily was in his hand, and while he looked at it the leaves became withered, and fell at his feet. Then he felt a light touch on his hand. He looked up, and there on the chair beside him stood the little fairy.

"O wonderful fairy!" he cried, "how can I thank you for your magic gift? I can give you nothing but my thanks. But at least tell me your name, so that I may cut it on a ring and always wear it."

"My name," replied the fairy, "is Perseverance."

_Jean Ingelow._

* * * * *

Name the different objects you see in the picture. What did the artist desire to tell? What is the central object? Where is the scene of the picture placed? What time of the day and of the year does it show?

Describe the boy. How old is he? What impresses you most about him?

Suppose your teacher took the class to this lake for a day's outing. Write a composition on how the day was spent.

* * * * *

_74_

A BUILDER'S LESSON.

Memorize:

"How shall I a habit break?"
As you did that habit make.
As you gathered, you must lose;
As you yielded, now refuse.
Thread by thread the strands we twist
Till they bind us, neck and wrist;
Thread by thread the patient hand
Must untwine, ere free we stand.
As we builded, stone by stone,
We must toil, unhelped, alone,
Till the wall is overthrown.

But remember, as we try,
Lighter every test goes by;
Wading in, the stream grows deep
Toward the center's downward sweep;
Backward turn, each step ashore
Shallower is than that before.

Ah, the precious years we waste
Leveling what we raised in haste:
Doing what must be undone
Ere content or love be won!
First, across the gulf we cast
Kite-borne threads, till lines are passed,
And habit builds the bridge at last!

_John Boyle O'Reilly._

* * * * *

Memory Gem:

Habit is a cable. Every day we weave a thread, until at last it is so strong we cannot break it.

* * * * *

_75_

in ured' ru' di ments nine' ti eth ma tur' er ac' cu ra cy in ad vert' ence an' ec dotes e ner' vate in cor' po ra ted dig' ni fied in junc' tion pre var i ca' tion

WASHINGTON AND HIS MOTHER.

Some of the most interesting anecdotes of the early life of Washington were derived from his mother, a dignified matron who, by the death of her husband, while her children were young, became the sole conductress of their education. To the inquiry, what course she had pursued in rearing one so truly illustrious, she replied, "Only to require obedience, diligence, and truth."

These simple rules, faithfully enforced, and incorporated with the rudiments of character, had a powerful influence over his future greatness.

He was early accustomed to accuracy in all his statements, and to speak of his faults and omissions without prevarication or disguise. Hence arose that noble openness of soul, and contempt of deceit in others, which ever distinguished him. Once, by an inadvertence of his youth, considerable loss had been incurred, and of such a nature as to interfere with the plans of his mother. He came to her, frankly owning his error, and she replied, while tears of affection moistened her eyes, "I had rather it should be so, than that my son should have been guilty of a falsehood."

She was careful not to enervate him by luxury or weak indulgence. He was inured to early rising, and never permitted to be idle. Sometimes he engaged in labors which the children of wealthy parents would now account severe, and thus acquired firmness of frame and a disregard of hardship.

The systematic employment of time, which from childhood he had been taught, was of great service when the weight of a nation's concerns devolved upon him. It was then observed by those who surrounded him, that he was never known to be in a hurry, but found time for the transaction of the smallest affairs in the midst of the greatest and most conflicting duties.

Such benefit did he derive from attention to the counsels of his mother. His obedience to her commands, when a child, was cheerful and strict; and as he approached to maturer years, the expression of her slightest wish was law.

At length, America having secured her independence, and the war being ended, Washington, who for eight years had not tasted the repose of home, hastened with filial reverence to ask his mother's blessing. The hero, "first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen," came to lay his laurels at his mother's feet.

This venerable woman continued, till past her ninetieth year, to be respected and beloved by all around. With pious grief, Washington closed her eyes and laid her in the grave which she had selected for herself.

We have now seen the man who was the leader of victorious armies, the conqueror of a mighty kingdom, and the admiration of the world, in the delightful attitude of an obedient and affectionate son. She, whom he honored with such filial reverence, said that "he had learned to command others by first learning to obey."

Let those, then, who in the morning of life are ambitious of future eminence, cultivate the virtue of filial obedience, and remember that they cannot be either fortunate or happy while they neglect the injunction, "My son, keep thy father's commandments, and forsake not the law of thy mother."

* * * * *

CONDUCTRESS, a woman who leads or directs.

The suffix _-ess_ is used to form feminine name-words.

Tell what each of the following words means:

ab' bess ac' tress duch' ess li' on ess count' ess po' et ess song' stress au' thor ess di rect' ress

Use the following homonyms in sentences:

air, ere, e'er, heir; oar, ore, o'er; in, inn; four, fore; vain, vein; vale, veil; core, corps; their, there; hear, here; fair, fare; sweet, suite; strait, straight.

* * * * *

_76_

na' tal a main' toc' sin re count' ed

WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY.

'Tis splendid to have a record
So white and free from stain
That, held to the light, it shows no blot,
Though tested and tried amain;
That age to age forever
Repeats its story of love,
And your birthday lives in a nation's heart,
All other days above.

And this is Washington's glory,
A steadfast soul and true,
Who stood for his country's honor
When his country's days were few.
And now when its days are many,
And its flag of stars is flung
To the breeze in radiant glory,
His name is on every tongue.

Yes, it's splendid to live so bravely,
To be so great and strong,
That your memory is ever a tocsin
To rally the foes of wrong;
To live so proudly and purely,
That your people pause in their way,
And year by year, with banner and drum,
Keep the thought of your natal day.

_Margaret E. Sangster._

By permission of the author.

* * * * *

_77_

Brit' on (un) ant' lers wrin' kled vet' er an im mor' tal

THE SWORD OF BUNKER HILL.

He lay upon his dying bed,
His eye was growing dim,
When, with a feeble voice, he called
His weeping son to him:
"Weep not, my boy," the veteran said,
"I bow to heaven's high will;
But quickly from yon antlers bring
The sword of Bunker Hill."

The sword was brought; the soldier's eye
Lit with a sudden flame;
And, as he grasped the ancient blade,
He murmured Warren's name;
Then said, "My boy, I leave you gold,
But what is richer still,
I leave you, mark me, mark me well,
The sword of Bunker Hill.

"'Twas on that dread, immortal day,
I dared the Briton's band;
A captain raised his blade on me,
I tore it from his hand;
And while the glorious battle raged,
It lightened Freedom's will;
For, son, the God of Freedom blessed
The sword of Bunker Hill.

"Oh! keep this sword," his accents broke,--
A smile--and he was dead;
But his wrinkled hand still grasped the blade,
Upon that dying bed.
The son remains, the sword remains,
Its glory growing still,
And twenty millions bless the sire
And sword of Bunker Hill.

_William R. Wallace._

* * * * *

_78_

es' say buoy' ant in sip' id fe quent' ing scowl' ing ly sug ges' tion in tel' li gence sin' gu lar ly so lic' i tude com pet' i tor phi los' o pher ve' he ment ly tre men' dous ly ex pos tu la' tion ig no min' i ous ly

THE MARTYR'S BOY.

It is a youth full of grace, and sprightliness, and candor, that comes forward with light and buoyant steps across the open court, towards the inner hall; and we shall hardly find time to sketch him before he reaches it. He is about fourteen years old, but tall for that age, with elegance of form and manliness of bearing. His bare neck and limbs are well developed by healthy exercise; his features display an open and warm heart, while his lofty forehead, round which his brown hair naturally curls, beams with a bright intelligence. He wears the usual youth's garment, the short toga, reaching below the knee, and a hollow spheroid of gold suspended round his neck. A bundle of papers and vellum rolls fastened together, and carried by an old servant behind him, shows us that he is just returning home from school.

While we have been thus noting him, he has received his mother's embrace, and has sat himself low by her feet. She gazes upon him for some time in silence, as if to discover in his countenance the cause of his unusual delay, for he is an hour late in his return. But he meets her glance with so frank a look, and with such a smile of innocence, that every cloud of doubt is in a moment dispelled, and she addresses him as follows:

"What has detained you to-day, my dearest boy? No accident, I trust, has happened to you on the way."

"Oh, none, I assure you, sweetest mother; on the contrary, all has been so delightful that I can scarcely venture to tell you."

A look of smiling, expostulation drew from the open-hearted boy a delicious laugh, as he continued: "Well, I suppose I must. You know I am never happy if I have failed to tell you all the bad and the good of the day about myself. But, to-day, for the first time, I have a doubt whether I ought to tell you all."

Did the mother's heart flutter more than usual, as from a first anxiety, or was there a softer solicitude dimming her eye, that the youth should seize her hand and put it tenderly to his lips, while he thus replied:

"Fear nothing, mother most beloved, your son has done nothing that may give you pain. Only say, do you wish to hear _all_ that has befallen me to-day, or only the cause of my late return home?"

"Tell me all, dear Pancratius," she answered; "nothing that concerns you can be indifferent to me."

"Well, then," he began, "this last day of my frequenting school appears to me to have been singularly blessed. First, I was crowned as the successful competitor in a declamation, which our good master Cassianus set us for our work during the morning hours; and this led, as you will hear, to some singular discoveries. The subject was, 'That the real philosopher should be ever ready to die for the truth.' I never heard anything so cold or insipid (I hope it is not wrong to say so) as the compositions read by my companions. It was not their fault, poor fellows! what truth can they possess, and what inducements can they have to die for any of their vain opinions? But to a Christian, what charming suggestions such a theme naturally makes! And so I felt it. My heart glowed, and all my thoughts seemed to burn, as I wrote my essay, full of the lessons you have taught me, and of the domestic examples that are before me. The son of a martyr could not feel otherwise. But when my turn came to read my declamation, I found that my feelings had nearly betrayed me. In the warmth of my recitation, the word 'Christian' escaped my lips instead of 'philosopher,' and 'faith' instead of 'truth,' At the first mistake, I saw Cassianus start; at the second, I saw a tear glisten in his eye, as bending affectionately towards me, he said, in a whisper, 'Beware, my child, there are sharp ears listening.'"

"What, then," interrupted the mother, "is Cassianus a Christian? I chose his school because it was in the highest repute for learning and morality; and now indeed I thank God that I did so. But in these days of danger we are obliged to live as strangers in our own land. Certainly, had Cassianus proclaimed his faith, his school would soon have been deserted. But go on, my dear boy. Were his apprehensions well grounded?"

"I fear so; for while the great body of my school-fellows vehemently applauded my hearty declamation, I saw the dark eyes of Corvinus bent scowlingly upon me, as he bit his lip in manifest anger."

"And who is he, my child, that was so displeased, and wherefore?"

"He is the strongest, but, unfortunately, the dullest boy in the school. But this, you know, is not his fault. Only, I know not why, he seems ever to have had a grudge against me, the cause of which I cannot understand."

"Did he say aught to you, or do?"

"Yes, and was the cause of my delay. For when we went forth from school into the field by the river, he addressed me insultingly in the presence of our companions, and said, 'Come, Pancratius, this, I understand, is the last time we meet _here_; but I have a long score to demand payment of from you. You have loved to show your superiority in school over me and others older and better than yourself; I saw your supercilious looks at me as you spouted your high-flown declamation to-day; ay, and I caught expressions in it which you may live to rue, and that very soon. Before you leave us, I must have my revenge. If you are worthy of your name let us fairly contend in more manly strife than that of the style and tables. Wrestle with me, or try the cestus against me. I burn to humble you as you deserve, before these witnesses of your insolent triumphs.'"

The anxious mother bent eagerly forward as she listened, and scarcely breathed. "And what," she exclaimed, "did you answer, my dear son?"

"I told him gently that he was quite mistaken; for never had I consciously done anything that could give pain to him or any of my school-fellows; nor did I ever dream of claiming superiority over them. 'And as to what you propose,' I added, 'you know, Corvinus, that I have always refused to indulge in personal combats, which, beginning in a cool trial of skill, end in an angry strife, hatred, and wish for revenge. How much less could I think of entering on them now, when you avow that you are anxious to begin them with those evil feelings which are usually their bad end?' Our school-mates had now formed a circle round us; and I clearly saw that they were all against me, for they had hoped to enjoy some of the delights of their cruel games; I therefore cheerfully added, 'And now, my comrades, good-by, and may all happiness attend you. I part from you, as I have lived with you, in peace,' 'Not so,' replied Corvinus, now purple in the face with fury; 'but--'"

The boy's countenance became crimsoned, his voice quivered, his body trembled, and, half-choked, he sobbed out, "I cannot go on; I dare not tell the rest!"

"I entreat you, for God's sake, and for the love you bear your father's memory," said the mother, placing her hand upon her son's head, "conceal nothing from me. I shall never again have rest if you tell me not all. What further said or did Corvinus?"

The boy recovered himself by a moment's pause and a silent prayer, and then proceeded:

"'Not so!' exclaimed Corvinus, 'not so do you depart! You have concealed your abode from us, but I will find you out; till then bear this token of my determined purpose to be revenged!' So saying, he dealt me a furious blow upon the face, which made me reel and stagger, while a shout of savage delight broke forth from the boys around us."

He burst into tears, which relieved him, and then went on:

"Oh, how I felt my blood boil at that moment; how my heart seemed bursting within me; and a voice appeared to whisper in my ear the name of 'coward!' It surely was an evil spirit. I felt that I was strong enough--my rising anger made me so--to seize my unjust assailant by the throat, and cast him gasping on the ground. I heard already the shout of applause that would have hailed my victory and turned the tables against him. It was the hardest struggle of my life; never were flesh and blood so strong within me. O God! may they never be again so tremendously powerful."

"And what did you do, then, my darling boy?" gasped forth the trembling matron.

He replied, "My good angel conquered the demon at my side. I stretched forth my hand to Corvinus, and said, 'May God forgive you, as I freely and fully do; and may He bless you abundantly.' Cassianus came up at that moment, having seen all from a distance, and the youthful crowd quickly dispersed. I entreated him, by our common faith, now acknowledged between us, not to pursue Corvinus for what he had done; and I obtained his promise. And now, sweet mother," murmured the boy, in soft, gentle accents, into his parent's bosom, "do you think I may call this a happy day?"

_"Fabiola"--Cardinal Wiseman._

* * * * *

SPHEROID (sf[=e]'), a body or figure in shape like a sphere.

VELLUM, a fine kind of parchment, made of the skin of a lamb, goat, sheep or young calf, for writing on.

THEME, a subject or topic on which a person writes or speaks.

SCORE, bill, account, reckoning.

SUPERCIL'IOUS, proud, haughty.

STYLES AND TABLES, writing implements for schools. The tables or tablets were covered with wax, on which the letters were traced by the sharp point of the style, and erased by its flat top.

CESTUS, a covering for the hands of boxers, made of leather bands, and often loaded with lead or iron.

"IF YOU ARE WORTHY OF YOUR NAME." Reference is here made by Corvinus to the _pancratium_, an athletic exercise among the Romans, which combined all personal contests, such as boxing, wrestling, etc.

CASSIANUS, St. Cassian, who, though a Bishop, opened a school for Roman youths. Having confessed Christ, and refusing to offer sacrifice to the gods, the pagan judge commanded that his own pupils should stab him to death with their iron writing pencils, called styles.

AY or AYE, meaning _yes_, is pronounced _[=i]_ or _[:a][)i]_; meaning _ever_, and used only in poetry, it is pronounced _[=a]_.

Read carefully two or three times the opening paragraph of the selection, so that the picture conveyed by the words may be clearly impressed on the mind. Then with book closed write out in your own words a description of "The Martyr's Boy."

* * * * *

_79_

THE ANGEL'S STORY.

Through the blue and frosty heavens
Christmas stars were shining bright;
Glistening lamps throughout the City
Almost matched their gleaming light;
While the winter snow was lying,
And the winter winds were sighing,
Long ago, one Christmas night.

* * * * *

Rich and poor felt love and blessing
From the gracious season fall;
Joy and plenty in the cottage,
Peace and feasting in the hall;
And the voices of the children
Ringing clear above it all.

Yet one house was dim and darkened;
Gloom, and sickness, and despair,
Dwelling in the gilded chambers,
Creeping up the marble stair,
Even stilled the voice of mourning,--
For a child lay dying there.

Silken curtains fell around him,
Velvet carpets hushed the tread,
Many costly toys were lying
All unheeded by his bed;
And his tangled golden ringlets
Were on downy pillows spread.

The skill of all that mighty City
To save one little life was vain,--
One little thread from being broken,
One fatal word from being spoken;
Nay, his very mother's pain
And the mighty love within her
Could not give him health again.

* * * * *

Suddenly an unseen Presence
Checked those constant moaning cries,
Stilled the little heart's quick fluttering,
Raised those blue and wondering eyes,
Fixed on some mysterious vision
With a startled, sweet surprise.

For a radiant angel hovered,
Smiling, o'er the little bed;
White his raiment; from his shoulders
Snowy dove-like pinions spread,
And a starlike light was shining
In a glory round his head.

While, with tender love, the angel,
Leaning o'er the little nest,
In his arms the sick child folding,
Laid him gently on his breast,
Sobs and wailings told the mother
That her darling was at rest.

So the angel, slowly rising,
Spread his wings, and through the air
Bore the child; and, while he held him
To his heart with loving care,
Placed a branch of crimson roses
Tenderly beside him there.

While the child, thus clinging, floated
Towards the mansions of the Blest,
Gazing from his shining guardian
To the flowers upon his breast,
Thus the angel spake, still smiling
On the little heavenly guest:

"Know, dear little one, that Heaven
Does no earthly thing disdain;
Man's poor joys find there an echo
Just as surely as his pain;
Love, on earth so feebly striving,
Lives divine in Heaven again.

"Once, in that great town below us,
In a poor and narrow street,
Dwelt a little sickly orphan;
Gentle aid, or pity sweet,
Never in life's rugged pathway
Guided his poor tottering feet.

"All the striving, anxious fore-thought
That should only come with age
Weighed upon his baby spirit,
Showed him soon life's sternest page;
Grim Want was his nurse, and Sorrow
Was his only heritage."

* * * * *

"One bright day, with feeble footsteps
Slowly forth he tried to crawl
Through the crowded city's pathways,
Till he reached a garden-wall,
Where 'mid princely halls and mansions
Stood the lordliest of all.

"There were trees with giant branches,
Velvet glades where shadows hide;
There were sparkling fountains glancing,
Flowers, which in luxuriant pride
Even wafted breaths of perfume
To the child who stood outside.

"He against the gate of iron
Pressed his wan and wistful face,
Gazing with an awe-struck pleasure
At the glories of the place;
Never had his brightest day-dream
Shone with half such wondrous grace.

"You were playing in that garden,
Throwing blossoms in the air,
Laughing when the petals floated
Downwards on your golden hair;
And the fond eyes watching o'er you,
And the splendor spread before you,
Told a House's Hope was there.

"When your servants, tired of seeing
Such a face of want and woe,
Turning to the ragged orphan,
Gave him coin, and bade him go,
Down his cheeks so thin and wasted
Bitter tears began to flow.

"But that look of childish sorrow
On your tender child-heart fell,
And you plucked the reddest roses
From the tree you loved so well,
Passed them through the stern cold grating,
Gently bidding him 'Farewell!'

"Dazzled by the fragrant treasure
And the gentle voice he heard,
In the poor forlorn boy's spirit,
Joy, the sleeping Seraph, stirred;
In his hand he took the flowers,
In his heart the loving word.

"So he crept to his poor garret;
Poor no more, but rich and bright;
For the holy dreams of childhood--
Love, and Rest, and Hope, and Light--
Floated round the orphan's pillow
Through the starry summer night.

"Day dawned, yet the visions lasted;
All too weak to rise he lay;
Did he dream that none spake harshly,--
All were strangely kind that day?
Surely then his treasured roses
Must have charmed all ills away.

"And he smiled, though they were fading;
One by one their leaves were shed;
'Such bright things could never perish,
They would bloom again,' he said.
When the next day's sun had risen
Child and flowers both were dead.

"Know, dear little one, our Father
Will no gentle deed disdain;
Love on the cold earth beginning
Lives divine in Heaven again;
While the angel hearts that beat there
Still all tender thoughts retain."

So the angel ceased, and gently
O'er his little burden leant;
While the child gazed from the shining,
Loving eyes that o'er him bent,
To the blooming roses by him.
Wondering what that mystery meant.

Thus the radiant angel answered,
And with tender meaning smiled:
"Ere your childlike, loving spirit,
Sin and the hard world defiled,
God has given me leave to seek you,--
I was once that little child!"

* * * * *

In the churchyard of that city
Rose a tomb of marble rare,
Decked, as soon as Spring awakened,
With her buds and blossoms fair,--
And a humble grave beside it,--
No one knew who rested there.

_Adelaide A. Procter_.

* * * * *

Enlarge the following brief summary of the Angel's Story into a composition the length of which to be determined by your teacher. Use many of the words and forms of expression you find in the poem.

THE ANGEL'S STORY

A poor little boy, to whom a child of wealth had in pity given a bunch of "reddest roses," died with the fading flowers. Afterwards he came as a "radiant angel" to visit his dying friend, and in a spirit of gratitude bore him to heaven.

* * * * *

_80_

al' ti tude as tound' ing ve loc' i ty vag' a bond mus tach' es hes i ta' ting ly par' a lyzed tre men' dous ex tra or' di na ry

GLUCK'S VISITOR.

It was drawing toward winter, and very cold weather, when one day Gluck's two older brothers had gone out, with their usual warning to little Gluck, who was left to mind the roast, that he was to let nobody in and give nothing out. Gluck sat down quite close to the fire, for it was raining very hard. He turned and turned, and the roast got nice and brown.

"What a pity," thought Gluck, "that my brothers never ask anybody to dinner. I'm sure, when they have such a nice piece of mutton as this, it would do their hearts good to have somebody to eat it with them." Just as he spoke there came a double knock at the house door, yet heavy and dull, as though the knocker had been tied up. "It must be the wind," said Gluck; "nobody else would venture to knock double knocks at our door."

No; it wasn't the wind. There it came again very hard, and what was particularly astounding the knocker seemed to be in a hurry, and not to be in the least afraid of the consequences. Gluck put his head out the window to see who it was.

It was the most extraordinary looking little gentleman he had ever seen in his life. He had a very large nose, slightly brass-colored; his cheeks were very round and very red; his eyes twinkled merrily through long, silky eyelashes; his mustaches curled twice round like a corkscrew on each side of his mouth, and his hair, of a curious mixed pepper-and-salt color, descended far over his shoulders. He was about four feet six in height, and wore a conical pointed cap of nearly the same altitude, decorated with a black feather some three feet long. He wore an enormous black, glossy-looking cloak, which must have been very much too long in calm weather, as the wind carried it clear out from the wearer's shoulders to about four times his own length.

Gluck was so perfectly paralyzed by the appearance of his visitor that he remained fixed, without uttering a word, until the old gentleman turned round to look after his fly-away cloak. In so doing he caught sight of Gluck's little yellow head jammed in the window, with its mouth and eyes very wide open indeed.

"Hello!" said the little gentleman, "that's not the way to answer the door. I'm wet; let me in." To do the little gentleman justice, he _was_ wet. His feather hung down between his legs like a beaten puppy's tail, dripping like an umbrella; and from the end of his mustaches the water was running into his waistcoat pockets, and out again like a mill stream.

"I'm very sorry" said Gluck, "but I really can't."

"Can't what?" said the old gentleman.

"I can't let you in, sir. My brothers would beat me to death, sir, if I thought of such a thing. What do you want, sir?"

"Want?" said the old gentleman. "I want fire and shelter; and there's your great fire there blazing, crackling, and dancing on the walls, with nobody to feel it. Let me in, I say."

Gluck had had his head, by this time, so long out of the window that he began to feel it was really unpleasantly cold. When he turned and saw the beautiful fire rustling and roaring, and throwing long, bright tongues up the chimney, as if it were licking its chops at the savory smell of the leg of mutton, his heart melted within him that it should be burning away for nothing.

"He does look _very_ wet," said little Gluck; "I'll just let him in for a quarter of an hour."

As the little gentleman walked in, there came a gust of wind through the house that made the old chimney totter.

"That's a good boy. Never mind your brothers. I'll talk to them."

"Pray, sir, don't do any such thing," said Gluck. "I can't let you stay till they come; they'd be the death of me."

"Dear me," said the old gentleman, "I'm sorry to hear that. How long may I stay?"

"Only till the mutton is done, sir," replied Gluck, "and it's very brown." Then the old gentleman walked into the kitchen and sat himself down on the hob, with the top of his cap up the chimney, for it was much too high for the roof.

"You'll soon dry there; sir," said Gluck, and sat down again to turn the mutton. But the old gentleman did _not_ dry there, but went on drip, drip, dripping among the cinders, so that the fire fizzed and sputtered and began to look very black and uncomfortable. Never was such a cloak; every fold in it ran like a gutter.

"I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck, at length, after watching the water spreading in long, quicksilver-like streams over the floor; "mayn't I take your cloak?"

"No, thank you," said the old gentleman.

"Your cap, sir?"

"I am all right, thank you," said the old gentleman, rather gruffly.

"But--sir--I'm very sorry," said Gluck, hesitatingly, "but--really--sir--you're putting the fire out."

"It'll take longer to do the mutton, then."

Gluck was very much puzzled by the behavior of his guest; it was such a strange mixture of coolness and humility.

"That mutton looks very nice," said the old gentleman. "Can't you give me a little bit?"

"Impossible, sir," said Gluck.

"I'm very hungry," continued the old gentleman; "I've had nothing to eat yesterday nor to-day. They surely couldn't miss a bit from the knuckle!"

He spoke in so very melancholy a tone that it quite melted Gluck's heart.

"They promised me one slice to-day, sir," said he; "I can give you that, but no more."

"That's a good boy," said the old gentleman again.

"I don't care if I do get beaten for it," thought Gluck.

Just as he had cut a large slice out of the mutton, there came a tremendous rap at the door. The old gentleman jumped; Gluck fitted the slice into the mutton again, and ran to open the door.

"What did you keep us waiting in the rain for?" said Schwartz, as he walked in, throwing his umbrella in Gluck's face.

"Aye; what for, indeed, you little vagabond?" said Hans, administering an educational box on the ear, as he followed his brother.

"Bless my soul!" said Schwartz, when he opened the door.

"Amen," said the little gentleman, who had taken his cap off, and was standing in the middle of the kitchen, bowing with the utmost velocity.

"Who's that?" said Schwartz, catching up a rolling-pin, and turning fiercely to Gluck.

"I don't know, indeed, brother," said Gluck, in great terror.

"How did he get in?" roared Schwartz.

"My dear brother, he was so _very_ wet!"

The rolling-pin was descending on Gluck's head; but, at that instant, the old gentleman interposed his conical cap, on which it crashed with a shock that shook the water out of it all over the room. What was very odd, the rolling-pin no sooner touched the cap, than it flew out of Schwartz's hand, spinning like a straw in a high wind, and fell into the corner at the farther end of the room.

"Who are you sir?" demanded Schwartz.

"What's your business?" snarled Hans.

"I'm a poor old man, sir," the little gentleman began, very modestly, "and I saw your fire through the window, and begged shelter for a quarter of an hour."

"Have the goodness to walk out again, then," said Schwartz. "We've quite enough water in our kitchen, without making it a drying house."

"It's a very cold day, sir, to turn an old man out in, sir; look at my gray hairs."

"Aye!" said Hans, "there are enough of them to keep you warm. Walk!"

"I'm very, very hungry, sir; couldn't you spare me a bit of bread before I go?"

"Bread, indeed!" said Schwartz; "do you suppose we've nothing to do with our bread but to give it to such fellows as you?"

"Why don't you sell your feather?" said Hans, sneeringly. "Out with you."

"A little bit," said the old gentleman.

"Be off!" said Schwartz.

"Pray, gentlemen."

"Off!" cried Hans, seizing him by the collar. But he had no sooner touched the old gentleman's collar than away he went after the rolling-pin, spinning round and round, till he fell into the corner on the top of it.

Then Schwartz was very angry, and ran at the old gentleman to turn him out. But he also had hardly touched him, when away he went after Hans and the rolling-pin, and hit his head against the wall as he tumbled into the corner. And so there they lay, all three.

Then the old gentleman spun himself round until his long cloak was all wound neatly about him, clapped his cap on his head, very much on one side, gave a twist to his corkscrew mustaches, and replied, with perfect coolness: "Gentlemen, I wish you a very good morning. At twelve o'clock to-night, I'll call again."

_John Ruskin._

* * * * *

NOTE.--"The King of the Golden River," from which the selection is taken, is a charming story for children. It was written in 1841, for the amusement of a sick child. It is said to be the finest story of its kind in the language.

* * * * *

_81_

elf en cir' cled jerk hur' ri cane rein'deer min' i a ture tar' nished

A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse:
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In the hope that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And Mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,
When out on the lawn there rose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of midday to objects below;
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick!
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted and called them by name:
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! now, Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall,
Now, dash away! dash away! dash away, all!"
As dry leaves, that before the wild hurricane fly
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas, too;
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack;
His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face, and a little round belly,
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump,--a right jolly old elf--
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And, laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

_Clement C. Moore._

* * * * *

_82_

a chieved' es poused' thral' dom al li' ance ter rif' ic Del' a ware Com' mo dore re cip' i ents New' found land can non ad' ing par tic' i pa ted char ac ter is' tic

COMMODORE JOHN BARRY.

The story of the American Navy is a story of glorious deeds. From the early days of Barry and Jones, when it swept the decks of King George's proud ships with merciless fire, down to the glories achieved by Admirals Dewey and Schley in our war with Spain, the story of our Navy is the pride and glory of our Republic. The glowing track of its victories extends around the world.

Of the many distinguished men whose names and whose deeds adorn the pages of our country's history, there is none more deserving of our gratitude and admiration than Commodore John Barry. His name and fame will live in the naval annals of our country as long as the history of America lasts.

Commodore Barry, the founder of the American Navy, was born in County Wexford, Ireland, in the year 1745. At the age of fourteen he left home for a life on

"The sea, the sea, the open sea,
The blue, the fresh, the ever free."

On board trading vessels he made several voyages to America. He spent his leisure hours in reading and study, and in this way soon acquired a general and practical education. By fidelity to duty, he advanced so rapidly in his profession that at the age of twenty-five we find him in command of the _Black Prince,_ one of the finest merchant vessels then running between Philadelphia and London.

When the Revolution broke out between the Colonies and England, our gallant Commodore gave up the command of his ship, and without delay or hesitation espoused the cause of his adopted country. Congress purchased a few vessels, had them fitted out for war, and placed the little fleet under the command of Captain Barry. His flagship was the _Lexington_, named after the first battle of the Revolution; and Congress having at this time adopted a national flag, the Star-spangled Banner, the _Lexington_ was the first to hoist this ensign of freedom.

From the time of the fitting out of the _Lexington_ down to the time of the declaration of peace, which assured the liberation of the Colonies from the thraldom of Great Britain, Commodore Barry was constantly engaged on shore and afloat. Though he actually participated in upwards of twenty sea fights, always against a force superior to his own, he never once struck his flag to the enemy. The field of his operations ranged all the way from the capes of the Delaware to the West Indies, and as far east as the coast of Maine and Newfoundland. His victories were hailed with joy throughout the country, and Barry and his men were publicly thanked by General Washington.

During the darkest days of the War, while Washington was spending the winter of 1777 in camp at Valley Forge, with our brave soldiers perishing for want of provisions, blankets, clothing and tents, an incident occurred which shows how supremely loyal and devoted Commodore Barry was to the American cause. The British troops were occupying Philadelphia. Lord Howe, their commander, offered our great sea fighter a bribe of fifty thousand guineas and the command of a ship of war, if he would abandon the American cause and enter the service of England. Barry's indignant reply should be written in letters of gold: "I have engaged in the service of my adopted country, and neither the value nor the command of the whole British fleet can seduce me from it."

General Washington had the utmost confidence in the pluck and daring and loyalty of Barry. He selected him as the best and safest man to be trusted with the important mission of carrying our commissioners to France to secure that alliance and assistance which we then so sorely needed.

On his homeward trip, it is related that being hailed by a British man-of-war with the usual questions as to the name of his ship, captain, and destination, he gave the following bold and characteristic reply: "This is the United States ship _Alliance_: Jack Barry, half Irishman and half Yankee, commander: who are you?" In the engagement that followed, Barry and his band of heroes performed such deeds of valor that after a few hours of terrific cannonading, the English ship was forced to strike its colors and surrender to the "half Irishman and half Yankee."

This illustrious man, who was the first that bore the title of Commodore in the service of our Republic, continued at the head of our infant Navy till his death, which took place in Philadelphia, on the 13th of September, 1803. During life he was generous and charitable, and at his death made the children of the Catholic Orphan Asylum of Philadelphia the chief recipients of his wealth. His remains repose in the little graveyard attached to St. Mary's Catholic church.

Through the generous patriotism of the "Friendly Sons of St. Patrick," a society of which General Washington himself was a member, a magnificent monument was erected to the memory of Commodore Barry, in Independence Square, Philadelphia, under the shadow of Independence Hall, the cradle of American liberty. Miss Elise Hazel Hepburn, a great-great-grandniece of the Commodore, had a prominent part at the ceremonies of the unveiling, which took place on Saint Patrick's Day, 1907.

* * * * *

There are gallant hearts whose glory
Columbia loves to name,
Whose deeds shall live in story
And everlasting fame.
But never yet one braver
Our starry banner bore
Than saucy old Jack Barry,
The Irish Commodore.

What is meant by the Congress of the U.S.? What two bodies compose it? What is the number of senators, and how are they chosen?

Which was the most notable sea fight of Commodore John Paul Jones?

Where did Admiral Dewey specially distinguish himself? And Admiral Schley?

What countries does the island of Great Britain comprise?

What does "never struck his flag" mean?

Name the capes of the Delaware. Locate Newfoundland.

Recite the two famous replies of Commodore Barry given in the selection.

* * * * *

_83_

sau' cy ig nored' rev' eled plain' tive dis traught' wea' ri some rol' lick ing mis' chie vous frec'kle-faced

THE BOY OF THE HOUSE.

He was the boy of the house, you know,
A jolly and rollicking lad;
He was never tired, and never sick,
And nothing could make him sad.

Did some one urge that he make less noise,
He would say, with a saucy grin,
"Why, one boy alone doesn't make much stir--
I'm sorry I am not a twin!"

"There are two of twins--oh, it must be fun
To go double at everything:
To hollo by twos, and to run by twos,
To whistle by twos, and to sing!"

His laugh was something to make you glad,
So brimful was it of joy;
A conscience he had, perhaps, in his breast,
But it never troubled the boy.

You met him out in the garden path,
With the terrier at his heels;
You knew by the shout he hailed you with
How happy a youngster feels.

The maiden auntie was half distraught
At his tricks as the days went by;
"The most mischievous child in the world!"
She said, with a shrug and a sigh.

His father owned that her words were true,
And his mother declared each day
Was putting wrinkles into her face,
And was turning her brown hair gray.

But it never troubled the boy of the house;
He reveled in clatter and din,
And had only one regret in the world--
That he hadn't been born a twin.

* * * * *

There's nobody making a noise to-day,
There's nobody stamping the floor,
There's an awful silence, upstairs and down,
There's crape on the wide hall door.

The terrier's whining out in the sun--
"Where's my comrade?" he seems to say;
Turn your plaintive eyes away, little dog.
There's no frolic for you to-day.

The freckle-faced girl from the house next door
Is sobbing her young heart out;
Don't cry, little girl, you'll soon forget
To miss the laugh and the shout.

How strangely quiet the little form,
With the hands on the bosom crossed!
Not a fold, not a flower, out of place,
Not a short curl rumpled and tossed!

So solemn and still the big house seems--
No laughter, no racket, no din,
No starting shriek, no voice piping out,
"I'm sorry I am not a twin!"

There a man and a woman, pale with grief,
As the wearisome moments creep;
Oh! the loneliness touches everything--
The boy of the house is asleep.

_Jean Blewett._

From the Toronto _Globe_.

* * * * *

_84_

BIOGRAPHIES

COOK, ELIZA, was born in London, England, in the year 1817, and was
the most popular poetess of her day. When a young girl, she gave herself
so completely up to reading that her father threatened to burn her
books. She began to write at an early age, and contributed poems and
essays to various periodicals. She is the author of many poems that will
live. She died in 1889.

COWPER, WILLIAM, is one of the most eminent and popular of all
English poets. He was born in the year 1731. His mother dying when he
was only six years old, the child was sent away from home to boarding
school, where he suffered so much from the cruelty of a bigger boy that
he was obliged to leave that school for another. At the completion of
his college course he expressed regrets that his education was not
received in a school where he could be taught his duty to God. "I have
been graduated," he writes, "but I understand neither the law nor the
gospel." His longest poem is "The Task," upon which his reputation as a
poet chiefly depends. He died in the year 1800.

DICKENS, CHARLES, one of the greatest and most popular of the
novelists of England, was born in 1812. By hard, persistent work he
raised himself from obscurity and poverty to fame and fortune. After
only two years of schooling he was obliged to go to work. His first job
was pasting labels on blacking-pots, for which he received twenty-five
cents a day! He next became office boy in a lawyer's office, and then
reporter for a London daily paper. He learned shorthand by himself from
a book he found in a public reading-room. In 1841, and again in 1867, he
lectured in America. He died suddenly in 1870, and is buried in
Westminster Abbey.

DONNELLY, ELEANOR CECILIA, began to write verses when she was but
eight years old. Her early education was directed by her mother, a
gifted and accomplished lady. Her pen has ever been devoted to the cause
of Catholic truth and the elevation of Catholic literature. Besides
hundreds of charming stories and essays, she has published several
volumes of poems. Her writings on sacred subjects display a strong,
intelligent faith, and a tender piety. She is a writer whose pathos,
originality, grace of diction, sweetness of rhythm, purity of sentiment,
and sublimity of thought entitle her to rank among the first of our
American poets. Miss Donnelly has lived all her life in her native city
of Philadelphia, where she is the center of a cultured circle of
admiring friends, and where she edifies all by the practice of every
Christian virtue and by a life of devotedness to the honor and glory of
Almighty God.

GOULD, HANNAH F., an American poetess, has written many pleasant
poems for children. "Jack Frost" and "The Winter King" have long been
favorites. She was born in Vermont in the year 1789, and died in 1865.

HAWTHORNE, NATHANIEL, was born in Salem, Mass., on July 4, 1804.
When still quite young he showed a great fondness for reading. At the
early age of six his favorite book was Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress." At
college he was a classmate of Longfellow. Among his writings are a
number of stories for children: "The Tanglewood Tales," "The
Snow-Image," "The Wonder Books," and some stories of American history.
His volumes of short stories charm old and young alike. His Book, "The
Scarlet Letter," has made him famous. It was while he lived at Lenox,
Mass., among the Berkshire Hills, that he published "The House of the
Seven Gables." He visited Italy in 1857, where he began "The Marble
Faun," which is considered his greatest novel. He died in 1864, and is
buried in Concord, Mass. Hawthorne possessed a delicate and exquisite
humor, and a marvelous felicity in the use of language. His style may be
said to combine almost every excellence--elegance, simplicity, grace,
clearness and force.

HAYNE, PAUL HAMILTON, an American poet, was born in South Carolina
in the year 1831. In 1854 he published a volume of poems. His death
occurred in 1886. He was a descendant of the American patriot, Isaac
Hayne, who, at the siege of Charleston in 1780, fell into the hands of
the British, and was hanged by them because he refused to join their
ranks and fight against his country.