The Baldwin Library
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SCHOOL READING BY GRADES
NEW YORK .:- CINCINNATI .- CHICAGO
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY
COIPYIGIT, 1S97, BY
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY.
SCII. REXD. FIFTH YEAI.
W. P. I
THE pupil who has read the earlier numbers of this series is now pre-
pared to study with some degree of care the peculiarities of style which
distinguish the different selections in the present volume. Hence, while
due attention must be given to the study of words merely as words, -
that is to spelling, defining, and pronouncing, considerable time should
be occupied in observing and discussing the literary contents, the author's
manner of narrating a story, of describing an action or an appearance, of
portraying emotion, of producing an impression upon the mind of the
reader or the hearer. The pupils should be encouraged to seek for and
point out the particular passages or expressions in each selection which
are distinguished for their beauty, their truth, or their peculiar adapta-
bility to the purpose in view. The habit should be cultivated of looking
for and enjoying the admirable qualities of any literary production, and
particularly of such productions as are by common consent recognized
The lessons in this volume have been selected and arranged with a
view towards several ends: to interest the young reader; to cultivate a
taste for the best style of literature as regards both thought and expres-
sion; to point the way to an acquaintance with good books ; to appeal to
the pupil's sense of duty, and strengthen his desire to do right; to arouse
patriotic feelings and a just pride in the achievements of our country-
men; and incidentally to add somewhat to the learner's knowledge of
history and science and art.
The illustrations will prove to be valuable adjuncts to the text. Spell-
ing, defining, and punctuation should continue to receive special attention.
Difficult words and idiomatic expressions should be carefully studied with
the aid of the dictionary and of the Word List at the end of this volume.
Persistent and systematic practice in the pronunciation of these words
and of other difficult combinations of sounds will aid in training the
pupils' voices to habits of careful articulation and correct enunciation.
While literary biography can be of but little, if any, value in culti-
vating literary taste, it is desirable that pupils should acquire some knowl-
edge of the writers whose productions are placed before them for study.
To assist in the acquisition of this knowledge, and also to serve for ready
reference, a few Biographical Notes are inserted towards the end of the
volume. The brief suggestions given on page 6 should be read and com-
mented upon at the beginning, and frequently referred to and practically
applied in the lessons which follow.
Something about Books .
Old Chiron's School. . .
The Dog of Montargis . .
The Old Oaken Bucket .
The Village Blacksmith .
The Choice of Hercules .
Christmas at the Cratchits' .
On the Mountain . .
Betsey Hull's Wedding .
Ulysses and the Cyclops .
The Brook . . .
The Lady of Shalott ..
Lessons from Nature's Book .
The Goodman of Ballengiech .
Bugle Song . ..
Some Experiences at Sea .
Daniel Boone . .
Fulton's First Steamboat .
The Planting of the Apple Tree .
The Corn Song . .
John skin . .
Charles Kingsley .
Old Legend . .
Samuel Wloodworth .
Henry IV. Longfellow .
Charles Dickens .
St. Matthe . .
Alfred Tennyson. .
Sir Archibald Geiie .
Sir Walter Scott .
Alfred Tennyson. .
Richard Henry Dana, Jr..
George Bancroft .
Robert Fulton ..
William Cullen Bryant
John G. Whittier. .
Hunting the Walrus . . .
The Destruction of Pompeii.
I. History. . Charles Kingsley .
II. Romance . .. Sir E. Bulwer Lytton .
The Stranger on the Sill .
I. What is Our Country ?
II. Liberty and Union .
III. Our Sacred Obligations
A Legend of Sleepy Hollow .
The Mariner's Dream .
The Sands o' Dee . .
The Invention of Printing .
The Wanderer . .
Lead Thou Me on . .
The American Indian .
The Passing of King Arthur .
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES .
WORD LIST .
PROPER NAMES PRONOUNCED
ADAPTED FROM PAGE
Thomas Buchanan Bead 140
Thomas Grimke .
Daniel Webster .
Daniel Webster .
Washington Irving .
William Dimond. .
Eugene Field .
John Henry Newman
Charles Sprague .
Sir Thomas Malory
Acknowledgments are due to Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons, pub-
lishers of the works of Eugene Field, for permission to use the poem
entitled "The Wanderer"; to Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., pub-
lishers of the works of H. W. Longfellow and J. G. Whittier, for the use
of "The Village Blacksmith and The Corn Song" ; and to The J. B.
Lippincott Company, publishers of the poems of T. Buchanan Read, for
the piece entitled "The Stranger on the Sill."
TO THE LEARNER.
A FArous writer has said that the habit of reading is one's pass to
the greatest, the purest, the most perfect pleasures that have been pre-
pared for human beings. "But," he continued, "you cannot acquire
this habit in your old age; you cannot acquire it in middle age; you
must do it now, when you are young. You must learn to read, and to
like reading now, or you cannot do so when you are old." Now, no one
can derive very great pleasure or very great profit from reading unless he
is able to read well. The boy or girl who stumbles over every hard word,
or who is at a loss to know the meaning of this or that expression, is not
likely to find much enjoyment in books. To read well to one's self, one
must be able to read aloud in such a manner as to interest and delight
those who listen to him: and this is the chief reason why we have so
many reading books at school, and why your teachers are so careful that
you should acquire the ability to enunciate every sound distinctly, pro-
nounce every word properly, and read every sentence readily and with a
clear understanding of its meaning.
Is the reading exercise a task to you ? Try to make it a pleasure.
Ask yourself : What is there in this lesson that teaches me something
which I did not know before? What is there in this lesson that is
beautiful, or grand, or inspiring? Has the writer said anything in a
manner that is particularly pleasing-in a manner that perhaps no one
else would have thought to say it ? What particular thought or saying,
in this lesson, is so good and true that it is worth learning by heart and
remembering always. Does the selection as a whole teach anything that
will tend to make me wiser, or better, or stronger than before ? Or is it
merely a source of temporary amusement to be soon forgotten and as
though it had never been ? Or does it, like fine music or a noble picture,
not only give present pleasure, but enlarge my capacity for enjoyment
and enable me to discover and appreciate beautiful things in literature
and art and nature which I would otherwise never have known ?
When you have asked yourself all these questions about any selection,
and have studied it carefully to find answers to them, you will be pre-
pared to read it aloud to your teacher and your classmates; and you will
be surprised to notice how much better you have read it than would have
been the case had you attempted it merely as a task or as an exercise
in the pronouncing of words. It is by thus always seeking to discover
things instructive and beautiful and enjoyable in books, that one acquires
that right habit of reading which has been spoken of as the pass to the
greatest, the purest, the most perfect of pleasures.
SOMETHING ABOUT BOOKS.
A beautiful book, and one profitable to those
who read it carefully, is "Sesame and Lilies" by
John Ruskin. It is beautiful be-
cause of the pleasant language .,til
5 choice words in which it is
written; for, of all our later 'R
writers, no one is the mas-
ter of a style more pure and
more delightful in its sirm-
o0 plicity than Mr. Ruskin's.
It is profitable because of the
lessons which it teaches;
for it was written "to show
somewhat the use and pre- John Ru
1i ciousness of good books, and to awaken in the minds
of young people some thought of the purposes of
the life into which they are entering, and the nature
of the world they have to conquer." The follow-
ing pertinent words concerning the choice of books
have been taken mainly from its pages:
All books may be divided into two classes, books
of the hour, and books of all time. Yet it is not
merely the bad book that does not last, and the good 5
one that does. There are good books for the hour
and good ones for all time; bad books for the hour
and bad ones for all time.
The good book of the hour, I do not speak
of the bad ones, is simply the useful or pleasant 10
talk of some person printed for you. Very useful
often, telling you what you need to know; very
pleasant often, as a sensible friend's present talk
These bright accounts of travels, good-humored 15
and witty discussions of questions, lively or pathetic
story-telling in the form of novel: all these are books
of the hour and are the peculiar possession of the
present age. We ought to be entirely thankful for
them, and entirely ashamed of ourselves if we make 20
no good use of them. But we make the worst
possible use, if we allow them to usurp the place
of true books; for, strictly speaking, they are not
books at all, but merely letters or newspapers in
good print. 25
Our friend's letter may be delightful, or necessary,
to-day; whether worth keeping or not, is to be con-
sidered. The newspaper may be entirely proper at
breakfast time, but it is not reading for all day.
So, though bound up in a volume, the long letter
5 which gives you so pleasant an account of the inns
and roads and weather last year at such a place,
or which tells you some amusing story, or relates
such and such circumstances of interest, may not
be, in the real sense of the word, a book at all, nor,
10 in the real sense, to be read.
A book is not a talked thing, but a written thing.
The book of talk is printed only because its author
can not speak to thousands of people at once; if he
could, he would ---the volume is mere multiplica-
15 tion of the voice. You can not talk to your friend
in India; if you could, you would; you write instead;
that is merely a way of carrying the voice.
But a book is written, not to multiply the voice
merely, not to carry it merely, but to preserve it. The
2o author has something to say which he perceives to
be true and useful, or helpfully beautiful. So far as
he knows, no one has yet said it; so far as he knows,
no one can say it. He is bound to say it, clearly and in
a melodious manner if he may; clearly, at all events.
25 In the sum of his life he finds this to be the thing,
or group of things, manifest to him; this the piece of
true knowledge, or sight, which his share of sunshine
and earth has allowed him to seize. He would set
it down forever; carve it on a rock, if he could, say-
ing, This is the best of me; for the rest, I ate and
drank and slept, loved and hated, like another; my
life was as the vapor, and is not; but this I saw 5
and knew; this, if anything of mine, is worth your
memory." That is his writing ; that is a book.
Now books of this kind have been written in all
ages by their greatest men -by great leaders, great
statesmen, great thinkers. These are all at your io
choice; and life is short. You have heard as much
before; yet have you measured and mapped out this
short life and its possibilities ? Do you know, if you
read this, that you can not read that that what you
lose to-day you can not gain to-morrow ? 15
Will you go and gossip with the housemaid, or the
stableboy, when you may talk with queens and kings?
Do you ask to be the companion of nobles? Make
yourself noble, and you shall be. Do you long for
the conversation of the wise ? Learn to understand 20
it, and you shall hear it.
Very ready we are to say of a book, How good
this is -that is just what I think! But the right
feeling is, "How strange that is! I never thought
of that before, and yet I see it is true; or if I do not 25
now, I hope I shall, some day."
But whether you feel thus or not, at least be sure
that you go to the author to get at his meaning, not
to find yours. And be sure also, if the author is
worth anything, that you will not get at his mean-
ing all at once; nay, that at his whole meaning you
5 may not for a long time arrive in any wise. Not
that he does not say what he means, and in strong
words too; but he can not say it all, and, what is
more strange, will not, but in a hidden way in order
that he may be sure you want it.
10 When, therefore, you come to a good book, you
must ask yourself, Am I ready to work as an Aus-
tralian miner would? Are my pickaxes in good
order, and am I in good trim myself, my sleeves
well up to the elbow, and my breath good, and my
15 temper ?" For your pickaxes are your own care,
wit, and learning; your smelting furnace is your
own thoughtful soul. Do not hope to get at any
good author's meaning without these tools and that
fire; often you will need sharpest, finest carving, and
20 the most careful melting, before you can gather one
grain of the precious gold.
I can not, of course, tell you what to choose for
your library, for every several mind needs different
books; but there are some books which we all need,
25 and which if you read as much as you ought, you
will not need to have your shelves enlarged to right
and left for purposes of study.
If you want to understand any subject whatever,
read the best book upon it you can hear of. A
common book will often give you amusement, but
it is only a noble book that will give you dear
Avoid that class of literature which has a know-
ing tone; it is the most poisonous of all. Every
good book, or piece of book, is full of admiration
and awe; and it always leads you to reverence or
love something with your whole heart. 10
OLD CHIRON'S SCHOOL.
_Eson was king of Iolcus by the sea; but for all
that, he was an unhappy man. For he had a step-
brother named Pelias, a fierce and lawless man who
was the doer of many a fearful deed, and about whom
many dark and sad tales were told. And at last is
Pelias drove out IEson, his stepbrother, and took
the kingdom for himself, and ruled over the rich
town of Iolcus by the sea.
And JEson, when he was driven out, went sadly
away from the town, leading his little son by the hand; 20
and he said to himself, I must hide the child in the
mountains, or Pelias will surely kill him, because he
is the heir." So he went up from the sea across the
valley, through the vineyards and the olive groves,
and across a foaming torrent toward Pelion, the
ancient mountain, whose brows are white with
He went up and up into the mountain, over marsh
and crag, and down, till the boy was tired and foot-
sore, and jEson had to bear him in his arms, till he
came to the mouth of a lonely cave at the foot of a
o1 mighty cliff. Above the cliff the snow wreaths hung,
dripping and cracking in the sun; but at its foot,
around the cave's mouth, grew all fair flowers and
herbs, as if in a garden arranged in order, each
sort by itself. There they grew gayly in the sun-
15 shine, and in the spray of the torrent from above;
while from the cave came a sound of music, and a
man's voice singing to the harp.
Then .Eson put down the lad, and whispered:
Fear not, but go in, and whomsoever you shall
20 find, lay your hands upon his knees, and say, In the
name of the Father of gods and men, I am your
guest from this day forth.'"
Then the lad went in without trembling, for he
too was a hero's son; but when he was within, he
25 stopped in wonder, to listen to that magic song.
And there he saw the singer lying upon bearskins
and fragrant boughs; Chiron, the ancient Centaur,
the wisest of all beings beneath the sky. Down to
the waist he was a man; but -below he was a noble
horse; his white hair rolled down over his broad
shoulders, and his white beard over his broad brown
chest; and his eyes were wise and mild, and his 5
forehead like a mountain wall.
And in his hands he held a harp of gold, and
struck it with a golden key; and as he struck he
sang till his eyes glittered, and filled all the cave
with light. 10
And he sang of the birth of Time, and of the
heavens and the dancing stars; and of the ocean, and
the ether, and the fire, and the shaping of the won-
drous earth. And he sang of the treasures of the
hills, and the hidden jewels of the mine, and the is
veins of fire and metal, and the virtues of all healing
herbs; and of the speech of birds, and of prophecy,
and of hidden things to come.
Then he sang of health, and strength, and man-
hood, and a valiant heart; and of music and hunting, 20
and wrestling, and all the games which heroes love;
and of travel, and wars, and sieges, and a noble
death in fight; and then he sang of peace and plenty,
and of equal justice in the land; and as he sang, the
boy listened wide-eyed, and forgot his errand in the 25
And at last Chiron was silent, and called the lad
with a soft voice. And the lad ran trembling to
him, and would have laid his hands upon his knees;
but Chiron smiled, and said, "Call hither your
father Eson; for I know you and all that has
5 befallen you."
Then -son came in sadly, and Chiron asked him,
"Why came you not yourself to me, AEson ? "
And JEson said: I thought, Chiron will pity the
lad if he sees him come alone; and I wished to try
io whether he was fearless, and dare venture like a
hero's son. But now I entreat you, let the boy be
your guest till better times, and train him among the
sons of the heroes that he may become like them,
strong and brave."
15 And Chiron answered: Go back in peace and
bend before the storm like a prudent man. This boy
shall not leave me till he has become a glory to you
and to your house."
And /Eson wept over his son and went away; but
20 the boy did not weep, so full was his fancy of that
strange cave, and the Centaur, and his song, and the
playfellows whom he was to see. Then Chiron .put
the lyre into his hands, and taught him how to play
it, till the sun sank low behind the cliff, and a shout
25 was heard outside. And then in came the sons of
the heroes,- Eneas, and Hercules, and Peleus, and
many another mighty name.
And great Chiron leaped up joyfully, and his
hoofs made the cave resound, as they shouted, Come
out, Father Chiron; come out and see our game."
And one cried, "I have killed two deer," and an-
And then in came the sons of the heroes.
other, I took a wild cat among the crags." And 5
Hercules dragged a wild goat after him by its
horns; and C-eneus carried a bear cub under each
arm, and laughed when they scratched and bit;
for neither tooth nor steel could wound him. And
Chiron praised them all, each according to his 10
Only one walked apart and silent, JEsculapius, the
too wise child, with his bosom full of herbs and
flowers, and round his wrist a spotted snake; he
came with downcast eyes to Chiron, and whis-
pered how he had watched the snake cast his old
5 skin, and grow young again before his eyes, and
how he had gone down into a village in the vale,
and cured a dying man with a herb which he had
seen a sick goat eat. And Chiron smiled and said :
"To each there has been given his own gift, and
10 each is worthy in his place. But to this child there
has been given an honor beyond all honors, to cure
while others kill."
Then some of the lads brought in wood, and split
it, and lighted a blazing fire; and others skinned
15 the deer and quartered them, and set them to roast
before the fire; and while the venison was cooking
they bathed in the snow torrent, and washed away
the dust and sweat. And then all ate till they could
eat no more for they had tasted nothing since the
20 dawn and drank of the clear spring water, for
wine is not fit for growing lads. And when the
remnants were put away, they all lay down upon
the skins and leaves about the fire, and each took
the lyre in turn, and sang and played with all his
And after a while they all went out to a plot of
grass at the cave's mouth, and there they boxed, and
SCH. IEAD. V.-2
ran, and wrestled, and laughed till the stones fell
from the cliffs.
Then Chiron took his lyre, and all the lads
joined hands; and as he played, they danced to
his measure, in and out, and round and round. 5
There they danced hand in hand, till the night fell
over land and sea, while the black glen shone with
their broad white limbs, and the gleam of their
And the lad danced with them, delighted, and 10
then slept a wholesome sleep, upon fragrant leaves
of bay, and myrtle, and marjoram, and flowers of
thyme; and rose at the dawn, and bathed in the
torrent, and became a schoolfellow to the heroes'
sons. And in course of time he forgot Iolcus, and 15
_Eson his father, and all his former life. But he
grew strong, and brave, and cunning, upon the
rocky heights of Pelion, in the keen, hungry, moun-
tain air. And he learned to wrestle, and to box,
and to hunt, and to play upon the harp; and, next, 20
he learned to ride, for old Chiron often allowed him
to mount upon his back; and he learned the virtues
of all herbs, and how to cure all wounds; and Chiron
called him Jason the healer, and that is his name
until this day. 25
From The Heroes; or Greek Fairy Tales," by Charles
THE DOG OF MONTARGIS.
In the old castle of Montargis in France, there
was once a stone mantelpiece of workmanship so
rare that it was talked about by the whole country.
And yet it was not altogether its beauty that caused
5 people to speak of it and remember it. It was
famous rather on account of the strange scene that
was carved upon it. To those who asked about its
meaning, the old custodian of the castle would some-
times tell the following story.
10 It happened more than five hundred yeats ago,
when this castle was new and strong, and people
lived and thought in very different sort from what
they do now. Among the young men of that time
there was none more noble than Aubrey de Mont-
15 didier, the nephew of the Count of Montargis; and
among all the knights who had favor at the royal
court, there was none more brave than the young
Sieur de Narsac, captain of the king's men at arms.
Now these two men were devoted friends, and
20 whenever their other duties allowed them, they were
sure to be in each other's company. Indeed, it was
a rare thing to see either of them walking the streets
of Paris alone.
"I will meet you at the tournament to-morrow,"
said Aubrey gayly, one evening, as he was parting
from his friend.
"Yes, at the tournament to-morrow," said De
Narsac; "and be sure that you come early."
The tournament was to be a grand affair. A 5
gentleman from Provence was to run a tilt with a
famous Burgundian knight. Both men were noted
for their horsemanship and their skill with the lance.
All Paris would be out to see them.
When the time came, De Narsac was at the place to
appointed. But Aubrey failed to appear. What
could it mean? It was not at all like Aubrey to
forget his promise; it was seldom that he allowed
anything to keep him away from the tournament.
"Have you seen my friend Aubrey to-day ?" De 15
Narsac asked this question a hundred times. Every-
body gave the same answer, and wondered what had
The day passed and another day came, and still
there was no news from Aubrey. De Narsac had 20
called at his friend's lodgings, but could learn noth-
ing. The young man had not been seen since the
morning before the tournament.
Three days passed, and still not a word. De
Narsac was greatly troubled. He knew now that 25
some accident must have happened to Aubrey. But
what could it have been ?
Early in the morning of the fourth day he was
aroused by a strange noise at his door. He dressed
himself in haste and opened it. A dog was crouch-
ing there. It was a greyhound, so poor, that its
5 ribs stuck out, so weak that it could hardly stand.
De Narsac knew the animal without looking at
the collar on its neck. It was Dragon, his friend
Aubrey's greyhound, the dog who went with him
whenever he walked out, the dog who was never
0o seen save in its master's company.
The poor creature tried to stand. His legs
trembled from weakness; he swayed from side to
side. He wagged his tail feebly, and tried to put
his nose in De Narsac's hand. De Narsac saw at
15 once that he was half starved; that he had not had
food for a long time.
He. led the dog into his room and fed him some
warm milk. He bathed the poor fellow's nose and
bloodshot eyes with cold water. "Tell me where is
20 your master," he said. Then he set before him a
full meal that would have tempted any dog.
The greyhound ate heartily, and seemed to be
much stronger. He licked De Narsac's hands. He
fondled his feet. Then he ran to the door and
25 tried to make signs to his friend to follow him. He
SDe Narsac understood. "You want to lead me to
your master, I see." He put on his hat and went
out with the dog.
Through the narrow lanes and crooked streets of
the old city, Dragon led the way. At each corner
he would stop and look back to make sure that De 5
Narsac was following. He went over the long
bridge--the only one that spanned the river in
those days. Then he trotted out through the gate
of St. Martin and into the open country beyond the
In a little while the dog left the main road and
took a bypath that led into the forest of Bondy. De
Narsac kept his hand on his sword now, for they
were on dangerous ground. The forest was a great
resort for robbers and lawless men, and more than is
one wild and wicked deed had been enacted there.
But Dragon did not go far into the woods. He
stopped suddenly near a dense thicket of briers
and tangled vines. He whined as though in great
distress. Then he took hold of the sleeve of De 20
Narsac's coat, and led him round to the other side
of the thicket.
There under a low-spreading oak the grass had
been trampled down; there were signs, too, of
freshly turned-up earth. With moans of distress25
the dog stretched himself upon the ground, and
with pleading eyes looked up into De Narsac's face.
"Ah, my poor fellow! said De Narsac, "you
have led me here to show me your master's grave."
And with that he turned and hurried back to the
city; but the dog would not stir from his place.
5 That afternoon a company of men, led by De
Narsac, rode out to the forest. They found in the
ground beneath the oak what they had expected -
the murdered body of young Aubrey de Montdidier.
Who could have done this foul deed?" they
to asked of one another; and then they wept, for they
all loved Aubrey.
They made a litter of green branches, and laid the
body upon it. Then, the dog following them, they
carried it back to the city and buried it in the king's
15 cemetery. And all Paris mourned the untimely end
of the brave young knight.
After this, the greyhound went to live with the
young Sieur de Narsac. He followed the knight
wherever he went. He slept in his room and ate
20 from his hand. He seemed to be as much devoted
to his new master as he had been to the old.
One morning they went out for a stroll through
the city. The streets were crowded; for it was a
holiday arid all the fine people of Paris were enjoying
the sunlight and the fresh air. Dragon, as usual,
kept close to the heels of his master.
De Narsac walked down one street and up another,
meeting many of his friends, and now and then
stopping to talk a little while. Suddenly, as they 5
The dog planted himself in front of his master,
were passing a corner, the dog leaped forward and
planted himself in front of his master. He growled
fiercely; he crouched as though ready for a spring;
his eyes were fixed upon some one in the crowd.
Then, before De Narsac could speak, he leaped 1o
forward upon a young man whom he had singled
out. The man threw up his arm to save his throat;
but the quickness of the attack and the weight of
the dog caused him to fall to the ground. There is
no telling what might have followed had not those
5 who were with him beaten the dog with their canes,
and driven him away.
De Narsac knew the man. His name was Richard
Macaire, and he belonged to the king's bodyguard.
Never before had the greyhound been known to
io show anger towards any person. "What do you
mean by such conduct?" asked his master as they
walked homeward. Dragon's only answer was a
low growl; but it was the best that he could give.
The affair had put a thought into De Narsac's mind
15 which he could not dismiss.
Within less than a week the thing happened again.
This time Macaire was walking in the public garden.
De Narsac and the dog were some distance away.
But as soon as Dragon saw the man, he rushed at
20 him. It was all that the bystanders could do to keep
him from throttling Macaire. De Narsac hurried up
and called him away; but the dog's anger was fear-
ful to see.
It was well known in Paris that Macaire and
25 young Aubrey had not been friends. It was remem-
bered that they had had more than one quarrel.
And now the people began to talk about the dog's
strange actions, and some went so far as to put this
and that together.
At last the matter reached the ears of the king.
He sent for De Narsac and had a long talk with
him. Come back to-morrow and bring the dog 5
with you," he said. We must find out more about
this strange affair."
The next day De Narsac, with Dragon at his heels,
was admitted into the king's audience room. The
king was seated in his great chair, and many knights to
and men at arms were standing around him. Hardly
had De Narsac stepped inside when the dog leaped
quickly forward. He had seen Macaire, and had
singled him out from among all the rest. He sprang
upon him. He would have torn him in pieces if no 15
one had interfered.
There was now only one way to explain the
"This greyhound," said De Narsac, "is here to
denounce the Chevalier Macaire as the slayer of his 20
master, young Aubrey de Montdidier. He demands
that justice be done, and that the murderer be pun-
ished for his crime."
The Chevalier Macaire was pale and trembling.
He stammered a denial of his guilt, and declared 25
that the dog was a dangerous beast, and ought to be
put out of the way. Shall a soldier in the service
of the king be accused by a dog ?" he cried. Shall
he be condemned on such testimony as this ? I, too,
"Let the judgment of God decide!" cried the
5 knights who were present.
And so the king declared that there should be a
trial by the judgment of God. For in those rude
times it was a very common thing to determine guilt
or innocence in this way that is, by a combat
to between the accuser and the accused. In such cases
it was believed that God would always aid the cause
of the innocent and bring about the defeat of the
The combat was to take place that very afternoon
is in the great common by the riverside. The king's
herald made a public announcement of it, naming the
dog as the accuser and the Chevalier Macaire as the
accused. A great crowd of people assembled to see
this strange trial by the judgment of God.
20 The king and his officers were there to make sure
that no injustice was done to either the man or the
dog. The man was allowed to defend himself with
a short stick; the dog was given a barrel into which
he might run if too closely pressed.
25 At a signal the combat began. Macaire stood
upon his guard while the dog darted swiftly around
him, dodging the blows that were aimed at him, and
trying to get at his enemy's throat. The man seemed
to have lost all his courage. His breath came short
and quick. He was trembling from head to foot.
Suddenly the dog leaped upon him and threw him
to the ground. In his great terror he cried to the 5
king for mercy, and acknowledged his guilt.
"It is the judgment of God cried the king.
The officers rushed in and dragged the dog away
before he could harm the guilty man; and Macaire
was hurried off .to the punishment which his crimes to
And this is the scene that was carved on the old
mantelpiece in the castle of Montargis this strange
trial by the judgment of God. Is it not fitting that
a dog so faithful, devoted, and brave should have his 15
memory thus preserved in stone ? He is remembered
also in story and song. In France ballads have been
written about him ; and his strange history has been
dramatized in both French and English.
THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.
How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep, tangled wildwood,
And every loved spot that my infancy knew.
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it;
The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well-
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.
That moss-covered bucket I hail as a treasure;
For often at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness it rose from the well -
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.
How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from thy loved situation,
The tear of regret will oftentimes swell,
As fancy returns to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well -
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well.
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp and black and long;
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whatever he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He'goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray ai~d preach;
He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise !
He needs must.think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees its close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.
Henry V. Longfellow.
So nigh is grandeur to our dust
So near is God to man,
When Duty whispers low, Thou must,"
The youth replies, "I can."
Ralph Waldo Emerson.
from the Painting by Sir Edwin Landseer.
The Village Blacksmith,
Ir r ~r r~. rrrlr
THE CHOICE OF HERCULES.
One morning when Hercules was a fair-faced lad
of twelve years, he was sent out to do an errand
which he disliked very much. As he walked slowly
along the road, his heart was full of bitter thoughts;
and he murmured because others no better than him- 5
self were living in ease and pleasure, while for him
there was little but labor and pain. Thinking upon
these things, he came after a while to a place where
two roads met; and he stopped, not quite certain
which one to take. 10
The road on his right was hilly and rough, and
there was no beauty in it or about it; but he saw
that it led straight toward the blue mountains in
the far distance. The road on his left was broad
and smooth, with shade trees on either side, where is
sang thousands of beautiful birds; and it went wind-
ing in and out, through groves and green meadows,
where bloomed countless flow ; but it ended in fog
and mist long before reaching the wonderful moun-
tains of blue. 20
While the lad stood in doubt as to which way he
should go, he saw two ladies coming toward him,
each by a different road. The one who came down
the flowery way reached him first, and Hercules saw
that she was beautiful as a summer day. Her cheeks 25
were red, her eyes sparkled, her voice was like the
music of morning.
0 noble youth," she said, "this is the road which
you should choose. It will lead you into pleasant
5 ways where there is neither toil, nor hard study, nor
drudgery of any kind. Your ears shall always be
delighted with sweet sounds, and your eyes with
things beautiful and gay; and you need do nothing
but play and enjoy the hours as they pass."
0o By this time the other fair woman had drawn
near, and she now spoke to the lad.
"If you take my road," said she, you will find
that it is rocky and rough, and that it climbs many
a hill and descends into many a valley and quag-
15 mire. The views which you will sometimes get
from the hilltops are grand and glorious, while the
deep valleys are dark and the uphill ways are toil-
some; but the road leads to the blue mountains of
endless fame, of which you can see faint glimpses,
20 far away. They can not be reached without labor;
for, in fact, there is nothing worth having that must
not be won through toil. If you would have fruits
and flowers, you must plant and care for them; if
you would gain the love of your fellow-men, you
25 must love them and suffer for them; if you would be
a man, you must make yourself strong by the doing
of manly deeds."
Then the boy saw that this lady, although her face
seemed at first very plain, was as beautiful as the
dawn, or as the flowery fields after a summer rain.
"What is your name ?" he asked.
If you would be a man, you must make yourself strong."
"Some call me Labor," she answered; "but others 5
know me as Truth."
"And what is your name?" he asked, turning to
the first lady.
"Some call me Pleasure," said she with a smile;
"but I choose to be known as the Joyous One." ic
"And what can you promise me at the end if I go
with you ?"
"I promise nothing at the end. What I give, I
give at the beginning."
"Labor," said Hercules, "I will follow your road.
I want to be strong and manly and worthy of the
5 love of my fellows. And whether I shall ever reach
the blue mountains or not, I want to have the reward
of knowing that my journey has not been without
some worthy aim."
CHRISTMAS AT THE CRATCHITS'.
Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, dressed out but poorly
o0 in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which
are cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence;
and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit,
second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons;
while Master Cratchit plunged a fork into the sauce-
15 pan of potatoes, and getting the corner of his mon-
strous shirt collar (Bob's private property, conferred
upon his son and heir in honor of the day) into his
mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired,
and yearned to show his linen in the fashionable
And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl,
came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's
they had smelt the goose, and known it for their
own; and basking in luxurious thoughts of sage and
onion, these young Cratchits danced about the table
and exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while
he (not proud, although his collar nearly choked
him) blew the fire, until the slow potatoes bubbling s
up knocked loudly at the saucepan lid to be let out
"What has ever got your precious father then ?"
said Mrs. Cratchit. "And your brother, Tiny Tim!
And Martha wasn't as late last Christmas Day, by 10
half an hour !"
"Here's Martha, mother! said a girl, appearing
as she spoke.
"Here's Martha, mother!" cried the two young
Cratchits. Hurrah! There's such a goose, 15
Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late
you are!'" said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen
times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet for her
with officious zeal. 20
"We'd a deal of work to finish up last night,"
replied the girl, "and had to clear away this morn-
ing, mother "
"Well! never mind so long as you are come,"
said Mrs. Cratchit. Sit ye down before the fire, 25
my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye !"
"No, no! There's father coming," cried the two
From the Painting by F. Barnard. ra t Tiy
Bob Oratobit and Tiny Tim,
Engraved by Robert Varley.
young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once.
"Hide, Martha, hide!"
So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the
father, with at least three feet of comforter exclusive
of the fringe hanging down before him; and his 5
threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, to look
seasonable; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas
for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his
limbs supported by an iron frame!
"Why, where's our Martha ? cried Bob Cratchit, o1
"Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchit.
"Not coming!" said Bob, with a sudden declen-
sion in his high spirits; for he had been Tim's blood
horse all the way from church, and had come home 15
rampant. "Not coming upon Christmas Day "
Martha did not like to see him disappointed, if it
were only in joke; so she came out prematurely
from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms,
while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, 20
and bore him off into the washhouse that he might
hear the pudding singing in the copper.
"And how did little Tim behave?" asked Mrs.
Cratchit, when she had rallied Bob on his credulity,
and Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart's 25
"As good as gold," said Bob, "and better. Some-
how he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much,
and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He
told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw
him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it
5 might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christ-
mas Day, who made lame beggars walk and blind
Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this,
and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was
10growing strong and hearty.
His active little crutch was heard upon the floor,
and back came Tiny Tim before another word was
spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to his
stool beside the fire; and while Bob, turning up
15 his cuffs, as if, poor fellow, they were capable of
being made more shabby, compounded some hot
mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it
round and round and put it on the hob to simmer;
Master Peter and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits
20 went to fetch the goose, with which they soon re-
turned in high procession.
Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought
a goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenome-
non, to which a black swan was a matter of course
25 and in truth it was something very like it in that
house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready before-
hand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter
mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor; Miss
Belinda sweetened up the apple sauce; Martha
dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside
him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young
Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting 5
themselves, and mounting guard upon their posts,
crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should
shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped.
At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said.
It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. io
Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving knife,
prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she
did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing
issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round
the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two is
young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle
of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah!
There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't
believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its
tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness, were the 20
themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple
sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner
for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said
With great delight (surveying one small atom of a
,' ,-h':in upon the dish), they hadn't ate it all at last! 25
SYet every one had had enough, and the youngest
Cratchits, in particular, were steeped in sage and
onion to the eyebrows! But now the plates being
changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room
alone too nervous to bear witnesses to take the
pudding up and bring it in.
5 Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose
it should break in turning out! Suppose somebody
should have got over the wall of the backyard and
stolen it, while they were merry with the goose a
supposition at which the two young Cratchits became
l0 livid. All sorts of horrors were supposed.
Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was
out of the copper. A smell like a washing day!
That was the cloth. A smell like an eating house
and a pastry cook's next door to each other, with a
l laundress's next door to that! That was the pud-
ding In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered -
flushed, but smiling proudly with the pudding like
a speckled cannon ball, so hard and firm, smoking
hot, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into
20 the top.
Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and
calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success
achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs.
Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind,
25 she would confess she had her doubts about the quan-
tity of flour. Everybody had something to say about
it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small
pudding for a large family. It would have been flat
heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed
to hint at such a thing.
At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was
cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. 5
The compound in the jug being tasted, and consid-
ered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the
table, and a shovel full of chestnuts on the fire.
Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth,
in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a to
one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family
display of glass, two tumblers and a custard cup
without a handle.
These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as
well as golden goblets would have done; and Bob 15
served it out with beaming looks, while the chest-
nuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then
Bob proposed: "A Merry Christmas to us all, my
dears. God bless us!"
Which all the family reechoed. 20
"God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the
last of all.
He sat very close to his father's side, upon his little
stool. Bob held his withered little hand in his, as
if he loved the child, and wished to keep him by his 25
side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him.
-From "A Christmas Carol" by Charles Dickens.
ON THE MOUNTAIN.
And seeing the multitudes, he went up into a moun-
tain: and when he was set, his disciples came unto
him; and he opened his mouth and taught them,
saying: Blessed are the poor in spirit; for theirs is
5 the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that
mourn; for they shall be comforted. Blessed are
the meek; for they shall inherit the earth.
Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after
righteousness; for they shall be filled. Blessed are
to the merciful; for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed
are the pure in heart; for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers; for they shall be
called the children of God. Blessed are they which
are persecuted for righteousness' sake; for theirs is
15 the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are ye when men shall revile you, and
persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil
against you falsely, for my sake. Rejoice and
be exceeding glad; for great is your reward in
Ye have heard that it hath been said by them of
old time, Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt
perform unto the Lord thine oaths: but I say unto
you, Swear not at all; neither by heaven; for it is
25 God's throne: nor by the earth; for it is his foot-
stool: neither by Jerusalem; for it is the city of the
Neither shalt thou swear by thy head, because thou
canst not make one hair white or black. But let
your communication be, Yea, yea; Nay, nay: for 5
whatsoever is more than these cometh of evil.
Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for
an eye, and a tooth for a tooth : but I say unto you,
That ye resist not evil; but whosoever shall smite
thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also. 10
And if any man will sue thee at law, and take
away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also. And
whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with
him twain. Give to him that asketh thee, and from
him that would borrow of thee turn not thou away. 15
Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt
love thy neighbor and hate thine enemy. But I say
unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse
you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for
them which despitefully use you, and persecute you; 20
that ye may be the children of your Father which is
in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil
and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on
For if ye love them that love you, what. reward 25
have ye ? Do not even the publicans the same ? And
if ye salute your brethren only, what do ye more
than others ? Do not even the publicans so ? Be ye,
therefore, perfect, even as your Father which is in
heaven is perfect .
Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye
5 shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you;
for every one that asketh, receiveth; and he that
seeketh, findeth; and to him that knocketh, it shall
be opened. Or what man is there of you, whom if
his son ask bread, will he give him a stone ? Or if
10 he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent ?
If ye then, being evil know how to give good gifts
unto your children, how much more shall your Father
which is in heaven give good things to them that
ask him? Therefore all things whatsoever ye would
15 that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.
Whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and
doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which
built his house upon a rock: and the rain descended,
and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat
20 upon that house; and it fell not; for it was founded
upon a rock. And every one that heareth these say-
ings of mine, and doeth them not, shall be likened
unto a foolish man, which built his house upon the
sand: and the rain descended, and the floods came,
25 and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and
it fell: and great was the fall of. it.
From the Gospel according to St. Matthew.
BETSEY HULL'S WEDDING.
In the early days of New England all the money
that was used was brought from Europe. Coins of
gold and silver from England were the most plenti-
ful; but now and then one might see a doubloon, or
some piece of smaller value, that had been made in 5
Spain or Portugal. As for paper money, or bank
bills, nobody had ever heard of them.
Money was so scarce that people were often obliged
to barter instead of buying and selling. That is, if
a lady wanted a yard of dress goods, she would per- to
haps exchange a basket of fruit or some vegetables
for it; if a farmer wanted a pair of shoes, he might
give the skin of an ox for it; if he needed nails, he
might buy them with potatoes. In many *places
there was not money enough of any kind to pay the 15
salaries of the ministers; and so, instead of gold or
silver, they were obliged to take fish and corn and
wood and anything else that the people could spare.
As the people became more numerous, and there
was more trade among them, the want of money 20
caused much inconvenience. At last, the General
Court of the colony passed a law providing for the
coinage of small pieces of silver shillings, six-
pences, and threepences. They also appointed Cap-
tain John Hull to be mint-master for the colony, and 25
gave him the exclusive right to make this money.
It was agreed that for every twenty shillings coined
by him, he was to keep one shilling to pay himn for
5 And now, all the old silver in the colony was
hunted up and carried to Captain Hull's mint. Bat-
tered silver cans and tankards, silver buckles, broken
spoons, old sword hilts, and many other such curious
old articles were doubtless thrown into the melting
io pot together. But by far the greater part of the
silver consisted of bullion from the mines of South
America, which the
had taken from the
15 Spaniards and brought
to Massachusetts. All
this old and new sil-
ver was melted down Pine-tree Shilling,
and coined; and the result was an immense amount
20 of bright shillings, sixpences, and threepences. Each
had the date, 1652, on one side, and the figure of a
pine tree on the other; hence, the shillings were
called pine-tree shillings.
When the members of the General Court saw what
25 an immense number of coins had been made, and re-
membered that one shilling in every twenty was to
go into the pockets of Captain John Hull, they began
SCH. READ. V. -4
to think that the mint-master was having the best of
the bargain. They offered him a large amount, if he
would but give up his claim to that twentieth shilling.
But the Captain declared that he was well satisfied
to let things stand as they were. And so he might 5
be, for in a few years his money bags and his strong
box were all overflowing with pine-tree shillings.
Now, the rich mint-master had a daughter whose
name I do not know, but whom I will call Betsey.
This daughter was a fine, hearty damsel, by no to
means so slender as many young ladies of our own
days. She had been fed on pumpkin pies, doughnuts,
Indian puddings, and other Puritan dainties, and so
had grown up to be as round and plump as any lass
in the colony. With this round, rosy Miss Betsey, a 15
worthy young man, Samuel Sewell by name, fell
in love; and as he was diligent in business, and a
member of the church, the mint-master did not
object to his. taking her as his wife. "Oh,' yes,
you may have her," he said in his rough way; "but 20
you will find her a heavy enough burden."
On the wedding day we may suppose that honest
John Hull dressed himself in a plum-colored coat,
all the buttons of which were made of pine-tree
shillings. The buttons of his waistcoat were six- 25
pences, and the knees of his small clothes were
buttoned with silver threepences. Thus attired, he
sat with dignity in the huge armchair which had
been brought from old England expressly for his
comfort. On the other side of the room sat Miss
Betsey. She was blushing with all her might, and
5 looked like a full-blown peony or a great red apple.
There, too, was the bridegroom, dressed in a fine
purple coat and gold-laced waistcoat. His hair was
cropped close to his head, because Governor Endicott
had forbidden any man to wear it below the ears.
10 But he was a very personable young man; and so
thought the bridesmaids and Miss Betsey herself.
When the marriage ceremony was over, Captain
Hull whispered a word to two of his men servants,
who immediately went out, and soon returned lug-
15 going in a large pair of scales. They were such a
pair as wholesale merchants use for weighing bulky
commodities; and quite a bulky commodity was now
to be weighed in them.
"Daughter Betsey," said the mint-master, "get
20 into one side of these scales." Miss Betsey or
Mrs. Sewell, as we must now call her--did as she
was bid, like a dutiful child, without any question
of why and wherefore. But what her father could
mean, unless to make her husband pay for her by
25the pound (in which case she would have been a
dear bargain), she had not the least idea.
"Now," said honest John Hull to the servants,
"bring that box hither." The box to which the
mint-master pointed was a huge, square, ironbound,
oaken chest; it was big enough, my children, for
three or four of you to play at hide and seek in.
The servants tugged with might and main, but 5
could not lift this enormous receptacle, and were
finally obliged to drag it across the floor. Captain
Hull then took a key from his girdle, unlocked the
chest, and lifted its ponderous lid.
Behold! it was full to the brim of bright pine- o
tree shillings fresh from the mint; and Samuel
Sewell began to think that his father-in-law had
got possession of all the money in the Massachusetts
treasury. But it was only the mint-master's honest
share of the coinage. 15
Then the servants, at Captain Hull's command,
heaped double handfuls of shillings into one side of
the scales, while Betsey remained in the other.
Jingle, jingle went the shillings, as handful after
handful was thrown in, till, plump and ponderous 20
as she was, they fairly weighed the young lady from
"There, son Sewell!" cried the honest mint-mas-
ter, "take these shillings for my daughter's portion.
It is not every wife that is worth her weight in 25
- Adapted from Grandfather's Chair" by Nathaniel Hawthorne.
From the Painting by Turner. .
A Paritan Wedding Procession.
iungraVed u. 1 uLIiugii.
ULYSSES AND THE CYCLOPS.
Among all the great poems that have ever been
written none'are grander or more famous than the
"Iliad" and the "Odyssey," of the old Greek poet
Homer. They were composed and re-
cited nearly three thousand years 5
ago, and yet nothing that has
been written in later times
has so charmed and delighted
mankind. In the "Iliad" the
poet tells how the Greeks lo
made war upon Troy, and
how they did brave deeds
around the walls of that famed
city, and faltered not till they
.. bhad won the stubborn fight. In the 15
er "Odyssey he tells how the Greek hero
Ulysses or Odysseus, when the war was ended, set
sail for his distant home in Ithaca; how he was
driven from his course by the wind and waves; and
how he was carried against his will through unknown 20
seas and to strange, mysterious shores where no man
had been before.
One of the most famous passages in the Odyssey"
is that in which Ulysses relates the story of his meet-
ing with the one-eyed giant, Polyphemus. He tells 25
it in this manner:
When we had come to the land, we saw a cave
not far from the sea. It was a lofty cave roofed
over with laurels, and in it large herds of sheep
and goats were used to rest. About it a high outer
a court was built with stones set deep in the ground,
and with tall pines and oaks crowned with green
leaves. In it was wont to sleep a man of monstrous
size who shepherded his flocks alone and had no. deal-
ings with others, but dwelt apart in lawlessness of
10 mind. Indeed, he was a monstrous thing, most
strangely shaped; and he was -unlike any man that
lives by bread, but more like the wooded top of some
towering hill that stands out apart and alone from
15 Then I bade the rest of my well-loved company
stay close by the ship and guard it; but I chose out
twelve of my bravest men, and sallied forth. We
bore with us a bag of corn and a great skin filled
with dark sweet wine; for in my lordly heart I had
20 a foreboding that we should meet a man, a strange,
strong man who had little reason and cared nothing
for the right.
Soon we came to the cave, but he was not within;
he was shepherding his fat flocks in -the pastures.
25 So we went into the cave and looked around. There
we saw many folds filled with lambs and kids. Each
kind was penned by itself; in one fold were the
spring lambs, in one were the summer lambs, and in
one were the younglings of the flock. On one side of
the cave were baskets well laden with cheeses; and
the milk pails and the bowls and the well-wrought
vessels into which he milked were filled with whey.
He came back driving his flocks.
Then my men begged me to take the cheeses and
return, and afterwards to make haste and drive off
the kids and lambs to the swift ship and sail with-
out delay over the salt waves. Far better would it
have been had I done as they wished; but I bade 10
them wait and see the giant himself, for perhaps he
would give me gifts as a stranger's due. Then we
kindled a fire and made a burnt-offering; and we ate
some of the cheeses, and sat waiting for him till he
came back driving his flocks. In his arms he carried
5 a huge load of dry wood to be used in cooking sup-
per. This he threw down with a great noise inside
the cave, and we in fear hid ourselves in the dark
corners behind the rocks.
As for the giant, he drove into the wide cavern all
j0 those of his flock that he was wont to milk; but the
males, both of the sheep and of the goats, he left
outside in the high-walled yard. Then he lifted a
huge door stone and set it in the mouth of the
cave; it was a stone so weighty that two-and-twenty
is good, four-wheeled wagons could scarce have borne
it off the ground. Then he sat down and milked
the ewes and the bleating goats, each in its turn,
and beneath each ewe he placed her young. After
that he curdled half of the white milk and stored it
20 in wicker baskets; and the other half he let stand
in pails that he might have it for his supper.
Now, when he had done all his work busily, he
kindled the fire, and as its light shone into all parts
of the cave, he saw us. "Strangers, who are you?"
25 he cried. "Whence sail you over the wet ways?
Are you on some trading voyage, or do you rove as
sea robbers over the briny deep ?"
Such were his words, and so monstrous was he
and so deep was his voice that our hearts were
broken within us for terror. But, for all that, I
stood up and answered him, saying:
Lo, we are Greeks, driven by all manner of winds 5
over the great gulf of the sea. We seek our homes,
but have lost our way and know not where we go.
Now we have landed on this shore, and we come to
thy knees, thinking perhaps that thou wilt give us a
stranger's gift, or make any present, as is the due of 1o
strangers. Think upon thy duty to the gods; for
we are thy suppliants. Have regard to Jupiter, the
god of the sojourner and the friend of the stranger."
This I said, and then the giant answered me out
of his pitiless heart: Thou art indeed a foolish 15
fellow and a stranger in this land, to think of bid-
ding me fear the gods. We Cyclops care nothing
for Jupiter, nor for any other of the gods; for we
are better men than they. The fear of them will
never cause me to spare either thee or thy company, 20
unless I choose to do so."
Then the giant sprang up and caught two of my
companions, and dashed them to the ground so hard
that they died before my eyes; and the earth was
wet with their blood. Then he cut them into pieces, 25
and made ready his evening meal. So he ate, as a
lion of the mountains; and we wept and raised our
hands to Jupiter, and knew not what to do. And
after the Cyclops had filled himself, he. lay down
among his sheep.
Then I considered in my great heart whether I
5 should not draw my sharp sword, and stab him in
the breast. But upon second thought, I held back.
For I knew that we would not be able to roll away
with our hands the heavy stone which the giant had
set against the door, and we would then have per-
10 ished in the cave. So, all night long, we crouched
trembling in the darkness, and waited the coming
of the day.
Now, when the rosy-fingered Dawn shone forth,
the Cyclops arose and kindled the fire. Then he
15 milked his goodly flock, and beneath each ewe he set
her lamb. When he had done all his work busily,
he seized two others of my men, and made ready his
morning meal. And after the meal, he moved away
the great door stone, and drove his fat flocks forth
20 from the cave; and when the last sheep had gone
out, he set the stone in its place again, as one might
set the lid of a quiver. Then, with a loud whoop,
he turned his flocks toward the hills; but I was left
shut up in the cave, and thinking what we should
25 do to avenge ourselves.
And at last this plan seemed to me the best. Not
far from the sheepfold there lay a great club of the
Cyclops, a club of olive wood, yet green, which he
had cut to carry with him when it should be fully
seasoned. Now.when we looked at this stick, it
seemed to us as large as the mast of a black ship
of twenty oars, a wide merchant vessel that sails the 5
vast sea. I stood by it, and cut off from it a piece
some six feet in length, and set it by my men, and
bade them trim it down and make it smooth; and
while they did this, I stood by and sharpened it to
a point. Then I took it and hardened it in the 1o
bright fire; and after that, I laid it away and hid it.
And I bade my men cast lots to determine which of
them should help me, when the time came, to lift
the sharp and heavy stick and turn it about in the
Cyclops' eye. And the lots fell upon those whom I 15
would have chosen, and I appointed myself to be the
fifth among them.
In the evening the Cyclops came home, bringing
his well-fleeced flocks; and soon he drove the beasts,
each and all, into the cave, and left not one outside 20
in the high-walled yard. Then he lifted the huge
door stone, and set it in the mouth of the cave; and
after that he milked the ewes and the bleating goats,
all in order, and beneath each ewe he placed her
Now when he had done all his work busily, he
seized two others of my men, and made ready his
supper. Then I stood before the Cyclops and spoke
to him, holding in my hands a bowl of dark wine:
5 Cyclops, take this wine and drink it after thy feast,
that thou mayest know what kind of wine it was
that our good ship carried. For, indeed, I was
bringing it to thee as a drink offering, if haply thou
wouldst pity us and send us on our way home; but
to thy mad rage seems to have no bounds."
So I spoke, and he took the cup and drank the
wine; and so great was his delight that he asked me
for yet a second draught.
"Kindly give me more, and tell me thy name,
15 so that I may give thee a stranger's gift and make
Thus he spoke, and again I handed him the dark
wine. Three times- did I hand it to him, and three
times did he drink it to the dregs. But when the
20 wine began to confuse his wits, then I spoke to him
with soft words:
"O Cyclops, thou didst ask for my renowned
name, and now I will tell it to thee; but do thou
grant me a stranger's gift, as thou hast promised.
25 My name is No-man; my father and my mother
and all my companions call me No-man."
Thus I spoke, and he answered me out of his
pitiless heart: I will eat thee, No-man, after I
have eaten all thy fellows: that shall be thy gift."
Then he sank down upon the ground with his
face upturned; and there he lay with his great
neck bent round; and sleep, that conquers all men, 5
overcame him. Then I thrust that stake under
the burning coals until the sharpened end of it
grew hot; and I spoke words of comfort to my 'men
lest they should hang back with fear. But when
the bar of olive wood began to glow and was about to
to catch fire, even then I came nigh and drew it
from the coals, and my men stood around me, and
some god filled our hearts with courage.
The men seized the bar of olive wood and thrust
it into the Cyclops' eye, while I from my place is
aloft turned it around. As when a man bores a
ship's beam with a drill while his fellows below
spin it with a strap, which they'hold at either end,
and the auger runs round continually: even so did
we seize the fiery-pointed brand and whirl it round 20
in his eye. And the flames singed his eyelids and
brows all about, as the ball of the eye was burned
away. And the Cyclops raised a great and terrible
cry that made the rocks around us ring, and we
fled away in fear, while he plucked the brand from 25
his bleeding eye.
Then, maddened with pain, he cast the bar from
him, and called with a loud voice to the Cyclopes,
his neighbors, who dwelt near him in the caves
along the cliffs. And they heard his cry, and
flocked together from every side, and standing out-
5 side, at the door of the cave, asked him what was
"What troubles thee, Polyphemus, that thou
criest thus in the night, and wilt not let us sleep ? "
The strong Cyclops whom they thus called Poly-
1o phemus, answered them from the cave: My friends,
No-man is killing me by guile, and not by force!"
And they spoke winged words to him: "If no
man is mistreating thee in thy lonely cave, then
it must be some sickness, sent by Jupiter, that is
15 giving thee pain. Pray to thy father, great Nep-
tune, and perhaps he will cure thee."
And when they had said this they went away;
and my heart within me laughed to see how my
name and cunning counsel had deceived them. But
20othe Cyclops, groaning with pain, groped with his
hands, and lifted the stone from the door of the
cave. Then he sat in the doorway, with arms out-
stretched, to lay hold of any one that might try
to go out with the sheep; for he thought that I
25 Would be thus foolish. But I began to think of
all kinds of plans by which we might escape; and
this was the plan which seemed to me the best:
The rams of the flock were thick-fleeced, beauti-
ful, and large; and their wool was dark as the
violet. These I quietly lashed together with the
strong withes which the Cyclops had laid in heaps
to sleep upon. I tied them together in threes: the 5
middle one of the three was to carry a man; but
the sheep on either side went only as a shield to
keep him from discovery. Thus, every three sheep
carried their man. As for me, I laid hold of a
young ram, the best and strongest of all the flock; lo
and I clung beneath him, face upward, grasping the
As soon as the early Dawn shone forth, the rams
of the flock hastened out to the pasture, but the
ewes bleated about the pens and waited to be s1
milked. As the rams passed through the doorway,
their master, sore stricken with pain, felt along
their backs, and guessed not in his folly that my
men were bound beneath their wooly breasts. Last
of all, came the young ram cumbered with his heavy 20
fleece, and the weight of me and my cunning. The
strong Cyclops laid his hands on him and spoke to
"Dear ram," he said, "pray tell me why you
are the last of all to go forth from the cave. You 25
are not wont to lag behind. Hitherto you have
always been the first to pluck the tender blossoms
of the pasture, and you have been the first to go
back to the fold at evening. But now you are the
very last. Can it be that you are sorrowing for
your master's eye which a wicked man blinded when
5 he had overcome me with win ?
"Ah, if you could feel as I--if you could speak
and tell me where he is hiding to shun my wrath
then I would smite him, and my heart would be
lightened of the sorrows that he has brought upon
Then he sent the ram from him; and when we
had gone a little way from the cave I loosed myself
from under the ram, and then set my fellows free.
Swiftly we drove the flock before us, and often
15 turned to look about, till at
last we came to the ship.
Our companions greeted '
us with glad hearts,- us '
who hdli fled from death; -.
20 and they, were about to be- --
moan the others with tears
when I forbade. I told hip in the Time of Homer.
when I forbade. I told
them to make haste and take on board the well-fleeced
sheep, and then sail away from that unfriendly shore.
25 So they did as they were bidden, and when all was
ready, they sat upon the benches, each man in his
place, and smote the gray sea water with their oars.
SCII. READ. V. -5
But when we had not gone so far but that a man's
shout could be heard, I called to the Cyclops and
Cyclops, you will not eat us by main might in
your hollow cave Your evil deeds, 0 cruel monster, 5
were sure to find you out; for you shamelessly ate the
guests that were within your gates, and now Jupiter
and the other gods have requited you as you deserved."
Thus I spoke, and so great became his anger that
he broke off the peak of a great hill and threw it at o1
us, and it fell in front of the dark-prowed ship. And
the sea rose in waves from the fall of the rock, and
drove the ship quickly back to the shore. Then I
caught up a long pole in my hands, and thrust the
ship from off the land; and with a motion of the ls
head, I bade them dash in with their oars, so that
we might escape from our evil plight. So they bent
to their oars and rowed on.
Such is the story which Ulysses told of his adven-
ture with the giant Cyclops. Many and strange 20
were the other adventures through which he passed
before he reached his distant home; and all are re-
lated in that wonderful poem, the Odyssey." This
poem has been often translated into the English lan-
guage. Some of the translations are in the form of 25
poetry, and of these the best are the versions by
George Chapman, by Alexander Pope, and by our
American poet William Cullen Bryant. The best
prose translation is that by Butcher and Lang and
this I have followed quite closely in the story which
you have just read.
I come from haunts of coot and hern:
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down the valley;
By thirty hills I hurry down.
Or slip between the ridge-.
By twenty thorps, a; little town.
And half a hundred bridges.
Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river; .
For men may come and men
But I go on, forever. fred Tennyson.
I chatter over stony ways
In little sharps and trebles;
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles;
With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow;
I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come, and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling,
And here and there a foamy flake,
Upon me as I travel,
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come, and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers;
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows;
I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars,
I loiter round my cresses;
And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come, and men may go,
But I go on forever.
THE LADY OF SHALOTT.
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky:
And through the fields the road runs by
To many-towered Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs forever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot;
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow-veiled,
Slide the heavy barges, trailed
By slow horses; and unhailed
The shallop flitteth silken-sailed,
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand ?
Or at the casement seen her stand ?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to towered Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colors gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
And moving through a mirror clear,
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,.
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad
Or long-haired page in crimson clad,
Goes by to towered Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue,
The knights come riding two and two: -
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirrored magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights,
And music, went to Camelot;
Or, when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half-sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.
A bowshot from her bower eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling through the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight forever kneeled
To a lady in his shield
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glittered free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazoned baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung,
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewelled shone the saddle leather,
The helmet and the helmet feather
Burned like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often through the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed;
On burnished hooves his war horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flowed
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror;
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She looked down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror cracked from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.
In the stormy east wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over towered Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote,
The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river's dim expanse -
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance -
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right -
The leaves upon her falling light-
Through the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott. .
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turned to towered Camelot;
For ere she reached upon the tide
The first house by the waterside,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
A corse between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this ? and what is here ?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."
This poem, by Alfred Tennyson, was written in 1832. Considered
as a picture, or as a series of pictures, its beauty is unsurpassed. The
story which is here so briefly told is founded upon a touching legend
connected with the romance of King Arthur and his Knights of the
Round Table. Tennyson afterwards (in 1859) expanded it into the
Idyll called Elaine," wherein he followed more closely the original
narrative as related by Sir Thomas Malory.
Sir Lancelot was the strongest and bravest of the Knights of the
Round Table, and for love of him Elaine, "the fair maid of Astolat,"
pined away and died. But before her death she called her brother,
and having dictated a letter which he was to write, she spoke thus:
"'While my body is whole, let this letter be put into my right
hand, and my hand bound fast with the letter until I be cold, and let
me be put in a fair bed with all my richest clothes that I have about
me, and so let my bed and all my rich clothes be laid with me in a
chariot to the next place whereas the Thames is, and there let me be
put in a barge, and but one man with me, such as ye trust to steer
me thither, and that my barge be covered with black samite over and
over.' So when she was dead, the corpse and the bed and all
was led the next way unto the Thames, and there all were put in a
barge on the Thames, and so the man steered the barge to West-
minster, and there he rowed a great while to and fro, or any man
espied." 1 At length the King and his Knights, coming down to the
water side, and seeing the boat and the fair maid of Astolat, they
uplifted the hapless body of Elaine, and bore it to the hall.
1 Malory's "King Arthur," Book XVIII.
rrom te Painting by T. E. Hosenthal.
[See note, p. 77.]
Engraoed by Henry Wolf
LESSONS FROM NATURE'S BOOK.
Let us suppose that it is summer time, that you
are in the country, and that you have fixed upon a
certain day for a holiday ramble. Some of you are
going to gather wild flowers, some to collect pebbles,
5 and some without any very definite aim beyond the
love of the holiday and of any sport or adventure
which it may bring with it.
Soon after sunrise on the eventful day you are
awake, and great is your delight to find the sky
to clear, and the sun shining warmly. It is arranged,
however, that you do not start until after breakfast
time, and meanwhile you busy yourselves in getting
ready all the baskets and sticks and other gear of
which you are to make use during the day. But the
15 brightness of the morning begins to get dimmed.
The few clouds which were to be seen at first have
grown large, and seem evidently gathering together
for a storm. And sure enough, ere breakfast is well
over, the first ominous big drops are seen falling.
20 You cling to the hope that it is only a shower
which will soon be over, and you go on with the
preparations for the journey notwithstanding. But
the rain shows no symptom of soon ceasing. The
big drops come ._down thicker and faster. Little
25 pools of water begin to form in the hollows of the
road, and the window panes are now streaming with
rain. With sad hearts you have to give up all hope
of holding your excursion to-day.
It is no doubt very tantalizing to be disappointed
in this way when the promised pleasure was on the 5
very point of becoming yours. But let us see if we
can not derive some compensation even from the bad
weather. Late in the afternoon the sky clears a
little, and the rain ceases. You are glad to get out-
side again, and so we all sally forth for a walk. 0o
Streams of muddy water are still coursing along the
sloping roadway. If you will let me be your guide,
I would advise that we should take our walk by the
neighboring river. We wend our way by wet paths
and green lanes, where every hedgerow is still drip-15
ping with moisture, until we gain the bridge, and
see the river right beneath us. What a change this
one day's heavy rain has made! Yesterday you
could almost count the stones in the channel, so
small and clear was the current. But look at it 20
The water fills the channel from bank to bank,
and rolls along swiftly. We can watch it for a little
from the bridge. As it rushes past, innumerable
leaves and twigs are seen floating on its surface. 25
Now and then a larger branch, or even a whole tree
trunk, comes down, tossing and rolling about on the
flood. Sheaves of straw or hay, planks of wood,
pieces of wooden fence, sometimes a poor duck,
unable to struggle against the current, roll past us
and show how the river has risen above its banks
5 and done damage to the farms higher up its course.
We linger for a while on the bridge, watching this
unceasing tumultuous rush of water and the constant
variety of objects which it carries down the channel.
You think it was perhaps almost worth while to lose
o0 your holiday for the sake of seeing so grand a sight
as this angry and swollen river, roaring and rushing
with its full burden of dark water. Now, while the
scene is still fresh before you, ask yourselves a few
simple questions about it, and you will find perhaps
1i additional reasons for not regretting the failure of
the promised excursion.
In the first place, where does all this added mass
of water in the river come from? You say it was
the rain that brought it. Well, but how should it
20 find its way into this broad channel ? Why does not
the rain run off the ground without making any river
at all ?
But, in the second place, where does the rain come
from ? In the early morning the sky was bright,
25 then clouds appeared, and then came the rain, and
you answer that it was the clouds which supplied the
rain. But the clouds must have derived the water
SCII. READ. V. -6
from some source. How is it that clouds gather
rain, and let it descend upon the earth?
In the third place, what is it which causes the
river to rush on in one direction more than another ?
When the water was low, and you could, perhaps, 5
almost step across the channel on the stones and
gravel, the current, small though it might be, was
still quite perceptible. You saw that the water was
moving along the channel always from the same
quarter. And now when the channel is filled with to
this rolling torrent of dark water, you see that the
direction of the current is still the same. Can you
tell why this should be ?
Again, yesterday the water was clear, to-day it is
dark and discolored. Take a little of this dirty- i
looking water home with you, and let it stand all
night in a glass. To-morrow morning you will find
that it is clear, and that a fine layer of mud has sunk
to the bottom. It is mud, therefore, which discolors
the swollen river. But where did this mud come 20
from ? Plainly, it must have something to do with
the heavy rain and the flooded state of the stream.
Well, this river, whether in shallow or in flood, is
always moving onward in one direction, and the mud
which it bears along is carried toward the same point 25
to which the river itself is hastening. While we sit
on the bridge watching the foaming water as it
eddies and whirls past us, the question comes home
to us--what becomes of all this vast quantity of
water and mud?
Remember, now, that our river is only one of many
5 hundreds which flow across this country, and that
there are thousands more in other countries where
the same thing may be seen which we have been
watching to-day. They are all flooded when heavy
rains come; they all flow downwards; and all of
10 them carry more or less mud along with them.
As we walk homewards again, it will be well to
put together some of the chief features of this day's
experience. We have seen that sometimes the sky
is clear and blue, with the sun shining brightly and
is warmly in it; that sometimes clouds come across
the sky, and that, when they gather thickly, rain is
apt to fall. We have seen that a river flows, that
it is swollen by heavy rain, and that when swollen it
is apt to be muddy. In this way we have learned
20 that there is a close connection between the sky
above us and the earth under our feet. In the
morning, it seemed but a little thing that clouds
should be seen gathering overhead; and yet, ere even-
ing fell, these clouds led by degrees to the flooding
25 of the river, the sweeping down of trees and fences
and farm produce; and it might even be to the
destruction of bridges, the inundation of fields and
villages and towns, and a large destruction of'human
life and property.
But perhaps you live in a large town and have no
opportunity of seeing such country sights as I have
been describing, and in that case you may naturally 5
enough imagine that these things cannot have much
interest for you. You may learn a great deal, how-
ever, about rain and streams even in the streets of a
town. Catch a little of the rain in a plate, and you
will find it to be so much clear water. But look at it to
as it courses along the gutters. You see how muddy
it is. It has swept away the loose dust worn by
wheels and feet from the stones of the street, and
carried it into the gutters. Each gutter thus be-
comes like the flooded river. You can watch, too, 15
how chips of straw, corks, bits of wood, and other
loose objects lying in the street are borne away, very
much as the trunks of trees are carried by the river.
Even in a town, therefore, you can see how changes -
in the sky lead to changes on the earth. 20
If you think for a little, you will recall many
other illustrations of the way in which the common
things of everyday life are connected together. As
far back as you can remember, you have been famil-
iar with such things as sunshine, clouds, wind, rain, 25
rivers, frost, and snow, and they have grown so com-
monplace that you never think of considering about
them. You cannot imagine them, perhaps, as in any
way different from what they are; they seem, in-
deed, so natural and so necessary that you may even
be surprised when any one asks you to give a reason
5 for them.
But if you had lived all your lives in a country
where no rain ever fell, and if you were to be
brought to such a country as this, and were to see
such a storm of rain as you have been watching
10 to-day, would it not be very strange to you, and
would you not naturally enough begin to ask the
meaning of it? Or suppose that a boy from some
very warm part of the world were to visit this
country in winter, and see for the first time snow
1i falling, and the rivers solidly frozen over, would you
be surprised if he showed great astonishment ? If
he asked you to tell him what snow is, and why the
ground is so hard, and the air so cold, why the
streams no longer flow, but have become crusted
20 with ice--could you answer his questions?
And yet these questions relate to very common,
everyday things. If you think about them, you will
learn, perhaps, that the answers are not quite so
easily found as you had imagined. Do not suppose
25 that because a thing is common, it can have no in-
terest for you. There is really nothing so common
as not to deserve your attention.
I would fain have you not to be content with what
is said in books, whether small or great, but rather
to get into the habit of using your own eyes and
seeing for yourselves what takes place in this won-
derful world of ours. All round you there is abun- 5
dant material for this most delightful inquiry. No
excursion you ever made in pursuit of mere enjoy-
ment and adventure by river, heath, or hill, could
give you more hearty pleasure than a ramble, with
eyes and ears alike open to note the lessons to be 10
learned from every day and from every landscape.
Remember that besides the printed books which you
use at home, or at school, there is the great book of
Nature, wherein each of us, young and old, may read,
and go on reading all through life without exhaust- 15
ing even a small part of what it has to teach us.
It is this book about Air, Earth, and Sea-
that I would have you look into. Do not be con-
tent with merely noticing that such and such events
take place. For instance, to return to our walk to 20
the flooded river : do not let a fact such as a storm
or a flood pass without trying to find out something
about it. Get into the habit of asking Nature ques-
tions. Never i'est until you get at the reasons for
what you notice going on around you. 25
Sir Archibald Geikie.
THE GOODMAN OF BALLENGIECH.
Perhaps few books of Scottish history have been
more generally read than the "Tales of a Grand-
father," written seventy years ago by Sir Walter
Scott for the amusement of his little grandson.
5 These "Tales" are supposed to be taken from the
old Scotch chronicles, and they relate, with many
touches of romance, the stirring and most graphic
incidents in the early history of Scotland. They
embrace the stories of William Wallace, the patriot
to chief, and of brave King Robert Bruce, and of many
another hero of Scotch history. The following ac-
count of King James V., who was the father of
Mary, Queen of Scots, is taken from these "Tales."
James the Fifth had a custom of going about the
15 country disguised as a private person, in order to
hear complaints that might not otherwise reach his
ears, and perhaps also to enjoy amusement which he
could not have partaken of in his character as King
20 When James traveled in disguise he used a name
which was known only to some of his nobles and
attendants. He was called the Goodman (the ten-
ant, that is) of Ballengiech.' Ballengiech is a steep
1 Pronounced ball'en geek.
pass which leads down behind the castle of Stirling.
Once upon a time, when the court was feasting in
Stirling, the king sent for some venison from the
neighboring hills. The deer were killed and put
on horses' backs to be transported to Stirling. 5
Unluckily they had to pass the castle gates of
Arnpryor, belonging to a chief of the Buchanans,
who chanced to have a considerable number of guests
with him. It was late, and the company was rather
short of victuals, though they had more than enough io
of liquor. The chief, seeing so much fat venison
passing his very door, seized on it; and to the
expostulations of the keepers, who told him it
belonged to King James, he answered insolently
that if James was king in Scotland, he, Buchanan, 15
was king in Kippen, that being the name of the
district in which the castle of Arnpryor lay.
On hearing what had happened, the king got on
horseback and rode instantly from Stirling to
Buchanan's house, where he found a strong, fierce-20
looking Highlander, with an ax on his shoulder,
standing sentinel at the door. This grim warder
refused the king admittance, saying that the laird
was at dinner and would not be disturbed. "Yet
go up to the company, my good friend," said the 25
king, and tell him that the Goodman of Ballengiech
is come to feast with the King of Kippen."
The porter went grumbling into the house and
told his master that there was a fellow with a
red beard at the gate, who called himself the Good-
man of Ballengiech, and said he was come to dine
5 with the King of Kippen. As soon as Buchanan
heard these words, he knew that the king was come
in person, and hastened down to kneel at James's
feet and ask forgiveness for his insolent behavior.
But the king, who only meant to give him a fright,
to forgave him freely, and going into the castle, feasted
on his own venison which the chief had taken from
his men. Buchanan of Arnpryor was ever after-
wards called the King of Kippen.
Upon another occasion, King James, being alone
15 and in disguise, fell into a quarrel with some gypsies,
or other vagrants, and was assaulted by four or five
of them. This chanced to be very near the bridge of
Cramond; so the king got on the bridge, which, as it
was high and narrow, enabled him to defend himself
20 with his sword against the number of persons by
whom he was attacked.
There was a poor farmer threshing corn in a
barn near by, who came out on hearing the noise of
the scuffle, and, seeing one man defending himself
25 against numbers, gallantly took the king's part with
his flail, to such good purpose that the gypsies were
obliged to fly. The farmer then took the king
into the barn, brought him a towel and water to
wash the blood from his face and hands, and finally
walked with him a little way toward Edinburgh,
in case he should be again attacked.
On the way, the king asked his companion what 5
and who he was. The man answered that his name
was John Howieson, and that he was a bondsman
on the farm of Braehead, near Cramond, which be-
longed to the King of Scotland. James then asked
him if there was any wish in the world which he o1
would particularly wish to have gratified; and hon-
est John confessed he should think himself the
happiest man in Scotland were he but proprietor of
the farm on which he wrought as a laborer.
He then asked the king in turn who he was, 15
and James replied, as usual, that he was the Good-
man of Ballengiech, a poor man who had a small
appointment about the palace; but he added that, if
John Howieson would come to see him on the next
Sunday, he would endeavor to repay his manful 20
assistance, and, at least, give him the pleasure of
seeing the royal apartments.
John put on his best clothes, as you may suppose,
and, appearing at a postern gate of the palace, in-
quired for the Goodman of Ballengiech. The king 25
had given orders that he should be admitted; and
John found his friend, the goodman, in the same
disguise which he had formerly worn. The king,
conducted John Howieson from one apartment of
the palace to another, and was amused with his
wonder and his remarks.
5 At length James asked his visitor if he would
like to see the king; to which John replied that
nothing would delight him so much, if he could
do so without giving offense. The Goodman of
Ballengiech, of course, undertook that the king
10 would not be angry. "But," said John, "how am
I to know his grace from the nobles who will be
all about him?" "Easily," replied his compan-
ion; "all the others will be uncovered--the king
alone will wear his hat or bonnet."
15 So speaking, King'James introduced the country-
man into a great hall, which was filled with the
nobility and officers of the crown. John was a lit-
tle frightened, and drew close to his attendant, but
was still unable to distinguish the king. "I told
20 you that you should know him by his wearing his
hat," said the conductor. "Then," said John, after
he had again looked around the room, "it must be
either you or me, for all but us two are bareheaded."
The king laughed at John's fancy; and, that the
25 good yeoman might have occasion for mirth also,
he made him a present of the farm of Braehead,
which he had wished so much to possess.
The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
Oh hark oh hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, further going!
Oh sweet and far, from cliff and scar,
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
Oh love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
SOME EXPERIENCES AT SEA.
I. THE FIRST DAYS OUT.
In 1834, Richard Henry Dana, Jr., then a young
man of nineteen, made a voyage to California, which
was at that time almost an unknown region. He
went as a common sailor "before the mast"; and
5 on his return he wrote a narrative of his experience,
depicting in its true colors the real life of the sailor
at sea. This narrative was published in a volume
entitled Two Years before the Mast," and is still
regarded as one of the most interesting
lo stories of its kind. The following i. .-
Mr. Dana's account of some of his --- i
first experiences at sea:-
With all my imperfections on l
my head," I joined the crew. We "' J -
la hauled out into the stream, and
came to anchor for the night.
The next morning was Saturday;
and, a breeze having sprung up
from the southward, we took a A Full-rigged Ship.
20 pilot on board, hove up our anchor, and began beat-
ing down the bay.
I took leave of those of my friends who came to
see me off, and had barely opportunity to take a last
look at the city and well-known objects, as no time
is allowed on board ship for sentiment. As we drew
down into the lower harbor, we found the wind
ahead in the bay, and were obliged to come to
anchor in the roads. We remained there through
the day and a part of the night. 5
About midnight the wind became fair; and hav-
ing called the captain, I was ordered to call all
hands. How I accomplished this I do not know;
but I am quite sure that I did not give the true,
hoarse, boatswain call of A-a-l1 ha-a-a-nds! up 1o
anchor, a-ho-oy! In a short time every one was
in motion, the sails loosed, the yards braced, and we
began to heave up the anchor, which was our last
hold upon Yankee-land.
I could take but little part in these preparations. 15
My little knowledge of a vessel was all at fault.
Unintelligible orders were so rapidly given, and so
immediately executed, there was such a hurrying
about, such an intermingling of strange cries and
stranger actions, that I was completely bewildered. 20
There is not so helpless and pitiable an object in the
world as a landsman beginning a sailor's life.
The first day we passed at sea was the Sabbath.
As we were just from port, and there was a great
deal to be done on -board, we were kept at work all 25
day. At night the watches were set, and everything
put into sea order. I had now a fine time for reflec-
tion. I felt for the first time the perfect silence of
the sea. The officer was walking the quarter-deck,
where I had no right to go. One or two men were
talking on the forecastle, whom I had little inclina-
5 tion to join; so that I was left open to the full
impression of everything about me.
However much I was affected by the beauty of the
sea, the bright stars, and the clouds driven swiftly
over them, I could not but remember that I was
o1 separating myself from all the social and intellectual
enjoyments of life. Yet, strange as it may seem,
I did then and afterwards take pleasure in these
reflections, hoping by them to prevent my becoming
insensible to the value of what I was leaving.
15 But all my dreams were soon put to flight by an
order from the officer to trim the yards, as the wind
was getting ahead. I could plainly see, by the looks
the sailors occasionally cast to windward, and by the
dark clouds that were fast coming up, that we
20 had bad weather to prepare for, and had heard the
captain say that he expected to be in the Gulf
Stream by twelve o'clock. In a few minutes eight
bells" was struck, the watch called, and we went
25 I now began to feel the first discomforts of a
sailor's life. The steerage in which I lived was
filled with coils of rigging, spare sails, old junk, and
ship stores, which had not been stowed away. More-
over, there had been no berths built for us to sleep
in, and we were not allowed to drive nails to hang
our clothes upon.
The sea, too, had risen, the vessel was rolling 5
heavily, and everything was pitched about in grand
confusion. I shortly heard the raindrops falling on
deck, thick and fast. The watch had evidently their
hands full of work, for I could hear the loud and
repeated orders of the mate, the trampling of feet, 1o
the creaking of blocks, and all the indications of a
When I got upon deck, a new scene and a new
experience were before me. The little brig was close-
hauled upon the wind, and lying over, as it then 15
seemed to me, nearly upon her beam ends. The
heavy head sea was beating against her bows with
the noise and force almost of a sledge hammer,
and flying over the deck, drenching us completely
through. The topsail halyards had been let go, and 20
the great sails were filling out and backing against
the masts with a noise like thunder. The wind was
whistling through the rigging, loose ropes flying
about; loud, and to me unintelligible, orders were
constantly given, and rapidly executed; and the 25
sailors were "singing out" at the ropes in their
hoarse and peculiar strains.
In addition to all this, I had not got my sea legs
on," was dreadfully sick, with hardly strength enough
to hold on to anything; and it was pitch dark. This
was my state when I was ordered aloft, for the first
s time, to reef topsails.
How I got along I cannot now remember. I "laid
out on the yards, and held on with all my strength.
I could not have been of much service, for I remem-
ber having been sick several times before I left the
o0 topsail yard. Soon, however, all was snug aloft,
and we were again allowed to go below.
This I did not consider much of a favor, for the
confusion of every thing below, made the steerage but
an indifferent refuge from the cold, wet decks. I
15 had often read of the nautical experiences of others,
but I felt as though there could be none worse than
mine; for, in addition to every other evil, I could
not but remember that this was only the first night
of a two-years voyage.
II. VIEW OF AN ICEBERG.
20 At twelve o'clock we went below, and had just got
through dinner, when the cook put his head down
the scuttle, and told us to come on deck, and see the
finest sight we had ever seen.
"Where away, cook?" asked the first man who
25 came up.
SCH. READ. V.- 7
"On the larboard bow."
And there lay, floating in the ocean, several miles
off, an immense irregular mass, its tops and points
covered with snow, and its center of a deep indigo
color. It was an iceberg, and of the largest size. 5
As far as the eye could reach, the sea in every
direction was of a deep blue color, the waves running
high and fresh, and sparkling in the light; and in
the midst lay this immense mountain island, its
cavities and valleys thrown into deep shade, and io
its points and pinnacles glittering in the sun.
No description can give an idea of the strangeness
and splendor of the sight. Its great size -for it
must have been two or three miles in circumference,
and several hundred feet in height; its slow motion 15
as its base rose and sank in the water, and its high
points nodded against the clouds; the dashing waves
upon it, which, breaking high with foam, lined its
base with a white crust; and the thundering sound
of the crackling mass, and the breaking and tum-20
bling down of huge pieces; together with its near-
ness and approach, which added a slight element of
fear--all combined to give it the character of true
The main body of the mass was, as I have said, of 25
an indigo color, its base crusted with frozen foam;
and as it grew thin and transparent toward the