Chapter I: Front Matter

The Union Jack]

THE ONTARIO READERS

THIRD BOOK

AUTHORIZED BY

THE MINISTER OF EDUCATION

The price of this book to the purchaser is not the total cost.
During the present period of abnormal and fluctuating
trade conditions, an additional sum, which may vary
from time to time, is paid to the Publisher
by the Department of Education.

Entered, according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year 1909,
in the office of the Minister of Agriculture by the
Minister of Education for Ontario.

TORONTO:
THE T. EATON Co LIMITED

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

THE MINISTER OF EDUCATION is indebted to Rudyard Kipling, Henry Newbolt, Beckles Willson, E. B. Osborn, F. T. Bullen, Flora Annie Steel; Charles G. D. Roberts, W. Wilfred Campbell, Ethelwyn Wetherald, Jean Blewett, Robert Reid, "Ralph Connor," John Waugh, S. T. Wood; Henry Van Dyke, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward, and Richard Watson Gilder for special permission to reproduce, in this Reader, selections from their writings.

He is indebted to Lord Tennyson for special permission to reproduce the poems from the works of Alfred, Lord Tennyson; to Lloyd Osbourne for permission to reproduce the selection from the works of Robert Louis Stevenson; and to J. F. Edgar for permission to reproduce one of Sir James D. Edgar's poems.

He is also indebted to Macmillan & Co., Limited, for special permission, to reproduce selections from the works of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Rudyard Kipling, and Flora Annie Steel; to Smith, Elder & Co., for the extract from F. T. Bullen's "The Cruise of the Cachalot"; to Elkin Mathews for Henry Newbolt's poem from "The Island Race"; to Sampson Low, Marston & Company for the extract from R. D. Blackmore's "Lorna Doone"; to Thomas Nelson & Sons for the extract from W. F. Collier's "History of the British Empire"; to Chatto and Windus for the extract from E. B. Osborn's "Greater Canada"; to Houghton Mifflin Company for "The Chase" from Charles Dudley Warner's "A-Hunting of the Deer," "Mary Elizabeth" by Mrs. Phelps Ward, and the poems by Celia Thaxter and by Richard Watson Gilder; to The Century Company for Jacob A. Riis' "The Story of a Fire" from "_The Century Magazine_"; to The Copp Clark Co., Limited, for the selections from Charles G. D. Roberts' works; to The Westminster Co., Limited, for the extract from "Ralph Connor's" "The Man from Glengarry."

The Minister is grateful to these authors and publishers and to others, not mentioned here, through whose courtesy he has been able to include in this Reader so many copyright selections.

Toronto, May, 1909.

CONTENTS

PAGE

_To-day_
_Thomas Carlyle_
1

Fortune and the Beggar
_Ivan Kirloff_
2

_The Lark and the Rook_
_Unknown_
4

The Pickwick Club on the Ice
_Charles Dickens_
6

_Tubal Cain_
_Charles Mackay_
11

Professor Frog's Lecture
_M. A. L. Lane_
14

_A Song for April_
_Charles G. D. Roberts_
25

How the Crickets Brought Good Fortune
_P. J. Stahl_
26

_The Battle of Blenheim_
_Robert Southey_
31

The Ride for Life
_"Ralph Connor"_
34

_Iagoo, the Boaster_
_Henry W. Longfellow_
39

The Story of a Fire
_Jacob A. Riis_
40

_The Quest_
_Eudora S. Bumstead_
43

The Jackal and the Partridge
_Flora Annie Steel_
44

_Hide and Seek_
_Henry Van Dyke_
50

The Burning of the "Goliath"
_Dean Stanley_
52

_Hearts of Oak_
_David Garrick_
55

_A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea_
_Allan Cunningham_
56

The Talents
_Bible_
57

_A Farewell_
_Charles Kingsley_
59

_An Apple Orchard in the Spring_
_William Martin_
60

The Bluejay
_"Mark Twain"_
61

_A Canadian Camping Song_
_Sir James David Edgar_
65

The Argonauts
_John Waugh_
66

_The Minstrel-Boy_
_Thomas Moore_
71

Mary Elizabeth
_Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward_
72

_The Frost_
_Hannah Flagg Gould_
83

_Corn-fields_
_Mary Howitt_
84

South-West Wind, Esq.
_John Ruskin_
86

_The Meeting of the Waters_
_Thomas Moore_
97

Love
_Bible_
98

_The Robin's Song_
_Unknown_
99

Work or Play
_"Mark Twain"_
100

_Burial of Sir John Moore_
_Charles Wolfe_
106

The Whistle
_Benjamin Franklin_
108

_A Canadian Boat Song_
_Thomas Moore_
109

The Little Hero of Haarlem
_Sharpe's London Magazine_
110

_Father William_
_"Lewis Carroll"_
115

David and Goliath
_Bible_
117

_Charge of the Light Brigade_
_Alfred, Lord Tennyson_
123

Maggie Tulliver
_George Eliot_
125

_The Corn Song_
_John G. Whittier_
134

Sports in Norman England
_William Fitzstephen_
136

_A Song of Canada_
_Robert Reid_
140

A Mad Tea Party
_"Lewis Carroll"_
142

_The Slave's Dream_
_Henry W. Longfellow_
149

The Chase
_Charles Dudley Warner_
152

_The Inchcape Rock_
_Robert Southey_
158

A Rough Ride
_Richard D. Blackmore_
161

_The Arab and His Steed_
_The Honourable Mrs. Norton_
169

_The Poet's Song_
_Alfred, Lord Tennyson_
173

Adventure with a Whale
_Frank T. Bullen_
174

_The Maple_
_H. F. Darnell_
179

Damon and Pythias
_Charlotte M. Yonge_
181

_The Wreck of the Orpheus_
_C. A. L._
184

_The Tide River_
_Charles Kingsley_
185

Wisdom the Supreme Prize
_Bible_
187

_The Orchard_
_Jean Blewett_
188

Inspired by the Snow
_Samuel T. Wood_
189

_The Squirrel_
_William Cowper_
192

_Soldier, Rest_
_Sir Walter Scott_
192

Fishing
_Thomas Hughes_
193

_The Fountain_
_James Russell Lowell_
199

_Break, Break, Break_
_Alfred, Lord Tennyson_
201

The Bed of Procrustes
_Charles Kingsley_
202

_"Bob White"_
_George Cooper_
208

Radisson and the Indians
_Beckles Willson_
209

_The Brook_
_Alfred, Lord Tennyson_
212

"Do Seek Their Meat From God"
_Charles G. D. Roberts_
215

_A Song of the Sea_
_"Barry Cornwall"_
222

Little Daffydowndilly
_Nathaniel Hawthorne_
223

_The Sandpiper_
_Celia Thaxter_
234

From "The Sermon on the Mount"
_Bible_
236

_The Legend of Saint Christopher_
_Helen Hunt Jackson_
237

William Tell and His Son
_Chamber's "Tracts"_
241

_A Midsummer Song_
_Richard Watson Gilder_
244

The Relief of Lucknow
_"Letter from an officer's wife"_
246

_The Song in Camp_
_Bayard Taylor_
250

_Afterglow_
_William Wilfred Campbell_
252

King Richard and Saladin
_Sir Walter Scott_
253

_England's Dead_
_Felicia Hemans_
258

_Hohenlinden_
_Thomas Campbell_
260

The Dream of the Oak Tree
_Hans Christian Andersen_
262

A Prayer
_Robert Louis Stevenson_
266

_The Death of the Flowers_
_William Cullen Bryant_
267

_'Tis the Last Rose of Summer_
_Thomas Moore_
269

A Roman's Honour
_Charlotte M. Yonge_
270

_The Fighting Téméraire_
_Henry Newbolt_
273

Don Quixote's Fight with the Windmills
_Miguel de Cervantes_
275

_The Romance of the Swan's Nest_
_Elizabeth Barrett Browning_
281

Moonlight Sonata
_Unknown_
285

_The Red-Winged Blackbird_
_Ethelwyn Wetherald_
290

_To the Cuckoo_
_John Logan_
291

The Story of a Stone
_D. B._
293

_The Snow-Storm_
_John G. Whittier_
298

The Heroine of Verchères
_Francis Parkman_
301

_Jacques Cartier_
_Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee_
307

Ants and Their Slaves
_Jules Michelet_
310

_Lead, Kindly Light_
_John Henry Newman_
315

The Jolly Sandboys
_Charles Dickens_
316

_The Gladness of Nature_
_William Cullen Bryant_
324

Old English Life
_William F. Collier_
325

_Puck's Song_
_Rudyard Kipling_
330

The Battle of Queenston Heights
_Unknown_
332

_The Bugle Song_
_Alfred, Lord Tennyson_
337

Charity
_Bible_
338

_A Christmas Carol_
_James Russell Lowell_
339

The Barren Lands
_E. B. Osborn_
341

_A Spring Morning_
_William Wordsworth_
345

_Crossing the Bar_
_Alfred, Lord Tennyson_
346

EMPIRE DAY

I want you to remember what Empire Day means. Empire Day is the festival on which every British subject should reverently remember that the British Empire stands out before the whole world as the fearless champion of freedom, fair play and equal rights; that its watchwords are responsibility, duty, sympathy and self-sacrifice, and that a special responsibility rests with you individually to be true to the traditions and to the mission of your race.

I also want you to remember that one day Canada will become, if her people are faithful to their high British traditions, the most powerful of all the self-governing nations, not excluding the people of the United Kingdom, which make up the British Empire, and that it rests with each one of you individually to do your utmost by your own conduct and example to make Canada not only the most powerful, but the noblest of all the self-governing nations that are proud to owe allegiance to the King.

Earl Grey. Governor-General of Canada

THIRD READER

TO-DAY

So here hath been dawning
Another blue day;
Think, wilt thou let it
Slip useless away?

Out of Eternity
This new day is born;
Into Eternity
At night will return.

Behold it aforetime
No eye ever did;
So soon it forever
From all eyes is hid.

Here hath been dawning
Another blue day;
Think, wilt thou let it
Slip useless away?

CARLYLE

FORTUNE AND THE BEGGAR

One day a ragged beggar was creeping along from house to house. He carried an old wallet in his hand, and was asking at every door for a few cents to buy something to eat. As he was grumbling at his lot, he kept wondering why it was that folks who had so much money were never satisfied but were always wanting more.

"Here," said he, "is the master of this house--I know him well. He was always a good business man, and he made himself wondrously rich a long time ago. Had he been wise he would have stopped then. He would have turned over his business to some one else, and then he could have spent the rest of his life in ease. But what did he do instead? He built ships and sent them to sea to trade with foreign lands. He thought he would get mountains of gold.

"But there were great storms on the water; his ships were wrecked, and his riches were swallowed up by the waves. Now all his hopes lie at the bottom of the sea, and his great wealth has vanished.

"There are many such cases. Men seem to be never satisfied unless they gain the whole world.

"As for me, if I had only enough to eat and to wear, I would not want anything more."

Just at that moment Fortune came down the street. She saw the beggar and stopped. She said to him:

"Listen! I have long wished to help you. Hold your wallet and I will pour this gold into it, but only on this condition: all that falls into the wallet shall be pure gold; but every piece that falls upon the ground shall become dust. Do you understand?"

"Oh, yes, I understand," said the beggar.

"Then have a care," said Fortune. "Your wallet is old, so do not load it too heavily."

The beggar was so glad that he could hardly wait. He quickly opened his wallet, and a stream of yellow dollars poured into it. The wallet grew heavy.

"Is that enough?" asked Fortune.

"Not yet."

"Isn't it cracking?"

"Never fear."

The beggar's hands began to tremble. Ah, if the golden stream would only pour for ever!

"You are the richest man in the world now!"

"Just a little more, add just a handful or two."

"There, it's full. The wallet will burst."

"But it will hold a little, just a little more!"

Another piece was added, and the wallet split. The treasure fell upon the ground and was turned to dust. Fortune had vanished. The beggar had now nothing but his empty wallet, and it was torn from top to bottom. He was as poor as before.

IVAN KIRLOFF

THE LARK AND THE ROOK

"Good-night, Sir Rook!" said a little lark,
"The daylight fades; it will soon be dark;
I've bathed my wings in the sun's last ray;
I've sung my hymn to the parting day;
So now I haste to my quiet nook
In yon dewy meadow--good-night, Sir Rook!"

"Good-night, poor Lark," said his titled friend
With a haughty toss and a distant bend;
"I also go to my rest profound,
But not to sleep on the cold, damp ground.
The fittest place for a bird like me
Is the topmost bough of yon tall pine tree.

"I opened my eyes at peep of day
And saw you taking your upward way,
Dreaming your fond romantic dreams,
An ugly speck in the sun's bright beams,
Soaring too high to be seen or heard;
And I said to myself: 'What a foolish bird!'

"I trod the park with a princely air;
I filled my crop with the richest fare;
I cawed all day 'mid a lordly crew,
And I made more noise in the world than you!
The sun shone forth on my ebon wing;
I looked and wondered--good-night, poor thing!"

"Good-night, once more," said the lark's sweet voice,
"I see no cause to repent my choice;
You build your nest in the lofty pine,
But is your slumber more sweet than mine?
You make more noise in the world than I,
But whose is the sweeter minstrelsy?"

UNKNOWN

What stronger breast-plate than a heart untainted?
Thrice is he armed, that hath his quarrel just;
And he but naked, though locked up in steel,
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.

SHAKESPEARE

THE PICKWICK CLUB ON THE ICE

"You skate, of course, Winkle?" said Wardle.

"Ye-yes; oh, yes," replied Mr. Winkle. "I--I--am _rather_ out of practice."

"Oh, _do_ skate, Mr. Winkle," said Arabella. "I like to see it so much."

"Oh, it is _so_ graceful," said another young lady. A third young lady said it was elegant, and a fourth expressed her opinion that it was "swan-like."

"I should be very happy, I'm sure," said Mr. Winkle, reddening; "but I have no skates."

This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had got a couple of pair, and the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more downstairs, whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely uncomfortable.

Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and the fat boy and Mr. Weller, having shovelled and swept away the snow which had fallen on it during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a dexterity which to Mr. Winkle seemed perfectly marvellous, and described circles with his left leg, and cut figures of eight, and inscribed upon the ice, without once stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant and astonishing devices, to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, and the ladies; which reached a pitch of positive enthusiasm, when old Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by the aforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions, which they called a reel.

All this time, Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold, had been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his feet, and putting his skates on with the points behind, and getting the straps into a very complicated and entangled state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass, who knew rather less about skates than a Hindoo. At length, however, with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly screwed and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet.

"Now, then, sir," said Sam in an encouraging tone; "off vith you, and show 'em how to do it."

"Stop, Sam, stop," said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and clutching hold of Sam's arms with the grasp of a drowning man. "How slippery it is, Sam!"

"Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir," replied Mr. Weller. "Hold up, sir."

This last observation of Mr. Weller's bore reference to a demonstration Mr. Winkle made at the instant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet into the air and dash the back of his head on the ice.

"These--these--are very awkward skates; ain't they, Sam?" inquired Mr. Winkle, staggering.

"I'm afeerd there's an orkard gen'lm'n in 'em, sir," replied Sam.

"Now, Winkle," cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was anything the matter. "Come, the ladies are all anxiety."

"Yes, yes," replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. "I'm coming."

"Just a goin' to begin," said Sam, endeavouring to disengage himself. "Now, sir, start off."

"Stop an instant, Sam," gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionately to Mr. Weller. "I find I've a couple of coats at home that I don't want, Sam. You may have them, Sam."

"Thank'ee, sir," replied Mr. Weller.

"Never mind touching your hat, Sam," said Mr. Winkle, hastily. "You needn't take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you five shillings this morning for a Christmas-box, Sam. I'll give it to you this afternoon, Sam."

"You're wery good, sir," replied Mr. Weller.

"Just hold me at first, Sam; will you?" said Mr. Winkle. "There--that's right. I shall soon get into the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam; not too fast."

Mr. Winkle, stooping forward with his body half doubled up, was being assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a very singular and un-swan-like manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite bank--

"Sam!"

"Sir?" said Mr. Weller.

"Here. I want you."

"Let go, sir," said Sam. "Don't you hear the governor a-callin'? Let go, sir!"

With a violent effort, Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of the agonized Pickwickian; and, in so doing, administered a considerable impetus to the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of dexterity or practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into the centre of the reel, at the very moment when Mr. Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty. Mr. Winkle struck wildly against him, and with a loud crash they both fell heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind in skates. He was seated on the ice making spasmodic efforts to smile; but anguish was depicted on every lineament of his countenance.

"Are you hurt?" inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety.

"Not much," said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard.

"I wish you'd let me bleed you," said Mr. Benjamin, with great eagerness.

"No, thank you," replied Mr. Winkle hurriedly.

"I really think you had better," said Allen.

"Thank you," replied Mr. Winkle "I'd rather not."

"What do _you_ think, Mr. Pickwick?" inquired Bob Sawyer.

Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller, and said in a stern voice:

"Take his skates off."

The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it in silence.

"Lift him up," said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise.

Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the bystanders; and, beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and uttered in a low but distinct and emphatic tone these remarkable words:

"You're a humbug, sir."

"A what?" said Mr. Winkle, starting.

"A humbug, sir. I will speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor, sir."

With these words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel and rejoined his friends.

DICKENS: "The Pickwick Papers."

TUBAL CAIN

Old Tubal Cain was a man of might,
In the days when earth was young;
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright,
The strokes of his hammer rung:
And he lifted high his brawny hand
On the iron glowing clear,
Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers,
As he fashioned the sword and spear.
And he sang--"Hurrah for my handiwork!
Hurrah for the spear and sword!
Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well,
For he shall be king and lord!"

To Tubal Cain came many a one,
As he wrought by his roaring fire;
And each one prayed for a strong steel blade,
As the crown of his desire;
And he made them weapons sharp and strong,
Till they shouted loud for glee;
And they gave him gifts of pearls and gold,
And spoils of the forest free.
And they sang--"Hurrah for Tubal Cain,
Who hath given us strength anew!
Hurrah for the smith, hurrah for the fire,
And hurrah for the metal true!"

But a sudden change came o'er his heart,
Ere the setting of the sun;
And Tubal Cain was filled with pain
For the evil he had done:
He saw that men, with rage and hate,
Made war upon their kind,
That the land was red with the blood they shed,
In their lust for carnage blind.
And he said--"Alas! that I ever made,
Or that skill of mine should plan,
The spear and the sword for men whose joy
Is to slay their fellow-man!"

And for many a day old Tubal Cain
Sat brooding o'er his woe;
And his hand forbore to smite the ore,
And his furnace smouldered low.
But he rose at last with a cheerful face,
And a bright courageous eye,
And bared his strong right arm for work,
While the quick flames mounted high.
And he sang--"Hurrah for my handiwork!"
And the red sparks lit the air;
"Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made,"
And he fashioned the first ploughshare.

And men, taught wisdom from the past,
In friendship joined their hands;
Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,
And ploughed the willing lands:
And sang--"Hurrah for Tubal Cain!
Our stanch good friend is he;
And for the ploughshare and the plough,
To him our praise shall be.
But while oppression lifts its head,
Or a tyrant would be lord;
Though we may thank him for the plough,
We'll not forget the sword!"

CHARLES MACKAY

PROFESSOR FROG'S LECTURE

Bobby was not quite sure that he was awake, but when he opened his eyes there was the blue sky, with the soft, white clouds drifting across it, the big pine waving its spicy branches over his head, and beyond, the glint of sunshine on the waters of the pond. Presently Bobby heard voices talking softly.

"This is a good specimen," said one voice. "See how stout and strong he looks!"

"I wonder who that is, and what he has found," thought Bobby. "I wish it wasn't such hard work to keep my eyes open." He made a great effort, however, and raised his heavy lids. At first he could see nothing. Then he caught a glimpse of a mossy log, with a row of frogs and toads sitting upon it. They were looking solemnly at him. Bobby felt a little uncomfortable under that steady gaze.

"The toads are making their spring visit to the pond to lay their eggs," thought the boy. "I forgot that they were due this week."

"He must have done a good deal of mischief in his day," said an old bull-frog, gravely. A chill crept over Bobby. "In his day."--What did that mean?

A toad hopped out from the line and came so close to Bobby that he could have touched her but for the strange spell which held him fast.

"Yes," said she; "this is one of the species. We are very fortunate to have caught him. Now we shall be ready to listen to Professor Rana's remarks."

Still Bobby could not move. What were they going to do? In a moment there was a rustling among the dry leaves and dozens of frogs and toads were seen hurrying towards the pine tree. Among them was a ponderous frog, carrying a roll of manuscript under his arm. He wore huge goggles, and looked so wise that Bobby did not dare to laugh.

"I am very sleepy," murmured a portly toad near Bobby's left ear. "I laid over eight thousand eggs last night, and I have a long journey before me. But I must stay to hear this. We may never have such a chance again."

"Ladies and gentlemen," began the professor, in a sonorous tone that was easily heard for several feet, "this is a specimen of the creature known to us as the human tadpole. You will kindly observe his long legs. They were doubtless given to him for the purpose of protection. Being possessed of a most mischievous and reckless spirit, the species is always getting into difficulties, and would probably become extinct if it had not the power to run away."

"Nonsense!" said Bobby under his breath. There was a murmur of interest and curiosity among the crowd. Bobby felt his legs twitch nervously, but his power over them was gone.

"Otherwise," went on the lecturer, "he is not at all adapted to his surroundings. Observe how carefully we are dressed. The frogs have the green and brown tints of their homes by the water-side. The toads look like lumps of dirt, so that they may not be too readily snapped up by birds of prey. But the Boy--to call him by his scientific name--has no such protection. Look at this red shirt and these white trousers, and this hat as big as a trout pool! Could anything be more ridiculous? Even a giraffe does not look so absurd as this."

A red flush mounted to Bobby's freckled cheeks, but this time he did not try to speak.

"Now," said the professor, "as far as we have been able to learn, the human tadpole is absolutely useless. We are, therefore, doing no harm in experimenting upon this specimen. There are plenty of them, and this one will not be a serious loss."

"Stop!" said Bobby, so unexpectedly that everybody jumped. "What are you going to do with me?"

"You will be so kind as to lie still," said the professor severely. "At present you are only a specimen."

There was no help for it. Bobby found it impossible to move hand or foot. He could wriggle a little,--but that was all.

"Not only is the Boy entirely useless," went on the professor, "but he is often what might be called a pest, even to his own kind. He is endured in the world for what he may become when he is full-grown, and even then he is sometimes disappointing. You are familiar with many of his objectionable ways towards the animal world, but I am sure you would be surprised if you knew what a care and trouble he frequently is to his own people. He can be trusted to do few kinds of work. It is difficult to keep him clean. He doesn't know how to get his own dinner. He has a genius for making weaker things miserable. He likes fishing, and he longs for a gun; he collects birds' eggs; he puts butterflies on pins; he teases his little sisters."

"Why isn't the species exterminated?" asked another frog angrily.

Then the toad near Bobby's ear spoke timidly: "I think you are a little unjust, Professor. I have known boys who were comparatively harmless."

"It is true there may be a few, Mrs. Bufo," said the professor with great politeness, "but as a class they may be fairly set down as of very doubtful value. Speak up, Tadpole, and say if I have made any false statements so far."

Bobby fairly shouted in his eagerness to be heard.

"We do work," he said. "We have to go to school every day."

"What a help that must be to your parents and to the world at large!" said the frog with sarcasm. "I am surprised that we never see the results of such hard labour. Do you know how useful even our smallest tadpoles are? Without them this pond would be no longer beautiful, but foul and ill-smelling. As for what we do when we are grown up, modesty forbids me to praise the frogs, but you know what a toad is worth to mankind?"

"No," said Bobby. "About two cents, I guess." Bobby didn't intend to be rude. He thought this a liberal valuation.

"Twenty dollars a year, as estimated by the Department of Agriculture!" cried the frog triumphantly. "What do you think of that?"

"I should like to know why," said Bobby, looking as if he thought Professor Rana was making fun of him.

"What are the greatest enemies of mankind?" asked the professor, peering over his goggles at poor Bobby.

"Tigers," said Bobby, promptly; "or wolves."

"Wrong," said the lecturer. "Insects. Insects destroy property on this continent to the amount of over four hundred million dollars annually. Insects destroy the crops upon which man depends for his food. Going to school hasn't made you very wise, has it? Well, the toads are insect destroyers. That's their business. If the State only knew enough to make use of them, millions of dollars might be saved every year. Does it seem to you that the human animal is so clever as it might be, when it allows such numbers of toads to be destroyed?"

"It's a shame!" chimed in a voice from the front seats. "We keep out of the way as much as we can; we eat every kind of troublesome worm and insect,--the cutworm, canker-worm, tent caterpillar, army-worm, rose-beetle, and the common house-fly; we ask for no wages or food or care,--and what do we get in return? Not even protection and common kindness. If we had places where we could live in safety, who could tell the amount of good we might do? Yet I would not have this poor boy hurt if a word of mine could prevent it."

"This is a scientific meeting," observed the professor; "and benevolent sentiments are quite out of place. We will now proceed to notice the delicate nervous system of the creature. Stand closer, my friends, if you please."

"Nervous system, indeed!" said Bobby. "Boys don't have such silly things as nerves!"

Suddenly Bobby felt a multitude of tiny pin pricks over the entire surface of his body. The suffering was not intense, but the irritation made him squirm and wince. He could not discover the cause of his discomfort, but at the professor's command it suddenly ceased.

"That will do," said the frog. "Each hair on his head is also connected with a nerve. Pull his hair, please!"

"Oh, don't!" said Bobby. "That hurts!"

Nobody listened to him. It did hurt, more than you would think, for tiny hands were pulling each hair separately. When the ordeal was over, Bobby heard a faint noise in the grass as if some very small creatures were scurrying away, but he could see nothing. He was winking his eyes desperately to keep from crying.

"The assistants may go now," said the professor; and the sound of little feet died away in the distance.

"How interesting this is!" murmured a plain-looking toad who had been watching the experiments attentively.

"I think it's mean," protested poor Bobby, "to keep a fellow fastened up like this, and then torment him."

"Does it hurt as much as being skinned, or having your legs cut off?" demanded the professor.

"Or should you prefer to be stepped on, or burned up in a rubbish pile?" asked Mrs. Bufo.

"How should you like to be stoned or kicked, for a change?" said another toad sharply.

"Perhaps you would choose a fish-hook in the corner of your mouth?" said a voice from the pond.

"Or one run the entire length of your body?" came a murmur from the ground under Bobby's head.

"Wait a minute," said the professor, more gently. "We will give you a chance to defend yourself. It is not customary to inquire into the moral character of specimens, but we do not wish to be unjust. Perhaps you can explain why you made a bonfire the very week after the toads came out of their winter-quarters. Dozens of lives were destroyed before that fire was put out."

"I forgot about the toads," began Bobby.

"Carelessness!" said the professor. "Now you may tell us why you like to throw stones at us."

"To see you jump," said Bobby, honestly.

"Thoughtlessness!" said the professor. "That's worse."

"Why do you kick us, instead of lifting us gently when we are in your way?" inquired a toad in a stern voice.

"Because you will give me warts if I touch you," said Bobby, pleased to think that he had a good reason at last.

"Ignorance!" cried the professor. "The toad is absolutely harmless. It has about it a liquid that might cause pain to a cut finger or a sensitive tissue like that of the mouth or eye, but the old story that a toad is poisonous is a silly fable."

"Will you tell me, please," asked a toad in a plaintive voice, "if you are the boy who, last year, carried home some of my babies in a tin pail and let them die?"

"I'm afraid I am," said Bobby, sorrowfully.

"Do explain why you dislike us!" said Mrs. Bufo in such a frank fashion that Bobby felt that he must tell the truth.

"I suppose it's your looks," said the boy, unable to frame his answer in more polite terms.

"Well, upon my word!" interrupted the professor. "I thought better of a boy than that. So you prefer boys with pretty faces and soft, curling hair, and nice clothes, to those who can climb and jump and who are not afraid of a day's tramp in the woods."

"Of course I don't," said indignant Bobby. "I hate boys who are always thinking about their clothes."

"Oh, you do!" said the frog. "Now answer me a few more questions. Have you ever stolen birds' eggs?"

"Yes," said truthful Bobby.

"Have you collected butterflies?"

"Yes," said Bobby.

"Have you taken nuts from the squirrels' cupboards?"

"Yes," said Bobby.

"Do you think we ought to have a very friendly feeling towards you?" went on the questioner.

"No," said Bobby; "I don't."

"We have shown that you are not only useless, but careless and thoughtless and ignorant," said the frog. "Is there any very good reason why we should let you go?"

Poor Bobby racked his brains to think of something that should appeal to his captors.

"I have a right to live, haven't I?" he said at last.

"Because you are so pretty?" suggested the professor, and Bobby's eyes fell with shame.

"Any better right than we have?" came a chorus of voices. Bobby was silent. He felt very helpless and insignificant. There was a long pause. Then the frog professor smiled broadly at Bobby.

"Come," he said; "I like you. You are not afraid to be honest, and that's something."

"If you will let me go," said Bobby, "I'll see that the boys don't hurt you any more."

"I felt pretty sure that we'd converted you," said the professor; "and I'm going to let you go back and preach to the heathen, as the grown people say. You can see for yourself how much harm a boy can do if he doesn't think."

Bobby felt that he was free, and scrambled to his feet, rubbing first one arm and then the other to take the prickly feeling out of them. The frogs had vanished; there was only the blue sky, the waving pine tree, and the quiet pond.

"Well!" said Bobby with a long breath of amazement.

"Kerjunk!" came the warning voice of a frog, somewhere near the water's edge.

"Yes sir, I'll remember," said Bobby in the meekest of meek tones.