Chapter I: Part 1

THE ALEXANDRA READERS

THIRD READER

BY

W. A. McINTYRE, B.A., LL.D.

PRINCIPAL, NORMAL SCHOOL, WINNIPEG

JOHN DEARNESS, M.A.

VICE-PRINCIPAL, NORMAL SCHOOL, LONDON

AND

JOHN C. SAUL, M.A.

AUTHORIZED BY THE DEPARTMENTS OF EDUCATION
FOR USE IN THE SCHOOLS OF ALBERTA
AND SASKATCHEWAN

PRICE 45 CENTS

TORONTO
MORANG EDUCATIONAL COMPANY LIMITED
1908

COPYRIGHT BY
MORANG EDUCATIONAL COMPANY LIMITED
1908

COPYRIGHT IN GREAT BRITAIN

CONTENTS

PAGE

_Canada! Maple Land!_ 9

The Shoemaker and the Elves _Jacob Grimm_ 10

_Song of the Golden Sea_ _Jean Blewett_ 13

_Work_ _Mary N. Prescott_ 14

Fortune and the Beggar _Ivan Kriloff_ 15

_The Sprite_ Frederick George Scott 17

A Crust of Bread _Selected_ 19

_Two Surprises_ _Anonymous_ 23

The Rich Man and the Cobbler _Jean de la Fontaine_ 25

_The Drought_ _R. K. Kernighan_ 30

_The Eagle_ _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_ 31

The Golden Windows _Laura E. Richards_ 32

_A Song of Seasons_ _Elizabeth Roberts Macdonald_ 36

A Miser’s Treasure _Grace H. Kupfer_ 38

_Drifted out to Sea_ _Rosa Hartwick Thorpe_ 42

The Daisy and the Lark _Hans Christian Andersen_ 44

_The Splendor of the Days_ _Jean Blewett_ 48

_Before the Rain_ _Thomas Bailey Aldrich_ 49

Webster and the Woodchuck _Selected_ 50

_The Fairies of Caldon Low_ _Mary Howitt_ 53

The Last Lesson in French _Alphonse Daudet_ 57

_The Brook Song_ _James Whitcomb Riley_ 62

_The Better Land_ _Felicia Dorothea Hemans_ 63

Cædmon _Grace H. Kupfer_ 65

_The Bluebell_ _Anonymous_ 67

_Lullaby of an Infant Chief_ _Sir Walter Scott_ 69

The Minstrel’s Song _Maude Lindsay_ 69

_The Use of Flowers_ _Mary Howitt_ 74

_The Miller of the Dee_ _Charles Mackay_ 76

The Story of Moween _Selected_ 77

_A Hindu Fable_ _John Godfrey Saxe_ 81

The Boy Musician _Bertha Leary Saunders_ 83

_The Sparrows_ _Celia Thaxter_ 87

_The Time and the Deed_ _Jean Blewett_ 90

The Flax _Hans Christian Andersen_ 91

_Jeannette and Jo_ _Mary Mapes Dodge_ 96

The Maid of Orleans _Maude Barrow Dutton_ 98

_Birds_ _Eliza Cook_ 102

_The Owl_ _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_ 103

Iktomi and the Coyote _Zitkala-S̈a_ 104

_Golden Rod_ _Frank Dempster Sherman_ 108

_November_ _Helen Hunt Jackson_ 109

Sir Edwin Landseer _Selected_ 110

_The Two Church Builders_ _John Godfrey Saxe_ 115

How Siegfried made the Sword _Selected_ 118

_Grass and Roses_ _James Freeman Clarke_ 123

_The Wounded Curlew_ _Celia Thaxter_ 124

The Gold and Silver Shield _Selected_ 125

_The White-throat Sparrow_ _Sir James D. Edgar_ 128

_The Sandpiper_ _Celia Thaxter_ 129

Crœsus _James Baldwin_ 131

_The Frost Spirit_ _John Greenleaf Whittier_ 135

_A Song of the Sleigh_ _James T. Fields_ 137

The Christmas Dinner _Charles Dickens_ 138

_Christmas Song_ _Phillips Brooks_ 144

Bergetta’s Misfortune _Celia Thaxter_ 146

_Storm Song_ _Bayard Taylor_ 150

_A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea_ _Allan Cunningham_ 152

The Indians _Selected_ 153

_Speak Gently_ _David Bates_ 157

_Daybreak_ _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 158

The Choice of Hercules _James Baldwin_ 159

_The Walker of the Snow_ _Charles Dawson Shanly_ 162

The Frog Travellers _William Elliot Griffis_ 165

_The Three Bells_ _John Greenleaf Whittier_ 169

How the Indian Knew _Selected_ 171

_Hohenlinden_ _Thomas Campbell_ 172

_The Clouds_ _Archibald Lampman_ 174

Shoeing _Estelle M. Hurll_ 175

_The Village Blacksmith_ _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 179

The Search for a Western Sea _Helen Palk_ 181

_The Moss Rose_ _F. A. Krummacher_ 185

_Woodman, Spare that Tree!_ _George P. Morris_ 186

Dick Whittington _Selected_ 187

_Somebody’s Mother_ _Anonymous_ 195

_The Lord is my Shepherd_ _The Book of Psalms_ 197

Black Beauty’s Breaking In _Anna Sewell_ 198

_The Door of Spring_ _Ethelwyn Wetherald_ 204

_The Crocus’s Song_ _Hannah Flagg Gould_ 206

A Sound Opinion _Selected_ 207

_The Soldier’s Dream_ _Thomas Campbell_ 211

_March of the Men of Harlech_ _William Duthie_ 212

Hugh John Smith becomes a Soldier _Samuel R. Crockett_ 213

_England’s Dead_ _Felicia Dorothea Hemans_ 219

A Child’s Dream of a Star _Charles Dickens_ 221

_Excelsior_ _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 226

The Sentinel’s Pouch _Selected_ 228

_The Milkmaid_ _Jeffreys Taylor_ 232

Tom, the Water-baby _Charles Kingsley_ 234

_An April Day_ _Caroline Bowles Southey_ 241

_Pussy Willow_ _Anonymous_ 243

Laura Secord _Helen Palk_ 244

_The Maple Leaf Forever_ _Alexander Muir_ 249

_The Colors of the Flag_ _Frederick George Scott_ 250

How the Mountain was Clad _Björnstjerne Björnson_ 252

_Lucy Gray_ _William Wordsworth_ 256

Beautiful Joe _Marshall Saunders_ 259

_Somebody’s Darling_ _Marie Lacoste_ 267

_Home, Sweet Home_ _John Howard Payne_ 269

The Beavers _Julia Augusta Schwartz_ 270

_The Brook_ _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_ 276

The Little Postboy _Bayard Taylor_ 278

_Hiawatha’s Friends_ _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 288

The White Ship _Charles Dickens_ 295

_The Arab and his Steed_ _Caroline Norton_ 299

A Bridge of Monkeys _Mayne Reid_ 303

_We are Seven_ _William Wordsworth_ 306

The Mirror _From the Japanese_ 309

_The Wreck of the Hesperus_ _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 314

The Black Douglas _Sir Walter Scott_ 318

_Bruce and the Spider_ _Eliza Cook_ 322

The Old Man of the Meadow _Julia MacNair Wright_ 325

_John Gilpin_ _William Cowper_ 329

A Forest Fire _Susannah Moodie_ 340

_The Horses of Gravelotte_ _Gerok_ 344

_Four-leaf Clovers_ _Ella Higginson_ 346

Aladdin _Arabian Nights’ Entertainment_ 347

_The Rapid_ _Charles Sangster_ 357

_Long Life_ _Horatio Bonar_ 358

Little Daffydowndilly _Nathaniel Hawthorne_ 359

_The Earth is the Lord’s_ _The Book of Psalms_ 369

_The Singing Leaves_ _James Russell Lowell_ 370

The Clocks of Rondaine _Frank R. Stockton_ 374

_The Camel’s Nose_ _Lydia Huntley Sigourney_ 384

_Lord Ullin’s Daughter_ _Thomas Campbell_ 385

_God Save the King_ 388

THIRD READER

CANADA! MAPLE LAND!

Canada! Maple land! Land of great mountains!
Lake-land and River-land! Land ’twixt the seas!
Grant us, God, hearts that are large as our heritage,
Spirits as free as the breeze!

Grant us Thy fear that we walk in humility--
Fear that is reverent--not fear that is base;
Grant to us righteousness, wisdom, prosperity,
Peace--if unstained by disgrace.

Grant us Thy love and the love of our country;
Grant us Thy strength, for our strength’s in Thy name;
Shield us from danger, from every adversity,
Shield us, O Father, from shame!

Last born of Nations! the offspring of freedom!
Heir to wide prairies, thick forests, red gold!
God grant us wisdom to value our birthright,
Courage to guard what we hold!

THE SHOEMAKER AND THE ELVES

There was once an honest shoemaker who worked very hard at his trade; yet through no fault of his own he grew poorer and poorer. At last he had only just enough leather left to make one pair of shoes. In the evening he cut out the leather so as to be ready to make the shoes the next day.

He rose early in the morning, and went to his bench. But what did he see? There stood the pair of shoes, already made. The poor man could hardly believe his eyes, and he did not know what to think. He took the shoes in his hand to look at them closely. Every stitch was in its right place. A finer piece of work was never seen.

Very soon a customer came, and the shoes pleased him so well that he willingly paid a higher price than usual for them. The shoemaker now had enough money to buy leather for two pairs of shoes. In the evening he cut them out with great care, and went to bed early so that he might be up in good time the next day. But he was saved all trouble; for when he rose in the morning, two pairs of well-made shoes stood in a row upon his bench.

Presently in came customers, who paid him a high price for the shoes, and with the money that he received, he bought enough leather to make four pairs of shoes. Again he cut the work out overnight and again he found it finished in the morning. The shoemaker’s good fortune continued. All the shoes he cut out in the day were finished at night. The good man rose early, and he was busy every moment of the day. Every pair found ready sale. “Never did shoes wear so long,” said the buyers.

One evening, about Christmas time, the shoemaker said to his wife, “Let us watch to-night and see who it is that does this work for us.” So they left a light burning and hid themselves behind a curtain which hung in the corner of the room. As soon as it was midnight there came two little dwarfs. They sat down upon the shoemaker’s bench, and began to work with their tiny fingers, stitching and rapping and tapping away. Never had the good shoemaker and his wife seen such rapid work. The elves did not stop till the task was quite finished, and the shoes stood ready for use upon the table. This was long before daybreak, and then they bustled away as quick as lightning.

The next day the shoemaker’s wife said to her husband: “These little folks have made us rich, and we ought to be thankful to them and do them a service in return. They must be cold, for they have nothing on their backs to keep them warm. I shall make each of them a suit of clothes, and you shall make some shoes for them.”

This the shoemaker was very glad to do. When the little suits and the new shoes were finished, they were laid on the bench instead of the usual work. Again the good people hid themselves in the corner of the room to watch. About midnight the elves appeared. When they found the neat little garments waiting for them, they showed the greatest delight. They dressed in a moment, and jumped and capered and sprang about until they danced out of the door and over the green.

Never were they seen again, but everything went well with the shoemaker and his wife from that time forward as long as they lived.--JACOB GRIMM.

* * * * *

I am only one;
But still I am one.
I cannot do everything;
But still I can do something.
And because I cannot do everything,
I will not refuse to do the something that I can do.

SONG OF THE GOLDEN SEA

Sing, ye ripening fields of wheat,
Sing to the breezes passing by,
Sing your jubilant song and sweet,
Sing to the earth, the air, the sky!

Earth that held thee and skies that kissed
Morning and noon and night for long,
Sun and rain and dew and mist,
All that has made you glad and strong!

The harvest fields of the far, far west
Stretch out a shimmering sea of gold!
Every ripple upon its breast
Sings peace, and plenty and wealth untold!

Far as the eye can reach it goes,
Farther yet, ’till there seems no end,
Under a sky where blue and rose
With the gold and turquoise softly blend.

Here, where sweep the prairies lone,
Broad and beautiful in God’s eyes,
Here in this young land, all our own,
The garner-house of the old world lies.

--JEAN BLEWETT.

_From “The Cornflower and Other Poems,” by permission._

WORK

Sweet wind, fair wind, where have you been?
“I’ve been sweeping the cobwebs out of the sky;
I’ve been grinding a grist in the mill hard by;
I’ve been laughing at work while others sigh;
Let those laugh who win!”

Sweet rain, soft rain, what are you doing?
“I’m urging the corn to fill out its cells;
I’m helping the lily to fashion its bells;
I’m swelling the torrent and brimming the wells;
Is that worth pursuing?”

Redbreast, redbreast, what have you done?
“I’ve been watching the nest where my fledglings lie;
I’ve sung them to sleep with a lullaby;
By and by I shall teach them to fly,
Up and away, every one!”

Honeybee, honeybee, where are you going?
“To fill my basket with precious pelf;
To toil for my neighbor as well as myself;
To find out the sweetest flower that grows,
Be it a thistle or be it a rose,--
A secret worth the knowing!”

--MARY N. PRESCOTT.

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 people 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 began building ships and sending 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 his hopes all lie at the bottom of the sea, and his great wealth has vanished like the dreams of a night. There are many such cases. Men seem never to be satisfied unless they can gain the whole world. As for me, if I had only enough to eat and to wear I would not wish 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 desired to help you. Hold your wallet and I shall pour this gold into it. But I shall pour 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 was poured into it. The wallet soon began to grow 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 forever!

“You are the richest man in the world now!”

“Just a little more,” said the beggar; “add just a handful or two.”

“There, it’s full. The wallet will burst.”

“But it will hold a little more, 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.

--_From the Russian of_ IVAN KRILOFF.

THE SPRITE

A little sprite sat on a moonbeam
When the night was waning away,
And over the world to the eastwards
Had spread the first flush of the day.
The moonbeam was cold and slippery,
And a fat little fairy was he;
Around him the white clouds were sleeping,
And under him slumbered the sea.

Then the old moon looked out of her left eye,
And laughed when she thought of the fun,
For she knew that the moonbeam he sat on
Would soon melt away in the sun;
So she gave a slight shrug of her shoulder,
And winked at a bright little star--
The moon was remarkably knowing,
As old people always are.

“Great madam,” then answered the fairy,
“No doubt you are mightily wise,
And know possibly more than another
Of the ins and the outs of the skies.
But to think that we don’t in our own way
An interest in sky-things take
Is a common and fatal blunder
That sometimes you great ones make.

“For I’ve looked up from under the heather,
And watched you night after night,
And marked your silent motion
And the fall of your silvery light.
I have seen you grow larger and larger,
I have watched you fade away;
I have seen you turn pale as a snowdrop
At the sudden approach of day.

“So don’t think for a moment, great madam,
Though a poor little body I be,
That I haven’t my senses about me,
Or am going to drop into the sea.
I have had what you only could give me--
A pleasant night ride in the sky;
But a new power arises to eastwards,
So, useless old lady, good-by.”

He whistled a low, sweet whistle,
And up from the earth so dark,
With its wings bespangled with dewdrops,
There bounded a merry lark.
He’s mounted the tiny singer
And soared through the heavens away,
With his face all aglow in the morning,
And a song for the rising day.

--FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT.

A CRUST OF BREAD

The boy was lying under a big shady tree eating a large crust of bread. He had been romping with his dog in the garden, enjoying the sweet flowers and the bright sunshine. Now he rested in the cool shade of the apple-tree with the dog curled up at his feet. The birds were warbling their gayest songs in the topmost branches, and the leaves cast their dancing shadows on the soft carpet of green below.

As the dog was fast asleep, the boy had no one with whom to play. Just then a lady, beautifully dressed and holding a wand in her hand, stood before him. She smiled, and then placed her wand on the crust of bread, after which she at once vanished. She had no sooner gone than the boy rubbed his eyes in wonder, for the crust of bread was talking in a gentle voice.

“Would you like to hear my story?” it said. The boy nodded his head, as if to say yes, and the crust began:--

“Once upon a time I was a little baby seed. I lived in a large home called a granary. In this home were many other baby seeds just like me. No one could tell one from the other, as we all belonged to the same family and looked so much alike. We lived there very quietly until one day my sister cried, ‘Hark! do you hear that noise? The mice are coming!’ Then she told us the mice were fond of little grains of wheat, and that if they were to eat us we would never grow to be like our mother. We heard them many times after that, but we never saw them.

“One day a farmer came and put us into a large sack. It was so dark in the sack, and we lay so very near together that I thought we should smother. Soon I felt myself sliding. I tried to cling to the sack, but the other grains in their rush to the sunlight took me along with them. In our wild race we ran into a tube, and, going faster and faster, we soon fell into the seed-drill.

“Then I felt myself sliding again, for the seed-drill was moving forward. I could hear the driver call out in loud tones to the horses, ‘Get up!’ and round and round went the big wheels of the drill. All at once I went under cover in the rich ground. At first I did not like to be shut in from the sunlight. But one day when I heard the crows, I was glad that I was under the coverlet of the ground. I heard their cry of ‘Caw, caw,’ and how frightened I was! I knew that the crows were near, and that they liked the little baby wheat grains. This made me thank the farmer and Mother Nature for giving me such a good home. The crows could not find me, and by and by they flew away.

“Mother Nature now warmed me, and the rains fed me. I went to sleep, but one bright morning I awoke. The rain had been tapping on our great brown house, telling us to awake from our nap. I had grown so large while sleeping that my brown coat burst open. The sun had warmed my bed. I put a little white rootlet out and sent it down into the ground. The gentle spring breeze and the warm days brought my first blade into the sunlight above the ground, and peeping out I was glad to see everything growing fresh and green. I could see the tender sprouting grass and the opening buds. I could hear the bluebird’s song and the robin’s warble. I could smell the balmy air of spring.

“Mother Nature sent her children every day to help me. The rain came through the soil, and brought me food and drink. The sun fairies warmed my sprouting leaves, and the wind brought me fresh air. In June I wore a dainty green dress of slender, graceful leaves. As my sisters and I stood in the great field on the plain, and were wafted to and fro by the winds, we looked like the waves of the rolling deep.

“So I grew and grew, and one morning after the dew had given me my cool bath, and the sun fairies had dried my leaves, the south wind whispered her song to me, and I found myself a full-grown plant. I was proud of my spikelets of flowers, and now could wave with my sisters in the rolling seas of wheat. Down at the base of our little spikelets were seed cups in which slept the little baby seeds. The wind rocked them to sleep, and, sleeping, they grew to the full-sized wheat grain.

“By and by we became tall stalks of golden wheat, and the farmer was glad to look at us. When we were fully ripe, the great reaping-machine drawn by a number of horses came along and cut us down. Then we were picked up and sent whirling through the buzzing jaws of the thrasher. Our grains of wheat were screened from the chaff and straw, and fell into sacks. Then we were put on trains and transported to the mammoth granaries to be stored away until the flour-mills wanted us.

“At last we reached the mills. There we were turned into beautiful white flour and shipped to the market. So in time we, as flour, reached the housewife’s or baker’s well-stocked kitchen, where we were put into trays, and, being mixed with a little salt, yeast, and some water, were kneaded into loaves of bread and baked. This is the story of my life from a little grain of wheat until I became the crust of bread that you are eating.”

The sun was sinking in the west, the birds were winging their flight homewards, and night was fast coming on. The dog yawned, and, stretching himself out, was ready for another romp with his master. The boy awoke from his dream and hurried home to help with the evening meal, and to do his share of the world’s work.--SELECTED.

_From “The New Education Readers,” by permission of the American Book Company._

TWO SURPRISES

A workman plied his clumsy spade
As the sun was going down;
The German king with his cavalcade
Was coming into town.

The king stopped short when he saw the man--
“My worthy friend,” said he,
“Why not cease work at eventide,
When the laborer should be free?”

“I do not slave,” the old man said,
“And I am always free;
Though I work from the time I leave my bed
Till I can hardly see.”

“How much,” said the king, “is thy gain in a day?”
“Eight groschen,” the man replied.
“And canst thou live on this meagre pay?”--
“Like a king,” he said with pride.

“Two groschen for me and my wife, good friend,
And two for a debt I owe;
Two groschen to lend and two to spend
For those who can’t labor, you know.”

“Thy debt?” said the king. Said the toiler, “Yea,
To my mother with age oppressed,
Who cared for me, toiled for me, many a day,
And now hath need of rest.”

“To whom dost lend of thy daily store?”
“To my three boys at school. You see,
When I am too feeble to toil any more,
They will care for their mother and me.”

“And thy last two groschen?” the monarch said.
“My sisters are old and lame;
I give them two groschen for raiment and bread,
All in the Father’s name.”

Tears welled up in the good king’s eyes--
“Thou knowest me not,” said he;
“As thou hast given me one surprise,
Here is another for thee.

“I am thy king; give me thy hand”--
And he heaped it high with gold--
“When more thou needest, I command
That I at once be told.

“For I would bless with rich reward
The man who can proudly say,
That eight souls he doth keep and guard
On eight poor groschen a day.”

--ANONYMOUS.

THE RICH MAN AND THE COBBLER

In old Paris, very rich people and quite poor people used to live close by each other. Up one stair might be found a very rich man; up two stairs a man not quite so rich; up three stairs a man who had not very much money. On the very lowest floor, a little below the street, were to be found the poorest folks of all. It was on this low floor that a cobbler used to live and mend shoes and sing songs. For he was a very happy cobbler, and went on singing all day, and keeping time with his hammer or his needle.

Up one stair, or on what is called the first floor, lived a very rich man, so rich that he did not know how rich he was--so rich that he could not sleep at nights for trying to find out how much money he had, and if it were quite safe.

Everybody knows that it is easier to sleep in the morning than at night. So nobody will wonder when I say that this rich man lay awake all night and always fell asleep in the morning. But no sooner did he fall asleep than he was wakened again. It was not his money that wakened him this time--it was the cobbler. Every morning, just as the rich man fell asleep the cobbler awoke, and in almost no time was sitting at his door, sewing away and singing like a lark.

The rich man went to a friend and said, ”I can’t sleep at night for thinking of my money, and I can’t sleep in the morning for listening to that cobbler’s singing. What am I to do?” This friend was a wise man, and told him of a plan.

Next forenoon, while the cobbler was singing away as usual, the rich man came down the four steps that led from the pavement to the cobbler’s door.

“Now here’s a fine job,” thought the happy cobbler. “He’s going to get me to make a grand pair of boots, and won’t he pay me well!”

But the rich man did not want boots or anything. He had come to give, not to get. In his hand he had a leather bag filled with something that jingled. “Here, cobbler,” said the rich man, “I have brought you a present of a hundred crowns.”

“A hundred crowns!” cried the cobbler; “but I’ve done nothing. Why do you give me this money?”

“Oh, it’s because you’re always so happy.”

“And you’ll never ask it back?”

“Never.”

“Nor bring lawyers about it and put me in prison?”

“No, no. Why should I?”

“Well, then, I’ll take the money, and I thank you very, very much.”

When the rich man had gone the cobbler opened the bag, and was just about to pour out the money into his leather apron to count how much it was, when he saw a man in the street looking at him. This would never do, so he went into the darkest part of his house and counted the hundred crowns. He had never seen so much money in his life before, but somehow he did not feel so happy as he felt he should.

Just then his wife came in quietly, and gave the poor cobbler such a fright that he lost his temper and scolded her, a thing he had never done in his life.

Next he hid the bag below the pillow of the bed, because he could see that place from the door where he worked. But by and by he began to think that if he could see it from the door so could other people. So he went in and changed the bag to the bottom of the bed. Two or three times every hour he went in to see that the bag was all right. His wife wanted to know what was the matter with the bed, but he told her to mind her own business. The next time she was not looking he slipped the bag into the bottom of an old box, and from that time he kept changing it about from place to place whenever he got a chance. If he had told his wife it would not have been so bad, but he was afraid even of her.

Next morning the rich man fell asleep as usual, and was not disturbed by the cobbler’s song. The next morning was the same, and the next, and the next. Everybody noticed what a change had come over the cobbler. He no longer sang. He did little work, for he was always running out and in to see if his money was all right; and he was very unhappy.

On the sixth day he made up his mind what to do. I think he talked it over with his wife at last, but I am not sure. Anyway, he went up his four steps, and then up the one stair that led to the rich man’s room. When he had entered, he went up to the table and laid down the bag, and said, “Sir, here are your hundred crowns; give me back my song.”

Next morning things were as bad as ever for the poor rich man, who had to remove, they say, to another part of Paris where the cobblers are not so happy.

--_From the French of_ JEAN DE LA FONTAINE.

THE DROUGHT

Hath Heaven’s blessing passed away?
The sky’s sweet smile quite gone?
There is no sacred rain by day,
No beaded dew at dawn.
How can Thy helpless creatures live
When drought destroys the sod?
Upon our knees we pray Thee give
Thy creatures food, O God!

The little stream hath ceased to run,
The clover-bloom is dead,
The meadows redden in the sun,
The very weeds are fled.
Their heads the mournful cattle shake
Beside the thirsting wood.
Lord, hear the humble prayer we make,
To give Thy creatures food.

The panting sheep gasp in the shade,
Their matted wool is wet,
And where the cruel share is laid
The striving horses sweat;
They welcome death--’tis pain to live--
Restore Thy blessed sod;
Oh, hear our humble prayer and give
Thy creatures food, O God!

R. K. KERNIGHAN.

_By special permission._

THE EAGLE

He clasps the crag with hookèd hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

--ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

* * * * *

Men must reap the things they sow,
Force from force must ever flow.

THE GOLDEN WINDOWS

All day long the little boy worked hard, in field and barn and shed, for his people were poor farmers, and could not pay a workman; but at sunset there came an hour that was all his own, for his father had given it to him. Then the boy would go up to the top of a hill and look across at another hill that rose some miles away. On this far hill stood a house with windows of clear gold and diamonds. They shone and blazed so that it made the boy wink to look at them; but after a while the people in the house put up shutters, as it seemed, and then it looked like any common farm-house. The boy supposed they did this because it was supper-time; and then he would go into the house and have his supper of bread and milk and so to bed.

One day the boy’s father called him and said: “You have been a good boy, and have earned a holiday. Take this day for your own; but remember that God gave it, and try to learn some good thing.”

The boy thanked his father and kissed his mother; then he put a piece of bread in his pocket, and set out to find the house with the golden windows.

It was pleasant walking. His bare feet made marks in the white dust, and when he looked back, the footprints seemed to be following him, and making company for him. His shadow, too, kept beside him, and would dance or run with him as he pleased; so it was very cheerful. By and by he felt hungry; and he sat down by a brown brook that ran through the alder hedge by the roadside, and ate his bread, and drank the clear water. Then he scattered the crumbs for the birds, as his mother had taught him to do, and went on his way.

After a long time he came to a high green hill; and when he had climbed the hill, there was the house on the top; but it seemed that the shutters were up, for he could not see the golden windows. He came up to the house, and then he could well have wept, for the windows were of clear glass, like any others, and there was no gold anywhere about them.

A woman came to the door, and looked kindly at the boy, and asked him what he wanted.

“I saw the golden windows from our hilltop,” he said, “and I came to see them, but now they are only glass.”

The woman shook her head and laughed.

“We are poor farming people,” she said, “and are not likely to have gold about our windows; but glass is better to see through.”

She told the boy to sit down on the broad stone step at the door, and brought him a cup of milk and a cake, and bade him rest; then she called her daughter, a child of his own age, and nodded kindly at the two, and went back to her work.

The little girl was barefooted like himself, and wore a brown cotton gown, but her hair was golden like the windows he had seen, and her eyes were blue like the sky at noon. She led the boy about the farm, and showed him her black calf with the white star on its forehead, and he told her about his own at home, which was red like a chestnut, with four white feet. Then when they had eaten an apple together, and so had become friends, the boy asked her about the golden windows. The little girl nodded, and said she knew all about them, only he had mistaken the house.

“You have come quite the wrong way!” she said. “Come with me, and I shall show you the house with the golden windows, and then you will see for yourself.”

They went to a knoll that rose behind the farm-house, and as they went the little girl told him that the golden windows could be seen only at a certain hour, about sunset.

“Yes, I know that!” said the boy.

When they reached the top of the knoll, the girl turned and pointed; and there on a hill far away stood a house with windows of clear gold and diamond, just as he had seen them. And when they looked again, the boy saw that it was his own home.

Then he told the little girl that he must go. He promised to come again, but he did not tell her what he had learned; and so he went back down the hill, and the little girl stood in the sunset light and watched him.

The way home was long, and it was dark before the boy reached his father’s house; but the lamplight and firelight shone through the windows, making them almost as bright as he had seen them from the hilltop; and when he opened the door, his mother came to kiss him, and his little sister ran to throw her arms about his neck, and his father looked up and smiled from his seat by the fire.

“Have you had a good day?” asked his mother.

Yes, the boy had had a very good day.

“And have you learned anything?” asked his father.

“Yes,” said the boy. “I have learned that our house has windows of gold and diamond.”

--LAURA E. RICHARDS.

_From “The Golden Windows,” by permission of Little, Brown & Company._

A SONG OF SEASONS

Sing a song of Spring-time!
Catkins by the brook,
Adder’s-tongues uncounted,
Ferns in every nook;
The cataract on the hillside
Leaping like a fawn;
Sing a song of Spring-time,--
Ah, but Spring-time’s gone!

Sing a song of Summer!
Flowers among the grass,
Clouds like fairy frigates,
Pools like looking-glass,
Moonlight through the branches,
Voices on the lawn;
Sing a song of Summer,--
Ah, but Summer’s gone!

Sing a song of Autumn!
Grain in golden sheaves,
Woodbine’s crimson clusters
Round the cottage eaves,
Days of crystal clearness,
Frosted fields at dawn;
Sing a song of Autumn,--
Ah, but Autumn’s gone!

Sing a song of Winter!
North-wind’s bitter chill,
Home and ruddy firelight,
Kindness and good-will,
Hemlock in the churches,
Daytime soon withdrawn;
Sing a song of Winter,--
Ah, but Winter’s gone!

Sing a song of loving!
Let the seasons go;
Hearts can make their gardens
Under sun or snow;
Fear no fading blossom,
Nor the dying day;
Sing a song of loving,--
That will last for aye!

--ELIZABETH ROBERTS MACDONALD.

_By permission of the publishers, L. C. Page & Co., Boston._

* * * * *

Striving not to be rich or great,
Never questioning fortune or fate,
Contented slowly to earn, and wait.

A MISER’S TREASURE

There once lived, in a little English town, a skilful linen weaver named Silas Marner. He was of a simple, trusting nature. He thought no wrong of anybody, and had never harmed any one in word or deed. Among his friends in the town there was one man whom he loved so dearly that he would gladly have given his life for him.

This man, however, far from being a true friend, acted most dishonestly and unfaithfully. Having committed a robbery himself, he cast the blame on Silas; and the weaver, who was too simple to see through the trick that had been played upon him, was forced to leave his native town, not only a disgraced, but a broken-hearted, man. The wickedness of the man whom he had thought his true friend, and the readiness of all his fellow-townsmen to believe evil of him, changed his whole nature and made him suspicious of and bitter against all men.

He wandered forth and settled at last in the village of Raveloe, far away from his old home. There he took up his abode in a little weather-beaten cottage at the outskirts of the town, and would have nothing to do with his neighbors beyond furnishing them with the fine linen he wove so well, and taking his pay in gold.

All day long he sat spinning at his loom, seeing no one and thinking only of his wrongs; and at night he had nothing to do but count his gold and watch with delight how the pile grew larger and larger every week. At last the gold, taking the place of his former interests, became the one thing in life he cared for. He hoarded it and gloated over it like a miser; and before long, though he still worked steadily at his loom, he thought no more of his work, but only of the gold it would bring him to add to his store. Thus passed his life for a long time.

But one evening when Silas had gone out to carry a bundle to a neighboring house, and had left his door ajar because he meant to be back in a short time, a thief, attracted by the light and the open door, entered the weaver’s hut and stole the bags of gold. When he returned, and, as usual, lifted the stone under which his treasure was hidden, he found nothing but the empty hole.

At first he could not believe that the money was gone. He hunted everywhere through his little cottage, turning again and again to the empty hole in the ground, to make sure that his eyes had not deceived him. When at last the truth forced itself upon him that his gold was really gone, he uttered a cry of anger and dismay, and rushed forth into the night, weeping and wailing and searching in vain for his lost treasure.

His neighbors, who soon heard what had happened, felt very sorry for him, and tried to show, by many little kind acts, their friendliness for the now desolate man. But he would have nothing to do with any of them. He shut himself up in his cheerless cottage, and though, from force of habit, he still worked at his loom, he had no longer any interest in life.

One bitterly cold night, Silas again had occasion to go out after dark. This time he left his door wide open, for now he had nothing left to lose. But while he was gone, a little golden-haired child, whose poor mother lay frozen to death in the snow on the roadside, had spied the light in Marner’s cottage and had crept to it for safety. Once inside the warm room, the child had fallen asleep, her golden head resting upon the very spot from which the miser’s treasure had been stolen.

When Silas entered the cottage and saw the glitter of gold on the floor, he was so startled that for a moment he stood stock-still. His first thought was that his treasure had been restored to him, and with a cry of joy he rushed forward to seize it. But instead of the cold, hard gold, he felt soft, warm curls; and the next minute the little child, who was awakened by his touch, began to cry.

Silas Marner, dazed as he was by the strange, living thing he had found in the place of his lost gold, did all he could to comfort the frightened little stranger; and soon, warm and no longer hungry, she was nestling her golden head against his arm, and laughing and babbling as contentedly as though she had always known her protector.

That was the beginning of a new happiness for Silas, much more satisfying than the miser’s love he had formerly felt for his gold. The lonely, helpless child aroused his pity and affection. As the mother was dead and no relatives came to claim the little girl, he decided to take care of her himself, and soon found himself loving her with a deep, fatherly tenderness.

He knew so little about children, however, that he needed the advice of a woman to help him bring up Eppie, as he had called the little girl; and so, gradually, he began to mingle more and more with the people of the village. As for the simple Raveloe folk, when they saw Silas Marner’s tenderness for the child, they felt that they had not really understood the lonely man. Before long all the villagers were on the best of terms with Silas and Eppie, and he had cast behind him all the hatred and bitterness that had led him to shun his fellow-men.

Eppie grew up strong and beautiful, and by the most tender love repaid Silas Marner for all his care of her through the years of her childhood. She had led him back to love and faith in human nature; and he never again regretted his lost treasure, which had been so richly replaced by the golden-haired child.

--GRACE H. KUPFER.

_From “Lives and Stories Worth Remembering,” by permission of the American Book Company._

DRIFTED OUT TO SEA

Two little ones, grown tired of play,
Roamed by the sea, one summer day,
Watching the great waves come and go,
Prattling, as children will, you know,
Of dolls and marbles, kites and strings;
Sometimes hinting at graver things.

At last they spied within their reach
An old boat cast upon the beach;
Helter-skelter, with merry din,
Over its sides they scrambled in,--
Ben, with his tangled, nut-brown hair,
Bess, with her sweet face flushed and fair.

Rolling in from the briny deep,
Nearer, nearer, the great waves creep,
Higher, higher, upon the sands,
Reaching out with their giant hands,
Grasping the boat in boisterous glee,
Tossing it up and out to sea.

The sun went down, ’mid clouds of gold;
Night came, with footsteps damp and cold;
Day dawned; the hours crept slowly by;
And now across the sunny sky
A black cloud stretches far away,
And shuts the golden gates of day.

A storm comes on, with flash and roar,
While all the sky is shrouded o’er;
The great waves rolling from the west,
Bring night and darkness on their breast.
Still floats the boat through driving storm,
Protected by God’s powerful arm.

The home-bound vessel, _Sea-bird_, lies
In ready trim, ’twixt sea and skies:
Her captain paces, restless now,
A troubled look upon his brow,
While all his nerves with terror thrill,--
The shadow of some coming ill.

The mate comes up to where he stands,
And grasps his arm with eager hands.
“A boat has just swept past,” says he,
“Bearing two children out to sea;
’Tis dangerous now to put about,
Yet they cannot be saved without.”

“Nought but their safety will suffice!
They must be saved!” the captain cries.
“By every thought that’s just and right,
By lips I hoped to kiss to-night,
I’ll peril vessel, life, and men,
And God will not forsake us then.”

With anxious faces, one and all,
Each man responded to the call;
And when at last, through driving storm,
They lifted up each little form,
The captain started with a groan:
“My God is good, they are my own!”

--ROSA HARTWICK THORPE.

_By permission of the publishers._

THE DAISY AND THE LARK

In the country, close by the roadside, stood a pleasant house. In front lay a little garden, enclosed by a fence, and full of blossoming flowers. Near the hedge, in the soft green grass, grew a little daisy. The sun shone as brightly and warmly upon her as it shone upon the large and beautiful garden flowers.

The daisy grew from day to day. Every morning she unfolded her white rays, and lifted up a little golden sun in the centre of her blossom. She never remembered how little she was. She never thought that she was hidden down in the grass, while the tall beautiful flowers grew in the garden. She was too happy to care for such things. She lifted her face towards the warm sun, she looked up to the blue sky, and she listened to the lark singing high in the air.

One day the little daisy was as joyful as if it were a great holiday, and yet it was only Monday. The little children were at school. They sat at their desks learning their lessons. The daisy, on her tiny stem, was learning from the warm sun and the soft wind how good God is. Then the lark sang his sweet song. “How beautiful, how sweet the song is!” said the daisy. “What a happy bird to sing so sweetly and fly so high!” But she never dreamed of being sorry because she could not fly or sing.

The tall garden flowers by the fence were very proud and conceited. The peonies thought it very grand to be so large, and puffed themselves out to be larger than the roses. “See how bright my colors are!” said the tulips. And they stood bolt upright to be seen more plainly. They did not notice the little daisy. She said to herself, “How rich and beautiful they are! No wonder the pretty bird likes them. I am glad I can live near them.”

Just then the lark flew down. “Tweet, tweet, tweet,” he cried, but he did not go near the peonies and tulips. He hopped into the grass near the lowly daisy. She trembled for joy. The little bird sang beside her: “Oh, what sweet, soft grass, and what a beautiful little flower, with gold in its heart and silver on its dress!” How happy the little daisy felt! And the bird kissed it with his beak, sang to it, and then flew up into the blue air above.

The daisy looked up at the peonies and the tulips, but they were quite vexed, and turned their backs upon her. She did not care, she was so happy. When the sun was set, she folded up her leaves and went to sleep. All night long she dreamed of the warm sun and the pretty little bird. The next morning, when she stretched out her white leaves to the warm air and the light, she heard the voice of the lark, but his song was sad. Poor little lark! He might well be sad: he had been made a prisoner in a cage that hung by the open window. He sang of the happy time when he could fly in the air, joyous and free.

Just then two boys came into the garden. They came straight to the daisy. One of them carried a sharp knife in his hand. “We can cut a nice piece of turf for the lark, here,” he said. And he cut a square piece of turf around the daisy, so that the little flower stood in the centre. He carried the piece of turf with the daisy growing in it, and placed it in the lark’s cage.

“There is no water here,” said the captive lark. “All have gone, and forgotten to give me a drop of water to drink. My throat is hot and dry. I feel as if I were burning.” And he thrust his beak into the cool turf to refresh himself a little with the green grass. Within it was the daisy. He nodded to her, and kissed her with his beak.

“Poor little flower! Have you come here, too?”

“How I wish I could comfort him,” said the daisy. And she tried to fill the air with perfume.

The poor bird lay faint and weak on the floor of the cage. His heart was broken. In the morning the boys came, and when they found the bird was dead, they wept many bitter tears. They dug a little grave for him, and covered it with flowers. The piece of turf was thrown on the ground.

The daisy had given her little life to make the captive bird glad.

--HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

THE SPLENDOR OF THE DAYS

Sweet and shrill the crickets hiding in the grasses brown and lean
Pipe their gladness--sweeter, shriller--one would think the world
was green.
O the haze is on the hilltops, and the haze is on the lake!
See it fleeing through the valley with the bold wind in its wake!
Mark the warm October haze!
Mark the splendor of the days!
And the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!

See the bare hills turn their furrows to the shine and to the glow;
If you listen, you can hear it, hear a murmur soft and low--
“We are naked,” so the fields say, “stripped of all our golden dress.”
“Heed it not,” October answers, “for I love ye none the less.
Share my beauty and my cheer
While we rest together here,
In these sun-filled days of languor, in these late days of the year.”

All the splendor of the summer, all the springtime’s light and grace,
All the riches of the harvest crown her head and light her face;
And the wind goes sighing, sighing, as if loath to let her pass,
While the crickets sing exultant in the lean and withered grass,
O the warm October haze!
O the splendor of the days!
O the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!

--JEAN BLEWETT.

BEFORE THE RAIN

We knew it would rain, for all the morn
A spirit, on slender ropes of mist,
Was lowering its golden buckets down
Into the vapory amethyst

Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens--
Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers,
Dipping the jewels out of the sea,
To scatter them over the land in showers.

We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed
The white of their leaves; the amber grain
Shrunk in the wind--and the lightning now
Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain.

--THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

WEBSTER AND THE WOODCHUCK