Chapter I: Preface

The selections in this reader for the Fifth Year were chosen with reference both to their intrinsic literary quality and to the varying capabilities of the pupils who will read them. It is confidently hoped that they will reach some interest of each child, and, at the same time, help to form a correct literary standard and encourage a taste for the best reading.

In the preparation of this series of readers, valuable counsel and assistance have been given me by many friendly educators and those in authority. I am especially grateful to the Rt. Rev. John Lancaster Spalding of Peoria for helpful advice and encouragement in the planning and inception of the work; also, to the Rt. Rev. James McGolrick of Duluth, Minnesota, to the Rt. Rev. A. F. Schinner of Superior, Wisconsin, and to other prelates and clergy who have graciously given me assistance in various ways. Many thanks, too, for kindly suggestions and criticisms are hereby proffered to numerous friends among those patient and inspiring educators--the Sisters.

MARY E. DOYLE.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The selections from Whittier, Longfellow. Lowell, Miriam Coles Harris, and John Burroughs are used by special permission of, and arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Company, the publishers of the works of these authors. The selections from Helen Hunt Jackson are used by special arrangement with Little, Brown, & Company. Acknowledgments for the use of copyright material are also made: to Small, Maynard & Company for the poems by Father Tabb; to the editor and publisher of _The Ave Maria_ for “Lucy’s Rosary,” by J. R. Marre, and other poems from that magazine; to Mary F. Nixon-Roulet for the selections of which she is the author; to Longmans, Green, & Company, for “The Reindeer,” by Andrew Lang; to Henry Coyle for the poems of which he is the author; and to the Congregation of the Mission of St Vincent de Paul, Springfield, Mass., for the extract from Mother Mary Loyola’s “Jesus of Nazareth,” of which book they are the publishers.

CONTENTS

PAGE

Little Wolff and his Wooden Shoe _François Coppée_ 7

The Eagle and the Swan _J. J. Audubon_ 14

Lucy’s Rosary _J. R. Marre_ 16

The Taxgatherer _Rev. John B. Tabb_ 17

The Wisdom of Alexander _Horace Binney Wallace_ 18

Thanksgiving _Henry Coyle_ 23

The Enchanted Bark _Cervantes_ 24

A Legend of St. Nicholas _Author Unknown_ 30

Raphael of Urbino 36

Lead, Kindly Light _Cardinal Newman_ 43

Parable of the Good Samaritan _The Bible_ 44

Connor Mac-Nessa--An Irish Legend _M. F. Nixon-Roulet_ 46

The Martyrdom of Blessed John Fisher _Rev. T. E. Bridgett_ 50

The Nightingale and the Glowworm _William Cowper_ 56

If thou couldst be a Bird _Rev. F. W. Faber_ 58

The First Crusade 60

How the Robin Came _John G. Whittier_ 75

How St. Francis preached to the Birds _From “Little Flowers of
St. Francis”_ 78

The Petrified Fern _Mary L. Bolles Branch_ 82

Bird Enemies _John Burroughs_ 84

St. Joseph’s Month _H. W._ 95

A Song of Spring _Aubrey de Vere_ 96

Robert Bruce _Sir Walter Scott_ 97

“When Evening Shades are Falling” _Thomas Moore_ 106

The Reindeer _A. Lang_ 107

A Story of Ancient Ireland _Lady Gregory_ 114

San Gabriel _Helen Hunt Jackson_ 118

Imitation of Mary _St. Ambrose_ 120

Scene from “William Tell” _Sheridan Knowles_ 121

The Schoolmaster of Sleepy Hollow _Washington Irving_ 132

The Bluebird _Rev. John B. Tabb_ 151

The Brook _Alfred Tennyson_ 152

The Story of a Happy Child 154

May Carol _Sister Mary Antonia_ 158

The Precious Blood of Jesus _Henry Coyle_ 160

The Spanish Cook _Miriam Coles Harris_ 161

The Planting of the Apple Tree _William Cullen Bryant_ 166

The Conversion of King Ratbodo _Conrad von Bolanden_ 170

The Blessed Virgin Mary _H. W. Longfellow_ 174

Come to Jesus _Rev. F. W. Faber_ 175

Father Marquette _John G. Shea_ 178

The Shepherd of King Admetus _J. R. Lowell_ 186

The Sermon on the Mount _Mother Mary Loyola_ 188

The Star-spangled Banner _Francis Scott Key_ 196

How America was Discovered 198

The Power of God _Thomas Moore_ 213

Our Country and our Home _James Montgomery_ 214

Notes 215

FIFTH YEAR

LITTLE WOLFF AND HIS WOODEN SHOE

I

Once upon a time, so long ago that everybody has forgotten the date, there was a little boy whose name was Wolff. He lived with his aunt in a tall old house in a city whose name is so hard to pronounce that nobody can speak it. He was seven years old, and he could not remember that he had ever seen his father or his mother.

The old aunt who had the care of little Wolff was very selfish and cross. She gave him dry bread to eat, of which there was never enough; and not more than once in the year did she speak kindly to him.

But the poor boy loved this woman, because he had no one else to love; and there was never a day so dark that he did not think of the sunlight.

Everybody knew that Wolff’s aunt owned a house and had a stocking full of gold under her bed, and so she did not dare to send the little boy to the school for the poor as she would have liked to do. But a schoolmaster on the next street agreed to teach him for almost nothing; and whenever there was work he could do, he was kept at home.

The schoolmaster had an unkind feeling for Wolff because he brought him so little money and was dressed so poorly. And so the boy was punished very often, and had to bear the blame for all the wrong that was done in the school.

The little fellow was often very sad; and more than once he hid himself where he could not be seen and cried as though his heart would break. But at last Christmas came.

The night before Christmas there was to be singing in the church, and the schoolmaster was to be there with all his boys; and everybody was to have a very happy time looking at the Christmas candles and listening to the sweet music.

The winter had set in very cold and rough, and there was much snow on the ground; and so the boys came to the schoolhouse with fur caps drawn down over their ears, and heavy coats, and warm gloves, and thick high-topped boots. But little Wolff had no warm clothes. He came shivering in the thin coat which he wore on Sundays in summer; and there was nothing on his feet but coarse stockings very full of holes, and a pair of heavy wooden shoes.

The other boys made many jokes about his sad looks and his worn-out clothes. But the poor child was so busy blowing his fingers and thumping his toes to keep them warm that he did not hear what was said. And when the hour came, the whole company of boys, with the schoolmaster at the front, started to the church.

II

It was very fine in the church. Hundreds of wax candles were burning in their places, and the air was so warm that Wolff soon forgot his aching fingers. The boys sat still for a little while; and then while the singing was going on and the organ was making loud music, they began in low voices to talk to one another; and each told about the fine things that were going to be done at his home on the morrow.

The mayor’s son told of a monstrous goose that he had seen in the kitchen before he came away; it was stuffed, and stuck all over with cloves till it was as spotted as a leopard. Another boy whispered of a little fir tree in a wooden box in his mother’s parlor; its branches were full of fruits and nuts and candy and beautiful toys. And he said that he was sure of a fine dinner, for the cook had pinned the two strings of her cap behind her back, us she always did when something wonderfully good was coming.

Then the children talked of what the Christ Child would bring them, and of what He would put in their shoes, which, of course, they would leave by the fireplace when they went to bed. And the eyes of the little fellows danced with joy as they thought of the bags of candy and the lead soldiers and the grand jumping jacks which they would draw out in the morning.

But little Wolff said nothing. He knew that his selfish old aunt would send him to bed without any supper, as she always did. But he felt in his heart that he had been all the year as good and kind as he could be; and so he hoped that the blessed Christ Child would not forget him nor fail to see his wooden shoes which he would put in the ashes in the corner of the fireplace.

III

At last the singing stopped, the organ was silent, and the Christmas music was ended. The boys arose in order and left the church, two by two, as they had entered it; and the teacher walked in front.

Now, as he passed through the door of the church, little Wolff saw a child sitting on one of the stone steps and fast asleep in the midst of the snow. The child was thinly clad, and his feet, cold as it was, were bare.

In the pale light of the moon, the face of the child, with its closed eyes, was full of a sweetness which is not of this earth, and his long locks of yellow hair seemed like a golden crown upon his head. But his poor bare feet, blue in the cold of that winter night, were sad to look upon.

The scholars, so warmly clad, passed before the strange child, and did not so much as glance that way. But little Wolff, who was the last to come out of the church, stopped, full of pity, before him.

“Ah, the poor child!” he said to himself. “How sad it is that he must go barefoot in such weather as this! And what is still worse, he has not a stocking nor even a wooden shoe to lay before him while he sleeps, so that the Christ Child can put something in it to make him glad when he wakens.”

Little Wolff did not stand long to think about it; but in the goodness of his heart he took off the wooden shoe from his right foot and laid it by the side of the sleeping child. Then, limping along through the snow, and shivering with cold, he went down the street till he came to his cheerless home.

“You worthless fellow!” cried his aunt. “Where have you been? What have you done with your other shoe?”

Little Wolff trembled now with fear as well as with the cold; but he had no thought of deceiving his angry aunt. He told her how he had given the shoe to a child that was poorer than himself. The woman laughed an ugly, wicked laugh.

“And so,” she said, “our fine young gentleman takes off his shoes for beggars! He gives his wooden shoe to a barefoot! Well, we shall see. You may put the shoe that is left in the chimney, and, mind what I say! If anything is left in it, it will be a switch to whip you with in the morning. To-morrow, for your Christmas dinner, you shall have nothing but a hard crust of bread to eat and cold water to drink. I will show you how to give away your shoes to the first beggar that comes along!”

The wicked woman struck the boy upon the cheek with her hand, and then made him climb up to his bed in the loft. Sobbing with grief and pain, little Wolff lay on his hard, cold bed, and did not go to sleep till the moon had gone down and the Christmas bells had rung in the glad day of peace and good will.

In the morning when the old woman arose grumbling and went downstairs, a wonderful sight met her eyes. The great chimney was full of beautiful toys and bags of candy and all kinds of pretty things; and right in the midst of these was the wooden shoe which Wolff had given to the child, and near it was its mate in which the wicked aunt had meant to put a strong switch.

The woman was so amazed that she cried out and stood still as if in a fright. Little Wolff heard the cry and ran downstairs as quickly as he could to see what was the matter. He, too, stopped short when he saw all the beautiful things that were in the chimney. But as he stood and looked, he heard people laughing in the street. What did it all mean?

By the side of the town pump many of the neighbors were standing. Each was telling what had happened at his home that morning. The boys who had rich parents and had been looking for beautiful gifts had found only long switches in their shoes.

But, in the meanwhile, Wolff and his aunt stood still and looked at the wonderful gifts around the two wooden shoes. Who had placed them there? And where now was the kind, good giver?

Then, as they still wondered, they heard the voice of some one reading in the little chapel over the way: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these--” And then, in some strange way, they understood how it had all come about; and even the heart of the wicked aunt was softened. And their eyes were filled with tears and their faces with smiles, as they knelt down together and thanked the good God for what He had done to reward the kindness and love of a little child.

--_Adapted from the French of François Coppée._

THE EAGLE AND THE SWAN

Imagine yourself, on a day early in November, floating slowly down the Mississippi River. The near approach of winter brings millions of waterfowl on whistling wings from the countries of the North to seek a milder climate in which to sojourn for a season.

The eagle is seen perched on the highest branch of the tallest tree by the margin of the broad stream. His glistening but pitiless eye looks over water and land and sees objects afar off. He listens to every sound that comes to his quick ear, glancing now and then to the earth beneath, lest the light tread of the rabbit may pass unheard.

His mate is perched on the other side of the river, and now and then warns him by a cry to continue patient. At this well-known call he partly opens his broad wings and answers to her voice in tones not unlike the laugh of a madman. Ducks and many smaller waterfowl are seen passing rapidly towards the South; but the eagle heeds them not--they are for the time beneath his attention.

The next moment, however, the wild, trumpet-like sound of a distant swan is heard. The eagle suddenly shakes his body, raises his wings, and makes ready for flight. A shriek from his mate comes across the stream, for she is fully as watchful as he.

The snow-white bird is now in sight; her long neck is stretched forward; her eyes are as watchful as those of her enemy; her large wings seem with difficulty to support the weight of her body. Nearer and nearer she comes. The eagle has marked her for his prey.

As the swan is about to pass the dreaded pair, the eagle starts from his perch with an awful scream. He glides through the air like a falling star, and, like a flash of lightning, comes upon the timid bird, which now, in agony and despair, seeks to escape the grasp of his cruel talons. She would plunge into the stream, did not the eagle force her to remain in the air by striking at her from beneath.

The hope of escape is soon given up by the swan. She has already become much weakened. She is about to gasp her last breath, when the eagle strikes with his talons the under side of her wing and forces the dying bird to fall in a slanting direction upon the nearest shore.

The eagle’s mate has watched every movement that he has made, and if she did not assist him in capturing the swan, it was because she felt sure that his power and courage were quite enough for the deed. She now sails to the spot where he is waiting for her, and both together turn the breast of the luckless swan upward and gorge themselves with gore.

--J. J. AUDUBON.

LUCY’S ROSARY

I love to see her well-worn beads
Slip through her tender hand;
They fall like rich enchanted seeds
Cast in a fruitful land.

From each small bead full silently
A floweret fair doth grow--
A winsome thing with soft bright eye,
Yet strong in grace, I know.

Wild winds may rave and storms may shout,
Her blossoms will not fall;
The angels gird them round about
With hedgerows thick and tall.

The Blessed Mary smiles on them,
Just as, in days of yore,
She smiled when in old Bethlehem
Her little Babe she bore.

And saints adown the golden stair
With noiseless steps oft creep,
To tend these shining flowers of prayer,
When Lucy is asleep.

When autumn dies, these radiant flowers
Shall safe transplanted be,
To bloom in Eden’s greenest bowers
For all eternity.

Before the Godhead they shall raise
Their perfumes pure and sweet,
And bloom in silent hymns of praise
At Lady Mary’s feet.

--J. R. MARRE.

From _The Ave Maria_.

THE TAXGATHERER

“And pray, who are you?”
Said the violet blue
To the Bee, with surprise
At his wonderful size,
In her eyeglass of dew.

“I, madam,” quoth he,
“Am a publican Bee,
Collecting the tax
Of honey and wax.
Have you nothing for me?”

--REV. JOHN B. TABB.

THE WISDOM OF ALEXANDER

Macedon melancholy philosopher countenance
cypress messenger perplexity recognize
vigor humiliation solitude poverty
oracles alleviation company behest

The bannered hosts of Macedon stood arrayed in splendid might. Crowning the hills and filling the valleys, far and wide extended the millions in arms who waited on the word of the young Alexander--the most superb array of human power which sceptered ambition ever evoked to do its bidding.

That army was to sweep nations off the earth and make a continent its camp, following the voice of one whose sword was the index to glory, whose command was the synonym of triumph. It now stood expectant, for the king yet lingered.

While his war horse fretted at the gate, and myriads thus in silence waited his appearance, Alexander took his way to the apartment of his mother. The sole ligament which bound him to virtue and to feeling was the love of that mother, and the tie was as strong as it was tender.

In mute dejection they embraced; and Alexander, as he gazed upon that affectionate face, which had never been turned to him but in tenderness and yearning love, seemed to ask, “Shall I ever again behold that sweet smile?” The anxiety of his mother’s countenance denoted the same sad curiosity; and without a word, but with the selfsame feeling in their hearts, they went out together to seek the oracles in the temple of Philip, to learn their fate.

Alone, in unuttered sympathy, the two ascended the steps of the sacred temple and approached the shrine. A priest stood behind the altar. The blue smoke of the incense curled upward in front, and the book of oracles was before him.

“Where shall my grave be digged?” said the king; and the priest opened the book and read, “Where the soil is of iron, and the sky of gold, there shall the grave of the monarch of men be digged.”

To the utmost limit Asia had become the possession of the Macedonian. Fatigued with conquest, and anxious to seek a country where the difficulty of victory should enhance its value, the hero was returning to Europe. A few days would have brought him to the capital of his kingdom, when he fell suddenly ill. He was lifted from his horse, and one of his generals, unlacing his armor, spread it out for him to lie upon, and held his golden shield to screen him from the mid-day sun.

When the king raised his eyes and beheld the glittering canopy, he was conscious of the omen. “The oracle has said that where the ground should be of iron, and the sky of gold, there should my grave be made! Behold the fulfillment! It is a mournful thing! The young cypress is cut down in the vigor of its strength, in the first fullness of its beauty. The thread of life is snapped suddenly, and with it a thousand prospects vanish, a thousand hopes are crushed! But let the will of fate be done! She has long obeyed my behest! I yield myself now to hers! Yet, my mother!”

And the monarch mused in melancholy silence. At length he turned to his attendants and ordered his tablets to be brought; and he took them, and wrote, “Let the customary alms, which my mother shall distribute at my death, be given to those who have never felt the miseries of the world, and have never lost those who were dear to them;” and sinking back upon his iron couch, he yielded up his breath. They buried him where he died, and an army wept over his grave!

When the intelligence of the death of Alexander was brought to his mother, as she sat among her ladies, she was overwhelmed by anguish.

“Ah! why,” she exclaimed, “was I exalted so high, only to be plunged into such depth of misery? Why was I not made of lower condition, so, haply, I had escaped such grief? The joy of my youth is plucked up, the comfort of my age is withered! Who is more wretched than I?” And she refused to be comforted.

The last wish of her son was read to her, and she resolved to perform that one remaining duty and then retire to solitude, to indulge her grief for the remainder of her life. She ordered her servants to go into the city and bring to the palace such as the will of Alexander directed--selecting those who were the poorest. But the messengers, ere long, returned, and said that there were none of that description to be found among the poor. “Go then,” said the queen, “and apply to all classes, and return not without bringing some who have never lost any who were dear to them.” And the order was proclaimed through all the city, and all heard it and passed on.

The neighboring villages gave no better success; and the search was extended through all the country; and they went over all Macedonia, and throughout Greece, and at every house they stood and cried, “If there are any here who have never known misery, and never lost those that were dear to them, let them come out, and receive the bounty of the queen;” but none came forth. And they went to the haunts of the gay, and into the libraries of the philosophers; to the seats of public office, and to the caves of hermits; they searched among the rich, and among the poor--among the high and among the low; but not one person was found who had not tasted misery; and they reported the result to the queen.

“It is strange!” said she, as if struck with sudden astonishment. “Are there none who have not lost their friend? And is my condition the condition of all? It is not credible. Are there none here, in this room, in this palace, who have always been happy?” But there was no reply to the inquiry.

“You, young page, whose countenance is gay, what sorrow have you ever known?”

“Alas! madam, my father was killed in the wars of Alexander, and my mother, through grief, has followed him!”

The question was put to others; but every one had lost a brother, a father, or a mother. “Can it be,” said the queen, “can it be that all are as I am?”

“All are as you are, madam,” said an old man that was present, “excepting in these splendors and these consolations. By poverty and humility you might have lost the alleviations, but, you could not have escaped the blow. There are nights without a star; but there are no days without a cloud. To suffer is the lot of all; to bear, the glory of a few.”

“I recognize,” said the queen, “the wisdom of Alexander!” and she bowed in resignation, and wept no more.

--HORACE BINNEY WALLACE.

THANKSGIVING

With gratitude, O God, we praise
Thy holy name to-day, and raise
Our hearts to thee;
For all Thy gifts sent from above,
For life and strength and trust and love,
For liberty.

For summer days, for smiles and tears,
For all our joys and hopes and fears,
For storm and fair;
For toil and weariness and rest;
For sleep; for strength to bear the test
Of pain and care;

For food and raiment, and increase
Of harvest plenty, and for peace,
On earth good will.
O God, our Father, we this day
Give thanks for all, and now we pray
Be with us still!

--HENRY COYLE.

* * * * *

Beautiful Mother, we deck thy shrine;
All that is brightest and best of ours
Found in our gardens, we reckon thine,--
God thought of thee when He made the flowers.

--REV. K. D. BESTE.

THE ENCHANTED BARK

humor scene donkey Sancho
relief leagues armor Dulcinea
patience moored purpose Don Quixote

Fair and softly, and step by step, did Don Quixote and his squire wend their way through field and wood and village and farmland. Many and strange were their adventures--so many and strange, indeed, that I shall not try to relate the half of them.

At length, on a sunny day, they came to the banks of the river Ebro. As the knight sat on Rozinante’s back and gazed at the flowing water and at the grass and trees which bordered the banks with living green, he felt very happy. His squire, however, was in no pleasant humor, for the last few days had been days of weary toil.

Presently Don Quixote observed a little boat which was lying in the water near by, being moored by a rope to the trunk of a small tree. It had neither oars nor sail, and for that reason it seemed all the more inviting.

The knight dismounted from his steed, calling at the same time to his squire to do the same.

“Alight, Sancho,” he said. “Let us tie our beasts to the branches of this willow.”

Sancho obeyed, asking, “Why do we alight here, master?”

“You are to know,” answered Don Quixote, “that this boat lies here for us. It invites me to embark in it and hasten to the relief of some knight, or other person of high degree, who is in distress.”

“I wonder if that is so,” said Sancho.

“Certainly,” answered his master. “In all the books that I have read, enchanters are forever doing such things. If a knight happens to be in danger, there is sometimes only one other knight that can rescue him. So a boat is provided for that other knight, and, in the twinkling of an eye, he is whisked away to the scene of trouble, even though it be two or three thousand leagues.”

“That is wonderful,” said Sancho.

“Most assuredly,” answered Don Quixote; “and it is for just such a purpose that this enchanted bark lies here. Therefore let us leave our steeds here in the shade and embark in it.”

“Well, well,” said Sancho, “since you are the master, I must obey. But I tell you this is no enchanted bark. It is some fisherman’s boat.”

“They are usually fishermen’s boats,” said Don Quixote. “So, let us begin our voyage without delay.”

He leaped into the little vessel. Sancho followed, and untied the rope. The boat drifted slowly out into the stream.

When Sancho saw that they were out of reach of the shore and had no means of pushing back, he began to quake with fear.

“We shall never see our noble steeds again,” he cried. “Hear how the poor donkey brays and moans because we are leaving him. See how Rozinante tugs at his bridle. Oh, my poor, dear friends, good-by!”

Then he began such a moaning and howling that Don Quixote lost all patience with him.

“Coward!” he cried. “What are you afraid of? Who is after you? Who hurts you? Why, we have already floated some seven or eight hundred leagues. If I’m not mistaken, we shall soon pass the equinoctial line which divides the earth into two equal parts.”

“And when we come to that line, how far have we gone then?” asked Sancho.

“A mighty way,” answered the knight.

They were now floating down the river with some speed. Below them were two great water mills near the middle of the stream.

“Look! look, my Sancho!” cried Don Quixote. “Do you see yon city or castle? That is where some knight lies in prison, or some princess is detained against her will.”

“What do you mean?” asked Sancho. “Don’t you see that those are no castles? They are only water mills for grinding corn.”

“Peace, Sancho! I know they look like water mills, but that is a trick of the enchanters. Why, those vile fellows can change and overturn everything from its natural form. You know how they transformed my Dulcinea.”

The boat was now moving quite rapidly with the current. The people in the mills saw it and came out with long poles to keep it clear of the great water wheels. They were powdered with flour dust, as millers commonly are, and therefore looked quite uncanny.

“Hello, there!” they cried. “Are you mad, in that boat? Push off, or you’ll be cut to pieces by the mill wheels.”

“Didn’t I tell you, Sancho, that this is the place where I must show my strength?” said Don Quixote. “See how those hobgoblins come out against us! But I’ll show them what sort of person I am.”

Then he stood up in the boat and began to call the millers all sorts of bad names.

“You paltry cowards!” he cried. “Release at once the captive whom you are detaining within your castle. For I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, the Knight of the Lions, whom heaven has sent to set your prisoner free.”

He drew his sword and began to thrust the air with it, as though fighting with an invisible enemy. But the millers gave little heed to his actions, and stood ready with their poles to stop the boat.

Sancho threw himself on his knees in the bottom of the boat and began to pray for deliverance. And, indeed, it seemed as though their time had come, for they were drifting straight into the wheel. Quickly the millers bestirred themselves, and thrusting out their poles they overturned the boat.

Don Quixote and Sancho were, of course, spilled out into the stream. It was lucky that both could swim. The weight of the knight’s armor dragged him twice to the bottom; and both he and his squire would have been drowned had not two of the millers jumped in and pulled them out by main force.

Hardly had our exhausted heroes recovered their senses when the fisherman who owned the boat came running down to the shore. When he saw that the little craft had been broken to pieces in the millwheel, he fell upon Sancho and began to beat him unmercifully.

“You shall pay me for that boat,” he cried.

“I am ready to pay for it,” said Don Quixote, “provided these people will fairly and immediately surrender the prisoners whom they have unjustly detained in their castle.”

“What castle do you mean? and what prisoners?” asked the millers. “Explain yourself, sir. We don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I might as well talk to a stump as try to persuade you to do a good act,” answered Don Quixote. “Now I see that two rival enchanters have clashed in this adventure. One sent me a boat, the other overwhelmed it in the river. It is very plain that I can do nothing where there is such plotting and counter-plotting.”

Then he turned his face toward the mill and raised his eyes to the window above the wheel.

“My friends!” he cried at the top of his voice, “my friends, whoever you are who lie immured in that prison, hear me! Pardon my ill luck, for I cannot set you free. You must needs wait for some other knight to perform that adventure.”

Having said this, he ordered Sancho to pay the fisherman fifty reals for the boat. Sancho obeyed sullenly, for he was reluctant to part with the money.

“Two voyages like that will sink all our stock,” he muttered.

The fisherman and the millers stood with their mouths open, wondering what sort of men these were who had come so strangely into their midst. Then, concluding that they were madmen, they left them, the millers going to their mill, and the fisherman to his hut.

As for Don Quixote and Sancho, they trudged sorrowfully back to their beasts; and thus ended the adventure of the enchanted bark.

--_Retold from CERVANTES._

A LEGEND OF ST. NICHOLAS

Nicholas heathen apparel aching
jeweled suddenly sniveling kindred
banquet anguish vanished giant

The tales of good St. Nicholas
Are known in every clime;
Told in painting, and in statues,
And in the poet’s rhyme.
In England’s Isle, alone, to-day,
Four hundred churches stand
Which bear his name, and keep it well
Remembered through the land.

And all the little children
In England know full well
This tale of good St. Nicholas,
Which I am now to tell.
The sweetest tale, I think, of all
The tales they tell of him;
I never read it but my eyes
With tears begin to swim.

There was a heathen king who roved
About with cruel bands,
And waged a fierce and wicked war
On all the Christian lands.
And once he took as captive
A little fair-haired boy,
A Christian merchant’s only son,
His mother’s pride and joy.

He decked him in apparel gay,
And said, “You’re just the age
To serve behind my chair at meat,
A dainty Christian page.”

Oh, with a sore and aching heart
The lonely captive child
Roamed through the palace, big and grand,
And wept and never smiled.
And all the heathen jeered at him,
And called him Christian dog,
And when the king was angry
He kicked him like a log.

One day, just as the cruel king
Had sat him down to dine,
And in his jeweled cup of gold
The page was pouring wine,
The little fellow’s heart ran o’er
In tears he could not stay,
For he remembered suddenly,
It was the very day
On which the yearly feast was kept
Of good St. Nicholas,
And at his home that very hour
Were dancing on the grass,
With music, and with feasting, all
The children of the town.

The king looked up, and saw his tears;
His face began to frown:
“How now, thou dog! thy sniveling tears
Are running in my cup;
’Twas not with these, but with good wine,
I bade thee fill it up.

“Why weeps the hound?” The child replied,
“I weep, because to-day,
In name of good St. Nicholas,
All Christian children play;
And all my kindred gather home,
From greatest unto least,
And keep to good St. Nicholas,
A merry banquet feast.”

The heathen king laughed scornfully:
“If he be saint indeed,
Thy famous great St. Nicholas,
Why does he not take heed
To thee to-day, and bear thee back
To thy own native land?
Ha! well I wot, he cannot take
One slave from out my hand!”

Scarce left the boastful words his tongue
When, with astonished eyes,
The cruel king a giant form
Saw swooping from the skies.
A whirlwind shook the palace walls,
The doors flew open wide,
And lo! the good St. Nicholas
Came in with mighty stride.

Right past the guards, as they were not,
Close to the king’s gold chair,
With striding steps the good Saint came,
And seizing by the hair
The frightened little page, he bore
Him, in a twinkling, high
Above the palace topmost roof,
And vanished in the sky.

Now at that very hour was spread
A banquet rich and dear,
Within the little page’s home
To which, from far and near,
The page’s mourning parents called
All poor to come and pray
With them, to good St. Nicholas,
Upon his sacred day.
Thinking, perhaps, that he would heal
Their anguish and their pain,
And at poor people’s prayers might give
Their child to them again.

Now what a sight was there to see,
When flying through the air,
The Saint came carrying the boy,
Still by his curly hair!
And set him on his mother’s knee,
Too frightened yet to stand,
And holding still the king’s gold cup
Fast in his little hand.

And what glad sounds were these to hear,
What sobs and joyful cries,
And calls for good St. Nicholas,
To come back from the skies!
But swift he soared, and only smiled,
And vanished in the blue;
Most likely he was hurrying
Some other good to do.

RAPHAEL OF URBINO

I

physical admiration torrent Urbino
brilliancy inferior fresco Apennines

Raphael of Urbino is called the prince of painters. And a true prince he was in physical beauty, in graciousness of manner, in kindness of soul, and in power to command the love and admiration of all people with whom he came in contact.

It would almost seem that the gentleness of St. Francis himself had fallen upon him, for Raphael, too, was born among the Apennines near the old town of Assisi. The rugged mountains still rise hill upon hill to the distant blue sky. Assisi, almost deserted, may still be visited, and you may stand in the very house where Raphael was born. You will find it on a steep hillside in the little town of Urbino.

Urbino is built upon a jutting mountain cliff beneath which is a rushing torrent. In the far distance one may see on a clear day the blue Mediterranean. Urbino was once a prosperous town over which a powerful duke ruled, but now it is a quaint village whose one treasure is the house on the steep hillside.

Raphael’s father was Giovanni Santi, a painter of some ability. His mother was the daughter of a rich merchant. Raphael was born April 6, 1483.

No shadow fell across the path of the child until he was eight years of age. Then a great sorrow befell him. His mother died. His father, anxious that the child should not miss a mother’s care, married again. His stepmother treated him with all tenderness, and thus the child grew strong and beautiful in the bright Italian sunshine and the loving atmosphere of home.

He had few companions besides his father and mother. He played much in his father’s studio, and like Angelo learned in babyhood to use the tools of art which later would bring him renown.

In 1494, while the boy was still young, his second misfortune came. His father died. Raphael was left under the guardianship of his stepmother and his father’s brother, a priest.

For a time nothing was done toward his further education. But an uncle who seemed to realize that the lad had unusual genius for painting at last gained permission to send him away to a master. He was placed under the instruction of Perugino, who, it is said, remarked, “Let him be my pupil; he will soon be my master.”

Raphael remained in the studio of Perugino at Perugia nearly nine years. Other students were with him who afterwards became great artists.

A master like Perugino would often receive many orders for pictures or frescoes which he could not execute alone. So the less important work would be left to students. This not only aided the artist, but it made it possible for students to show their power. If a young man had unusual talent, he was sure to seize this opportunity to show his ability and attract the master’s attention. Raphael’s earliest work was done to assist Perugino.

After the death of Perugino, Raphael returned for a time to Urbino. Here he painted for the reigning duke St. George slaying the Dragon and St. Michael attacking Satan. Both of these pictures are now in the Louvre gallery at Paris.

But Raphael wanted especially to see the pictures of Angelo and Leonardo, whose fame had spread to the most remote valleys of the rugged Apennines. So with a letter of introduction to the ruler of Florence, Raphael in 1504 started upon his travels. His letter, he knew, would insure him a welcome in Florence at least.

As he walked through the streets of this beautiful city he felt like a fairy prince in a land of magic. Now he stood beneath the bell tower which Giotto had designed, now he passed the wonderful bronze gates which Ghiberti had cast, and now he studied the pictures of Leonardo or Angelo which were in all the brilliancy of fresh color.

New ideas crowded upon him, new inspiration roused him. He was sure he could do more, much more, than he had ever dreamed of doing before. Eagerly he began to paint, and within a few months three Madonnas were marked with his name. A fresco painting of the Last Supper, which was probably executed by him this same year, was discovered on the wall of a convent dining room in 1845.

He had been gone not quite a year when he returned to Urbino to complete some work which he had before undertaken. The influence of Florence was seen at once in both color and form. He was a finer artist.

All that northern Italy could offer, Raphael had now seen. But the art of Rome excelled the art of Florence. Angelo was at that very time hard at work upon the ceiling frescoes of the Sistine Chapel. Leonardo in Milan had amazed Italy and the world by his Last Supper. He, too, was soon to be in Rome. Hither, in 1506, Raphael went.

A young man of handsome, courtly appearance and gracious manners, with many friends and no enemies, fortune truly favored him! The Pope received him gladly and soon commissioned him to decorate the hall of the Vatican.

Two of the greatest artists of any age were now working almost side by side, Michael Angelo and Raphael of Urbino. Often one or the other would stand by his rival and watch his brush. Yet neither ever spoke. Each admired the other and each was known to defend the other under the attacks of inferior artists.

II

steadily influence devout favorite
probably festival sleeves conception

Raphael worked steadily in the Vatican hall. Perhaps the most pleasing of these frescoes is the one which shows the Church in heaven and the Church on earth.

The fresco is divided into two sections. The upper one shows the Almighty Father in the midst of angels. Below Him is Christ enthroned, with the Virgin and St. John the Baptist. Beneath the throne is the Dove of the Holy Spirit. In the lower fresco appear St. John, St. Ambrose, St. Augustine, and St. Gregory.

At No. 124 Via Coronari, near the St. Angelo bridge, is the four-story house where Raphael lived during his first four years in Rome.

Raphael was admitted in 1514 into the Fraternity of the Body of Christ, and his many Madonnas of rare beauty were doubtless inspired by his devout spirit.

During his stay in Rome Raphael set up a studio to which many students flocked. They loved him both as friend and master, and he was untiring in his efforts to instruct and inspire them.

He was commissioned by the Pope with the task of making certain decorations for the Sistine Chapel. They were to take the form of tapestries with which the chapel would be adorned on great festival occasions. There were ten of these, all telling some Bible story in the life of Christ or one of His immediate followers.

The last of the series is the Coronation of the Virgin. It shows Christ on his throne crowning the Madonna. The Father and the Holy Spirit are seen above and St. Jerome and St. John the Baptist below.

As yet nothing has been said of the painting by which the name of Raphael is best known, the Sistine Madonna. It was painted in 1518 for the Benedictine Monastery of San Sisto at Piacenza. In 1754 it was purchased by Augustus III, Elector of Saxony, for forty thousand dollars. It was received in Dresden with great rejoicing, and the throne of Saxony was moved to give it a suitable place. It is now in the Dresden gallery.

Another favorite is the Madonna of the Chair. This shows the Madonna, seated, holding the child. “The dress of the mother is light blue; the mantle about her shoulder is green with red and willow-green stripes and a gold-embroidered border; her sleeves are red faced with gold at the wrists. A grayish-brown veil with reddish-brown stripes is wound around her head. The child’s dress is orange colored; the back of the chair is red.” Such is the description given by Grimm.

At the time of his death Raphael was putting forth every effort to finish his noble conception of the Transfiguration. It is now, as he left it, in the Vatican.

On the night of Good Friday, April 6, 1520, at the age of thirty-seven, Raphael died. In his beautiful home, where the people of Rome might do him honor, the unfinished Transfiguration beside him, in the midst of lighted tapers, he lay in state until the body was carried to the Pantheon. In the procession also was carried the great picture.

LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT

Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom
Lead Thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home--
Lead Thou me on!
Keep Thou my feet, I do not ask to see
The distant scene--one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor pray’d that Thou
Shouldst lead me on.
I loved to choose and see my path, but now
Lead Thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on,
O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone;
And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.

--CARDINAL NEWMAN.

PARABLE OF THE GOOD SAMARITAN

A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among robbers, who also stripped him: and having wounded him went away leaving him half dead.

And it chanced that a certain priest went down the same way: and seeing him, passed by.

In like manner also a Levite, when he was near the place and saw him, passed by.

But a certain Samaritan being on his journey, came near him: and seeing him was moved with compassion.

And going up to him, bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine: and setting him upon his own beast brought him to an inn, and took care of him.

And the next day he took out two pence, and gave to the host, and said: Take care of him: and whatsoever thou shalt spend over and above, I at my return will repay thee.

Which of these three in thy opinion was neighbor to him that fell among the robbers?

--_Luke_ x. 30-36.

THE GOOD SAMARITAN]

CONNOR MAC-NESSA--AN IRISH LEGEND

siege tourney falconry anxious
relief anguish tranquil crucify
chieftain emerald generous vigorous

Loud roared the din of battle, fierce,
Bloody and wild,
With Ulster men and Connaught men
The field was piled.
Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s King,
In the mad fray
Wounded to death and well-nigh spent
And dying lay.

A Druid came with healing balm
Of herb and leaf,
He poured it in the gaping wound,
To give relief;
The wound was healed, “Yet,” said the leech,
“Beware, my Liege!
Of war’s alarm or battle fray,
Sally or siege;

“No more o’er mere and fen with thee,
Oh! noble king,
Brave Knight and Lady fair will strive
For bittern’s wing;
No more thou’lt ride thy prancing steed
After the doe,
No more thou’lt tilt at tourney brave
’Gainst gallant foe;

“For thee the fireside’s tranquil calm,
Lest sudden rift
Of wound break forth and cause thy death
In anguish swift!”
Quiet and calm, in war or peace,
No more to roam,
Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s King,
Abode at home.

One day, when woods were green and fair,
And hearts were light,
Swiftly the gleaming mid-day sun
Grew dark as night;
Black portents unto Erin fair
It seemed to bring.
“What means this, mighty Druid?” asked
The anxious king.

“Far, far away, across the sea,”
The Druid said,
“Jesu, the Christ, upon a cross
Bends low His head.
Their King upon the shameful tree,
With mocking cry,
And scornful gibe, the cruel Jews
Now crucify.”

King Connor cried, “What crime had this
Man done, I pray?”
“But to be good were crime enough
For such as they,
My King,” the answer came. “He was
To death enticed,
Then broke His tender, loving heart,
This fair, white Christ!”

A generous flush o’erspread his cheek,
Mac-Nessa sprang
Quick to his feet; his quivering voice
In anger rang.
“Ah! wicked deed! Ah! poor, white Christ!
They murder Thee!
Why didst thou not unto the King
Of Erin flee?

“Thy battles he would fight to death,
Poor, guiltless One,
Ulster’s great chieftain ne’er could see
Injustice done!”
Then dashed he from the hall and seized
With vigorous hand
His keen and sharp-edged clevy--
A wondrous brand!

Under the turquoise sky, upon
The emerald turf,
His anger raged like foaming crest
Of frothy surf.
He hacked and hewed the giant trees
With his keen sword.
“Thus would I slay Thy foes, poor Christ,
With blood out-poured!”

Then quickly his forgotten wound
Sprung gaping wide.
He reeled and fell: “I go to Thee,
Oh! Christ!” he sighed,
For the King Christ he loved unseen,
With flowers bespread,
Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s King
Lay cold and dead!

--M. F. N.-R.

THE MARTYRDOM OF BLESSED JOHN FISHER

message persuasion signify lieutenant
apparel infirmity scaffold occasion
forehead infinite tyrant solemnity

It was very late in the night when the sentence was pronounced, and the prisoner was asleep. The lieutenant was unwilling to disturb his rest for that time, and so did not awaken him, but in the morning before five of the clock he came to him in his chamber in the Bell Tower, and found him yet asleep in his bed.

He awakened the good father, and explained that he was come to him on a message from the king. Then, with some persuasion, he said that he should remember himself to be an old man, and that he could not expect by course of nature to live much longer. Finally he informed him that he was come to signify unto him that the king’s pleasure was he should suffer death that forenoon.

“Well,” answered this blessed father, “if this be your errand, you bring me no great news. I have long expected this message. And I most humbly thank the king’s majesty that it has pleased him to rid me from all this worldly business, and I thank you also for your tidings. But I pray you, Mr. Lieutenant, when is mine hour that I must go hence?”

“Your hour,” said the lieutenant, “must be nine of the clock.”

“And what hour is it now?” said he.

“It is now about five,” said the lieutenant.

“Well, then,” said he, “let me by your patience sleep an hour or two, for I have slept very little this night. My rest has been very much broken, not for any fear of death, I thank God, but by reason of my great infirmity and weakness.”

“The king’s further pleasure is,” said the lieutenant, “that you should not talk much. Especially you must not say anything touching his majesty, whereby the people should have any cause to think ill of him or of his proceedings.”

“For that,” said the father, “you shall see me order myself well. For, by God’s grace, neither the king, nor any man else, shall have occasion to mislike my words.”

The lieutenant then departed from him, and so the prisoner, falling again to rest, slept soundly two hours and more.

After he was waked again he called to his man to help him up. Then he commanded him to take away the shirt of hair (which he was accustomed to wear on his back) and to convey it secretly out of the house. Then he bade him bring a clean white shirt, and all the best apparel he had, as cleanly bright as possible.

While he was dressing himself, he appeared to have more curiosity and care for the fine and cleanly wearing of his apparel that day than had ever been his wont before. His man asked him what this sudden change meant, since he must know well enough that he must put off all again within two hours and lose it.

“What of that?” said the father. “Dost thou not mark that this is our wedding day, and that it is necessary for us to use more cleanliness for solemnity of the marriage?”

About nine of the clock the lieutenant came again to his prison. Finding him almost ready, he said that he was now come for him.

“I will wait upon you straight,” said the father, “as fast as this thin body of mine will give me leave.” Then he turned to his man and said, “Reach me my fur cape to put about my neck.”

“Oh, my lord,” said the lieutenant, “why need you be so careful for your health for this little while? Your lordship knoweth that it is not much above an hour.”

“I think no otherwise,” said this blessed father. “But in the meantime I will keep myself as well as I can, till the very time of my execution. I have, I thank our Lord, a very good desire and willing mind to die at this present time, and so trust of His infinite mercy and goodness He will continue this desire. Nevertheless, I will not willingly hinder my health for one minute of an hour. Indeed, I will prolong the same as long as I can by such reasonable ways and means as Almighty God hath provided for me.”

Then, taking a little book in his hand, which was a New Testament lying by him, he made a cross on his forehead and went out of his prison door with the lieutenant. He was so weak that he was scarce able to go down the stairs, and at the stairs-foot he was taken up in a chair between two of the lieutenant’s men. These carried him to the Tower gate to be delivered to the sheriffs of London for execution.

When they were come to the farthest wall of the Tower, they rested there with him a space; and an officer was sent on before to know in what readiness the sheriffs were to receive him. As they were resting here, the father rose out of his chair, and stood on his feet, leaning his shoulder to the wall. Then, lifting his eyes towards heaven, he opened his little book in his hand, and said, “O Lord, this is the last time that ever I shall open this book; let some comfortable place now chance unto me whereby I thy poor servant may glorify Thee in this my last hour.”

Then he opened the book, and the first thing that came to his sight were these words: “This is life everlasting, that they may know Thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom Thou hast sent. I have glorified Thee upon earth, I have finished the work Thou gavest me to do.” Having read these words, he shut the book together and said, “Here is even learning enough for me to my life’s end.”

The sheriff was now ready for him. So he was taken up again by certain of the sheriff’s men, and, guarded by many armed men, he was carried to the scaffold on Tower Hill, otherwise called East Smithfield. He was seen to be praying all the way, and pondering upon the words that he had read.

When he was come to the foot of the scaffold, they that carried him offered to help him up the stairs; but he said, “Nay, masters, since I have come so far let me alone, and you shall see me shift for myself well enough.” So he went up the stairs without any help, so lively that it was a marvel to them that knew before of his weakness. As he was mounting up the stairs, the southeast sun shined very bright in his face. Observing this, he said to himself these words, lifting up his hands, “Come ye to Him and be enlightened; and your faces shall not be confounded.”

By the time he was on the scaffold, it was about ten of the clock. The executioner, being ready to do his office, kneeled down to him (as the fashion is) and asked his forgiveness.

“I forgive thee,” said the father, “with all my heart, and I trust thou shalt see me overcome this storm lustily.”

Then was his gown and fur cape taken from him, and he stood in his doublet and hose, in sight of all the people. There was to be seen a long, lean, and slender body, having on it little other substance besides the skin and bones. Indeed, so thin and emaciated was he that those who beheld him marveled much to see a living man so far consumed. Therefore, it appeared monstrous that the king could be so cruel as to put such a man to death as he was, even though he had been a real offender against the law.

If he had been in the Turk’s dominion, and there found guilty of some great offense, yet methinks the Turk would never have put him to death being already so near death. For it is an horrible and exceeding cruelty to kill that thing which is presently dying, except it be for pity’s sake to rid it from longer pain. Therefore, it may be thought that the cruelty and hard heart of King Henry in this point passed all the Turks and tyrants that ever have been heard or read of.

After speaking a few words the father kneeled down on his knees and said certain prayers. Then came the executioner and bound a handkerchief about his eyes. This holy father, lifting up his hands and heart to heaven, said a few other prayers, which were not long but fervent and devout, which being ended, he laid his holy head down over the midst of a little block.… And so his immortal soul mounted to the blissful joys of Heaven.

--THE REV. T. E. BRIDGETT, C. SS. R.

THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE GLOWWORM

appetite eagerly harangued minstrelsy
eloquent abhor oration approbation

A nightingale, that all day long
Had cheered the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When, looking eagerly around,
He spied far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glowworm by his spark;
So, stooping from the hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.

The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, right eloquent:
“Did you admire my lamp,” quoth he,
“As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong
As much as I to spoil your song;
For ’twas the selfsame Power divine
Taught you to sing and me to shine;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night.”

The songster heard this short oration,
And, warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.

--WILLIAM COWPER.

IF THOU COULDST BE A BIRD

If thou couldst be a bird, what bird wouldst thou be?
A frolicsome gull on the billowy sea,
Screaming and wailing when stormy winds rave,
Or anchored, white thing! on the merry green wave?

Or an eagle aloft in the blue ether dwelling,
Free of the caves of the lofty Helvellyn,
Who is up in the sunshine when we are in shower,
And could reach our loved ocean in less than an hour?

Or a stork on a mosque’s broken pillar in peace,
By some famous old stream in the bright land of Greece;
A sweet-mannered householder! waiving his state
Now and then, in some kind little toil for his mate?

Or a heath bird, that lies on the Cheviot moor,
Where the wet, shining earth is as bare as the floor;
Who mutters glad sounds, though his joys are but few--
Yellow moon, windy sunshine, and skies cold and blue?

Or, if thy man’s heart worketh in thee at all,
Perchance thou wouldst dwell by some bold baron’s hall;
A black, glossy rook, working early and late,
Like a laboring man on the baron’s estate?

Or a linnet, who builds in the close hawthorn bough,
Where her small, frightened eyes may be seen looking through;
Who heeds not, fond mother! the oxlips that shine
On the hedge banks beneath, or the glazed celandine?

Or a swallow that flieth the sunny world over,
The true home of spring and spring flowers to discover;
Who, go where he will, takes away on his wings
Good words from mankind for the bright thoughts he brings?

But what! can these pictures of strange winged mirth
Make the child to forget that she walks on the earth?
Dost thou feel at thy sides as though wings were to start
From some place where they lie folded up in thy heart?

Then love the green things in thy first simple youth,
The beasts, birds, and fishes, with heart and in truth,
And fancy shall pay thee thy love back in skill;
Thou shalt be all the birds of the air at thy will.

--F. W. FABER.

THE FIRST CRUSADE