Front Cover
 Front Matter
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 The story of George Andrews
 The first temptation
 Mary's mother
 Try again
 Nature's night sounds
 Honeyball and Violetta
 Town and country
 The dwarf and the giant
 The knight
 The hermit
 The man
 Sowing and reaping
 The locomotives and the tea-ke...
 The lost camel
 The crows and the wind-mill
 Aspirations of youth
 The river
 The crocodile and the Ichneumo...
 Nests of birds
 Ode to the cuckoo
 The skylark
 A noble revenge
 How big was Alexander?
 The two robbers
 Joseph Jacquard
 A lesson worth enshrining
 Food and drink
 Why we drink
 What we drink
 The good time coming
 Lost in a balloon
 April flowers
 The water rat
 A dialogue
 Caught by the tide
 The courageous boy
 Faithful Fido
 The discontented pendulum
 How and then: By and by
 Lessons of industry
 The ant and the cricket
 A good investment
 The labourer
 Word building
 Back Matter
 Back Cover

Title: The Avon English reader
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00081657/00001
 Material Information
Title: The Avon English reader
Series Title: Avon series
Physical Description: 182, 1 p. : ill. ; 19 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Isaac Pitman & Sons ( Publisher )
Publisher: Isaac Pitman & Sons
Place of Publication: London ;
Bath ;
New York
Publication Date: 1892
Subject: Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile literature   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile literature   ( lcsh )
Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Children's poetry   ( lcsh )
Children's plays   ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1892   ( lcsh )
Children's poetry -- 1892   ( lcsh )
Publishers' advertisements -- 1892   ( rbgenr )
Bldn -- 1892
Genre: Children's stories
Children's poetry
Publishers' advertisements   ( rbgenr )
Spatial Coverage: England -- London
England -- Bath
United States -- New York -- New York
General Note: Publisher's advertisements precede and follow text.
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00081657
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002221579
notis - ALG1803
oclc - 192022197

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
    Front Matter
        Front Matter
    Title Page
        Page 1
        Page 2
        Page 3
    Table of Contents
        Page 4
    The story of George Andrews
        Page 5
        Page 6
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
    The first temptation
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
    Mary's mother
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
    Try again
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
    Nature's night sounds
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
    Honeyball and Violetta
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
    Town and country
        Page 33
        Page 34
    The dwarf and the giant
        Page 35
        Page 36
    The knight
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
    The hermit
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
    The man
        Page 43
        Page 44
    Sowing and reaping
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
    The locomotives and the tea-kettle
        Page 48
        Page 49
    The lost camel
        Page 50
        Page 51
    The crows and the wind-mill
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
    Aspirations of youth
        Page 56
    The river
        Page 57
        Page 58
    The crocodile and the Ichneumon
        Page 59
        Page 60
    Nests of birds
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
    Ode to the cuckoo
        Page 71
        Page 72
    The skylark
        Page 73
    A noble revenge
        Page 74
        Page 75
    How big was Alexander?
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
    The two robbers
        Page 80
        Page 81
        Page 82
    Joseph Jacquard
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85
        Page 86
        Page 87
        Page 88
        Page 89
        Page 90
        Page 91
        Page 92
    A lesson worth enshrining
        Page 93
        Page 94
    Food and drink
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
    Why we drink
        Page 98
        Page 99
        Page 100
        Page 101
    What we drink
        Page 102
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
        Page 111
        Page 112
        Page 113
        Page 114
        Page 115
        Page 116
    The good time coming
        Page 117
        Page 118
        Page 119
    Lost in a balloon
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125
        Page 126
    April flowers
        Page 127
        Page 128
        Page 129
    The water rat
        Page 130
        Page 131
    A dialogue
        Page 132
        Page 133
        Page 134
        Page 135
        Page 136
    Caught by the tide
        Page 137
        Page 138
        Page 139
        Page 140
        Page 141
        Page 142
    The courageous boy
        Page 143
        Page 144
    Faithful Fido
        Page 145
        Page 146
        Page 147
        Page 148
    The discontented pendulum
        Page 149
        Page 150
        Page 151
        Page 152
    How and then: By and by
        Page 153
        Page 154
        Page 155
    Lessons of industry
        Page 156
        Page 157
    The ant and the cricket
        Page 158
        Page 159
        Page 160
        Page 161
    A good investment
        Page 162
        Page 163
        Page 164
        Page 165
        Page 166
    The labourer
        Page 167
        Page 168
        Page 169
        Page 170
        Page 171
        Page 172
        Page 173
        Page 174
    Word building
        Page 175
        Page 176
        Page 177
        Page 178
        Page 179
        Page 180
        Page 181
        Page 182
        Page 183
    Back Matter
        Back Matter
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text

S 4 ,y \I

Kb N
z( o 0'(

The Balwm bar

T e B d w brr
l/%/ "^^S^ X;^
" s ^ T 3
l^^fo(?g^c) c^^^

;\ /, -

401b rL

do 0
^6ja ^ VOnb ^^rc

cv~, (j)(~n

__\v^ a^a ^^L^T

E!a.c-uoeation. al Series.


For Scheme A.
Pages. Price
Book I. .. .. 128 rod.
II.. .. .. 144 s. od.
III. .. 2o8 zs. 3d.
IV... .. 240 s. 4d.
V.. .. .. 256 s. 6d.
VI.... ..a256 s. 6d.
VII. .. a22 zs.8d.
I. 136 Pages Price rod.
II. 44 Pages Price od.
III. .68 Pages Price is.od.
IV. 182 Pages Price is.13d.
V. x9g Pages Price s. 4d
VJ 272 Pages .. Price is.8d

For Alternat

Book IV.

ive Course.
Pages. Prie
232 is.4d.
S248 is. 6d.
296 is. 8d.
256 is. 9d.

Pages. Price
40 Lessons, 6
coloured Plates a rod.
40 Lessons, 6
colouredPlates z28 is.od.
I. 6o Lessons, 6
coloured Plates 192 is.d.

Standards I., II., and III. Price is. 6d. each.

For Schedule II. Course.
Pages. Price
Book I. .. .. 2o od.
II. .. .. 44 is.od.
.III. .. .. o28 s. 3d.
IV.A .. .. 224 s. 4d.
,IV. .. 224 is.4d.
V .V z24o0 s.6d.
,, VI. ..240 s. 6d.
,VII... .. 24o is. 8d.

For Alternative Course.
Pages. Price
Book IV. .. .. 208 is. 4d.
,, V. 232 .s. 6d.
,, VI. .. 240 is.6d.

(In Cloth.)
Stage I .. .. .. Price 4d.
II. .. .. .. Priced.
SIII. .. .. Price 6d.

Pages. Price
Book III .. 32 2d.
,, IV. .. .. 48 3d.
V. .. .. 48 3d.
,, VI .. .. 48 3d.
,, VII. 48 3d.
In Cloth, id. extra.
Cloth gilt, as.
Demy 8vo. 32 Cards in Packet
(64 copies) in 2 colours. Freehand
on one side, Geometry on the other.
2S. per packet.
Standard III. Freehand and Ruler
,, IV. Freehand and Draw-
ing to Scale.
,, V. Freehand and Plane
VI. Ditto.
VII.A Ditto.
VII.B Freehand and Solid

SIR ISAAC PITMAN & SONS, Ltd., London, Bath, & New York.

Oct., '97




"Books, we know,
Are a substantial world, both pure and good;
Round them, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness will grow."- Words'olrth.







VN sending forth this Reader to the world, the Editor and
Publishers believe that they have included in its contents only
such lessons as are calculated to instruct, while they interest or

Some few old-established favourites will be found among much
that is new to books of this kind. The lessons on Temperance, it is
hoped will prove useful. The ideas there conveyed, and the opinions
expressed, are those which prevail with most temperate thinkers
about a hotly-contested social question.

After much thought and discussion with many practical teachers,
it was decided not to print lists of spellings, as the pupils at this
stage are old enough to compile them for themselves.

LONDON, September, 1892.


(Titles of Poetical Pieces are Printed in Italics).

I. The Story of George
Andrews ... .. 5
2. Ditto ... ... 8
3. The First Temptation ... o1
4. Mary's Mother ... ... 13
5. Try Again ... ... ... 16
6. Nature's Night Sounds ... 19
7. Ditto ... ... 22
8. Ditto ... ... 24
9. Honeyball and Violetta ... 27
10. Ditto ... ... 30
II. Town and County ... 33
12. The Dwarf and the Giant 35
The Knight, the Hermit,
and the Man-
13. The Knight ... ... 37
14. The Hermit ... ... 40
15. The Man ... ... ... 43
16. Sowing and Reaping ... 45
17. The Locomotives and the
Tea-kettle ... ... 48
18. The Lost Camel ... ... 50
19. The Crows and the Wind-
mill ... ... ... 52
20. Aspirations of Youth ... 56
The River ... ... ... 57
21. The Crocodile and the Ich-
neumon ... ... ... 59
22. Nests of Birds .... ... 61
23. Ditto ... ... 64
24. Ditto ... ... 67
25. Ditto ... ... 69
26. Ode to the Cuckoo ... ... 71
The Skylark ... ... 73
27. A Noble Revenge ... 74

28. How Big was Alexander ? 76
29. The Two Robbers... ... 80
30. Joseph Jacquard ... ... 83
31. Ditto ... ... 86
32. Ditto ... ... 89
33. Ditto ... ... 91
34. A Lesson worth Enshrining 93
35. Food and Drink ... ... 95
36. Why we Drink ... ... 98
37. What we Drink ... ... 102
38. Ditto ... ... 105
39. Ditto ... ... 108
40. Ditto ... ... Io
41. Ditto ... ... 113
42. The Good Time Coming ... 117
43. Lost in a Balloon ... ... 120
44. Ditto ... ... 123
45. April Flowers ... ... 127
46. The Water-Rat ... ... 130
47. A Dialogue ... ... 132
48. Caught by the Tide ... 137
49. Ditto ... ... 140
50. The Courageous Boy ... 143
51. Faithful Fido ... ... 145
52. TheDiscontentedPendulum 149
53. Now and Then-By-and-by 153
To-day and To-morrow ... 155
54. Lessons of Industry ... 156
55. The Ant and the Cricket... 158
56. A Good Investment ... 162
57. Ditto ... ... 163
58. Ditto ... ... 164
59. The Labourer ... ... 167
60. Ditto ... ... 170


THERE was once a
boy named George
Andrews, whose father
sent him a few miles on
an errand, and told him
not to stop by the way.
It was a lovely sunny
morning in spring,
S.' and, as George walked
along by the green
fields and heard the
singing of the birds
as they flew from tree
~to tree, he felt as light-
hearted and as happy
as they.
After doing his errand, however, as he returned
by the house where two of his friends and play-
mates lived, he could not resist the desire just


to call a moment to see them. He thought there
would be no great harm if he merely stopped a
minute or two and his parents would never know it.
George stopped, and was led to remain longer
and longer, till he found he had passed two hours
in play. Then, he set his face towards home.
The fields looked as green and the skies
as bright and cloudless as when he walked
along in the morning; but oh, how different were
his feelings Then, he was innocent and happy ;
now, he felt guilty and wretched. He tried to feel
easy, but he could not. He walked sadly along,
thinking what excuse he should make to his
parents for his long absence, and, by-and-by, he
saw his father, at a distance, coming to meet
His father, fearing that some accident had
happened, left home in search of his son. George
trembled and turned pale as he saw his father, and
wondered whether he had better confess the truth
at once and ask forgiveness, or try to hide his
fault with a lie. Oh, how much better it would
have been for him if he had told the truth But
one sin almost always leads to another. When
this kind father met his son with a smile, George
said, "Father, I lost my way, and it took me
some time to find it again, and that is the
reason why I have been gone so long."


His father had never known him to be guilty
of falsehood and he did not doubt that what he
said was true. But oh, how guilty and ashamed
and wretched did George feel as he walked along !
His peace of mind was gone. A heavy weight of
guilt pressed upon his heart. He went home and
repeated the lie to his mother. It is always thus,
when we turn from the path of duty, we know
not how widely we shall wander. Having com-
mitted one fault, he told a lie to conceal it, and
then added sin to sin by repeating the falsehood.
What a change had one short day brought
about in George's happiness. His parents had not
yet found him out, but he was not, on that account,
free from punishment. His conscience was
at work, telling him that he was guilty. His
innocent look and his lightness of heart had left
him. He was ashamed to look his father or
mother in the face. He tried to appear easy and
happy, but he was uneasy and miserable. A
heavy load of guilt rested upon him which des-
troyed all his peace.

When George retired to bed that night, he
feared the darkness. It was long before he could
quiet his troubled mind with sleep. And'when he

awoke in the morning, the knowledge of his guilt
would not forsake him. There it remained fixed
deep in his heart, and would allow him no peace.
He was guilty, and, of course, wretched.
The first thought which crossed his mind on
waking was the lie he told his father and mother.
He could not forget it. He was afraid to go into
the room where his parents were, lest they should
discover by his looks that he had been doing
something wrong. And though, as weeks passed
away, this feeling, in some degree, wore off, he was,
all the time, unhappy. He was in constant fear
that something would occur which should lead to
his being found out.
Thus, things went on for several weeks, till, one
day, the gentleman at whose house he stopped
called at his father's on business. As soon as
George saw him come into the house, his heart
beat quickly, and he turned pale with the fear
that something would be said that would bring
the whole truth to light. The gentleman, after
talking a few moments with his father, turned
to George and said, "Well, how did you get
home the other day? My boys had a very
pleasant visit from you."
Can you imagine how George felt then? You
could almost have heard his heart beat. The
blood rushed into his face ; he could not

speak ; and he dared not raise his eyes from the
floor. There the whole truth was out; and
how do you suppose he felt ? He had disobeyed
his parents, told a lie to conceal it, had, for
weeks, suffered the pangs of a guilty conscience,
and, now, the whole truth was revealed. He
stood before his parents overwhelmed with
George was all the time suffering for his sin.
Day after day, he endured the inward pangs of
conscience, while the knowledge of his sin was
shut up in his own bosom. How bitterly did
he suffer for the few moments of forbidden pleasure
he had enjoyed. The way of the evil-doer is
always hard. Every child who does wrong must,
to a greater or less degree, feel the same sorrows.
This guilty boy, overwhelmed with shame, burst
into tears, and begged for his parent's forgiveness.
He made a clean breast of all to his parents, and
they forgave him; and it was not till then that
peace of mind returned.
If you have done wrong, confess it at once.
Falsehood will but increase your sin and your
sorrow. Whenever you are tempted to say that
which is untrue, think how much sorrow, and
shame, and sin you will bring upon yourself.
Think of the pangs of conscience, for you may
depend upon it that they are not easily borne.



~ NE Saturday evening, when Susan went, as
usual, to Farmer Thompson's to receive an
account for her mother, which amounted to five
pounds, she found the farmer in the stable-yard.
He seemed to be in a terrible rage with some
horse-dealers, with whom he had been talking.
He held in his hand an open pocket-book full
of notes; he scarcely noticed the child as she
made her request, except to speak sharply to her,
as usual, for troubling him when he was busy, and
handed her a bank-note.
Glad to escape so easily, Susan hurried out of
the gate, and then, pausing to pin the money
safely in the folds of her shawl, she found out that
he had given her two notes instead of one. She
looked round; nobody was near to share her
secret; and her first impulse was joy at the prize.
It is mine-all mine," said she to herself; I
will buy mother a new cloak and a new dress with
it, and, then, she can give her old one to sister
Mary. I wonder if it will buy a pair of shoes for
brother Tom too."
At that moment she remembered that he must
have given it to her by mistake, and, therefore, she
had no right to it. But again, she thought, He


gave it, and how do you know that he did not
intend to make you a present of it. Keep it; he


will never know it, even if it should be a mistake,
for he had too many notes in that great pocket-
book to miss one."


Whilst this conflict was going on in her mind
between good and evil, she was hurrying home as
fast as possible. Yet, before she came in sight of
her home, she had, over and over again, compared
the comforts which the money would buy against
the sin of wronging her neighbour. As she
crossed the narrow bridge over the little brook,
before her mother's door, her eye fell upon a rustic
seat on which she and her mother had often sat,
and where, only the day before, her mother had
talked to her of the golden rule :-
"Do to others as you would they should do to you."
Startled, as if a trumpet had sounded in her
ears, she turned suddenly round, and, as if flying
from some unseen peril, hastened along the road
with breathless speed, until she found herself once
more at Farmer Thompson's gate.
What do you want now?" asked the gruff old
fellow, as he saw her again at his side.
Sir, you gave me two notes instead of one,"
said she, trembling in every limb. Two notes,
did I; let me see; well, so I did; but did you
just find it out ? Why did you not bring it back
sooner ? Susan blushed and hung her head.
You wanted to keep it, I suppose," said he.
"Well, I am glad your mother was more honest
than you, or I should have been five pounds
poorer, and none the wiser." -

My mother knows nothing about it, sir," said
Susan ; I brought it back before I went home."
The old man looked at the child, and, as he
saw the tears rolling down her cheeks, he seemed
touched by her distress. Putting his hand in his
pocket he drew out a shilling and offered it to her.
"No, sir, I thank you," sobbed she; "I do
not want to be paid for doing right; I only wish
you would not think me dishonest, for, indeed, it
was a great trial. O sir, if you had ever seen
those you love best wanting many of the comforts
of life, you would know how hard it is for us
always to do unto others as we would have others
do unto us."
The heart of the selfish man was touched ; and
as he bade the little girl good night, he entered
his house a sadder, and, it is to be hoped, a
better man. Susan ran home with a light heart,
and, through the course of a long and useful life,
she never forgot her first temptation.

Five little girls there are who sing
In simplest village grace,
Glad Christmas carols; and they bring
A pride upon the place.


On Christmas eve they take their round,
And every household greet;
And kindness stirs at that old sound;
And friendly looks they meet.

Each mother gazes on her own,
And while the stream runs on,
Sweet expectation often smiles
And present cares are gone.

And when the children go away,
Then turn and with a sigh,
'Tis not of grief but one would say-
For mere sobriety.

Six little girls there were before
Young Mary died ; now five.
Her mother met them at her door,
When Mary was alive.

And straight toward her cot they take
Their usual pathway still;
They pass beside the tranquil lake,
And then ascend the hill.

And Mary's mother raised her head,
This little band to see ;
She loved them every one, but said,
Let them not sing to me."


And quick despatched a messenger,
Who bade them not to come,
Then she uprose and shut the door
Of that small quiet home.


And round the vale, with merry cheer,
They sing where'er they're known,
Whilst Mary's mother shed a tear,
For she was all alone.


"A ILL you give my kite a lift ? said my little
Nephew to his brother, after trying in vain
to make it fly by dragging it along the ground.
Alfred very kindly took it up and threw it into the
air, but, as his brother did not run off at the same
moment, the kite fell down again.
"Ah, now, how awkward you are," said the
little fellow. It was your fault entirely,"
answered his brother. "Try again, children,"
said I.
Alfred once more took up the kite; but, now,
John was in too great a hurry; he ran off so
suddenly that he twitched it out of Alfred's hand,
and the kite fell flat as before. "Well, who is
to blame now?" asked Alfred. "Try again,"
said I.
They did, and with more care, but a side-wind !i
coming suddenly, as Alfred let go the kite, it was ;
blown against some shrubs, and the tail got
entangled in a moment, leaving the poor kite with
its head hanging downward.
"There! there!" exclaimed John, "that comes
of your throwing it all to one side." As if I
could make the wind blow straight," said Alfred.
In the meantime, I went to the help of the kite,
and, having set free the long tail, I rolled it


up, saying, Come, children, there are too many
trees here ; let us find a more open space, and
then Try Again."
We soon found a nice grass-plot, at one
side of which I took my stand; and all

being ready, I tossed the kite up just as little
John ran off. It rose with all the dignity of a
balloon, and promised a lofty flight; but John,
pleased to find it pulling so hard at the string,


stopped short to look up and admire it. The
string slackened; the kite tottered ; and the wind
dropped ; down came the kite to the grass. Oh
John, you should not have stopped," said I.
" However, Try Again."
"I won't try any more," replied he, rather
sullenly. It is of no use, you see. The kite
won't fly, and I don't want to be plagued with it
any longer." Oh fie, my little man would you
give up the sport, after all the pains we have
taken both to make and to fly the.kite. A few
failures ought not to discourage us. Come, I
have wound up your string, and, now, Try Again."
And he did try, and succeeded, for the kite was
carried up on the breeze, as lightly as a feather ;
and, when the string was all out, John stood in
great delight; holding fast the stick; and gazing
on the kite, which now looked like a little white
speck in the blue sky. Look; look, uncle, how
high it flies and it pulls like a team of horses, so
that I can hardly hold it. I wish I had a mile of
string; I am sure it would go to the end of it."
After enjoying the sight as long as he pleased,
little John began to roll up the string slowly;
and, when the kite fell, he took it up with great
glee, saying that it was not at all hurt, and that it
had behaved very well. Shall we come out to-
morrow, uncle, after lessons, and Try Again."


"Yes, my boy, if the weather is fine. And,
now, as we walk home, tell me what you
have learned from your morning's sport." I
have learned to fly my kite properly." "You
may thank uncle for it, brother," said Alfred, for
you would have given it up long ago if he had
not told you to Try Again."

I WELL remember what, as a country lad, im-
pressed me most upon my first visit to London.
It was the memory of the fact that I had, during
the small hours of the morning, stood alone in the
Strand. I had walked into the City from a house
in the suburbs, and, as I paced rapidly along the
pavement my footsteps echoed, and I listened to
them until, startled, I came to a dead stop. The
great artery of life was still ; the pulse of the city
had ceased to beat. Not a moving object was
visible. Although I had been bred among the
lonely hills, I felt, for the first time, that this was to
be alone. Then, for the first time, I knew and
felt the dull force and realism of Wordsworth's
The very houses seemed to sleep ,
And all that mighty heart is lying still "


I could detect no definite sound, only that vague
and distant hum which for ever haunts and hangs
over a great city.
Such a time of quiet as this can never be
observed in the country. It matters not as to
time and season; there seems no general period of
repose. There is always something abroad, some
creature of the fields or woods, which by its voice
or movements is betrayed. And, just as in an old
and rambling house, there are always strange
noises that cannot be accounted for, so, in the by-
paths of nature, there are sounds which can never
be traced to any one spot. To those, however,
who pursue their labours by night in the country-
gamekeepers, poachers, &c.,-there are always
calls and cries which tell of life. These are traced to
various animals and birds ; to beetles and night-
flying insects ; and even to fish. Let us track some
of these sounds to their source.
We are by the covert side, and a strange churring
sound comes from the glades. Waiting silently
beneath the bushes, it comes nearer and nearer,
until a loud flapping is heard among the nut-bush
tops. The object approaches quite closely, and
we can see that the noise is produced by a large
bird striking its wings together as they meet behind.
Even in the dark we can detect that each wing is
crossed by a white bar. Had we the bird in our

hand we should see that it seems a link between
the owls and the swallows, having the soft plumage
and noiseless flight of the one, and the wide gape
of the other. The noise it produces among the
trees is, most likely, to disturb from off the bushes
the large white moths upon which it feeds.

This is the night-jar, or goat-sucker. The latter
name it has from a notion that it sucks goats and
cows, founded, most likely, upon the fact of its wide
gape. It is certain that these birds may often be
seen flitting about the cattle, as they stand
knee-deep in the summer pastures. The reason of
this is clear, as, there, insect food is always


Coming from out the woods the short sharp
bark of a fox is heard, and this is answered
again and again by the vixen. Rabbits rush
across our path, or rustle through the dead
leaves, their white tail-tips gleaming in the
darkness. The many-tongued sedge-bird, which
tells her tale to all the reeds by day, pro-
longs it under the night. Singing ceaselessly
from the bushes, she chatters or imitates the songs
of other birds, until my old angler friends call her
the fisherman's nightingale. When by the covert
side, one of the calls which one constantly hears is
the crowing of the cock pheasants; this is heard in
the densest darkness, as is sometimes the soft
cooing of the wood pigeons. Both pheasants and
cushats sleep on the low spreading branches of the
tall trees, and, from beneath these, the poacher
often shoots them. He comes when there is a
moon, and with a short-barrelled gun and a half-
charge of powder drops the birds dead from below.
One of the greatest night-helps to the game-
keeper in staying the prowling poacher is the lap-
wing. This bird is one of the lightest sleepers of
the fields, starting up from the fallows and scream-
ing upon the slightest alarm. Poachers dread this
bird, and the keeper closely follows its cry. A



hare rushing wildly past will put the plover away
from its roost, and when hares act thus there is
generally some good cause for it.
At night, the waterside is full of life, aid, here, it
is most varied. Turning a bend of the stream, a
heron, that has been standing watchful on one leg,
rises, and flaps away down the river reach. The
slender figure of this gaunt bird stands by the
stream through all weathers. He knows neither
times nor seasons, and is a great poacher. In the
wind, when taking his lone stand, his loose flutter-
ing feathers look like driftwood caught in the
bushes. He has wonderful powers of digestion,
and, withal, an immense capacity for fish. Woe to
the luckless trout that comes within reach of his
bill. The heron is, above all things, a wanderer,
and he roams from pond to pond, from moor to

Passing the remains of an old baronial hall,
the piercing screech of a barn owl comes from
the dismantled tower. Here the white owls have
lived time out of mind, and we have seen and heard
them, asleep and awake, through every hour of the
day and night. It is unnatural history to assert
-as Gray does-that the barn owls ever mope, or

mourn. Neither are they grave monks, nor pillared
saints. A boding bird or a dolorous! Nonsense;
they are none of these. They issue forth as very
demons, and sail about, seeking whom they may
devour. The barn owl is the "screech" owl of
bird literature, the brown owl, the true hooting
owl. This species is found in the old and heavily
timbered districts, and it loves the dark and sombre
gloom of resinous pine woods.
One of the most piteous sounds that is
borne on the night is the hare's scream when it
finds itself in the poacher's nets. It resembles
nothing so nearly as the cry of a child, and, when
it suddenly ceases, we know that the wire snare has
tightened round its throat.
All night long, crake answers crake from the
meadows, appearing, now at our feet, now far out
yonder. Like tl, cuckoo, the cornrail is a bird
oftener heard than seen ; it is of hiding habits,
and finds a secure and snug retreat in the lush
summer grass.
Beneath the oaks, bats circle after night-fly-
ing insects, and there by the stream-side are clouds
of gauzy May flies. The wild whistle of a curlew
comes from high over-head, and the bird is flying
through the night to some far off feeding-ground.
Just now, in the fall of the year, myriads of
migratory birds pass over; and we hear the beat


of their pinions fleet," but their forms we cannot
see. But if only we may "hear the cry of their
voices high, falling dreamily through the sky," the
species is easily known. If we approach the
reed-beds silently, we may hear the hoarse croak
of the frogs, or, maybe, wild ducks, as they beat the
air with their strong wings.
Emerging from the waterside to a belt of
coppice, we are reminded how lightly the
creatures of the woods and fields sleep. The
faintest rustle brings chirping from the bushes,
and in the densest darkness even, some of
the delicate wood birds sing. Not only the
sedge and grasshopper warbles; but, from the
willows, come the lute-like mellowness and wild
sweetness of the blackcap, another night singer.
Besides these, many other sounds there are, known
only to dwellers in the country or those who have
brushed the beads from the long grass during the
short summer nights. There are some white
flowers which only emit their fragrance at night,
and these have their own particular night-flying
insect visitors.



H ONEYBALL was a good-natured, easy kind of
creature, who belonged to the city of the
Honey-bees. She was very ready to do a kind-
ness if it cost her but little trouble; but she was
as lazy as any drone in the hive.
Honeyball would have liked to live all day in
the bell of a foxglove, with nothing to disturb her
in her idle feast. It was said, in the hive, that
more than once she had been known to sip so
much, that at last she had been unable to rise, and
for hours had laid helpless on the ground.
One bright sunny morning, when the bees were
early abroad, Honeyball shook her lazy wings, and
crept to the door of the hive : there she stood for a
few moments, jostled by the passing throng, when
she, finally, flew off in quest of food.
How delightful was the air how fragrant the
breeze : The buttercups spread their carpet of
gold, and the daisies their mantle of silver over
the meadows, all glittering with the drops of
bright dew.
Honeyball soon found a flower to her taste, and
never thought of quitting it till she had sipped
away all its honeyed store. She had a dim idea
that it was her duty to help to fill the honey-cells of


the hive; but poor Honeyball was too apt to pre-
fer pleasure to duty.
I should like to have nothing to do," she
murmured, little thinking that a listener was near.
"Like to have nothing to do. Is it from a
hive-bee that I hear such words ? From one whose
labour is itself all play."
Honeyball turned to view the speaker, and be-
held, on a sign-post near her, the most beautiful
bee she had ever seen. She knew her, at once, to
be a carpenter-bee. Her body was larger than
that of a hive-bee, and her wings were of a lovely
violet colour, like the softest tint of the rainbow.
Honeyball was a little ashamed of what she had
said, and a little confused by the speech of the
stranger; but as all bees consider each other as
cousins, she thought it best to put on an easy air.
Why, certainly, said she, "flying about
upon a morning like this, and sipping honey from
flowers, is pleasant enough for a time. But, may
I ask, lady-bee, if you do not think it hard to
work in wax ? "
"To work in wax," scornfully replied Violetta
-"A soft thing which you can bend and twist
any way, and knead into any shape that you choose.
Come and look at my home here, and then ask
yourself if you have any reason to complain of
your work."



Honeyball looked forward with her two honey..
combed eyes, and upward and backward with her
three others, but not the shadow of a hive could


she see anywhere. "'May I venture to ask where
you live," said she at last.
This way, cried Violetta, waving her feelers,
and pointing to a little round hole in the post
which Honeyball had not noticed before. It
looked gloomy, and dark, and strange; but
Violetta, who took some pride in her mansion,
requested Honeyball to step in.
You cannot doubt my honour," said she,
seeing that the hive-worker hesitated, or suspect
a cousin." Honeyball assured her that she had
never dreamed of such a thing, and entered the
hole in the post.

For about an inch, the way sloped gently down-
wards; then, suddenly, became as straight as a well,
and so dark, and so deep, that Honeyball would
never have tried to reach the bottom, had she not
feared to offend her new friend.
She had some hopes that this deep passage
might be only a long entrance, leading to some
cheerful hive; but, after having gone to the very
end, and finding nothing but wood to reward her
search, she crept again up the steep, narrow way,
and, with joy, found herself once more in the sun-


What do you think of it ?" asked Violetta,
rather proudly.
I-I-do not think that your hive would hold
many bees. Is it quite finished, may I inquire ? "
No; I have yet to divide it into chambers for
my children, each chamber filled with a mixture of
pollen and honey, and divided from the next by a
ceiling of glue and sawdust. But the boring was
finished to-day."
You do not mean to say," exclaimed Honey-
ball in surprise, that that long gallery was ever
bored by bees ?"
Not by bees," replied Violetta, with a bow,
but by one bee; I bored it all myself."
The lazy Honeyball could not conceal her
surprise. Is it possible that you sawed it all out
with your teeth ? "
Every inch of the depth," Violetta replied.
"And that you can gather honey and pollen
enough to fill it ? "
I must provide for my children, or they would
starve," replied Violetta Away down there, I
lay my little eggs."
"And you can make ceilings of such a thing as
sawdust to divide the home of your children into
cells ? "
This is perhaps the hardest part of my task ;
but, yet, it must be done."


"Where will you find sawdust for this car-
penter's work ?" asked Honeyball.
See yonder little heap which I have gathered :
these are my cuttings from my tunnel in the
You are, without doubt, a most wonderful bee,
my fair cousin And you really labour all alone ?"
Yes, all alone," replied Violetta.
Honeyball thought of her own cheerful hive,
with its thousands of workers ; its division of
labour ; and its waxen cells, dripping with golden
honey. She could scarcely believe her own five
eyes when she saw what one insect, but little larger
than herself, could do.
Her surprise and her praise pleased the violet
bee, who took pride in showing every part of her
"One thing strikes me," said Honeyball,
glancing down the tunnel. I should not like to
have the place of the eldest of your children, down
there in the lowest cell, and unable to stir till all
her sisters have eaten their way into daylight."
Violetta gave what in Bee-land is looked upon as
a smile. I have thought of that, and of a remedy
too," said she. I am about to bore a little hole
at the end of my tunnel, to give the young bee a
way of escape from its prison."
And, now," added Violetta, I will detain you


no longer ; so much remains to be done, and time
is so precious. You have something to collect for
your hive : I am too much your friend to wish you
to be idle."
Honeyball thanked her new friend, and flew
away, somewhat the wiser for her visit, and
content with her lot in life; for she felt that not
for ten pairs of purple wings would she change
places with the carpenter-bee.

CHILD of the country free as air
Art thou, and as the sunshine fair;
Born like the lily, where the dew
Lies odorous when the day is new;
Fed 'mid the May-flowers like the bee,
Nursed to sweet music on the knee
Lull'd in the breast to that sweet tune
Which winds make 'mong the woods of June;
I sing of thee ;-'tis sweet to sing
Of such a fair and gladsome thing.
Child of the town for thee I sigh,
A gilded roof's thy golden sky,
A carpet is thy daisied sod,
A narrow street thy boundless wood;


Thy rushing deer's the clattering tramp
Of watchmen ; thy best light's a lamp,-
Through smoke, and not through trellised vines,
And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines :
I sing of thee in sadness; where
Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair!
Child of the country on the lawn
I see thee like the bounding fawn,
Blithe as the bird which tries its wing
The first time on the wings of Spring;
Now running, shouting, 'mid sunbeams,
Now groping trouts in lucid streams,
Now spinning like a mill-wheel round,
Now hunting Echo's empty sound,
Now climbing up some old tall tree-
For climbing's sake,-'tis sweet to thee
To sit where birds can sit alone,
Or share with thee thy venturous throne.
Child of the town and bustling street,
What woes and snares await thy feet!
Thy paths are paved for five long miles,
Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles;
Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke,
Which shrouds thee like a mourning cloak ;
And thou art cabin'd and confin'd,
At once from sun, and dew, and wind,
Or set thy tottering feet but on
Thy lengthen'd walks of slippery stone.


Fly from the town, sweet child for health
Is happiness, and strength and wealth.
There is a lesson in each flower,
A story in each stream and bower;
On every herb o'er which you tread
Are written words which, rightly read,
Will lead you, from earth's fragrant sod,
To hope, and holiness, and God.


[Adapted from Oliver Goldsmith]

A DWARF and a Giant, who were good friends,
made a bargain that they would never forsake
each other, but go to seek adventures. The first
battle they fought was with two Turks; and the
Dwarf, who was full of courage, dealt one of them
a most angry blow.
He did but very little injury to the Turk, who,
lifting up his sword, fairly struck off the poor
Dwarf's arm. The latter was now in a woful
plight; but the giant, coming to his help, in a
short time, left the two Turks dead on the plain;
and the Dwarf cut off the man's head out of spite,
They then moved on to another adventure.


This was against three cruel Satyrs, who were
carrying away a damsel in distress. The Dwarf
was not quite so fierce now as before; but, for all
that, he struck the first blow, which was returned
by another that knocked out his eye: but the
Giant was soon up with them, and, had they not
fled, would have killed them everyone.
The two friends were very joyful for this victory;
and the damsel who was saved fell in love with the
Giant, and married him. They now travelled far,
and farther than I can tell, till they met with a
company of robbers. The Giant, for the first
time, was foremost, but the Dwarf was not far
behind. The battle was stout and long. Wherever
the Giant came, all fell before him ; but the Dwarf
came near being killed more than once. At last,
the victory was won; but the Dwarf lost a
The Dwarf had now lost an arm, a leg, and an
eye, whilst the Giant was without a single wound.
Upon which the latter cried out to his little friend,
" My little hero, this is fine sport Let us gain
one victory more, and then we shall have honour for
ever." No," cried the Dwarf, who had by this
time grown wiser, "no; I'll fight no more;
for I find in every battle that you get all the
honour and rewards, but all the blows fall upon


SIR GUY DE MONTFORT was as brave a
knight as ever laid lance in rest or swung his
gleaming battle-axe. He had many noble qualities;
but they were hidden, alas by the strange thirst
for human blood that marked the age in which he
Ten knights, as brave as Sir Guy, and having as
many noble qualities, had fallen beneath his great
strength and skill in arms; and, for this, the
bright eyes of beauty looked with favour upon him :
fair lips smiled when he rode forth, and minstrels
sang of his prowess.
At a great feast, given in honour of the
marriage of the King's daughter, Sir Guy sent
forth his offer to single and deadly combat,
but, for two days, no one accepted it, although it
was three times made public by the herald. On
the third day,,,a young and strange knight rode,
with visor down, into the lists. His slender form
showed him to be no match for Guy de Montfort-
and so it proved. They met, and Sir Guy's lance,
at the first tilt, pierced the breastplate of the brave
young knight and entered his heart.
As he rolled upon the ground, his helmet flew


off, and a shower of sunny curls fell over his fair
young face and neck.
Soon the strange news went thrilling from heart
to heart, that the youthful knight who had kissed
the dust beneath the sharp steel of De Montfort
was a maiden, and none other than the beautiful,
high-spirited Agnes Bertrand, whose father Sir
Guy had killed, but a few months before, in
combat. By order of the King, the lists were
closed, and knights and ladies gay went back
to their homes, thoughtful, sad, and sorrowful.
Alone in his castle, with the grim faces of his
forefathers looking down upon him from the wall,
Sir Guy paced to and fro with hurried steps. The
Angel of Mercy was nearer to him than she had
been for years, and her whispers he heard. Glory
and 'fame were forgotten by the knight, for self
was forgotten.
The question--a strange question for him-
"What good?" arose in his mind. He had
killed Bertrand-but why? To add another leaf
to his laurels as a brave knight. But was this
leaf worth its cost-the broken heart of the fairest
and loveliest maiden in the land ? nay, more-the
life-drops from that broken heart ?
For the first time the flush of triumph was chilled
by the thought of what the triumph had cost him.
Then came a shudder, as he thought of the lovely


-. -- =-
,~ ._7 -..
- "I ,J .,I! .





widow who drooped in Arno Castle-of the wild
pang that snapped the heart-strings of De Cressy's
bride, when she saw the battle-axe go crashing
into her husband's brain.
As these sad images came up before the knight,
his pace grew more rapid, and his brows, upon
which large beads of sweat were standing, were
clasped between his hands in agony. And for
what is all this?" he murmured. "For what is
all this? Am I braver or better for such wicked
work ?"
Through the long night he paced the hall of his
castle, but, with day-dawn, he rode forth alone.
The sun rose and set; the seasons came and went;
years passed; but the knight returned not.

FAR from the busy scenes of life dwelt a pious
hermit, who, in prayer and fasting, sought to
find peace for his troubled soul. His food was
pulse, and his drink the pure water that went
sparkling in the sunlight past his lonely cell.
Now and then, a traveller who had lost his way, or
an eager hunter in pursuit of game, met this lonely
man. To such he spoke of the vanities of life, and
of the wisdom of flying from these vanities, and
they left him, thinking that the hermit was a wise
and happy man.



But they erred. The days came
and went; the seasons changed;
years passed ; and, still, the her-
mit's prayers went up at morning,
and the setting sun looked upon
his kneeling form. His body was
bent, though not with age; his
long hair white, but not with
the snows of many winters. Yet
all availed not. The lonely one
found not in prayer and penance
that peace he sought.

One night, he dreamt in his cell that the Angel
of Mercy came to him, and said : It is in vain-
all in vain Art thou not a man, to whom power
has been given to do good to thy fellow-men ?
Thou ca!lest thyself God's servant ; but where is
thy work ? I see it not. Where are the hungry
thou hast fed ? the naked thou hast clothed ? the
sick who have been visited by thee? They are
not here in this lone spot "
The Angel went away, and the hermit awoke.
"Where is my work ? he asked, as he stood with
his hot brow bared to the cool air. The stars
are moving in their courses ; the trees are spread-
ing forth their branches and rising to heaven ; and
the stream flows on to the ocean ; but I-I-
gifted with a will, with wisdom, and energy-am
doing no work "
The morning broke, and the hermit saw the bee
at its labour, the bird building its nest, and the
worm spinning its silken thread. And is.there
no work for man, the noblest of all living beings ? '
said he.
The hermit knelt in prayer, but found no peace.
Where was his work? De Montfort, it is
vain he cried. There must be work, as well
as penance and prayer." He rose from his knees;
and, when night came, the hermit's cell was


A FEARFUL plague raged in a great city. In
the narrow streets, where the poor were
crowded together, its hot breath struck down
hundreds in a day. Those who were not stricken
down, fled, and left the sick and the dying to
their fate.
In the midst of these dreadful scenes, a man
clad in plain garments-a stranger-entered the
plague-stricken city. The flying folks warned
him of the peril he was about to face, but, heeding
them not, he took his way with a firm step to the
regions where most lay sick.
In the first house that he entered, he found a
young maiden alone, and almost in the agonies of
death ; and her feeble cry was for water to slake
her burning thirst. He placed to her lips a cool
draught, of which she drank ; then, he sat down to
watch by her side. In a little while, the hot fever
began to abate, and the sufferer slept. Then he
lifted her in his arms, and bore her beyond the
city walls, where the air was pure.
For weeks the plague brooded over that fated
city ; and, during the whole time, this stranger to
all the people passed from house to house, holding
up a dying head here, giving drink to such as

were almost mad with thirst there, and bearing
forth in his arms those for whom there was any
hope of life. But, when the plague had left the
city, he was nowhere to be found.
For years, the castle of De Montfort had been
without a lord. At last, its owner returned ; not
on mailed charger, with corslet, casque, and
spear-a boastful knight, with hands stained by
his brother's blood--nor as a pious monk from his
cloister; but as a man, from the city where he had
done good deeds amid the dying and the dead.
He came to dwell in his stately castle and rule his
broad lands once more ; not to glory in his state,
but to use his gifts in making wiser, better, and
happier his fellow-men.
He had work to do, and he was faithful to his
trust. He was no longer a knight, seeking for
war wherever brute force promised to give him
victory ; he was no longer an idle hermit, shrink-
ing from his work in the great harvest-field of
life; but he was a man, doing bravely, among his
fellow-man, truly noble deeds-not deeds of blood,
but deeds of moral daring, in an age when the real
duties of life were despised by the titled few.
There were the bold Knight, the pious Hermit,
and the true Man ; but the Man was the best and
greatest of all.


THEY are sowing their seed in the daylight fair,
They are sowing their seed in the noonday
They are sowing their seed in the soft twilight,
They are sowing their seed in the solemn night;
What shall their harvest be ?


Some are sowing their seed of pleasant thought;
In the spring's green light they have blithely
They have brought their fancies from wood and


Where the mosses creep, and the flower-buds
swell ;
Rare shall the harvest be !

Some are sowing the seeds of word and deed,
Which the cold know not, nor the careless heed,
Of the gentle word and the kindest deed,
That have blessed the heart in its sorest need:
Sweet shall the harvest be !

And some are sowing the seeds of pain,
Of late remorse, and in maddened brain;
And the stars shall fall, and the sun shall wane,
Ere they root the weeds from the soil again :
Dark will the harvest be !

And some are standing with idle hand,
Yet they scatter seeds on their native land ;
And some are sowing the seeds of care
Which their soil has borne, and still must bear:
Sad will the harvest be !

And each, in his way, is sowing the seed
Of good or of evil, in word or deed :
With a careless hand o'er the earth they sow,
And the fields are ripening where'er they go :
What shall the harvest be ?



Sown in darkness, or sown in light;
Sown in weakness, or sown in might;
Sown in meekness, or sown in wrath ;
In the broad work-field, or the shadowy path :
Sure will the harvest be !


(A Fable.)
AS I happened one day to enter an old shed, in
which some worn-out locomotives had been
stowed away, I chanced to over-hear the following:
Gentlemen," said an old tea-kettle that lay in
a corner of the shed-" Gentlemen, I am sorry to
see you in this place : I wasn't brought here till I
had more than once lost my spout and handle, and
had been patched and soldered till very little of my
first self was left. I conclude, therefore, that, like
me, you have seen your best days, and are now to
be laid aside as useless."
The locomotives looked at one another, and
frowned, but did not answer.
"Well, gentlemen and brothers," cried the
kettle again, don't be down-hearted. We have
played busy and useful parts in our day, and may
comfort ourselves now in thinking over the work
we have done. As for me, when I look back
upon the home comforts that I have been the
means of affording, it affects me deeply."
What is that little old tin whistling about, up
in the corner? asked one of the locomotives of
his neighbour.


Where are his brothers ? "
Hey-day Is that it?" cried the kettle, all
alive with rage. So you don't own the relation-
ship." Let me tell you, with all your pitiful pride,
that though you won't own me as a brother, I am
father and mother to you, for who would ever have
heard of a steam-engine, if it hadn't been for a tea-
kettle ?"
The locomotives were abashed, and silent; and
whilst I was drawing a moral from the just reproof
which the kettle had given their pride, my ear
caught up the following song, which was sung by
one of the workmen in a building hard by:

They may talk as they will about singing,
Their harps, and their lutes, and what not;
Their fiddles are not worth the stringing,
Compared with the music I've got;

For with lessons far deeper and higher
The song of the kettle may teem:
'Twas the kettle that sung on the fire,
That first proved the power of steam.

With home-faces smiling around me,
And children and wife at the board,
No music such joy ever found me
As that its sweet song doth afford :


I love every inch of its metal,
From the tip of the spout to the knob:
Lead a temperate life," sings the kettle,-
The kettle that sings on the hob.

A DERVISH was travelling alone in the desert,
when two merchants suddenly met him.
" You have lost a camel," said he to the mer-
chants. Indeed we have," they replied. "Was
he not blind in his right eye and lame in his left
leg ?" said the dervish.
He was," replied the merchants. Had he
lost a front tooth ? said the dervish. He had,"
rejoined the merchants. And was he not loaded
with honey on one side, and corn on the other ? "
" Most certainly he was," they replied ; and, as
you have seen him so lately, and describe him so
well, we suppose you can conduct us to him."
My friends," said the dervish, I have never
seen your camel, nor even heard of him, but from
yourselves." A pretty story, truly," said the
merchants; but where are the jewels which
formed a part of his burden ? "I have neither
seen your camel, nor your jewels," repeated the


On this, they seized him, and took him to the
cadi, where, on the strictest search, nothing could
be found against him; nor could any evidence be
produced to prove him guilty, either of falsehood
or of theft. They were then about to proceed
against him as a sorcerer, when the dervish,
with great calmness, thus addressed the
Court :-
I have been much amused with your surprise,
and own that there has been some ground for you
to think that I have deceived you; but I have
lived long, and alone, and have found ample room
for observation, even in a desert.
"I knew that I had crossed the track of a
camel that had strayed from its owner, because I
saw no mark of any human footsteps on the same
route. I knew that the animal was blind of one
eye, because it had cropped the herbage only on
one side of its path; and I saw that it was lame
in one leg, from the faint impression one foot had
made upon the sand.
I also concluded that the animal had lost one
tooth, because, wherever it had grazed, a small
tuft of herbage was left uncropped, in the centre
of its bite. As to that which formed the burden
of the beast, the busy ants informed me that it was
corn on the one side; and the clustering flies,
that it was honey on the other."


T seems there was once a wind-mill-history
does not tell us exactly where, and I suppose
it does not much matter where it was-which
went round and round, day after day. It did no
harm to anybody. It never knocked anybody
down, unless he got under it, within reach of its
great arms. What if it did use the air It did
not hurt the air, for the air was just as good for
breathing after it had turned the mill, as it was
But there was a flock of crows in the neighbour-
hood, that took quite a dislike to the mill. They
said there must be some mischief about it. They
did not at all like its actions;-the swinging of those
long arms, for a whole day at a time. And, besides
that, it was rumoured, in the crow-village, that a
good-natured crow once went to look at the wind-
mill, and that the great thing hit him a knock with
one of its arms, and killed him on the spot.
Some half-a-dozen of the flock of crows that felt
so much alarmed were talking together, at one
time, when the conversation turned, as was
generally the case, upon the giant mill. After
talking awhile, it was thought best to call a
council of all the crows in the country, to see if



.............. -- -

-- ..



some means could not be hit upon, by which the
thing could be got rid of.
The meeting was called, and the council met in
a corn-field. Such cawing and chattering was
never before heard in that neighbourhood. They
appointed a chairman-perhaps we ought to say a
Schair-crow-and other officers, and proceeded to
As is usual in public meetings of this nature,
there were many opinions as to the question,
"What is best to be done with the wind-mill ?"
Most of the crows thought the wind-mill a danger-
ous thing-a very dangerous thing indeed: but
then, as to the best mode of getting rid of it, that
was not so easy a matter to decide.
There were some crows at the meeting who were
for going, at once, right over to the wind-mill-all
the crows in a body-to pull down the thing on
the spot. In justice to the crow family in general,
however, it ought to be stated that those who
talked about this warlike measure were rather
young. Their feathers were not yet quite fully
grown, and they had not seen so much of the
world as their fathers had.
After there had been much loud talking, all over
and around the great elm tree where the council
was held, one old crow said he had a few questions
to ask. He had a plan to propose, too-perhaps-


and perhaps not. It would depend upon the
answers to his questions, whether he gave any
advice or not.
He would beg leave to inquire, he said, through
the chairman, if the wind-mill had ever been
known to go away from the place where it was
then standing, and to chase crows round the fields,
for the purpose of killing them.
It was admitted that such conduct on the part
of the giant had never been heard of. Even the
oldest crow, who had heard, from his grandfather,
the story about the unhappy fate of the crow that
perished by a blow from the giant's arms, did
not remember to have heard that the wind-mill had
ever made such warlike visits.
How then," the speaker wished to know,
"was that crow killed in old times ? "
The answer was, He ventured too near the
And is that the only way that any of us are
likely to get killed by the wind-mill ? "
Yes," the scare-crow said, "that is the way,
I believe."
And the crows generally nodded their heads, as
much as to say, Certainly, of course."
Well, then," said the old crow who asked the
questions, "let us keep away from the mill.
That is all I have to say."


At this, the whole council set up a noisy laugh.
The meeting broke up. The general opinion was,
that the advice of the last speaker was, on the
whole, the safest and best that could be given.
There are some things, very harmless in them-
selves, and very useful too in their proper places,
that will be very apt to injure us if we go too near
them. In such cases, remember the advice of the
wise crow, and keep away from the mill.


H IGHER, higher will we climb
Up the mount of glory,
That our names may live through time,
In our country's story ;
Happy, when our welfare calls,
He who conquers, he who falls.

Deeper, deeper let us toil,
In the mines of knowledge;
Nature's wealth, and learning's spoil,
Win from school or college;
Delve we there for richer gems
Than the stars of diadems.

Onward, onward may we press
Through the path of duty ;
Virtue is true happiness,
Excellence true beauty.
Minds are of celestial birth,
Make we then a heaven on earth.

Closer, closer let us knit
Hearts and hands together,
Where our fireside comforts sit,
In the wildest weather:
Oh they wander wide who roam
For the joys of life from home.


RIVER River! little River!
Bright you sparkle on your way,
O'er the yellow pebbles dancing,
Through the flowers and foliage glancing,
Like a child at play.

River River swelling River!
On you rush o'er rough and smooth-
Louder, faster, brawling, leaping
Over rocks, by rose-banks sweeping,
Like impetuous youth.


River River brimming River!
Broad, and deep, and still as Time,
Seeming still-yet still in motion,
Tending onward to the ocean,
Just like mortal prime.

River! River! rapid River!
Swifter now you slip away;
Swift and silent as an arrow,
Through a channel dark and narrow,
Like life's closing day.

River River headlong River!
Down you dash into the sea;
Sea, that line hath never sounded,
Sea, that voyage hath never rounded,
Like eternity.


A LONG time ago a very fierce crocodile of great
size, that dwelt on the marshy banks of the
river Nile, by his ravages spread dismay over the
whole country around. He seized the shepherds,
together with the sheep, and devoured the herds-
men as well as the cattle.
Growing bold by success, and by the terror
which spread in advance of his ravages, he ventured
even into the island of Tentyra, whose people had
long boasted that they were the only tamers of the
*crocodile race.


But even they were now struck with horror
at the appearance of a monster, so much
more terrible than they had ever before seen.
Even the boldest of them were afraid to.
attack him openly; and, with all their art and
address, it was in vain that they tried to surprise
While they were holding council in great fear,
as to what they should do under these circum-
stances, an ichneumon, a little animal not so big
as a weasel, stepped forth, and thus addressed
them: "I perceive your distress, neighbours ;
and, though I cannot assist you in your present
trouble, yet I can offer you some advice that may
be of use to you in the future. A little prudence
is worth all your courage: for, although it may be
glorious to overcome a great evil, it is often the
wisest way to prevent it.
You despise the crocodile while he is small
and weak, and do not consider that he is a long-
lived animal, and continues to grow as long as he
lives. You see I am a poor, little, feeble creature;
yet I am much more terrible to the crocodiles, and
more useful to the country than you are. I attack
him in the egg, and, while you are contriving for
months together how to get rid of one crocodile,
and all to no purpose, I easily destroy fifty of then
in a day."


EACH species of bird constructs an abode
adapted to the mode of life it leads. Birds of
prey reside on the summits of high rocks, or the
pinnacles of old towers. Their dwellings are
strengthened by heavy pieces of wood, which


nature has given them the power of carrying
through the air. Their strength is so great that
they can carry great weights with ease.
A dwelling of this kind, when once finished,
it may be at the expense of much time and
trouble, serves for a long line of descend-
ants from the first builders, for it is seldom

that these abodes are deserted until decay has
altogether unfitted them for their purpose; and
they are so firmly built that many years must
elapse before they are utterly unfit for habitation.
Birds of prey are the only members of the-feathered
tribes which take upon themselves to erect nests of
this enduring kind ; for the greater number of
birds are content with lighter dwellings on the
branch of a tree, against the side of a house, on
the turf, or amongst the reeds.
Some make use of bits of straw, small sticks,
moss, down, cotton, or a hundred little things
picked, up here and there with great pains, and
arranged in order at the place chosen. Their
claws and beak are the only tools used in knitting
together the matters which form the nest. Other
species hang their nests from flexible branches
which are set in motion by every wind. Others
collect gravel and leaves, which they cement by
means of their saliva, and thus form a piece of
waterproof masonry.
The nest, so built, is usually placed in the angle
of a chimney or a rock. Here, the male bird
nestles, looks abroad like a sentinel for foes, and
then sleeps in his own little chamber when the
time for rest comes. Surely, in works like these,
there is food for admiration. To complete a work
of this kind, think of the pains taken !

Some birds build on the ground, between
hillocks of earth, which protect them from the
wind and from an overflow of water. These nests
are, perhaps, not so carefully wrought as other
kinds. Others content themselves with digging a
hole in the sand, and there laying their eggs,
which they leave the sun to hatch during the day,
but to which they return at night.
We cannot be expected to give any regular
account of nests here; but it. may be amusing
to mention some strange kinds; and we will
begin with the nest of the Long-tailed Titmouse.
This bird is not much larger than the wren ; its
head, neck, and breast are white; the rest of its
body is chiefly black; its tail is very long and
wedge-shaped. Pennant, after remarking that the
young follow their parents for the whole winter, says
that, from the slimness of their bodies and great
length of tail, they appear, while flying, like so
many darts cutting the air." The nest is closed
over, both above and below; only one little
circular opening at the side is left, serving for door
and window.
As the cold might enter by the opening, the bird
makes use of door-curtains similar to those which
some of our rooms possess ; the entrance to its
home being furnished with a hanging of feathers.
Thus it is protected from rain, and from the gaze


.of passers by. Through this, the bird goes out
.and comes back just as it pleases.

This is not all ; the titmouse is so small a bird
that it has much to fear from foes of many kinds;
.and, therefore, to conceal the place of its abode, it


:fixes its nest to the trunk of a tree, and then covers
it up with mosses, lichens and other plants such as
grow on the bark, so as not to disturb the natural
appearance in the least. Sometimes, the nest is
placed in the centre of a thick bush, and so firmly is
it seated, that, if we desire to procure it, it must be
cut out. The nest is made by the female, who is


two or three weeks in building it. There
is another member of the tit tribe which takes still
greater pains. It is one that builds in watery
places, where it stands in danger of being attacked
by reptiles. Accordingly, it suspends its nest from
a flexible branch over the water. The entrance to
the nest is formed by a sort of pipe, through which
no snake can force its way.
Another kind of titmouse adds to its nest a little
cell, in which the male and female rest after tend-
ing their young. The birds are very small, delicate,
and weak; yet the nest they build is very large :
indeed, wonderfully so, when the small size of the
builder is considered. The labour is begun in the
middle of winter, and is not completed until spring.
The hatching is a long process, twenty-two being
the customary number of eggs; and the female
takes all the trouble of sitting on them to herself.
The-reed warbler, so named from the places it
frequents, builds at once a house and a boat. The
nest is slightly attached to the reeds, and is
coated with a gummy substance, which prevents
the water from entering, in case the nest should
slip down, or the water should rise.
We have seen a nest of the tailor bird so
artfully constructed, that to view its interior we
were forced to unrip the stitches and cut off the
tightly drawn knots. Several leaves had been


sewn together by means of cotton or fibrous plants.
There you had the thread ; but can you guess the
needle. It was no other than the beak of the bird
As examples of fine art we might adduce the
nests of the thrush, the goldfinch, and above all, of
the grossbeaks, who erect an immense dwelling,
place, to contain five or six hundred inhabitants-

all living together on good terms. A great
number of these birds form a building society, and
unite their efforts to erect a little town of nests.
Having selected a large tree proper for the purpose,
they first construct a roof woven out of large
plants, close enough to be rain-proof. This labour
ended, they divide the space within amongst
the members of this bird partnership, and the


nests are attached, side by side, to the roof, all being
of the same size. Each bird has, generally, its
private entrance; but, sometimes, it happens that
one door gives access to two or three nests. Each
nest is about three inches in diameter, and is made
of plants, but of a less coarse kind than those used
for the roof ; and, within, there is a lining of down.
As the population increases, new nests are
placed upon the old ones, and some of these latter
are converted into a public pathway, leading to
the new dwellings.

The fauvette of the West Indies builds a nest
that cannot but fix the attention of the most care-
less observer. Put together with great industry,
we find it made up of dry herbs, leaf fibres, and
flexible roots, which are woven, with great art,
into a nest shaped like a ball, compact and water-
proof. It is closed at the top and all round, but
an opening is left at the bottom, so that the bird
has to ascend in order to get into its nest. One
part, divided from the rest by a partition, is
reserved for the brood. It is covered with lichens,
and made very comfortable with a lining of silky
down. The care with which the fauvette defends
its young from their many foes, and conceals the


cradle where they commence a life full of risks
should not be without its meed of applause. A
short cane, between two trees above water, is
taken and the prudent mother fastens her nest
to it by a band, at the same time strong and
pliant. The wind may shake this aerial house,
and beat it to and fro; but it is well pro-
tected against invasion by rats and such like
vermin. But, should a bird of prey approach the
little dwelling, its attention is diverted by the male
or the female hopping as if wounded, only a short
distance in advance of the enemy.
We shall close this imperfect sketch with an ac-
count of a nest which forms an article of food. We
allude to the nests of Tonquin, which form no
trivial article of commerce in the Chinese and
Indian seas. This strange article of diet is the
work of a kind of swallow; it is not composed,
as some have stated, of fish and other animal
matter, but of seaweed.
A plant of the Indian seas, which contains a large
quantity of sugar, has been found in the nest.
When the bird has bruised it, it is placed in cup-
like layers, and then the eggs are laid in it. These
nests are chiefly sought for in caverns along the
coast of the islands which separate the Pacific and
the Indian oceans. To reach these caverns,
scooped out by the sea, it is often necessary

to descend some hundreds of feet, holding
by the plants on the face of the rock. The
entrance being reached, and torches lighted,
the search for nests commences. They are
chiefly found in the clefts and crevices. The
darkness in these depths is never dissipated except
at these times, and no sound is heard but the
roar of the ocean. A steady head and a sure
foot are needed to climb the damp and slippery
rocks: one false step would be followed by
certain death.

Accidents, however, do not happen very often.
Sometimes, in the midst of the silence with which
the gathering is carried on, a sudden cry is heard,
a torch goes out, and a portion of rock rolls down
the precipice with a noise like thunder, echoed and
re-echoed through all the chambers of the vast
cavern. The affrighted searchers then know that
they have lost a comrade.
The nests most sought after are those picked up
in the dampest places, and those which have been
most recently built. They are whiter, and cleaner
than the others. The gathering takes place twice
a year, and, if care is taken not to injure the rocks
at the first taking, the number on the second
occasion is pretty nearly equal to that on the first.


Before they are sold to the Chinese, they are care-
fully dried. They are then sorted, and packed up
in wooden boxes. Many of these nests find their
way to the tables of the Court; the Chinese
declare that nothing can be more nourishing or
delicious than this article of diet. Perhaps, how-


ever, the only recommendation is the high price,
which flatters the vanity of the rich, who can alone
afford to buy them. A favourite dish with the
Chinese is a soup made of these edible nests.
They are torn into very thin filaments, as trans-
parent as isinglass and as tasteless as vermicelli.
The quantity of nests imported into China
annually is about two hundred and fifty thousand


pounds weight, and, taking the average price per
pound to be two pounds sterling, the growers of
tea spend nearly half a million of money a year in
the purchase of birds' nests. The traffic is in the
hands of the chiefs of the islands where the nests
are found, who derive much revenue from it: and
the possession of the rocks has many times
been furiously contested. Pirates often make
a descent upon the caverns which are easiest
of access, and not only carry off the nests, but
injure the rocks, so that the birds desert them.
But in places where there is a pretty strong
government, or where the caves are not easily got
at, the revenue never varies very much. We must
now pause ; and yet nothing has been said of the
care lavished by birds on their tender offspring;
of the teaching warbled in their own sweet voices ;
their lessons in the art of flying; nor, when
danger impends, of the tact and boldness, activity
and devotion, which they display.

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the wood,
Attendant on the spring !
Now Heav'n repairs thy rural seat;
And woods thy welcome sing.


Soon as the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear:
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year ?

Delightful visitant with thee
I hail the time of flowers,
When heaven is fill'd with music sweet
Of birds among the bowers.

The school-boy wand'ring in the wood
To pull the flowers so gay,
Starts, thy curious voice to hear,
And imitates thy lay.

Soon as the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fly'st thy vocal vale,
An annual guest in other lands,
Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird thy bow'r is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year !

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee:
We'd make, with social wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the spring.


IRD of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Light be thy matin o'er moorland and lea !
Emblem of happiness !
Bless'd is thy dwelling-place !
O to abide in the desert with thee !

Wild is thy lay and loud,
Far in the downy cloud;
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where, on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying ?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,
O'er moor and mountain green,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day;
Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, hie, hie thee away !

Then when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather-blooms,
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be :
Emblem of happiness !
Bless'd is thy dwelling-place !
O to abide in the desert with thee !


A YOUNG officer so far forgot himself, in a
moment of anger, as to strike a private
soldier, well-known for his courage. The laws
forbade to the soldier any redress-he could not
return the blow. Words only were at his com-
mand, and, in a tumult of.passion, as he turned
away, the soldier said to his officer that he would
" make him repent it." This, wearing the shape
of a threat, rekindled the officer's anger, and thus
the breach between the two young men grew wider
than before.
Some weeks after this, an action took place with
the enemy. Suppose yourself looking down into
the valley filled by the two armies. They are
facing each other, you see, in warlike array. But
it is no more than a skirmish which is going on;
in the course of which, however, a chance arises,
all at once, for a service full of danger. A fort,
which has fallen into the hands of the foe, must be
retaken at any price; but the service needed for
this seems to be all but hopeless.
A strong party, however, has offered to make
the attempt; there is a cry for someone to head
them ; you see a soldier step out from the ranks to
assume the leadership ; the party moves rapidly


forward ; in a few minutes it is swallowed up from
your eyes in clouds of smoke; for one half hour,
from behind these clouds, you receive fierce signals,
flashes from the guns, rolling musketry, and
hurras-advancing or receding, slackening or re-
At length, all is over; the fort has been retaken;
crimson with glorious gore, those that are left of
the victors are at liberty to return. From the
river you see them advance. The plume-crested
officer in command rushes forward, with his left
hand raising his hat in homage to the blackened
fragments of what once was a flag, while with his
right hand he seizes that of the leader, though not
more than a private from the ranks. For, in the
hour of danger, "high and low" are words
without a meaning, and to wreck goes every
notion or feeling that divides the noble from the
noble, or the brave man from the brave.
But how is it that now,when suddenly theyrecog-
nise one another,suddenly they pause? This soldier,
this officer-who are they ? O reader once before
they had stood face to face-the soldier that was
struck, the officer that struck him. Once again
they meet; and the gaze of armies is upon them.
If for a moment a doubt divides them, in a moment
the doubt has perished. One glance between them
publishes the forgiveness that is sealed for ever.


As one who recovers a brother whom he has
numbered with the dead, the officer sprang forward,
threw his arms round the neck of the soldier, and
kissed him, while, on his part, the soldier, stepping
back, and carrying his hand through the motions
of the military salute, makes this answer-the
answer which shut out for ever the memory of the
insult offered to him, '.' Sir," he said, I told you
before, that I would make you repent it."

[Rev. E. Jones.]
[Alexander of Macedon, a famous general, and conqueror of many nations,
was called Alexander the Great," on account of his great victories.
After conquering Persia, he died at Babylon, in the year 324 before the.
Christian era.]
Son. H OW big was Alexander, pa,
That people call him great ?
Was he, like old Goliath, tall,
His spear a hundredweight ?
Was he so large that he could stand,
Like some tall steeple high,
And while his feet were on the ground,
His hands could touch the sky ?

Father. 0 no, my child ; about as large
As I or Uncle James ;




'Twas not his stature made him great,
But greatness of his name.

Son. His name so great I know 'tis long,
But easy quite to spell ;
And more than half a year ago
I knew it very well.

Father. I mean, my child, his actions were
So great, he got a name,
That everybody speaks with praise,
That tells about his fame.

Son. Well, what great actions did he do ?
I want to know it all.

Father. Why, he it was that conquered Tyre,
And levelled down her wall,
And thousands of her people slew;
And then to Persia went,
And fire and sword on every side
Through many a region sent.
A hundred conquered cities shone
With midnight burnings red ;
And strewed o'er many a battle-ground
A thousand soldiers bled.

Son. Did killing people make him great?


Then why was Abel Young,
Who killed his neighbour, Christmas day,.
Put into jail and hung ?
I never heard them call him great.

Father. Why, no; 'twas not in war;
And he that kills a single man,
His neighbours all abhor.

Son. Well, then, if I should kill a man,
I'd kill a hundred more;
I should be great, and not get hung,.
Like Abel Young, before.

Father. Not so, my child; 'twill never do:
Conscience bids us be kind.

Son. Then they that kill and they that praise,,
Their conscience do not mind.

Father. You know, my child, the law which says,
That you must always do
To other people, as you wish
To have them do to you.

Son. But, pa, did Alexander wish
That some strong man would come-
And burn his house, and kill him too,,


And do as he had done ?
Does everybody call him great,
For killing people so?
Well, now, what right he had to kill,
I should be glad to know.
If one should burn the buildings here,
And kill the folks within,
Would anybody call him great
For such a wicked thing ?


A alexander.



A alexander.

[Dr. Aikin. Adapted.]
WHAT art thou that Thracian
robber, of whose exploits I have
heard so much ?
I am a Thracian, and a soldier.
A soldier! a thief, a plunderer, a
murderer the pest of the country !
I could honour thy courage; but
I must detest and punish thy crimes.
What have I done of which you can
complain ?
Hast thou not defied me, broken
the public peace, and passed thy
life in robbing thy fellow-subjects ?





A alexander.




Alexander, I am your captive : I must
hear what you please to say, and
endure what you please to inflict.
But, if I reply at all to your
reproaches, I will reply like a free
Speak freely. Far be it from me to
take the advantage of my power to
silence those with whom I deign to
I must then answer your question by
another. How have you passed
your life ?
Like a hero. Ask Fame, and she
will tell you. Among the brave, I
have been the bravest; among
kings, the noblest; among con-
querors, the mightiest.
And does not fame speak of
me, too? Was there ever a
bolder captain or a braver band?
Was there ever-but I scorn to
boast. You, yourself, know
that I have not been easily
Still, what are you but a robber-a
base robber ?
And what is a conqueror? Have not


A alexander.



you, too, gone about the earth, like
an evil genius, destroying the fair
fruits of peace, robbing and killing,
without law, without justice ? All
that I have done to a single district,
with a hundred followers, you have
done to whole nations, with a
hundred thousand. If I have
stripped private persons, you have
ruined kings and princes. If I
have burned a few hamlets, you
have laid waste the finest king-
doms and cities of the earth. What
is, then, the difference, but that, as
you were born a king and I a
private man, you have been
able to become a mightier robber
than I ?
But if I have taken like a king, I
have given like a king. If I have
thrown down empires, I have
founded greater.
I, too, have freely given to the poor
what I took from the rich.
Leave me. Take off his chains, and
use him well. Are we, then, so
much alike? Alexander like a
robber ? Let me reflect.


OSEPH JACQUARD was born at Lyons on
the seventh of. July, 1752; his father was a
master weaver of gold and silken tissues, his
mother was a pattern-reader, another branch of the
same trade; as for himself, he was bound apprentice
to a book-binder, and proved a clever and tasteful
workman. At the end of some years, he married,
and, having been left a small house by his
parents, he set up as a straw-bonnet maker, and
was getting on very well, when the French
Revolution broke out, and ruined him.
In 1793, during the siege, when Lyons held out
against the armies of the republic, his house was
burned to the ground, and, when the savage
consuls came with orders to punish the people
whom the brutal soldiers had spared, Jacquard's
name was on the list, and he found himself forced
to fly from his native country. He owed his
safety to a son he had in the ranks of
the army. This young man dressed his father
in uniform, and, placing a musket in his
hand, marched with him to the French frontier.
They reached the borders of the Rhine to-
gether, but, there, Jacquard had the great mis-
fortune to lose his beloved son, who fell by 'his


side, struck by a cannon ball, and, soon afterwards,
died in his arms. When France was restored to
some degree of peace and order, Jacquard, weary
of a soldier's life, for which old age began
to unfit him, desired to return to his former quiet
life; he had found friends amongst the very men
by whom he had been condemned to die; and he
now set up once more at Lyons, and gave up his
spare time to the study of mechanics.
After the peace of Amiens, trade was re-opened,
for a short time, between England and France,
and, during this season, an English newspaper
happened to fall into the hands of Jacquard : he
read there that a prize was to be given by the
Royal Society in London, to anyone who could
invent a machine for making fishing nets, and
also for the nettings used on board ship. From
that moment, he thought of nothing but how to
win this prize. After groping long in the dark,
he discovered the secret of the machine; but the
satisfaction he derived from his success was the
only reward he chose to receive; the difficulty
once overcome, he thought no more about it, and
contented himself with giving a piece of the net
he had woven, to one of his friends. This friend,
however, showed it to several persons, and it
passed from hand to hand, until, it was sent at
last to Paris.




Jacquard had long forgotten his invention, when,
one day, to his great surprise, he was summoned
before the Prefect of Lyons, who asked him
whether he had not invented a machine for making
nets. Jacquard did not remember that he had, till
the very piece of net that he had given to his friend
was shown him. The prefect then desired to see
the machine on which it had been made. Jacquard
asked for three weeks wherein to repair and com-
plete it, for it then lay neglected in a corner of his
dwelling; at the end of that time, he carried it to
the prefect, who was able himself to count the
number of meshes, to strike the bar with his foot,
and to continue the web that was already begun.
When he had recovered from his surprise, he
dismissed Jacquard, telling him that his name
would soon become known. The machine was
sent off to Paris, and, soon after, an order arrived
that Jacquard himself should be sent after it. The
police of the town, mistaking the real import
of the order, laid hold of the honest artisan as a
traitor, and treated him like one. Without
giving him time to go home and make ready for
his journey, he was hurried into a post-chaise and
driven rapidly to Paris. Jacquard had never
before seen the great capital. On his arrival, he



was taken to the Society of Arts, and the first per-
sons he saw there were Bonaparte, and his minister,
Carnot; the latter, speaking with the bluntness
which was natural to him, exclaimed, Is


it you, then, who pretend to make a slip knot upon
a tight thread."
Jacquard, abashed by the presence of the master
of half Europe, and still more so by the manner of
his minister, only answered by setting his machine
to work. In this strange way was Jacquard's first
essay made known. Napoleon, who knew how to
value genius wherever he found it, encouraged
him, and promised him his protection; and in a
few days after this interview, he was installed at
the Society of Arts.
Jacquard's joy was great when he found himself
in the midst of the wonders of art, and so able to
carry on his studies in science, which, hitherto, for
want of books he had had no means of doing;
he had now the works of others to stand upon,
and the keys of knowledge were in his hands.
He soon set to work upon a machine which was
to produce brocaded silk, at less cost, and more
easily, than any then known; in this he fully
This famous machine was shown at the Exposi-
tion at Paris, in I801. The first Consul, seeing at
once the great change which it was about to pro-
duce in the state of French industry, rewarded the
inventor with a pension of six thousand francs.
The jury, however, whose duty it was to judge of
the utility of all such inventions, showed themselves

less clear-sighted, and awarded only a bronze
medal to Jacquard, "the inventor" (said the
report) of a machine by means of which one
workman the less would be required in the making
of brocades."

Less wonder will be excited by this verdict of the
Paris jury when we further relate, that at Lyons,
the whole face of whose trade was to be altered by
Jacquard's invention, neither thanks nor rewards
were called forth by it. He returned there
with his machine, and found himself, like Galileo
of old, treated with cruelty.
He, the man of the people, the child of the
loom, was painted in the darkest colours to the
mob as their foe ; one who, for his own selfish
purposes, was about to ruin their craft, and to
increase the distress of their families.
From all parts of the district furious mobs
assembled against him, and his life was three
times in danger ; this blind hatred rose at last to
such. a height that the authorities of Lyons gave
way before the storm : and the new machine was
broken to pieces by their orders, in the great
square of the town, while the people loudly
cheered at the scene enacted before them. The


iron," to use Jacquard's own words, was sold as
old iron,-the wood, for fuel."
It was not till France began to feel the fatal
effects of foreign rivalry, that the silk-weavers of
Lyons began to regret the narrowness of mind
which had prevented their reaping the benefit them-
selves of Jacquard's invention ; they then saw that
they had destroyed the machine which would have
added to their prosperity. In the meantime, it was
adopted in many other countries.
Manchester received the Jacquard machine in
1813, with delight; and the name once denounced
in every factory, is now honoured throughout
Europe. By slow degrees did this reward reach
Jacquard ; he had it after a twenty years' struggle
against ignorance, envy, and selfishness; and all
that time he knew that he had succeeded, and that
he had created a mighty agent for the welfare
of his native country, and that a day would surely
come in which he should see it at work.
He took out no patent to secure to himself the
gain of his invention, and he constantly refused
the grand offers made to him by foreigners;
simply but firmly he refused to devote to them the
services he believed were due to France, and
waited patiently till she should be ready to receive
them at his hands. We have seen the humble
mention made of him with the bronze medal he

obtained in 18o1 ; it was not till 1819 that a better
informed jury awarded to him the silver medal and
the Cross of the Legion of Honour.

Towards the close of his life, Jacquard, having
lost his wife, who had been a sharer in all his joys
and sorrows, and for whom he had the strongest
affection, retired to a pretty village, about three
miles from Lyons, and took up his abode in
a small house, the use of which had been left
to him by will, for his life. There he received the
visits of many travellers ; statesmen, and men of
letters came to converse with him, and to wonder
that a man who was known all over Europe should
be found spending his old age alone, and dividing
his time between religious duties and the culture
of a small garden. He died on the seventh of
August, 1834; he never saw his great invention
valued in his native city, and yet he had lived long
in hope, and, in his latter days, in perfect peace;
his work was done, and at eighty-four
The weary springs of life stood still at last."
The morning after Jacquard's death, a few
friends, and a very small number of admirers,
followed his remains to the little cemetery of the


village; the people of the village placed a
marble slab in their church to his memory, which
mentions simply and modestly his pure life and
his industry.
In his lifetime, like 'most other great men,
Jacquard found little but neglect and cruelty,
in his own country ; it was only after his death
that he was really known, and his memory
duly honoured. The people of Lyons started a
fund for the purpose of raising a statue of
their well-known fellow-citizen, and, while the city
owed chiefly to him its yearly increasing wealth,
it was long before many thousand francs were
collected. The statue of Jacquard was raised at
last on the sixteenth of August, 1840.
It is well for us, in the midst of the feverish
strife of mere opinion, to turn to the example of
Jacquard. Humble and prosaic as his life may at
first sight appear, he stood alone with his genius,
surrounded by ignorance and tumult, waiting
patiently until his invention should be permitted to
produce the great results which it could not fail to
do when once it was fairly tried. While, doubt-
less, a thousand voices were raised to procure a
hearing for fresh schemes and new doctrines in
science, he expected silently the hour in which his
knowledge should be most usefully employed for
the benefit of his country. Jacquard and his

machine were alike realities, and the world how
knows them as such.


A LESSON in itself sublime, a lesson worth
Is this : I take no note of Time save when the
sun is shining."
These motto words a dial bore: and wisdom never
To human hearts a better lore than this short
sentence teaches.
As life is sometimes bright and fair, and some-
times dark and lonely,
Let us forget its toil and care, and note its bright
hours only.

There is no grove on earth's broad chart but has
some bird to cheer it ;
So Hope sings on in every heart, although we may
not hear it;
And if, to-day, the heavy wind of sorrow is
Perchance to-morrow's sun will bring the weary
heart a blessing.
For life is sometimes bright and fair, and some-
times dark and lonely :


Then let's forget its toil and care, and note its
bright hours only.

We bid the joyous moments haste, and then for-
get their glitter ;
We take the cup of life, and taste no potion but
the bitter :
But we should teach our hearts to deem its
sweetest drop the strongest,
And pleasant hours should ever seem to linger
round us longest.
For life is sometimes bright and fair, and some-
times dark and lonely,
Then let's forget its toil and care, and note its
bright hours only.

The darkest shadows of the night are just before
the morning ;
Then let us wait the coming light, all fancied
phantoms scorning ;
And while we're floating down the tide of Time's
fast ebbing river,
Let's pluck the flowers that grace its side, and
thank the gracious Giver.
For life is sometimes bright and fair, and some-
times dark and lonely,
Then let's forget its toil and care, and note its
bright hours only.


M AN is sent into this world to work; and all
men have to work either with hand or head.
But some men work too much, whilst others work
too little. As a rule, those who work too much,
are happier than those who work too little; for
there is no surer road to real happiness, than a
wise system of hard work ; and we have all plenty
to do if we will but do it.
To work in any shape, we must possess energy,
for energy may be defined as the power to do
work; we cannot work without energy. Some
workers, let us hope not very many, at times, try
to take in that energy in the form of strong drink;
but the attempt is a vain one as we shall show
A strong healthy man, passes into his body, in
the course of a year, about eight hundred pounds
of solid food, and fifteen hundred pounds of liquid
food-drink, if you like to call it so. Why does
he store away in his body all these solids and
liquids every year ? Simply because, in this food
is hidden the energy without which he can do no
manner of work.
The food he daily passes into his system supplies
him with the energy he cannot create, but without
which his body would be a useless mass,

But why does he take into his system this
fifteen hundred pounds of liquid per year? He
takes this mass of substance simply to assist him
to prepare the solid food, in order that he may be
able to obtain from it the energy he needs, Which
is locked up in that food. Unfortunately, how-
ever, a large number of our fellow-creatures pass
daily, year by year, as long as they manage to
last, strong drinks into their bodies, which
diminish their energy, lessen their power to work,
and destroy the body.
But how is this energy stored up in the eight
hundred pounds of solid food made to give up its
energy in movement, thought-making, and in
keeping the body in health and good repair?
Before this food can be made to give up even the
smallest portion of its energy to the human body,
for the use of either muscle or brain, it must be
built up into the substance of blood or of body
tissue, and then burnt. To do this burning, eight
hundred pounds of oxygen gas are annually taken
from the air, and passed into the blood by the
lungs in the act of breathing. Thus, we see that
the source of our bodily energy is the ton and a
half of substance--food, drink, and air-which we
annually consume in our bodies.
We are, in the present course of lessons, con-
cerned mainly with drinking; and we shall pass

University of Florida Home Page
© 2004 - 2010 University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries.
All rights reserved.

Acceptable Use, Copyright, and Disclaimer Statement
Last updated October 10, 2010 - - mvs