Citation
The Avon English reader

Material Information

Title:
The Avon English reader
Series Title:
Avon series
Creator:
Isaac Pitman & Sons ( Publisher )
Place of Publication:
London ;
Bath ;
New York
Publisher:
Isaac Pitman & Sons
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Physical Description:
182, [1] p. : ill. ; 19 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile literature ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile literature ( lcsh )
Children's stories ( lcsh )
Children's poetry ( lcsh )
Children's plays ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1892 ( lcsh )
Children's poetry -- 1892 ( lcsh )
Publishers' advertisements -- 1892 ( rbgenr )
Bldn -- 1892
Genre:
Children's stories
Children's poetry
Publishers' advertisements ( rbgenr )
Spatial Coverage:
England -- London
England -- Bath
United States -- New York -- New York
Target Audience:
juvenile ( marctarget )

Notes

General Note:
Publisher's advertisements precede and follow text.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
University of Florida
Rights Management:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
026576594 ( ALEPH )
ALG1803 ( NOTIS )
192022197 ( OCLC )

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SIR ISAAC PITMAN & SONS’, Loo..
Bdaducational Series.



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





Oct., '97.



THE AVON

ENGLISH READER.

BOOK FOUR.

** Books, we know,
Are a substantial world, both pure and good;
Round them, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness will grow.”— Wordsworth.

LONDON :
ISAAC PITMAN & SONS, 1 AMEN CORNER, E.C.;
BATH AND NEW YORK. ‘



2

1092.



PRINTING OFFICE
OF THE

PUBLISHERS,



PREFACE.

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

amuse.

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

about a hotly-contested social question.

After much thought and discussion with many practical teachers,
at was decided not to print lists of spellings, as the pupils at this

stage are old enough to compile them for themselves.

Lonpon, September, 1892.



13.
14.
15.
16.

17.

18.
19.

20.
21.
22.
23.
24.

25.
26.

27.

CONTENTS.

(Titles of Poetical Pieces are Printed in Italics ).



Page
The Story of George
Andrews 5
Ditto 8
The First Temptation 10
Marys Mother 13
Try Again ... 16
Nature’s Night Sounds 19
Ditto 22
Ditto 24
Honeyball and Violetta 27
Ditto 30
Town and Country Seer33
The Dwarf and the Giant 35
The Knight, the Hermit,
and the Man—
The Knight 37
The Hermit 40
The Man 43
Sowing and iain 45 }
The Locomotives and the
Tea-kettle 48
The Lost Camel 50
The Crows and the Wind-
mill os 52
Aspirations of Youth 56
The River . : 57
The Crocaaile and ‘the fens
neumon ... 59
Nests of Birds 61
Ditto 64
Ditto 67
Ditto ww. 69
Ode to the Cuckoo ... acemeyL
The Skylark 73 j
A Noble Revenge 74

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54.
55:
56.

57:

59.
60.

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Page

How Big was Alexander? 76

The Two Robbers... 80

Joseph Jacquard 83

Ditto 86

Ditto 89

Ditto OL

A Lesson worth Enshrining 93

Food and Drink 95

Why we Drink 98

What we Drink . 102
Ditto . 105 |

Ditto . 108

Ditto . 110

Ditto we. II3

The Good Time Coming ... 117

Lost in a Balloon ... . 120

Ditto w. 123

April Flowers .. 127

The Water-Rat . 130

A Dialogue sha 132

Caught by the Tide . 137

Ditto «. 140

The Courageous Boy . 143

Faithful Fido . 145

Whe DiscontentedPenduluia 149

Now and Then—By-and-by 153

To-day and To-morrow ... 155

Lessons of Industry ws 156

The Ant and the Cricket... 158

A Good Investment . 162

Ditto - 163

Ditto w» 164

The Labourer -. 167

Ditto . 170



THE °

AVON ENGLISH READERS.

BOOK FOUR.

THE STORY OF GEORGE ANDREWS.

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





6 ENGLISH READER. BOOK Iv.

to calla moment to see them. He thought there
would be no great harm if he merely stopped a
minute or two and his parents would never know it.
George stopped, and was led to remain longer
and longer, till he found he had passed two hours
in play. Then, he set his face towards home.

The fields looked as green and the skies
as bright and cloudless as when he walked
along in the morning ; but oh, how different were
his feelings! Then, he was innocent and happy ;
now, he felt guilty and wretched. He tried to feel
easy, but he could not. He walked sadly along,
thinking what excuse he should make to his
parents for his long absence, and, by-and-by, he
saw his father, at a distance, coming to meet
him.

His father, fearing that some accident had .
happened, left home in search of his son. George
trembled and turned pale as he saw his father, and
wondered whether he had better confess the truth
at once and ask forgiveness, or try to hide his
fault with a lie. Oh, how much better it would
have been for him if he had told the truth! But
one sin almost always leads to another. When
this kind father met his son with a smile, George
said, ‘‘ Father, I lost my way, and it took me
some time to find it again, and that is the
reason why I have been gone so long.”



THE STORY OF GEORGE ANDREWS. 7

His father had never known him to be guilty
of falsehood and he did not doubt that what he
said was true. But oh, how guilty and ashamed
and wretched did George feel as he walked along !
His peace of mind was gone. A heavy weight of
guilt pressed upon his heart. He went home and
repeated the lie to his mother. It is always thus,
when we turn from the path of duty, we know
not how widely we shall wander. Having com-
mitted one fault, he told a lie to conceal it, and
then added sin to sin by repeating the falsehood.

What a change had one short day brought
about in George’s happiness. His parents had not
yet found him out, but he was not, on that account,
free from punishment. His conscience was
at work, telling him that he was guilty. His
innocent look and his lightness of heart had left
him. He was ashamed to look his father or
mother in the face. He tried to appear easy and
happy, but he was uneasy and miserable. A
heavy load of guilt rested upon him which des-
troyed all his peace.

2.

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



8 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

awoke in the morning, the knowledge of his guilt
would not forsake him. There it remained fixed
deep in his heart, and would allow him no peace.
He was guilty, and, of course, wretched.

The first thought which crossed his mind on
waking was the lie he told his father and mother.
He could not forget it. He was afraid to go into
the room where his parents were, lest they should
discover by his looks that he had been doing
something wrong. And though, as weeks passed
away, this feeling, in some degree, wore off, he was,
all the time, unhappy. He was in constant fear
that something would occur which should lead to
his being found out. ,

Thus, things went on for several weeks, till, one
day, the gentleman at whose house he stopped
called at his father’s on business. As soon as
George saw him come into the house, his heart’
beat quickly, and he turned pale with the fear
that something would be said that would bring
the whole truth to light. The gentleman, after
talking a few moments with his father, turned
to George and said, ‘‘ Well, how did you get
home the other day? My boys had a very
pleasant visit from you.”

Can you imagine how George felt then? You
could almost have heard his heart beat. The
blood rushed into his face; he could not



THE STORY OF GEORGE ANDREWS. 9

speak ; and he dared not raise his eyes from the
floor. There! the whole truth was out; and
how do you suppose he felt? He had disobeyed
his parents, told a lie to conceal it, had, for
weeks, suffered the pangs of a guilty conscience,
and, now, the whole truth was revealed. He
stood before his parents overwhelmed with
shame.

George was all the time suffering for his sin.
Day after day, he endured the inward pangs of
conscience, while the knowledge of his sin was
shut up in his own bosom. How bitterly did
he suffer for the few moments of forbidden pleasure
he had enjoyed. The way of the evil-doer is
always hard. Every child who does wrong must,
to a greater or less degree, feel the same sorrows.
This guilty boy, overwhelmed with shame, burst
into tears, and begged for his parent’s forgiveness.
He made a clean breast of all to his parents, and
they forgave him; and it was not till then that
peace of mind returned. .

If you have done wrong, confess it at: once.
Falsehood will but increase your sin and your
sorrow. Whenever you are tempted to say that
which is untrue, think how much sorrow, and
shame, and sin you will bring upon yourself.
Think of the pangs of conscience, for you may
depend upon it that they are not easily borne.



Io ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.
3.
THE FIRST TEMPTATION.

(X= Saturday evening, when Susan went, as
usual, to Farmer Thompson’s to receive an

account for her mother, which amounted to five

pounds, she found the farmer in the stable-yard.

He seemed to be in a terrible rage with some
horse-dealers, with whom he had been talking.
He held in his hand an open pocket-book full
of notes; he scarcely noticed the child as she
made her request, except to speak sharply to her,
as usual, for troubling him when he was busy, and
handed her a bank-note.

Glad to escape so easily, Susan hurried out of
the gate, and then, pausing to pin the money
safely in the folds of her shawl, she found out that
he had given her two notes instead of one. She
looked round; nobody was near to share her
secret ; and her first impulse was joy at the prize.

‘It is mine—all mine,” said she to herself; ‘I
will buy mother a new cloak and a new dress with
it, and, then, she can give her old one to sister
Mary. I wonder if it will buy a pair of shoes for
brother Tom too.”

At that moment she remembered that he must
have given it to her by mistake, and, therefore, she
had no right to it. But again, she thought, ‘“‘ He



THE FIRST TEMPTATION. II

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























































































































































































































































































































































































































































































SUSAN CROSSING THE BROOK.

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



12 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

Whilst this conflict was going on in her mind
between good and evil, she was hurrying home as
fast as possible. Yet, before she came in sight of
her home, she had, over and over again, compared
the comforts which the money would buy against
the sin of wronging her neighbour. As she
crossed the narrow bridge over the little brook,
before her mother’s door, her eye fell upon a rustic
seat on which she and her mother had often sat,
and where, only the day before, her mother had
talked to her of the golden rule :—

** Do to others as you would they should do to you.”

Startled, as if a trumpet had sounded in her
ears, she turned suddenly round, and, as if flying
from some unseen peril, hastened along the road
with breathless speed, until she found herself once
more at Farmer Thompson’s gate.

‘* What do you want now?” asked the gruff old
fellow, as he saw her again at his side.

“Sir, you gave me two notes instead of one,”
said she, trembling in every limb. ‘‘ Two notes,
did I; let me see; well, so I did; but did you
just find it out? Why did you not bring it back
sooner?” Susan blushed and hung her head.

‘“You wanted to keep it, I suppose,” said he.
‘Well, Iam glad your mother was more honest
than you, or I should have been five pounds
poorer, and none the wiser.”



MARY’S MOTHER. 13

‘‘ My mother knows nothing about it, sir,” said
Susan; ‘‘I brought it back before I went home.”

The old man looked at the child, and, as he
saw the tears rolling down her cheeks, he seemed
touched by her distress. Putting his hand in his
pocket he drew out a shilling and offered it to her.

‘“No, sir, I thank you,” sobbed she; ‘‘I do
not want to be paid for doing right ; I only wish
you would not think me dishonest, for, indeed, it
was a great trial. O! sir, if you had ever seen
those you love best wanting many of the comforts
of life, you would know how hard it is for us
always to do unto others as we would have others
do unto us.”’

The heart of the selfish man was touched ; and
as he bade the little girl good night, he entered
his house a sadder, and, it is to be hoped, a
better man. Susan ran home with a light heart,
and, through the course of a long and useful life,
she never forgot her first temptation.

4.
MARY’S MOTHER.

Five little girls there are who sing
In simplest village grace,

Glad Christmas carols ; and they bring
A pride upon the place.



14

ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

On Christmas eve they take their round,
And every household greet ;

And kindness stirs at that old sound ;
And friendly looks they meet.

Fach mother gazes on her own,
And while the stream runs on,

Sweet expectation often smiles
And present cares are gone.

And when the children go away,
Then turn and with a sigh,

Tis not of grief but one would say—
For mere sobriety.

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

When Mary was alive.

And straight toward her cot they take
Their usual pathway still ;

They pass beside the tranquil lake,
And then ascend the hill.

And Mary’s mother raised her head,
This little band to see ;

She loved them every one, but said,
‘‘ Let them not sing to me.”



MARY’S MOTHER.

And quick despatched a messenger,
Who bade them not to come,

Then she uprose and shut the door
Of that small quiet home.



And round the vale, with merry cheer,
They sing where’er they’re known,

Whilst Mary’s mother shed a tear,
For she was all alone.

15



16 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

5.
TRY AGAIN.

e \ ILL you give my kite a lift ?” said my little

nephew to his brother, after trying in vain
to make it fly by dragging it along the ground.
Alfred very kindly took it up and threw it into the
air, but, as his brother did not run off at the same
moment, the kite fell down again.

‘©Ah, now, how awkward you are,” said the
little fellow. ‘It was your fault entirely,”
answered his brother. ‘‘ Try again, children,”
said I.

Alfred once more took up the kite; but, now,
John was in too great a hurry; he ran off so
suddenly that he twitched it out of Alfred’s hand, |
and the kite fell flat as before. ‘‘ Well, who is |

to blame now?” asked Alfred. ‘‘ Try again,” ©

said I.

They did, and with more care, but a side-wind |
coming suddenly, as Alfred let go the kite, it was _
blown against some shrubs, and the tail got
entangled in a moment, leaving the poor kite with
its head hanging downward.

.‘* There! there!” exclaimed John, ‘‘that comes
of your throwing it all to one side.” ‘‘ As if I
could make the wind blow straight,” said Alfred.
In the meantime, I went to the help of the kite, a
and, having set free the long tail, I rolled it





TRY AGAIN. 17

up, saying, ‘‘ Come, children, there are too many
trees here; let us find a more open space, and
then Try Again.”

We soon found a nice grass-plot, at one
side of which I took my stand; and all



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

—4



18 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

stopped short to look up and admire it. The
string slackened ; the kite tottered ; and the wind
dropped ; down came the kite to the grass. “Oh
John, you should not have stopped,” said I.
“¢ However, Try Again.”

‘‘] won’t try any more,” replied he, rather

sullenly. ‘It is of no use, you see. The kite
won’t fly, and J don’t want to be plagued with it
any longer.” ‘‘ Oh fie, my little man! would you

give up the sport, after all the pains we have
taken both to make and to fly the.kite. A few
failures ought not to discourage us. Come, I
have wound up your string, and, now, Try Again.”
And he did try, and succeeded, for the kite was
carried up on the breeze, as lightly as a feather ;
and, when the string was all out, John stood in
great delight ; holding fast the stick ; and gazing
on the kite, which now looked like a little white
speck in the blue sky. ‘‘ Look; look, uncle, how
high it flies! and it pulls like a team of horses, so
that I can hardly hold it. I wish I hada mile of
string ; I am sure it would go to the end of it.”
After enjoying the sight as long as he pleased,
little John began to roll up the string slowly ;
and, when the kite fell, he took it up with great
glee, saying that it was not at all hurt, and that it
had behaved very well. ‘‘Shall we come out to-
morrow, uncle, after lessons, and Try Again.”’



NATURE'S NIGHT SOUNDS. 19

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

6.
NATURE’S NIGHT SOUNDS.

WELL remember what, as a country lad, im-

pressed me most upon my first visit to London.
It was the memory of the fact that I had, during
the small hours of the morning, stood alone in the
Strand. I had walked into the City from a house
in the suburbs, and, as I paced rapidly along the
pavement my footsteps echoed, and I listened to
them until, startled, I came to a dead stop. The
great artery of life was still; the pulse of the city
had ceased to beat. Not a moving object was
visible. Although I had been bred among the
lonely hills, I felt, for the first time, that this was to
be alone. Then, for the first time, I knew and
felt the dull force and realism of Wordsworth’s
lines,

‘* The very houses seemed to sleep ;

And all that mighty heart zs lying still!”

2*—4



20 ENGLISH READER. BOOK Iv.

I could detect no definite sound, only that vague
and distant hum which for ever haunts and hangs
over a great city.

Such a time of quiet as this can never be
observed in the country. It matters not as to
time and season; there seems no general period of
repose. There is always something abroad, some
creature of the fields or woods, which by its voice
or movements is betrayed. And, just as in an old
and rambling house, there are always strange
noises that cannot be accounted for, so, in the by-
paths of nature, there are sounds which can never
be traced to any one spot. To those, however,
who pursue their labours by night in the country—
gamekeepers, poachers, &c.,—there are always
calls and cries which tell of life. These are traced to
various animals and birds ; to beetles and night-
flying insects ; and even to fish. Let us track some
of these sounds to their source.

Weare by the covert side, and a strange churring
sound comes from the glades. Waiting silently
beneath the bushes, it comes nearer and nearer,
until a loud flapping is heard among the nut-bush
tops. The object approaches quite closely, and
we can see that the noise is produced by a large
bird striking its wings together as they meet behind.
Even in the dark we can detect that each wing is
crossed by a white bar. Had we the bird in our



NATURE'S NIGHT SOUNDS. 21

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



WOOD PIGEONS.

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



22 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

7.

Coming from out the woods the short sharp
bark of a fox is heard, and this is answered
again and again by the vixen. Rabbits rush
across our path, or rustle through the dead
leaves, their white tail-tips gleaming in the
darkness. The many-tongued sedge-bird, which
tells her tale to all the reeds by day, pro-
longs it under the night. Singing ceaselessly
from the bushes, she chatters or imitates the song's
of other birds, until my old angler friends call her
the fisherman’s nightingale. When by the covert
side, one of the calls which one constantly hears is
the crowing of the cock pheasants; this is heard in
the densest darkness, as is sometimes the soft
cooing of the wood pigeons. Both pheasants and
cushats sleep on the low spreading branches of the
tall trees, and, from beneath these, the poacher
often shoots them. He comes when there is a
moon, and with a short-barrelled gun and a half-
charge of powder drops the birds dead from below.

One of the greatest night-helps to the game-
keeper in staying the prowling poacher is the lap-
wing. This bird is one of the lightest sleepers of
the fields, starting up from the fallows and scream-
ing upon the slightest alarm. Poachers dread this
bird, and the keeper closely follows its cry. A



Lz



‘SGNNOS LHOIN S,AYOLVN

SEDGE WARBLERS AND NEST.



24 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

hare rushing wildly past will put the plover away
from its roost, and when hares act thus there is
generally some good cause for it.

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

8.

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



NATURE'S NIGHT SOUNDS. 25

mourn. Neither are they grave monks, nor pillared
saints. A boding bird or a dolorous! Nonsense;
they are none of these. They issue forth as very
demons, and sail about, seeking whom they may
devour. The barn owl is the ‘screech’ owl of
bird literature, the brown owl, the true hooting
owl. This species is found in the old and heavily
timbered districts, and it loves the dark and sombre
gloom of resinous pine woods.

One of the most piteous sounds that is
borne on the night is the hare’s scream when it
finds itself in the poacher’s nets. It resembles
nothing so nearly as the cry of a child, and, when
it suddenly ceases, we know that the wire snare has
tightened round its throat.

All night long, crake answers crake from the
meadows, appearing, now at our feet, now far out
yonder. Like tk~ cuckoo, the cornrail is a bird
oftener heard than seen; it is of hiding habits,
and finds a secure and snug retreat in the lush
summer grass.

Beneath the oaks, bats circle after night-fly-
ing insects, and there by the stream-side are clouds
of gauzy May flies. The wild whistle of a curlew
comes from high over-head, and the bird is flying
through the night to some far off feeding-ground.

Just now, in the fall of the year, myriads of
migratory birds pass over; and we ‘‘ hear the beat



26 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

of their pinions fleet,” but their forms we cannot
see. But if only we may ‘hear the cry of their
voices high, falling dreamily through the sky,” the
speciés is easily known. If we approach the
reed-beds silently, we may hear the hoarse croak
of the frogs, or, maybe, wild ducks, as they beat the
air with their strong wings.

Emerging from the waterside to a belt of
coppice, we are reminded how lightly the
creatures of the woods and fields sleep. The
faintest rustle brings chirping from the bushes,
and in the densest darkness even, some of
the delicate wood birds sing. Not only the
sedge and grasshopper warbles; but, from the
willows, come the lute-like mellowness and wild
sweetness of the blackcap, another night singer.
Besides these, many other sounds there are, known
only to dwellers in the country or those who have
brushed the beads from the long grass during the
short summer nights. There are some white
flowers which only emit their fragrance at night,
and these have their own particular night- fae
insect visitors.



HONEYBALL AND VIOLETTA. 27

9.
HONEYBALL AND VIOLETTA.

Hoe was a good-natured, easy kind of

creature, who belonged to the city of the
Honey-bees. She was very ready to do a kind-
ness if it cost her but little trouble ; but she was
as lazy as any drone in the hive.

Honeyball would have liked to live all day in
the bell of a foxglove, with nothing to disturb her
in her idle feast. It was said, in the hive, that
more than once she had been known to sip so
much, that at last she had been unable to rise, and
for hours had laid helpless on the ground.

One bright sunny morning, when the bees were
early abroad, Honeyball shook her lazy wings, and
crept to the door of the hive: there she stood for a
few moments, jostled by the passing throng, when
she, finally, flew off in quest of food.

How delightful was the air! how fragrant the
breeze: The buttercups spread their carpet of
gold, and the daisies their mantle of silver over
the meadows, all glittering with the drops of
bright dew.

Honeyball soon found a flower to her taste, and
never thought of quitting it till she had sipped
away all its honeyed store. She had a dim idea
that it was her duty to help to fill the honey-cells of



28 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

the hive ; but poor Honeyball was too apt to pre-
fer pleasure to duty.

‘‘T should like to have nothing to do,” she
murmured, little thinking that a listener was near.

‘‘ Like to have nothing to do. Is it from a
hive-bee that I hear such words ? From one whose
labour is itself all play.” .

Honeyball turned to view the speaker, and be-
held, on a sign-post near her, the most beautiful
bee she had ever seen. She knew her, at once, to
be a carpenter-bee.. Her body was larger than
that of a hive-bee, and her wings were of a lovely
violet colour, like the softest tint of the rainbow.

Honeyball was a little ashamed of what she had
said, and a little confused. by the speech of the
stranger ; but as all bees consider each other as
cousins, she thought it best to put on an easy air.

‘‘Why, certainly,” said she, .‘‘ flying about
upon a morning like this, and sipping honey from
flowers, is pleasant enough for atime. But, may
I ask, lady-bee, if you do not think it hard to
work in wax?”

‘To work in wax,” scornfully replied Violetta
—‘*A soft thing which you can bend and twist
any way, and knead into any shape that you choose.
Come and look at my home here, and then ask
yourself if you have any reason to complain of
your work,”



HONEYBALL: AND VIOLETTA. 29





































































































































CARPENTER BEES.

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



30 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

she see anywhere. ‘‘ May I venture to ask where:
you live,” said she at last.

‘This way,’’ cried Violetta, waving her feelers,
and pointing to a little round hole in the post
which Honeyball had not noticed before. . It
looked gloomy, and dark, and strange; but
Violetta, who took some pride in her mansion,
requested Honeyball to step in.

“You cannot doubt my honour,’’ said she,
seeing that the hive-worker hesitated, ‘‘ or suspect
a cousin.’’ Honeyball assured her that she had
never dreamed of such a thing, and entered the
hole in the post. |

Io.

For about an inch, the way sloped gently down-
wards; then, suddenly, became as straight as a well,
and so dark, and so deep, that Honeyball would
never have tried to reach the bottom, had she not
feared to offend her new friend.

She had some hopes that this deep passage
might be only a long entrance, leading to some
cheerful hive; but, after having gone to the very
end, and finding nothing but wood to reward her
search, she crept again up the steep, narrow way,
and, with joy, found herself once more in the sun-
shine.



HONEYBALL AND VIOLETTA. 31

‘*What do you think of it?” asked Violetta,
rather proudly.

“¢1—J—do not think that your hive would hold
many bees. Is it quite finished, may I inquire?”

‘““No; I have yet to divide it into chambers for
my children, each chamber filled with a mixture of
pollen and honey, and divided from the next by a
ceiling of glue and sawdust. But the boring was
finished to-day.”

‘*'You do not mean to say,” exclaimed Honey-
ball in surprise, ‘‘that that long gallery was ever
bored by bees ?”

‘* Not by bees,” replied Violetta, with a bow,
‘“but by oe bee; I bored it all myself.”

‘*The lazy Honeyball could not conceal her
surprise. ‘‘ Is it possible that you sawed it all out
with your teeth ?”

‘“ Every inch of the depth,” Violetta replied.

‘And that you can gather honey and pollen
enough to fill it?”

‘*T must provide for my children, or they would
starve,’ replied ole ‘‘ Away down there, I
lay my little eggs.’

‘¢ And you can make ceilings of such a Wing as
sawdust to divide the home of your children into
cells ?”

‘* This is perhaps the hardest part of my task ;
but, yet, it must be done.”



32 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

‘‘Where will you find sawdust for this car-
penter’s work ?”’ asked Honeyball.

‘¢ See yonder little heap which I have gathered :
these are my cuttings from my tunnel in the
wood. ”

‘¢You are, without doubt, a most wonderful bee,
my fair cousin! And you really labour all alone ?”

‘Yes, all alone,” replied Violetta.

Honeyball thought of her own cheerful hive,
with its thousands of workers; its division of
labour ; and its waxen cells, dripping with golden
honey. She could scarcely believe her own five
eyes when she saw what one insect, but little larger
than herself, could do.

Her surprise and her praise pleased the violet
bee, who took pride in showing every part of her
work.

‘‘One thing strikes me,” said Honeyball,
glancing down the tunnel. ‘‘I should not like to
have the place of the eldest of your children, down
there in the lowest cell, and unable to stir till all
her sisters have eaten their way into daylight.”

Violetta gave what in Bee-land is looked upon as
asmile. ‘‘] have thought of that, and of a remedy
too,” said she. ‘‘I am about to bore a little hole
at the end of my tunnel, to give the young bee a
way of escape from its prison.”

‘¢ And, now,” added Violetta, ‘‘ I will detain you



TOWN AND COUNTRY. 3:3

no longer ; so much remains to be done, and time
is so precious. You have something to collect for
your hive: I am too much your friend to wish you
to be idle.”

Honeyball thanked her new friend, and flew
away, somewhat the wiser for her visit, and
content with her lot in life; for she felt that not
for ten pairs of purple wings would she change
places with the carpenter-bee.

II.
TOWN AND COUNTRY.

Coe of the country ! free as air
Art thou, and as the sunshine fair ;
Born like the lily, where the dew
Lies odorous when the day is new ;
Fed ’mid the May-flowers like the bee,
Nursed to sweet music on the knee
Lull’d in the breast to that sweet tune
Which winds make ’mong the woods of June;
I sing of thee ;—’tis sweet to sing
Of such a fair and gladsome thing.

Child of the town! for thee I sigh,
A gilded roof’s thy golden sky,
A carpet is thy daisied sod,

A narrow street thy boundless wood ;
34



34

ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV,

Thy rushing deer’s the clattering tramp

Of watchmen ; thy best light’s a lamp,—
Through smoke, and not through trellised vines,
And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines :

I sing of thee in sadness; where

Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair!

Child of the country ! on the lawn

I see thee like the bounding fawn,
Blithe as the bird which tries its wing
The first time on the wings of Spring ;
Now running, shouting, ’mid sunbeams,
Now groping trouts in lucid streams,
Now spinning like a mill-wheel round,
Now hunting Echo’s empty sound,

Now climbing up some old tall tree—
For climbing’s sake,—’tis sweet to thee
To sit where birds can sit alone,

Or share with thee thy venturous throne.

Child of the town and bustling street,
What woes and snares await thy feet !

Thy paths are paved for five long miles,
Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles ;
Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke,

Which shrouds thee like a mourning cloak ;
And thou art cabin’d and confin’d,

At once from sun, and dew, and wind,

Or set thy tottering feet but on

Thy lengthen’d walks of slippery stone.



THE DWARF AND THE GIANT. 35

Fly from the town, sweet child! for health
Is happiness, and strength and wealth.
There is a lesson in each flower,

A story in each stream and bower ;

On every herb o’er which you tread

Are written words which, rightly read,
Will lead you, from earth's fragrant sod,
To hope, and holiness, and God.

I2.

THE DWARF AND THE GIANT.
[Adapted from Oliver Goldsmith)

DWAREF and a Giant, who were good friends,
made a bargain that they would never forsake
each other, but go to seek adventures. The first
battle they fought was with two Turks; and the
Dwarf, who was full of courage, dealt one of them
a most angry blow.

He did but very little injury to the Turk, who,
lifting up his sword, fairly struck off the poor
Dwarfs arm. The latter was now in a woful
plight; but the giant, coming to his help, in a
short time, left the two Turks dead on the plain;
and the Dwarf cut off the man’s head out of spite,

They then moved on to another adventure.
"3-4



36 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

This was against three cruel Satyrs, who were
carrying away a damsel in distress. The Dwarf
was not quite so fierce now as before ; but, for all
that, he struck the first blow, which was returned
by another that knocked out his eye: but the
Giant was soon up with them, and, had they not
fled, would have killed them everyone.

The two friends were very joyful for this victory ;
and the damsel who was saved fell in love with the
Giant, and married him. They now travelled far,
and farther than I can tell, till they met with a
company of robbers. The Giant, for the first
time, was foremost, but the Dwarf was not far
behind. The battle was stout and long. Wherever
the Giant came, all fell before him ; but the Dwarf
came near being killed more than once. At last,
the victory was won; but the Dwarf lost a
leg.

The Dwarf had now lost an arm, a leg, and an
‘eye, whilst the Giant was without a single wound.
Upon which the latter cried out to his little friend,
‘My little hero, this is fine sport! Let us gain
one victory more, and then we shall have honour for
ever.” ‘* No,” cried the Dwarf, who hac by this
time grown wiser, ‘‘no; I'll fight no more;
for I find in every battle that you get all the
honour and rewards, but all the blows fall upon

”

me.



THE KNIGHT, THE HERMIT, AND THE MAN.

Ge
~

THE KNIGHT, THE HERMIT, AND THE MAN,
7 83.
THE KNIGHT.

Ge GUY DE MONTFORT was as brave a

knight as ever laid lance in rest or swung his
gleaming battle-axe. He had many noble qualities;
but they were hidden, alas! by the strange thirst
for human blood that marked the age in which he
lived.

Ten knights, as brave as Sir Guy, and having as
many noble qualities, had fallen beneath his great
strength and skill in arms; and, for this, the
bright eyes of beauty looked with favour upon him :
fair lips smiled when he rode forth, and minstrels
sang of his prowess. :

At a great feast, given in honour of the
marriage of the King’s daughter, Sir Guy sent
forth his offer to single and deadly combat,
but, for two days, no one accepted it, although it
was three times made public by the herald. On
the third day, a young and strange knight rode,
with visor down, into the lists. | His slender form
showed him to be no match for Guy dé Montfort—
and so it proved. They met, and Sir Guy’s lance,
at the first tilt, pierced the breastplate of the brave
young knight and entered his heart.

As he rolled upon the ground, his helmet flew



38 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

off, and a shower of sunny curls fell over his fair
young face and neck.

Soon the strange news went thrilling from heart
to heart, that the youthful knight who had kissed
the dust beneath the sharp steel of De Montfort
was a maiden, and none other than the beautiful,
high-spirited Agnes Bertrand, whose father Sir
Guy had killed, but a few months before, in
combat. By order of the King, the lists were
closed, and knights and ladies gay went back
to their homes, thoughtful, sad, and sorrowful.

Alone in his castle, with the grim faces of his
forefathers looking down upon him from the wall,
Sir Guy paced to and fro with hurried steps. The
Angel of Mercy was nearer to him than she had
been for years, and her whispers he heard. Glory
and fame were forgotten by the knight, for self
was forgotten.

The question—a strange question for him—
‘‘What good?” arose in his mind. He had
killed Bertrand—but why? To add another leaf
to his laurels as a brave knight. But was this
leaf worth its cost—the broken heart of the fairest
and loveliest maiden in the land? nay, more—the
life-drops from that broken heart ?

For the first time the flush of triumph was chilled
by the thought of what the triumph had cost him.
‘Then came a shudder, as he thought of the lovely



THE KNIGHT, THE HERMIT, AND THE MAN. 39





















































































































































THE KNIGHT.



40 ENGLISH READER, BOOK IV.

widow who drooped in Arno Castle—of the wild
pang that snapped the heart-strings of De Cressy’s
bride, when she saw the battle-axe go crashing
into her husband’s brain.

-As these sad images came up before the knight,
his pace grew more rapid, and his brows, upon
which large beads of sweat were standing, were
clasped between his hands in agony. ‘And for
what is all this?” he murmured. ‘‘For what is
all this? Am I braver or better for such wicked
work ?”’ é

Through the jong night he paced the hall of his
castle, but, with day-dawn, he rode forth alone.
The sun rose and set; the seasons came and went;
years passed ; but the knight returned not.

14.
THE HERMIT.

. pas from the busy scenes of life dwelt a pious

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



P THE KNIGHT, THE HERMIT, AND THE MAN. At




THE HERMIT.

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



42 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

One night, he dreamt in his cell that the Angel
of Mercy came to him, and said: ‘It is in vain—
allin vain! Art thou not a man, to whom power
has been given to do good to thy fellow-men ?
Thou callest thyself God’s servant ; but where is
thy work? I see it not. Where are the hungry
thou hast fed? the naked thou hast clothed ? the
sick who have been visited by thee? They are
not here in this lone spot !”’

The Angel went away, and the hermit awoke.
‘Where is my work ?”’ he asked, as he stood with:
his hot brow bared to the cool air. ‘‘ The stars
are moving in their courses; the trees are spread-
ing forth their branches and rising to heaven ; and
the stream flows on to the ocean; but J—I—
gifted with a will, with wisdom, and energy—am
doing no work!”

The morning broke, and the hermit saw the bee
at its labour, the bird building its nest, and the
worm spinning its silken thread. ‘‘ And is there
no work for man, the noblest of all living beings ? ’
said he.

The hermit knelt in prayer, but found no peace.
Where was his work? ‘De Montfort, it is
vain!” he cried. ‘‘ There must be work, as well
as penance and prayer.” He rose from his knees ;
and, when night came, the hermit’s cell was

empty.



THE KNIGHT, THE HERMIT, AND THE MAN, 43

15.
THE MAN.

A FEARFUL plague raged in a great city. In

the narrow streets, where the poor were
crowded together, its hot breath struck down
hundreds in a day. Those who were not stricken
down, fled, and left the sick and the dying to
their fate.

In the midst of these dreadful scenes, a man
clad in plain garments—a stranger—entered the
plague-stricken city. The flying folks warned
him of the peril he was about to face, but, heeding
them not, he took his way with a arti step to the
regions ier most lay sick.

In the first house that he entered, he found a
young maiden alone, and almost in the agonies of
death ; and her feeble cry was for water to slake
her burning thirst. He placed to her lips a cool
draught, of which she drank ; then, he sat down to
watch by her side. In a little while, the hot fever
began to abate, and the sufferer slept. Then he
lifted her in his arms, and bore her beyond the
city walls, where the air was pure.

For weeks the plague brooded over that fated
city ; and, during the whole time, this stranger to
all the people passed from house to house, holding
up a dying head here, giving drink to such as



44 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

were almost mad with thirst there, and bearing
forth in his arms those for whom there was any
hope of life. But, when the plague had left the
city, he was nowhere to be found.

For years, the castle of De Montfort had been
without a lord. At last, its owner returned ; not
on mailed charger, with corslet, casque, and
spear—a boastful knight, with hands stained by
his brother’s blood—-nor as a pious monk from his
cloister ; but as a man, from the city where he had
done good deeds amid the dying and the dead.
He came to dwell in his stately castle and rule his
broad lands once more ; not to glory in his state,
but to use his gifts in making wiser, better, and
happier his fellow-men.

He had work to do, and he was faithful to his
trust. He was no longer a knight, seeking for
war wherever brute force promised to give him |
victory ; he was no longer an idle hermit, shrink-
ing from his work in the great harvest-field of
life; but he was a man, doing bravely, among his
fellow-man, truly noble deeds—not deeds of blood,
but deeds of moral daring, in an age when the real
duties of life were despised by the titled few.

There were the bold Knight, the pious Hermit,
and the true Man ; but the Man was the best and -
greatest of all.



SOWING AND REAPING. 45

16.
SOWING AND REAPING.

ees are sowing their seed in the daylight fair,

They are sowing their seed in the noonday

glare,
They are sowing their seed in the soft twilight,
They are sowing their seed in the solemn night ;
What shall their harvest be ?



SOWING

Some are sowing their seed of pleasant thought ;

In the spring’s green light they have blithely
wrought ;

They have brought their fancies from wood and
dell,

°



46 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

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

Some are sowing the seeds of word and deed,

Which the cold know not, nor the careless heed,

Of the gentle word and the kindest deed,

That have blessed the heart in its sorest need :
Sweet shall the harvest be !

And some are sowing the seeds of pain,

Of late remorse, and in maddened brain ;

And the stars shall fall, and the sun shall wane,

Ere they root the weeds from the soil again :
Dark will the harvest be!

And some are standing with idle hand,

Yet they scatter seeds on their native land ;

And some are sowing the seeds of care

Which their soil has borne, and still must bear :
Sad will the harvest be !

And each, in his way, is sowing the seed

Of good or of evil, in word or deed :

With a careless hand o’er the earth they sow,

And the fields are ripening where’er they go:
What shall the harvest be ?



SOWING AND REAPING. 47























































































































































































REAPING.

Sown in darkness, or sown in light ;

Sown in weakness, or sown in might ;

Sown in meekness, or sown in wrath ;

In the broad work-field, or the shadowy path :
Sure will the harvest be!



48. ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

17.
THE LOCOMOTIVES AND THE
TEA-KETTLE.
(A Fable.)

AS I happened one day to enter an old shed, in
which some worn-out locomotives had been
stowed away, I chanced to over-hear the following:

‘‘ Gentlemen,” said an old tea-kettle that lay in
a corner of the shed—‘‘ Gentlemen, I am sorry to
see you in this place: I wasn’t brought here till I
had more than once lost my spout and handle, and
had been patched and soldered till very little of my
first self was left. I conclude, therefore, that, like
me, you have seen your best days, and are now to
be laid aside as useless.” ,

The locomotives looked at one another, and
frowned, but did not answer.

‘‘Well, gentlemen and brothers,” cried the
kettle again, ‘‘ don’t be.down-hearted. We have
played busy and useful parts in our day, and may
comfort ourselves now in thinking over the work
we have done. As for me, when I look back
upon the home comforts that I have been the
means of affording, it affects me deeply.”

‘¢ What is that little old tin whistling about, up
in the corner?” asked one of the locomotives of
his neighbour.



THE LOCOMOTIVES AND THE TEA-KETTLE. 49

“* Where are his brothers ? ”

‘* Hey-day! Is that it?” cried the kettle, all
alive with rage. ‘‘ So you don’t own the relation-
ship.” Let me tell you, with all your pitiful pride,
that though you won’t own me as a brother, I am
father and mother to you, for who would ever have
heard of a steam-engine, if it hadn’t been for a tea-
kettle ?”

The locomotives were abashed, and silent ; and
whilst I was drawing a moral from the just reproof
which the kettle had given their pride, my ear
caught up the following song, which was sung by
one of the workmen in a building hard by :

They may talk as they will about singing,
Their harps, and their lutes, and what not ;

Their fiddles are not worth the stringing,
Compared with the music I’ve got ;

For with lessons far deeper and higher
The song of the kettle may teem:

’Twas the kettle that sung on the fire,
That first proved the power of steam.

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

4-4



50 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

I love every inch of its metal,
From the tip of the spout to the knob:

‘© Lead a temperate life,” sings the kettle,—
The kettle that sings on the hob.

18.
THE LOST CAMEL.

DERVISH was travelling alone in the desert,
when two merchants suddenly met him.
‘©You have lost a camel,” said he to the mer-
chants. ‘‘ Indeed we have,” they replied. ‘* Was
he not blind in his right eye and lame in his left
leg ?” said the dervish.

‘© He was,” replied the merchants. ‘‘ Had he
lost a front tooth ? ” said the dervish. ‘‘ He had,”
rejoined the merchants. ‘‘ And was he not loaded
with honey on one side, and corn. on the other ? ”
‘“ Most certainly he was,” they replied ; ‘‘and, as
you have seen him so lately, and describe him so
well, we suppose you can conduct us to him.”

‘My friends,” said the dervish, ‘‘ I have never
seen your camel, nor even heard of him, but from

yourselves.” ‘*A pretty story, truly,” said the
merchants; ‘‘ but where are the jewels which
formed a part of his burden?” ‘‘TI have neither

seen your camel, nor your jewels,” repeated the:
dervish.



THE LOST CAMEL. 51

On this, they seized him, and took him to the
cadi, where, on the strictest search, nothing could
be found against him ; nor could any evidence be
produced to prove him guilty, either of falsehood
or of theft. They were then about to proceed
against him as a sorcerer, when the dervish,
with great calmness, thus addressed the
Court:— .

‘*T have been much amused with your surprise,
and own that there has been some ground for you
to think that I have deceived you; but I have
lived long, and alone, and have found ample room
for observation, even in a desert.

‘‘T knew that I had crossed the track. of a
camel that had strayed from its owner, because I
saw no mark of any human footsteps on the same
route. I knew that the animal was blind of one
eye, because it had cropped the herbage only on
one side of its path; and I saw that it was lame
in one leg, from the faint impression one foot had
made upon the sand.

‘*T also concluded that the animal had lost one
tooth, because, wherever it had grazed, a small
tuft of herbage was left uncropped, in the centre
of its bite. As to that which formed the burden
of the beast, the busy ants informed me that it was
corn on the one side; and the clustering flies,

that it was honey on the other.”
4°—4



52 ENGLISH READER BOOK IV.

19.
THE CROWS AND THE WIND-MILL.

ie seems there was once a wind-mill—history

does not tell us exactly where, and I suppose
it does not much matter where it was—which
went round and round, day after day. It did no
harm to anybody. It never knocked anybody
down, unless he got under it, within reach of its
great arms. What if it did use the air! It did
not hurt the air, for the air was just as good for
breathing after it had turned the mill, as it was .
before.

But there was a flock of crows in the neighbour-
hood, that took quite a dislike to the mill. They:
said there must be some mischief about it. They
did not at ail like its actions;—the swinging of those
long arms, for a whole day atatime. And, besides
that, it was rumoured, in the crow-village, that a
good-natured crow once went to look at the wind-
mill, and that the great thing hit him a knock with
one of its arms, and killed him on the spot.

Some half-a-dozen of the flock of crows that felt
so much alarmed were talking together, at one
time, when the conversation turned, as was
generally the case, upon the giant mill. After
talking awhile, it was thought best to call a
council of all the crows in the country, to see if



THE CROWS AND THE WIND-MILL.

TIL N TRUS VEE]
S\N DANS

\
au

ee

CROWS IN COUNCIL,





54 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

some means could not be hit upon, by which the
thing could be got rid of.

The meeting was called, and the council met in
a corn-field. Such cawing and chattering was
‘never before heard in that neighbourhood. They
appointed a chairman—perhaps we ought to say a
‘chair-crow—and other officers, and proceeded to
: business.

As is usual in public meetings of this nature,

‘there were many opinions as to the question,
‘What is best to be done with the wind-mill ?”
Most of the crows thought the wind-mill a danger-
ous thing—a very dangerous thing indeed: but
then, as to the best mode of getting rid of it, that
was not so easy a matter to decide.

There were some crows at the meeting who were
for going, at once, right over to the wind-mill—all
the crows in a body—to pull down the thing on
the spot. In justice to the crow family in general,
however, it ought to be stated that those who
talked about this warlike measure were rather
young. Their feathers were not yet quite fully
grown, and they had not seen so much of the
world as their fathers had.

After there had been much loud talking, all over
and around the great elm tree where the council
was held, one old crow said he had a few questions

_ to ask. He hada plan to propose, too—perhaps—



THE CROWS AND THE WIND-MILL. 55

and perhaps not. It would depend upon the
answers to his questions, whether he gave any
advice or not.

He would beg leave to inquire, he said, through
the chairman, if the wind-mill had ever been
known to go away from the place where it was
then standing, and to chase crows round the fields,
for the purpose of killing them.

It was admitted that such conduct on the part
of the giant had never been heard of. Even the
oldest crow, who had heard, from his grandfather,
the story about the unhappy fate of the crow that
perished by a blow from the giant’s arms, did
not remember to have heard that the wind-mill had
ever made such warlike visits.

‘‘ How then,” the speaker wished to know,
‘was that crow killed in old times ?”

The answer was, ‘‘ He ventured too near the
mill.”

‘‘ And is that the only way that any of us are
likely to get killed by the wind-mill 2?”

‘‘ Yes,” the scare-crow said, ‘that is the way,
I believe.”

And the crows generally nodded their heads, as
much as to say, ‘‘ Certainly, of course.”

‘‘ Well, then,” said the old crow who asked the
questions, ‘‘let us keep away from the. mill.
That is all I have to say.”



56 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

At this, the whole council set up a noisy laugh.
The meeting broke up. The general opinion was,
that the advice of the last speaker was, on the
whole, the safest and best that could be given.

There are some things, very harmless in them-
selves, and very useful too in their proper places,
that will be very apt to injure us if we go too near
them. In such cases, remember the advice of the
wise crow, and keep away from the mill.

20.
ASPIRATIONS OF YOUTH.

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

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



THE RIVER. 57

Onward, onward may we press
Through the path of duty ;

Virtue is true happiness,
Excellence true beauty.

Minds are of celestial birth,
Make we then a heaven on earth.

Closer, closer let us knit
Hearts and hands together,

Where our fireside comforts sit,
In the wildest weather :

Oh! they wander wide who roam
For the joys of life from home.

THE RIVER.

IVER! River! little River !

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

River! River! swelling River !

On you rush o’er rough and smooth—
Louder, faster, brawling, leaping

Over rocks, by rose-banks sweeping,

Like impetuous youth.



ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.



F

THE RIVER.

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



THE CROCODILE AND THE ICHNEUMON. 59

River! River! rapid River !

Swifter now you slip away ;
Swift and silent as an arrow,
‘Through a channel dark and narrow,

Like life’s closing day.

River! River! headlong River!
Down you dash into the sea ;

Sea, that line hath never sounded,

Sea, that voyage hath never rounded,
Like eternity.

2I.
‘THE CROCODILE AND THE ICHNEUMON.

LONG time ago a very fierce crocodile of great
size, that dwelt on the marshy banks of the
river Nile, by his ravages spread dismay over the
whole country around. He seized the shepherds,
together with the sheep, and devoured the herds-
men as well as the cattle.

Growing bold by success, and by the terror
which spread in advance of his ravages, he ventured -
even into the island of Tentyra, whose people had
long boasted that they were the only tamers of the
crocodile race.



60 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

But even they were now struck with horror

at the appearance of a monster, so much
more terrible than they had ever before seen.
Even the boldest of them were afraid to
attack him openly ; and, with all their art and -
address, it was in vain that they tried to surprise
him.
While they were holding council in great fear,
as to what they should do under these circum-.
stances, an ichneumon, a little animal not so big’
as a weasel, stepped forth, and thus addressed
them: ‘‘T perceive your distress, neighbours ;
and, though I cannot assist you in your present
trouble, yet I can offer you some advice that may
be of use to you in the future. A little prudence
is worth all your courage: for, although it may be
glorious to overcome a great evil, it is often the
wisest way to prevent it.

‘You despise the crocodile while he is small
and weak, and do not consider that he is a long-
lived animal, and continues to grow as long as he
lives. You see I am a poor, little, feeble creature;
yet I am much more terrible to the crocodiles, and
more useful to the country than youare. I attack
him in the egg, and, while you are contriving for
months together how to get rid of one crocodile,
and all to no purpose, I easily destroy fifty of them
in a day.” ;



NESTS OF BIRDS. 61

22.
NESTS OF BIRDS.

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



NEST OF MAGPIE.

nature has given them the power of carrying
through the air. Their strength is so great that
they can carry great weights with ease.

A dwelling of this kind, when once finished,
it may be at the expense of much time and
trouble, serves for a long line of descend-
ants from the first builders, for it is seldom



62 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

that these abodes are deserted untit decay has
altogether unfitted them for their purpose ; and
they are so firmly built that many years must
elapse before they are utterly unfit for habitation.
Birds of prey are the only members of the-feathered
tribes which take upon themselves to erect nests of
this enduring kind; for the greater number of
birds are content with lighter dwellings on the
branch of a tree, against the side of a house, on
the turf, or amongst the reeds.

Some make use of bits of straw, small sticks,
moss, down, cotton, or a hundred little things
picked-up here and there with great pains, and
arranged in order at the place chosen. Their
claws and beak are the only tools used in knitting
together the matters which form the nest. Other
species hang their nests.from flexible branches
which are set in motion by every wind. Others
collect gravel and leaves, which they cement by
means of their saliva, and thus form a piece of

_ waterproof masonry.

The nest, so built, is usually placed in the angle
of a chimney or a rock. Here, the male bird
nestles, looks abroad like a sentinel for foes, and
then sleeps in his own little chamber when the
time for rest comes. Surely, in works like these,
there is food for admiration. To complete a work
of this kind, think of the pains taken !



NESTS OF BIRDS. — 63;

Some birds build on the ground, between
hillocks of earth, which protect them from the
wind and from an overflow of water. These nests
are, perhaps, not so carefully wrought as other
kinds. Others content themselves with digging a
hole in the sand, and there laying their eggs,
which they leave the sun to hatch during the day,
but to which they return at night.

We cannot be expected to give any regular
account of nests here; but it. may be amusing"
to mention some strange kinds; and we will
begin with the nest of the Long-tailed Titmouse.
This bird is not much larger than the wren; its.
head, neck, and breast are white; the rest of its.
body is chiefly black; its tail is very long and
wedge-shaped. Pennant, after remarking that the
young follow their parents for the whole winter, says
that, ‘‘ from the slimness of their bodies and great
length of tail, they appear, while flying, like so.
many darts cutting the air.” The nest is closed
over, both above and below; only one little
circular opening at the side is left, serving for door
and window.

As the cold might enter by the opening, the bird
makes use of door-curtains similar to those which
some of our rooms possess; the entrance to its.
home being furnished with a hanging of feathers.
Thus it is protected from rain, and from the gaze



64 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

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

23.
This is not all ; the titmouse is so small a bird
‘that it has much to fear from foes of many kinds ;
and, therefore, to conceal the place of its abode, it



NEST OF HEDGE-SPARROW.

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



NESTS OF BIRDS. 65

two or three weeks in building it. There
is another member of the tit tribe which takes still
greater pains. It is one that builds in watery
places, where it stands in danger of being attacked
by reptiles. Accordingly, it suspends its nest from
a flexible branch over the water. The entrance to
the nest is formed by a sort of pipe, through which
no snake can force its way.

Another kind of titmouse adds to its nest a little
cell, in which the male and female rest after tend-
ing their young. The birds are very small, delicate,
and weak ; yet the nest they build is very large:
indeed, wonderfully so, when the small size of the
builder is considered. The labour is begun in the
middle of winter, and is not completed until spring.
The hatching is a long process, twenty-two being
the customary number of eggs; and the female
takes all the trouble of sitting on them to herself.

The-reed warbler, so named from the places it
frequents, builds at once a house and a boat. The
nest is slightly attached to the reeds, and is
coated with a gummy substance, which prevents
the water from entering, in case the nest should
slip down, or the water should rise.

We have seen a nest of the tailor bird so
artfully constructed, that to view its interior we
were forced to unrip the stitches and cut off the
tightly drawn knots. Several leaves had been

5—4



66 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

sewn together by means of cotton or fibrous plants.
There you had the thread ; but can you guess the
needle. It was no other than the beak of the bird
itself.

As examples of fine art we might adduce the
nests of the thrush, the goldfinch, and above all, of
the grossbeaks, who erect an immense dwelling,
place, to contain five or six hundred inhabitants-



NESTS OF GROSSBEAKS.

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



NESTS OF BIRDS. 67

nests are attached, side by side, to the roof, all being
of the same size. Each bird has, generally, its
Private entrance; but, sometimes, it happens that
one door gives access to two or three nests. Each
nest is about three inches in diameter, and is made
of plants, but of a less coarse kind than those used
for the roof ; and, within, there isa lining of down.

As the population increases, new nests are
placed upon the old ones, and some of these latter
are converted into a public pathway, leading to
the new dwellings.

24.

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

its young from their many foes, and conceals the
5*~4



68 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

cradle where they commence a life full of risks
should not be without its meed of applause. A
short cane, between two trees above water, is
taken and the prudent mother fastens her nest
to it by a band, at the same time strong and
pliant. The wind may shake this aérial house,
and beat it to and fro; but it is well pro-
tected against invasion by rats and such like
vermin. But, should a bird of prey approach the
little dwelling, its attention is diverted by the male
or the female hopping as if wounded, only a short
distance in advance of the enemy.

We shall close this imperfect sketch with an ac-
count of a nest which forms an article of food. We
allude to the nests of Tonquin, which form no
trivial article of commerce in the Chinese and
Indian seas. This strange article of diet is the
work of a kind of swallow ; it is not composed,
as some have stated, of fish and other animal
matter, but of seaweed.

A plant of the Indian seas, which contains a large
quantity of sugar, has been found in the nest.
When the bird has bruised it, it is placed in cup-
like layers, and then the eggs are laid in it. These
nests are chiefly sought for in caverns along the
coast of the islands which separate the Pacific and
the Indian oceans. To reach these caverns,
scooped out by the sea, it is often necessary



NESTS OF BIRDS. 69

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

25.

Accidents, however, do not happen very often.
Sometimes, in the midst of the silence with which
the gathering is carried on, a sudden cry is heard,
a torch goes out, and a portion of rock rolls down
the precipice with a noise like thunder, echoed and
re-echoed through all the chambers of the vast
cavern. The affrighted searchers then know that
they have lost a comrade.

The nests most sought after are those picked up
in the dampest places, and those which have been
most recently built. They are whiter, and cleaner
than the others. The gathering takes place twice
a year, and, if care is taken not to injure the rocks
at the first taking, the number on the second
occasion is pretty nearly equal to that on the first.



TO ENGLISH READER. EOOK Iv.

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



NEST OF GOLDFINCH.

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



ODE TO THE CUCKOO. 7I

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

26.
ODE TO THE CUCKOO.
AIL, beauteous stranger of the wood,
Attendant on the spring !
Now Heav’n repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.



72

ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV

Soon as the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear :

Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year ?

Delightful visitant ! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,

When heaven is fill’d with music sweet
Of birds among the bowers.

The school-boy wand ’ring in the wood
To pull the flowers so gay,

Starts, thy curious voice to hear,
And imitates thy lay.

Soon as the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fly’st thy vocal vale,

An annual guest in other lands,
Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bow’r is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear ;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year !

O could I fly, I’d fly with thee :
We'd make, with social wing,

Our annual visit o’er the globe,
Companions of the spring.



THE SKYLARK. 13

THE SKYLARK.

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

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

O’er fell and fountain sheen,
O’er moor and mountain green,

O’er the red streamer that heralds the day ;
Over the cloudlet dim,

_ Over the rainbow’s rim,

Musical cherub, hie, hie thee away !

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



74 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

an
A NOBLE REVENGE.

A YOUNG officer so far forgot himself, in a

moment of anger, as to strike a private
soldier, well-known for his courage. The laws
forbade to the soldier any redress—he could not
return the blow. Words only were at his com-
mand, and, in a tumult of passion, as he turned
away, the soldier said to his officer that he would
‘“make him repent it.” This, wearing the shape
of a threat, rekindled the officer’s anger, and thus
the breach between the two young men grew wider
than before.

Some weeks after this, an action took place with
the enemy. Suppose yourself looking down into
the valley filled by the two armies. They are
facing each other, you see, in warlike array. But
it is no more than a skirmish which is going on;
in the course of which, however, a chance arises,
all at once, for a service full of danger. A fort,
which has fallen into the hands of the foe, must be
retaken at any price; but the service needed for
this seems to be all but hopeless. ;

A strong party, however, has offered to make
the attempt; there is a cry for someone to head
them ; you see a soldier step out from the ranks to
assume the leadership; the party moves rapidly



A NOBLE REVENGE. 75

forward ; in a few minutes it is swallowed up from
your eyes in clouds of smoke ; for one half hour,
from behind these clouds, you receive fierce signals,
flashes from the guns, rolling musketry, and
hurras—advancing or receding, slackening or re-
doubling.

At length, all is over; the fort has been retaken :
crimson with glorious gore, those that are left of
the victors are at liberty to return. From the
river you see them advance. The plume-crested
officer in command rushes forward, with his left
hand raising his hat in homage to.the blackened
fragments of what once was a flag, while with his
right hand he seizes that of the leader, though not
more than a private from the ranks. For, in the
hour of danger, ‘“‘high and low” are words
without a meaning, and to wreck goes every
notion or feeling that divides the noble from the
noble, or the brave man from the brave.

But how is it that now,when suddenly they recog-
nise one another,suddenly they pause? This soldier,
this officer—who are they ? O reader! once before
they had stood face to face—the soldier that was
struck, the officer that struck him. Once again
they meet ; and the gaze of armies is upon them.
If for a moment a doubt divides them, in a moment
the doubt has perished. One glance between them
publishes the forgiveness that is sealed for ever.



76 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

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

28.
HOW BIG WAS ALEXANDER ?
[Rev. E. Jones.]

[Alexander of Macedon, a famous general, and conqueror of many nations,
was called ‘‘ Alexander the Great,” on account of his great victories.
After conquering Persia, he died at Babylon, in the year 324 before the:
Christian era. ]

Son. few big was Alexander, pa,
That people call him great ?

Was he, like old Goliath, tall,
His spear a hundredweight ?

Was he so large that he could stand,
Like some tall steeple high,

And while his feet were on the ground,
His hands could touch the sky ?

father. O no, my child; about as large
As I or Uncle James ;



77

HOW BIG WAS ALEXANDER?

























































































































ALEXANDER THE GREAT.



78

Son.

Father.

Son.

Father.

Son.

ENGLISH READER. BOOK Iv.

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

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

I mean, my child, his actions were
So great, he got a name,

That everybody speaks with praise,
That tells about his fame.

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

Why, he it was that conquered Tyre,
And levelled down her wall,

And thousands of her people slew ;
And then to Persia went,

And fire and sword on every side
Through many a region sent.

A hundred conquered cities shone
With midnight burnings red ;

And strewed o’er many a battle-grqund
A thousand soldiers bled.

Did killing people make him great ?



Father.

Son.

Father.

Son.

Father.

Son.

HOW BIG WAS ALEXANDER ? 79.

Then why was Abel Young,

Who killed his neighbour, Christmas day,
Put into jail and hung?

I never heard them call him great.

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

Well, then, if I should kill a any
r d kill a hundred more ;

I should be great, and not get hung,
Like Abel Young, before.

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

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

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

‘But, pa, did Alexander wish

That some strong man would come.
And burn his house, and kill him too,,



80 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

And do as he had done ?

Does everybody call him great,
For killing people so?

Well, now, what right he had to kill,
I should be glad to know.

If one should burn the buildings here,
And kill the folks within,

Would anybody call him great
For such a wicked thing ?

29.
THE TWO ROBBERS
[Dr. Aikin. Adapted.]

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



Robber.

Alexander.

Robber.

Alexander.

Robber.

Alexander.

Robber.

6—4

THE TWO ROBBERS. 81

Alexander, I am your captive : I must
hear what you please to say, and
endure what you please to inflict.
But, if I reply at all to your
reproaches, I will reply like a free
man.

Speak freely. Far be it from me to
take the advantage of my power to
silence those with whom I deign to
converse.

I must then answer your question by
another. How have you passed
your life ?

Like a hero. Ask Fame, and she
will tell you. Among the brave, I
have been the bravest; among
kings, the noblest; among con-
querors, the mightiést.

And does not fame _ speak of
me, too? Was there ever a
bolder captain or a braver band ?
Was there ever—but I scorn to
boast. You, yourself, know
that I have not been easily
taken.

Still, what are you but a robber—a
base robber ?

And what is a conqueror? Have not



82 ENGLISH READER BOOK IV.

you, too, gone about the earth, like
an evil genius, destroying the fair
fruits of peace, robbing and killing,
without law, without justice? All
that I have done to a single district,
with a hundred followers, you have
done to whole nations, with a
hundred thousand. If I have
stripped private persons, you have
ruined kings and princes. If I
have burned a few hamlets, you
have laid waste the finest king-
doms and cities of the earth. What
is, then, the difference, but that, as
you were born a king and I a
private man, you have been
able to become a mightier robber
than I?

Alexander. But if I have taken like a king, I
have given like a king. If I have
thrown down empires, I have
founded greater.

Robber. I, too, have freely given to the poor
what I took from the rich.

Alexander. Leave me. Take off his chains, and
use him well. Are we, then, so
much alike? Alexander like a
robber? Let me reflect.



JOSEPH JACQUARD. 83

JOSEPH JACQUARD.
30.

OSEPH JACQUARD was born at Lyons on
the seventh of, July, 1752; his father was a ,
master weaver of gold and silken tissues, his
mother was a pattern-reader, another branch of the
same trade; as for himself, he was bound apprentice
to a book-binder, and proved a clever and tasteful
workman. At the end of some years, he married,
and, having been left a small house by his
parents, he set up as a straw-bonnet maker, and
was getting on very well, when the French
Revolution broke out, and ruined him.

In 1793, during the siege, when Lyons held out
against the armies of the republic, his house was
burned to the ground, and, when the savage
consuls came with orders to punish the people
whom the brutal soldiers had spared, Jacquard’s
name was on the list, and he found himself forced
to fly from his native country. He owed his
safety to a son he had in the ranks of
the army. This young man dressed his father
in uniform, and, placing a musket in his
hand, marched with him to the French frontier.
They reached the borders of the Rhine to-
gether, but, there, Jacquard had the great mis-

fortune to lose his beloved son, who fell by ‘his
6f—4 ;



84 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

side, struck by acannon ball, and, soon afterwards,
died in his arms. When France was restored to
some degree of peace and order, Jacquard, weary
of a soldier’s life, for which old age began
to unfit him, desired to return to his former quiet
life; he had found friends amongst the very men
by whom he had been condemned to die ; and he
now set up once more at Lyons, and gave up his
spare time to the study of mechanics.

After the peace of Amiens, trade was re-opened,
for a short time, between England and France,
and, during this season, an English newspaper
happened to fall into the hands of Jacquard: he
read there that a prize was to be given by the
Royal Society in London, to anyone who could
invent a machine for making fishing nets, and
also for the nettings used on board ship. From
that moment, he thought of nothing but how to
win this prize. After groping long in the dark,
he discovered the secret of the machine; but the
satisfaction he derived from his success was the
only reward he chose to receive; the difficulty
once overcome, he thought no more about it, and
contented himself with giving a piece of the net
he had woven, to one of his friends. This friend,
however, showed it to several persons, and it
passed from hand to hand, until, it was sent at
last to Paris.



JOSEPH JACQUARD. 85







































































































































































































sTYULULoeet¥T
AML

ine





86 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

31.

Jacquard had long forgotten his invention, when,
one day, to his great surprise, he was summoned
before the Prefect of Lyons, who asked him
whether he had not invented a machine for making
nets. Jacquard did not remember that he had, till
the very piece of net that he had given to his friend
was shown him. The prefect then desired to see
the machine on which it had been made. Jacquard
asked for three weeks wherein to repair and com-
plete it, for it then lay neglected in a corner of his
dwelling ; at the end of that time, he carried it to
the prefect, who was able himself to count the
number of meshes, to strike the bar with his foot,
and to continue the web that was already begun.

When he had recovered from his surprise, he
dismissed Jacquard, telling him that his name
would soon become known. The machine was
sent off to Paris, and, soon after, an order arrived
that Jacquard himself should be sent after it. The
police of the town, mistaking the real import
of the order, laid hold of the honest artisan as a
traitor, and treated him like one. Without
giving him time to go home and make ready for
his journey, he was hurried into a post-chaise and
driven rapidly to Paris. Jacquard had never
before seen the great capital. On his arrival, he



JOSEPH JACQUARD. ‘ 87



i NAPOLEON.

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



88 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

it you, then, who pretend to make a slip knot upon
a tight sic 8

Jacquard, abashed by the presence of the master
of half Europe, and still more so by the manner of
his minister, only answered by setting his machine
to work. In this strange way was Jacquard’s first
essay made known. Napoleon, who knew how to
value genius wherever he found it, encouraged
him, and promised him his protection ; and in a
few days after this interview, he was installed at
the Society of Arts.

Jacquard’s joy was great when he found himself
in the midst of the wonders of art, and so able to
carry on his studies in science, which, hitherto, for
want of books he had had no means of doing ;
he had now the works of others to stand upon,
and the keys of knowledge were in his hands.
He soon set to work upon a machine which was
to produce brocaded silk, at less cost, and more
easily, than any then known; in this he fully
succeeded.

This famous machine was shown at the Exfosz-
tzon at Paris, in 1801. The first Consul, seeing at
once the great change which it was about to pro-
duce in the state of French industry, rewarded the
inventor with a pension of six thousand francs.
The jury, however, whose duty it was to judge of
the utility of all such inventions, showed themselves



JOSEPH JACQUARD. 89

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

32.
_ Less wonder will be excited by this verdict of the
Paris jury when we further relate, that at Lyons,
the whole face of whose trade was to be altered by
Jacquard’s invention, neither thanks nor rewards
were called forth by it. He returned there
with his machine, and found himself, like Galileo
of old, treated with cruelty.

He, the man of the people, the child of the
loom, was painted in the darkest colours to the
mob as their foe; one who, for his own selfish
purposes, was about to ruin their craft, and to.
increase the distress of their families.

From all parts of the district furious mobs
assembled against him, and his life was three
times in danger ; this blind hatred rose at last to
such. a height that the authorities of Lyons gave
way before the storm: and the new machine was
broken to pieces by their orders, in the great
square of the town, while the people loudly
cheered at the scene enacted before them. ‘‘ The



go ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

iron,” to use Jacquard’s own words, ‘‘ was sold as
old iron,—the wood, for fuel.”

It was not till France began to feel the fatal
effects of foreign rivalry, that the silk-weavers of
Lyons began to regret the narrowness of mind
which had prevented their reaping the benefit them-
selves of Jacquard’s invention ; they then saw that
they had destroyed the machine which would have
added to their prosperity. In the meantime, it was
adopted in many other countries.

Manchester received the Jacquard machine in
1813, with delight ; and the name once denounced
in every factory, is now honoured throughout
Europe. By slow degrees did this reward reach
Jacquard ; he had it after a twenty years’ struggle
against ignorance, envy, and selfishness ; and all
that time he knew that he had succeeded, and that
he had created a mighty agent for the welfare
of his native country, and that a day would surely
come in which he should see it at work.

He took out no patent to secure to himself the
gain of his invention, and he constantly refused
the grand offers made to him by foreigners ;
simply but firmly he refused to devote to them the
services he believed were due to France, and
waited patiently till she should be ready to receive
them at his hands. We have seen the humble
mention made of him with the bronze medal he



JOSEPH JACQUARD. 91

obtained in 1801 ; it was not till 1819 that a better
informed jury awarded to him the silver medal and
the Cross of the Legion of Honour.

33:

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

‘* The weary springs of life stood stzll at last.”

The morning after Jacquard’s death, a few
friends, and a very small number of admirers,
followed his remains to the little cemetery of the



92 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

village; the people of the village placed a
marble slab in their church to his memory, which
mentions simply and modestly his pure life and
his industry.

In his lifetime, like ‘most other great men,
Jacquard found little but neglect and cruelty,
in his own country ; it was only after his death
that he was really known, and his memory
duly honoured. The people of Lyons started a
fund for the purpose of raising a statue of
their well-known fellow-citizen, and, while the city
owed chiefly to him its yearly increasing wealth,
it was long before many thousand francs were
collected. The statue of Jacquard was raised at
last on the sixteenth of August, 1840.

It is well for us, in the midst of the feverish
strife of mere opinion, to turn to the example of
Jacquard. Humble and prosaic as his life may at
first sight appear, he stood alone with his genius,
surrounded by ignorance and tumult, waiting
patiently until his invention should be permitted to
produce the great results which it could not fail to
do when once it was fairly tried. While, doubt-
less, a thousand voices were raised to procure a
hearing for fresh schemes and new doctrines in
science, he expected silently the hour in which his
knowledge should be most usefully employed for
the benefit of his country. Jacquard and his



A LESSON WORTH ENSHRINING. 93

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

34.
A LESSON WORTH ENSHRINING.

LESSON in itself sublime, a lesson worth
enshrining,

Is this: ‘‘ I take no note of Time save when the
sun is shining.”

These motto words a dial bore: and wisdom | never
preaches

To human hearts a better lore than this ghort
sentence teaches.

As life is sometimes bright and fair, and some-
times dark and lonely,

Let us forget its toil and care, and. note its bright
hours only.

There is no grove on earth’s broad chart but has
some bird to cheer it ;

So Hope sings on in every heart, although we may
not hear it ;

And if, to-day, the heavy. wind of sorrow is
o’erpressing,

Perchance to-morrow’s sun will bring the weary
heart a blessing.

For life is sometimes bright and fair, and some-
times dark and lonely :



94 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

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

We bid the j joyous moments haste, and then for-
get their glitter ;

We take the cup of life, and taste no potion but
the bitter :

But we should teach our hearts to deem its
sweetest drop the strongest,

And pleasant hours should ever seem to linger
round us longest.

For life is sometimes bright and fair, and some-
times dark and lonely,

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

The darkest shadows of the night are just before
the morning ;

Then let us wait the coming light, all fancied
phantoms scorning ;

And while we’re floating down the tide of Time’s
fast ebbing river,

Let’s pluck the flowers that grace its side, and
thank the gracious Giver.

For life is sometimes bright and fair, and some-
times dark and lonely,

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



FOOD AND DRINK. 95

35:
FOOD AND DRINK.

AN is sent into this world to work ; and all
men have to work either with hand or head.
But some men work too much, whilst others work
too little. As a rule, those who work too much,
are happier than those who work too little; for
there is no surer road to real happiness, than a
wise system of hard work ; and we have all plenty

to do if we will but do it.

To work in any shape, we must possess energy,
for energy may be defined as the power to do
work ; we cannot work without energy. Some
workers, let us hope not very many, at times, try
to take in that energy in the form of strong drink ;
but the attempt is a vain one as we shall show
you.

A strong healthy man, passes into his body, in
the course of a year, about eight hundred pounds
of solid food, and fifteen hundred pounds of liquid
food—drink, if you like to call itso. Why does
he store away in his body all these solids and
liquids every year? Simply because, in this food
is hidden the energy without which he can do no
manner of work.

The food he daily passes into his system supplies
him with the energy he cannot create, but without
which his body would be a useless mass,

s



96 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

But why does he take into his system this
fifteen hundred pounds of liquid per year? He
takes this mass of substance simply to assist him
to prepare the solid food, in order that he may be
able to obtain from it the energy he needs, which
is locked up in that food. Unfortunately, how-
ever, a large number of our fellow-creatures pass
_ daily, year by year, as long as they manage to
last, strong drinks into their bodies, which
diminish their energy, lessen their power to work,
and destroy the body.

But how is this energy stored up in the eight
hundred pounds of solid food made to give up its
energy in movement, thought-making, and in
keeping the body in health and good repair?
Before this food can be made to give up even the
smallest portion of its energy to the human body,
for the use of either muscle or brain, it must be
built up into the substance of blood or of body
tissue, and then burnt. To do this burning, eight
hundred pounds of oxygen gas are annually taken
from the air, and passed into the blood by the
lungs in the act of breathing. Thus, we see that
the source of our bodily energy is the ton and a
half of substance—-food, drink, and air—which we
annually consume in our bodies.

We are, in the present course of lessons, con-
cerned mainly with drinking ; and we shall pass



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THE AVON

ENGLISH READER.

BOOK FOUR.

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LONDON :
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1092.
PRINTING OFFICE
OF THE

PUBLISHERS,
PREFACE.

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

amuse.

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

about a hotly-contested social question.

After much thought and discussion with many practical teachers,
at was decided not to print lists of spellings, as the pupils at this

stage are old enough to compile them for themselves.

Lonpon, September, 1892.
13.
14.
15.
16.

17.

18.
19.

20.
21.
22.
23.
24.

25.
26.

27.

CONTENTS.

(Titles of Poetical Pieces are Printed in Italics ).



Page
The Story of George
Andrews 5
Ditto 8
The First Temptation 10
Marys Mother 13
Try Again ... 16
Nature’s Night Sounds 19
Ditto 22
Ditto 24
Honeyball and Violetta 27
Ditto 30
Town and Country Seer33
The Dwarf and the Giant 35
The Knight, the Hermit,
and the Man—
The Knight 37
The Hermit 40
The Man 43
Sowing and iain 45 }
The Locomotives and the
Tea-kettle 48
The Lost Camel 50
The Crows and the Wind-
mill os 52
Aspirations of Youth 56
The River . : 57
The Crocaaile and ‘the fens
neumon ... 59
Nests of Birds 61
Ditto 64
Ditto 67
Ditto ww. 69
Ode to the Cuckoo ... acemeyL
The Skylark 73 j
A Noble Revenge 74

G2 G2 2 FO &) GW W G2 Gd

pARA A
yO S

UMNUnNALDA AA
QPS EY HAR

54.
55:
56.

57:

59.
60.

QP FS

-

QOS ON

aE e

Page

How Big was Alexander? 76

The Two Robbers... 80

Joseph Jacquard 83

Ditto 86

Ditto 89

Ditto OL

A Lesson worth Enshrining 93

Food and Drink 95

Why we Drink 98

What we Drink . 102
Ditto . 105 |

Ditto . 108

Ditto . 110

Ditto we. II3

The Good Time Coming ... 117

Lost in a Balloon ... . 120

Ditto w. 123

April Flowers .. 127

The Water-Rat . 130

A Dialogue sha 132

Caught by the Tide . 137

Ditto «. 140

The Courageous Boy . 143

Faithful Fido . 145

Whe DiscontentedPenduluia 149

Now and Then—By-and-by 153

To-day and To-morrow ... 155

Lessons of Industry ws 156

The Ant and the Cricket... 158

A Good Investment . 162

Ditto - 163

Ditto w» 164

The Labourer -. 167

Ditto . 170
THE °

AVON ENGLISH READERS.

BOOK FOUR.

THE STORY OF GEORGE ANDREWS.

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


6 ENGLISH READER. BOOK Iv.

to calla moment to see them. He thought there
would be no great harm if he merely stopped a
minute or two and his parents would never know it.
George stopped, and was led to remain longer
and longer, till he found he had passed two hours
in play. Then, he set his face towards home.

The fields looked as green and the skies
as bright and cloudless as when he walked
along in the morning ; but oh, how different were
his feelings! Then, he was innocent and happy ;
now, he felt guilty and wretched. He tried to feel
easy, but he could not. He walked sadly along,
thinking what excuse he should make to his
parents for his long absence, and, by-and-by, he
saw his father, at a distance, coming to meet
him.

His father, fearing that some accident had .
happened, left home in search of his son. George
trembled and turned pale as he saw his father, and
wondered whether he had better confess the truth
at once and ask forgiveness, or try to hide his
fault with a lie. Oh, how much better it would
have been for him if he had told the truth! But
one sin almost always leads to another. When
this kind father met his son with a smile, George
said, ‘‘ Father, I lost my way, and it took me
some time to find it again, and that is the
reason why I have been gone so long.”
THE STORY OF GEORGE ANDREWS. 7

His father had never known him to be guilty
of falsehood and he did not doubt that what he
said was true. But oh, how guilty and ashamed
and wretched did George feel as he walked along !
His peace of mind was gone. A heavy weight of
guilt pressed upon his heart. He went home and
repeated the lie to his mother. It is always thus,
when we turn from the path of duty, we know
not how widely we shall wander. Having com-
mitted one fault, he told a lie to conceal it, and
then added sin to sin by repeating the falsehood.

What a change had one short day brought
about in George’s happiness. His parents had not
yet found him out, but he was not, on that account,
free from punishment. His conscience was
at work, telling him that he was guilty. His
innocent look and his lightness of heart had left
him. He was ashamed to look his father or
mother in the face. He tried to appear easy and
happy, but he was uneasy and miserable. A
heavy load of guilt rested upon him which des-
troyed all his peace.

2.

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

awoke in the morning, the knowledge of his guilt
would not forsake him. There it remained fixed
deep in his heart, and would allow him no peace.
He was guilty, and, of course, wretched.

The first thought which crossed his mind on
waking was the lie he told his father and mother.
He could not forget it. He was afraid to go into
the room where his parents were, lest they should
discover by his looks that he had been doing
something wrong. And though, as weeks passed
away, this feeling, in some degree, wore off, he was,
all the time, unhappy. He was in constant fear
that something would occur which should lead to
his being found out. ,

Thus, things went on for several weeks, till, one
day, the gentleman at whose house he stopped
called at his father’s on business. As soon as
George saw him come into the house, his heart’
beat quickly, and he turned pale with the fear
that something would be said that would bring
the whole truth to light. The gentleman, after
talking a few moments with his father, turned
to George and said, ‘‘ Well, how did you get
home the other day? My boys had a very
pleasant visit from you.”

Can you imagine how George felt then? You
could almost have heard his heart beat. The
blood rushed into his face; he could not
THE STORY OF GEORGE ANDREWS. 9

speak ; and he dared not raise his eyes from the
floor. There! the whole truth was out; and
how do you suppose he felt? He had disobeyed
his parents, told a lie to conceal it, had, for
weeks, suffered the pangs of a guilty conscience,
and, now, the whole truth was revealed. He
stood before his parents overwhelmed with
shame.

George was all the time suffering for his sin.
Day after day, he endured the inward pangs of
conscience, while the knowledge of his sin was
shut up in his own bosom. How bitterly did
he suffer for the few moments of forbidden pleasure
he had enjoyed. The way of the evil-doer is
always hard. Every child who does wrong must,
to a greater or less degree, feel the same sorrows.
This guilty boy, overwhelmed with shame, burst
into tears, and begged for his parent’s forgiveness.
He made a clean breast of all to his parents, and
they forgave him; and it was not till then that
peace of mind returned. .

If you have done wrong, confess it at: once.
Falsehood will but increase your sin and your
sorrow. Whenever you are tempted to say that
which is untrue, think how much sorrow, and
shame, and sin you will bring upon yourself.
Think of the pangs of conscience, for you may
depend upon it that they are not easily borne.
Io ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.
3.
THE FIRST TEMPTATION.

(X= Saturday evening, when Susan went, as
usual, to Farmer Thompson’s to receive an

account for her mother, which amounted to five

pounds, she found the farmer in the stable-yard.

He seemed to be in a terrible rage with some
horse-dealers, with whom he had been talking.
He held in his hand an open pocket-book full
of notes; he scarcely noticed the child as she
made her request, except to speak sharply to her,
as usual, for troubling him when he was busy, and
handed her a bank-note.

Glad to escape so easily, Susan hurried out of
the gate, and then, pausing to pin the money
safely in the folds of her shawl, she found out that
he had given her two notes instead of one. She
looked round; nobody was near to share her
secret ; and her first impulse was joy at the prize.

‘It is mine—all mine,” said she to herself; ‘I
will buy mother a new cloak and a new dress with
it, and, then, she can give her old one to sister
Mary. I wonder if it will buy a pair of shoes for
brother Tom too.”

At that moment she remembered that he must
have given it to her by mistake, and, therefore, she
had no right to it. But again, she thought, ‘“‘ He
THE FIRST TEMPTATION. II

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























































































































































































































































































































































































































































































SUSAN CROSSING THE BROOK.

will never know it, even if it should be a mistake,
for he had too many notes in that great pocket-
book to miss one.”
12 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

Whilst this conflict was going on in her mind
between good and evil, she was hurrying home as
fast as possible. Yet, before she came in sight of
her home, she had, over and over again, compared
the comforts which the money would buy against
the sin of wronging her neighbour. As she
crossed the narrow bridge over the little brook,
before her mother’s door, her eye fell upon a rustic
seat on which she and her mother had often sat,
and where, only the day before, her mother had
talked to her of the golden rule :—

** Do to others as you would they should do to you.”

Startled, as if a trumpet had sounded in her
ears, she turned suddenly round, and, as if flying
from some unseen peril, hastened along the road
with breathless speed, until she found herself once
more at Farmer Thompson’s gate.

‘* What do you want now?” asked the gruff old
fellow, as he saw her again at his side.

“Sir, you gave me two notes instead of one,”
said she, trembling in every limb. ‘‘ Two notes,
did I; let me see; well, so I did; but did you
just find it out? Why did you not bring it back
sooner?” Susan blushed and hung her head.

‘“You wanted to keep it, I suppose,” said he.
‘Well, Iam glad your mother was more honest
than you, or I should have been five pounds
poorer, and none the wiser.”
MARY’S MOTHER. 13

‘‘ My mother knows nothing about it, sir,” said
Susan; ‘‘I brought it back before I went home.”

The old man looked at the child, and, as he
saw the tears rolling down her cheeks, he seemed
touched by her distress. Putting his hand in his
pocket he drew out a shilling and offered it to her.

‘“No, sir, I thank you,” sobbed she; ‘‘I do
not want to be paid for doing right ; I only wish
you would not think me dishonest, for, indeed, it
was a great trial. O! sir, if you had ever seen
those you love best wanting many of the comforts
of life, you would know how hard it is for us
always to do unto others as we would have others
do unto us.”’

The heart of the selfish man was touched ; and
as he bade the little girl good night, he entered
his house a sadder, and, it is to be hoped, a
better man. Susan ran home with a light heart,
and, through the course of a long and useful life,
she never forgot her first temptation.

4.
MARY’S MOTHER.

Five little girls there are who sing
In simplest village grace,

Glad Christmas carols ; and they bring
A pride upon the place.
14

ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

On Christmas eve they take their round,
And every household greet ;

And kindness stirs at that old sound ;
And friendly looks they meet.

Fach mother gazes on her own,
And while the stream runs on,

Sweet expectation often smiles
And present cares are gone.

And when the children go away,
Then turn and with a sigh,

Tis not of grief but one would say—
For mere sobriety.

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

When Mary was alive.

And straight toward her cot they take
Their usual pathway still ;

They pass beside the tranquil lake,
And then ascend the hill.

And Mary’s mother raised her head,
This little band to see ;

She loved them every one, but said,
‘‘ Let them not sing to me.”
MARY’S MOTHER.

And quick despatched a messenger,
Who bade them not to come,

Then she uprose and shut the door
Of that small quiet home.



And round the vale, with merry cheer,
They sing where’er they’re known,

Whilst Mary’s mother shed a tear,
For she was all alone.

15
16 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

5.
TRY AGAIN.

e \ ILL you give my kite a lift ?” said my little

nephew to his brother, after trying in vain
to make it fly by dragging it along the ground.
Alfred very kindly took it up and threw it into the
air, but, as his brother did not run off at the same
moment, the kite fell down again.

‘©Ah, now, how awkward you are,” said the
little fellow. ‘It was your fault entirely,”
answered his brother. ‘‘ Try again, children,”
said I.

Alfred once more took up the kite; but, now,
John was in too great a hurry; he ran off so
suddenly that he twitched it out of Alfred’s hand, |
and the kite fell flat as before. ‘‘ Well, who is |

to blame now?” asked Alfred. ‘‘ Try again,” ©

said I.

They did, and with more care, but a side-wind |
coming suddenly, as Alfred let go the kite, it was _
blown against some shrubs, and the tail got
entangled in a moment, leaving the poor kite with
its head hanging downward.

.‘* There! there!” exclaimed John, ‘‘that comes
of your throwing it all to one side.” ‘‘ As if I
could make the wind blow straight,” said Alfred.
In the meantime, I went to the help of the kite, a
and, having set free the long tail, I rolled it


TRY AGAIN. 17

up, saying, ‘‘ Come, children, there are too many
trees here; let us find a more open space, and
then Try Again.”

We soon found a nice grass-plot, at one
side of which I took my stand; and all



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

—4
18 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

stopped short to look up and admire it. The
string slackened ; the kite tottered ; and the wind
dropped ; down came the kite to the grass. “Oh
John, you should not have stopped,” said I.
“¢ However, Try Again.”

‘‘] won’t try any more,” replied he, rather

sullenly. ‘It is of no use, you see. The kite
won’t fly, and J don’t want to be plagued with it
any longer.” ‘‘ Oh fie, my little man! would you

give up the sport, after all the pains we have
taken both to make and to fly the.kite. A few
failures ought not to discourage us. Come, I
have wound up your string, and, now, Try Again.”
And he did try, and succeeded, for the kite was
carried up on the breeze, as lightly as a feather ;
and, when the string was all out, John stood in
great delight ; holding fast the stick ; and gazing
on the kite, which now looked like a little white
speck in the blue sky. ‘‘ Look; look, uncle, how
high it flies! and it pulls like a team of horses, so
that I can hardly hold it. I wish I hada mile of
string ; I am sure it would go to the end of it.”
After enjoying the sight as long as he pleased,
little John began to roll up the string slowly ;
and, when the kite fell, he took it up with great
glee, saying that it was not at all hurt, and that it
had behaved very well. ‘‘Shall we come out to-
morrow, uncle, after lessons, and Try Again.”’
NATURE'S NIGHT SOUNDS. 19

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

6.
NATURE’S NIGHT SOUNDS.

WELL remember what, as a country lad, im-

pressed me most upon my first visit to London.
It was the memory of the fact that I had, during
the small hours of the morning, stood alone in the
Strand. I had walked into the City from a house
in the suburbs, and, as I paced rapidly along the
pavement my footsteps echoed, and I listened to
them until, startled, I came to a dead stop. The
great artery of life was still; the pulse of the city
had ceased to beat. Not a moving object was
visible. Although I had been bred among the
lonely hills, I felt, for the first time, that this was to
be alone. Then, for the first time, I knew and
felt the dull force and realism of Wordsworth’s
lines,

‘* The very houses seemed to sleep ;

And all that mighty heart zs lying still!”

2*—4
20 ENGLISH READER. BOOK Iv.

I could detect no definite sound, only that vague
and distant hum which for ever haunts and hangs
over a great city.

Such a time of quiet as this can never be
observed in the country. It matters not as to
time and season; there seems no general period of
repose. There is always something abroad, some
creature of the fields or woods, which by its voice
or movements is betrayed. And, just as in an old
and rambling house, there are always strange
noises that cannot be accounted for, so, in the by-
paths of nature, there are sounds which can never
be traced to any one spot. To those, however,
who pursue their labours by night in the country—
gamekeepers, poachers, &c.,—there are always
calls and cries which tell of life. These are traced to
various animals and birds ; to beetles and night-
flying insects ; and even to fish. Let us track some
of these sounds to their source.

Weare by the covert side, and a strange churring
sound comes from the glades. Waiting silently
beneath the bushes, it comes nearer and nearer,
until a loud flapping is heard among the nut-bush
tops. The object approaches quite closely, and
we can see that the noise is produced by a large
bird striking its wings together as they meet behind.
Even in the dark we can detect that each wing is
crossed by a white bar. Had we the bird in our
NATURE'S NIGHT SOUNDS. 21

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



WOOD PIGEONS.

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

7.

Coming from out the woods the short sharp
bark of a fox is heard, and this is answered
again and again by the vixen. Rabbits rush
across our path, or rustle through the dead
leaves, their white tail-tips gleaming in the
darkness. The many-tongued sedge-bird, which
tells her tale to all the reeds by day, pro-
longs it under the night. Singing ceaselessly
from the bushes, she chatters or imitates the song's
of other birds, until my old angler friends call her
the fisherman’s nightingale. When by the covert
side, one of the calls which one constantly hears is
the crowing of the cock pheasants; this is heard in
the densest darkness, as is sometimes the soft
cooing of the wood pigeons. Both pheasants and
cushats sleep on the low spreading branches of the
tall trees, and, from beneath these, the poacher
often shoots them. He comes when there is a
moon, and with a short-barrelled gun and a half-
charge of powder drops the birds dead from below.

One of the greatest night-helps to the game-
keeper in staying the prowling poacher is the lap-
wing. This bird is one of the lightest sleepers of
the fields, starting up from the fallows and scream-
ing upon the slightest alarm. Poachers dread this
bird, and the keeper closely follows its cry. A
Lz



‘SGNNOS LHOIN S,AYOLVN

SEDGE WARBLERS AND NEST.
24 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

hare rushing wildly past will put the plover away
from its roost, and when hares act thus there is
generally some good cause for it.

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

8.

Passing the remains of an old baronial hall,
the piercing screech of a barn owl-comes from
the dismantled tower. Here the white owls have
lived time out of mind, and we have seen and heard
them, asleep and awake, through every hour of the
day and night. It is unnatural history to assert
—as Gray does—that the barn owls ever mope, or
NATURE'S NIGHT SOUNDS. 25

mourn. Neither are they grave monks, nor pillared
saints. A boding bird or a dolorous! Nonsense;
they are none of these. They issue forth as very
demons, and sail about, seeking whom they may
devour. The barn owl is the ‘screech’ owl of
bird literature, the brown owl, the true hooting
owl. This species is found in the old and heavily
timbered districts, and it loves the dark and sombre
gloom of resinous pine woods.

One of the most piteous sounds that is
borne on the night is the hare’s scream when it
finds itself in the poacher’s nets. It resembles
nothing so nearly as the cry of a child, and, when
it suddenly ceases, we know that the wire snare has
tightened round its throat.

All night long, crake answers crake from the
meadows, appearing, now at our feet, now far out
yonder. Like tk~ cuckoo, the cornrail is a bird
oftener heard than seen; it is of hiding habits,
and finds a secure and snug retreat in the lush
summer grass.

Beneath the oaks, bats circle after night-fly-
ing insects, and there by the stream-side are clouds
of gauzy May flies. The wild whistle of a curlew
comes from high over-head, and the bird is flying
through the night to some far off feeding-ground.

Just now, in the fall of the year, myriads of
migratory birds pass over; and we ‘‘ hear the beat
26 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

of their pinions fleet,” but their forms we cannot
see. But if only we may ‘hear the cry of their
voices high, falling dreamily through the sky,” the
speciés is easily known. If we approach the
reed-beds silently, we may hear the hoarse croak
of the frogs, or, maybe, wild ducks, as they beat the
air with their strong wings.

Emerging from the waterside to a belt of
coppice, we are reminded how lightly the
creatures of the woods and fields sleep. The
faintest rustle brings chirping from the bushes,
and in the densest darkness even, some of
the delicate wood birds sing. Not only the
sedge and grasshopper warbles; but, from the
willows, come the lute-like mellowness and wild
sweetness of the blackcap, another night singer.
Besides these, many other sounds there are, known
only to dwellers in the country or those who have
brushed the beads from the long grass during the
short summer nights. There are some white
flowers which only emit their fragrance at night,
and these have their own particular night- fae
insect visitors.
HONEYBALL AND VIOLETTA. 27

9.
HONEYBALL AND VIOLETTA.

Hoe was a good-natured, easy kind of

creature, who belonged to the city of the
Honey-bees. She was very ready to do a kind-
ness if it cost her but little trouble ; but she was
as lazy as any drone in the hive.

Honeyball would have liked to live all day in
the bell of a foxglove, with nothing to disturb her
in her idle feast. It was said, in the hive, that
more than once she had been known to sip so
much, that at last she had been unable to rise, and
for hours had laid helpless on the ground.

One bright sunny morning, when the bees were
early abroad, Honeyball shook her lazy wings, and
crept to the door of the hive: there she stood for a
few moments, jostled by the passing throng, when
she, finally, flew off in quest of food.

How delightful was the air! how fragrant the
breeze: The buttercups spread their carpet of
gold, and the daisies their mantle of silver over
the meadows, all glittering with the drops of
bright dew.

Honeyball soon found a flower to her taste, and
never thought of quitting it till she had sipped
away all its honeyed store. She had a dim idea
that it was her duty to help to fill the honey-cells of
28 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

the hive ; but poor Honeyball was too apt to pre-
fer pleasure to duty.

‘‘T should like to have nothing to do,” she
murmured, little thinking that a listener was near.

‘‘ Like to have nothing to do. Is it from a
hive-bee that I hear such words ? From one whose
labour is itself all play.” .

Honeyball turned to view the speaker, and be-
held, on a sign-post near her, the most beautiful
bee she had ever seen. She knew her, at once, to
be a carpenter-bee.. Her body was larger than
that of a hive-bee, and her wings were of a lovely
violet colour, like the softest tint of the rainbow.

Honeyball was a little ashamed of what she had
said, and a little confused. by the speech of the
stranger ; but as all bees consider each other as
cousins, she thought it best to put on an easy air.

‘‘Why, certainly,” said she, .‘‘ flying about
upon a morning like this, and sipping honey from
flowers, is pleasant enough for atime. But, may
I ask, lady-bee, if you do not think it hard to
work in wax?”

‘To work in wax,” scornfully replied Violetta
—‘*A soft thing which you can bend and twist
any way, and knead into any shape that you choose.
Come and look at my home here, and then ask
yourself if you have any reason to complain of
your work,”
HONEYBALL: AND VIOLETTA. 29





































































































































CARPENTER BEES.

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

she see anywhere. ‘‘ May I venture to ask where:
you live,” said she at last.

‘This way,’’ cried Violetta, waving her feelers,
and pointing to a little round hole in the post
which Honeyball had not noticed before. . It
looked gloomy, and dark, and strange; but
Violetta, who took some pride in her mansion,
requested Honeyball to step in.

“You cannot doubt my honour,’’ said she,
seeing that the hive-worker hesitated, ‘‘ or suspect
a cousin.’’ Honeyball assured her that she had
never dreamed of such a thing, and entered the
hole in the post. |

Io.

For about an inch, the way sloped gently down-
wards; then, suddenly, became as straight as a well,
and so dark, and so deep, that Honeyball would
never have tried to reach the bottom, had she not
feared to offend her new friend.

She had some hopes that this deep passage
might be only a long entrance, leading to some
cheerful hive; but, after having gone to the very
end, and finding nothing but wood to reward her
search, she crept again up the steep, narrow way,
and, with joy, found herself once more in the sun-
shine.
HONEYBALL AND VIOLETTA. 31

‘*What do you think of it?” asked Violetta,
rather proudly.

“¢1—J—do not think that your hive would hold
many bees. Is it quite finished, may I inquire?”

‘““No; I have yet to divide it into chambers for
my children, each chamber filled with a mixture of
pollen and honey, and divided from the next by a
ceiling of glue and sawdust. But the boring was
finished to-day.”

‘*'You do not mean to say,” exclaimed Honey-
ball in surprise, ‘‘that that long gallery was ever
bored by bees ?”

‘* Not by bees,” replied Violetta, with a bow,
‘“but by oe bee; I bored it all myself.”

‘*The lazy Honeyball could not conceal her
surprise. ‘‘ Is it possible that you sawed it all out
with your teeth ?”

‘“ Every inch of the depth,” Violetta replied.

‘And that you can gather honey and pollen
enough to fill it?”

‘*T must provide for my children, or they would
starve,’ replied ole ‘‘ Away down there, I
lay my little eggs.’

‘¢ And you can make ceilings of such a Wing as
sawdust to divide the home of your children into
cells ?”

‘* This is perhaps the hardest part of my task ;
but, yet, it must be done.”
32 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

‘‘Where will you find sawdust for this car-
penter’s work ?”’ asked Honeyball.

‘¢ See yonder little heap which I have gathered :
these are my cuttings from my tunnel in the
wood. ”

‘¢You are, without doubt, a most wonderful bee,
my fair cousin! And you really labour all alone ?”

‘Yes, all alone,” replied Violetta.

Honeyball thought of her own cheerful hive,
with its thousands of workers; its division of
labour ; and its waxen cells, dripping with golden
honey. She could scarcely believe her own five
eyes when she saw what one insect, but little larger
than herself, could do.

Her surprise and her praise pleased the violet
bee, who took pride in showing every part of her
work.

‘‘One thing strikes me,” said Honeyball,
glancing down the tunnel. ‘‘I should not like to
have the place of the eldest of your children, down
there in the lowest cell, and unable to stir till all
her sisters have eaten their way into daylight.”

Violetta gave what in Bee-land is looked upon as
asmile. ‘‘] have thought of that, and of a remedy
too,” said she. ‘‘I am about to bore a little hole
at the end of my tunnel, to give the young bee a
way of escape from its prison.”

‘¢ And, now,” added Violetta, ‘‘ I will detain you
TOWN AND COUNTRY. 3:3

no longer ; so much remains to be done, and time
is so precious. You have something to collect for
your hive: I am too much your friend to wish you
to be idle.”

Honeyball thanked her new friend, and flew
away, somewhat the wiser for her visit, and
content with her lot in life; for she felt that not
for ten pairs of purple wings would she change
places with the carpenter-bee.

II.
TOWN AND COUNTRY.

Coe of the country ! free as air
Art thou, and as the sunshine fair ;
Born like the lily, where the dew
Lies odorous when the day is new ;
Fed ’mid the May-flowers like the bee,
Nursed to sweet music on the knee
Lull’d in the breast to that sweet tune
Which winds make ’mong the woods of June;
I sing of thee ;—’tis sweet to sing
Of such a fair and gladsome thing.

Child of the town! for thee I sigh,
A gilded roof’s thy golden sky,
A carpet is thy daisied sod,

A narrow street thy boundless wood ;
34
34

ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV,

Thy rushing deer’s the clattering tramp

Of watchmen ; thy best light’s a lamp,—
Through smoke, and not through trellised vines,
And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines :

I sing of thee in sadness; where

Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair!

Child of the country ! on the lawn

I see thee like the bounding fawn,
Blithe as the bird which tries its wing
The first time on the wings of Spring ;
Now running, shouting, ’mid sunbeams,
Now groping trouts in lucid streams,
Now spinning like a mill-wheel round,
Now hunting Echo’s empty sound,

Now climbing up some old tall tree—
For climbing’s sake,—’tis sweet to thee
To sit where birds can sit alone,

Or share with thee thy venturous throne.

Child of the town and bustling street,
What woes and snares await thy feet !

Thy paths are paved for five long miles,
Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles ;
Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke,

Which shrouds thee like a mourning cloak ;
And thou art cabin’d and confin’d,

At once from sun, and dew, and wind,

Or set thy tottering feet but on

Thy lengthen’d walks of slippery stone.
THE DWARF AND THE GIANT. 35

Fly from the town, sweet child! for health
Is happiness, and strength and wealth.
There is a lesson in each flower,

A story in each stream and bower ;

On every herb o’er which you tread

Are written words which, rightly read,
Will lead you, from earth's fragrant sod,
To hope, and holiness, and God.

I2.

THE DWARF AND THE GIANT.
[Adapted from Oliver Goldsmith)

DWAREF and a Giant, who were good friends,
made a bargain that they would never forsake
each other, but go to seek adventures. The first
battle they fought was with two Turks; and the
Dwarf, who was full of courage, dealt one of them
a most angry blow.

He did but very little injury to the Turk, who,
lifting up his sword, fairly struck off the poor
Dwarfs arm. The latter was now in a woful
plight; but the giant, coming to his help, in a
short time, left the two Turks dead on the plain;
and the Dwarf cut off the man’s head out of spite,

They then moved on to another adventure.
"3-4
36 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

This was against three cruel Satyrs, who were
carrying away a damsel in distress. The Dwarf
was not quite so fierce now as before ; but, for all
that, he struck the first blow, which was returned
by another that knocked out his eye: but the
Giant was soon up with them, and, had they not
fled, would have killed them everyone.

The two friends were very joyful for this victory ;
and the damsel who was saved fell in love with the
Giant, and married him. They now travelled far,
and farther than I can tell, till they met with a
company of robbers. The Giant, for the first
time, was foremost, but the Dwarf was not far
behind. The battle was stout and long. Wherever
the Giant came, all fell before him ; but the Dwarf
came near being killed more than once. At last,
the victory was won; but the Dwarf lost a
leg.

The Dwarf had now lost an arm, a leg, and an
‘eye, whilst the Giant was without a single wound.
Upon which the latter cried out to his little friend,
‘My little hero, this is fine sport! Let us gain
one victory more, and then we shall have honour for
ever.” ‘* No,” cried the Dwarf, who hac by this
time grown wiser, ‘‘no; I'll fight no more;
for I find in every battle that you get all the
honour and rewards, but all the blows fall upon

”

me.
THE KNIGHT, THE HERMIT, AND THE MAN.

Ge
~

THE KNIGHT, THE HERMIT, AND THE MAN,
7 83.
THE KNIGHT.

Ge GUY DE MONTFORT was as brave a

knight as ever laid lance in rest or swung his
gleaming battle-axe. He had many noble qualities;
but they were hidden, alas! by the strange thirst
for human blood that marked the age in which he
lived.

Ten knights, as brave as Sir Guy, and having as
many noble qualities, had fallen beneath his great
strength and skill in arms; and, for this, the
bright eyes of beauty looked with favour upon him :
fair lips smiled when he rode forth, and minstrels
sang of his prowess. :

At a great feast, given in honour of the
marriage of the King’s daughter, Sir Guy sent
forth his offer to single and deadly combat,
but, for two days, no one accepted it, although it
was three times made public by the herald. On
the third day, a young and strange knight rode,
with visor down, into the lists. | His slender form
showed him to be no match for Guy dé Montfort—
and so it proved. They met, and Sir Guy’s lance,
at the first tilt, pierced the breastplate of the brave
young knight and entered his heart.

As he rolled upon the ground, his helmet flew
38 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

off, and a shower of sunny curls fell over his fair
young face and neck.

Soon the strange news went thrilling from heart
to heart, that the youthful knight who had kissed
the dust beneath the sharp steel of De Montfort
was a maiden, and none other than the beautiful,
high-spirited Agnes Bertrand, whose father Sir
Guy had killed, but a few months before, in
combat. By order of the King, the lists were
closed, and knights and ladies gay went back
to their homes, thoughtful, sad, and sorrowful.

Alone in his castle, with the grim faces of his
forefathers looking down upon him from the wall,
Sir Guy paced to and fro with hurried steps. The
Angel of Mercy was nearer to him than she had
been for years, and her whispers he heard. Glory
and fame were forgotten by the knight, for self
was forgotten.

The question—a strange question for him—
‘‘What good?” arose in his mind. He had
killed Bertrand—but why? To add another leaf
to his laurels as a brave knight. But was this
leaf worth its cost—the broken heart of the fairest
and loveliest maiden in the land? nay, more—the
life-drops from that broken heart ?

For the first time the flush of triumph was chilled
by the thought of what the triumph had cost him.
‘Then came a shudder, as he thought of the lovely
THE KNIGHT, THE HERMIT, AND THE MAN. 39





















































































































































THE KNIGHT.
40 ENGLISH READER, BOOK IV.

widow who drooped in Arno Castle—of the wild
pang that snapped the heart-strings of De Cressy’s
bride, when she saw the battle-axe go crashing
into her husband’s brain.

-As these sad images came up before the knight,
his pace grew more rapid, and his brows, upon
which large beads of sweat were standing, were
clasped between his hands in agony. ‘And for
what is all this?” he murmured. ‘‘For what is
all this? Am I braver or better for such wicked
work ?”’ é

Through the jong night he paced the hall of his
castle, but, with day-dawn, he rode forth alone.
The sun rose and set; the seasons came and went;
years passed ; but the knight returned not.

14.
THE HERMIT.

. pas from the busy scenes of life dwelt a pious

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




THE HERMIT.

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

One night, he dreamt in his cell that the Angel
of Mercy came to him, and said: ‘It is in vain—
allin vain! Art thou not a man, to whom power
has been given to do good to thy fellow-men ?
Thou callest thyself God’s servant ; but where is
thy work? I see it not. Where are the hungry
thou hast fed? the naked thou hast clothed ? the
sick who have been visited by thee? They are
not here in this lone spot !”’

The Angel went away, and the hermit awoke.
‘Where is my work ?”’ he asked, as he stood with:
his hot brow bared to the cool air. ‘‘ The stars
are moving in their courses; the trees are spread-
ing forth their branches and rising to heaven ; and
the stream flows on to the ocean; but J—I—
gifted with a will, with wisdom, and energy—am
doing no work!”

The morning broke, and the hermit saw the bee
at its labour, the bird building its nest, and the
worm spinning its silken thread. ‘‘ And is there
no work for man, the noblest of all living beings ? ’
said he.

The hermit knelt in prayer, but found no peace.
Where was his work? ‘De Montfort, it is
vain!” he cried. ‘‘ There must be work, as well
as penance and prayer.” He rose from his knees ;
and, when night came, the hermit’s cell was

empty.
THE KNIGHT, THE HERMIT, AND THE MAN, 43

15.
THE MAN.

A FEARFUL plague raged in a great city. In

the narrow streets, where the poor were
crowded together, its hot breath struck down
hundreds in a day. Those who were not stricken
down, fled, and left the sick and the dying to
their fate.

In the midst of these dreadful scenes, a man
clad in plain garments—a stranger—entered the
plague-stricken city. The flying folks warned
him of the peril he was about to face, but, heeding
them not, he took his way with a arti step to the
regions ier most lay sick.

In the first house that he entered, he found a
young maiden alone, and almost in the agonies of
death ; and her feeble cry was for water to slake
her burning thirst. He placed to her lips a cool
draught, of which she drank ; then, he sat down to
watch by her side. In a little while, the hot fever
began to abate, and the sufferer slept. Then he
lifted her in his arms, and bore her beyond the
city walls, where the air was pure.

For weeks the plague brooded over that fated
city ; and, during the whole time, this stranger to
all the people passed from house to house, holding
up a dying head here, giving drink to such as
44 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

were almost mad with thirst there, and bearing
forth in his arms those for whom there was any
hope of life. But, when the plague had left the
city, he was nowhere to be found.

For years, the castle of De Montfort had been
without a lord. At last, its owner returned ; not
on mailed charger, with corslet, casque, and
spear—a boastful knight, with hands stained by
his brother’s blood—-nor as a pious monk from his
cloister ; but as a man, from the city where he had
done good deeds amid the dying and the dead.
He came to dwell in his stately castle and rule his
broad lands once more ; not to glory in his state,
but to use his gifts in making wiser, better, and
happier his fellow-men.

He had work to do, and he was faithful to his
trust. He was no longer a knight, seeking for
war wherever brute force promised to give him |
victory ; he was no longer an idle hermit, shrink-
ing from his work in the great harvest-field of
life; but he was a man, doing bravely, among his
fellow-man, truly noble deeds—not deeds of blood,
but deeds of moral daring, in an age when the real
duties of life were despised by the titled few.

There were the bold Knight, the pious Hermit,
and the true Man ; but the Man was the best and -
greatest of all.
SOWING AND REAPING. 45

16.
SOWING AND REAPING.

ees are sowing their seed in the daylight fair,

They are sowing their seed in the noonday

glare,
They are sowing their seed in the soft twilight,
They are sowing their seed in the solemn night ;
What shall their harvest be ?



SOWING

Some are sowing their seed of pleasant thought ;

In the spring’s green light they have blithely
wrought ;

They have brought their fancies from wood and
dell,

°
46 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

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

Some are sowing the seeds of word and deed,

Which the cold know not, nor the careless heed,

Of the gentle word and the kindest deed,

That have blessed the heart in its sorest need :
Sweet shall the harvest be !

And some are sowing the seeds of pain,

Of late remorse, and in maddened brain ;

And the stars shall fall, and the sun shall wane,

Ere they root the weeds from the soil again :
Dark will the harvest be!

And some are standing with idle hand,

Yet they scatter seeds on their native land ;

And some are sowing the seeds of care

Which their soil has borne, and still must bear :
Sad will the harvest be !

And each, in his way, is sowing the seed

Of good or of evil, in word or deed :

With a careless hand o’er the earth they sow,

And the fields are ripening where’er they go:
What shall the harvest be ?
SOWING AND REAPING. 47























































































































































































REAPING.

Sown in darkness, or sown in light ;

Sown in weakness, or sown in might ;

Sown in meekness, or sown in wrath ;

In the broad work-field, or the shadowy path :
Sure will the harvest be!
48. ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

17.
THE LOCOMOTIVES AND THE
TEA-KETTLE.
(A Fable.)

AS I happened one day to enter an old shed, in
which some worn-out locomotives had been
stowed away, I chanced to over-hear the following:

‘‘ Gentlemen,” said an old tea-kettle that lay in
a corner of the shed—‘‘ Gentlemen, I am sorry to
see you in this place: I wasn’t brought here till I
had more than once lost my spout and handle, and
had been patched and soldered till very little of my
first self was left. I conclude, therefore, that, like
me, you have seen your best days, and are now to
be laid aside as useless.” ,

The locomotives looked at one another, and
frowned, but did not answer.

‘‘Well, gentlemen and brothers,” cried the
kettle again, ‘‘ don’t be.down-hearted. We have
played busy and useful parts in our day, and may
comfort ourselves now in thinking over the work
we have done. As for me, when I look back
upon the home comforts that I have been the
means of affording, it affects me deeply.”

‘¢ What is that little old tin whistling about, up
in the corner?” asked one of the locomotives of
his neighbour.
THE LOCOMOTIVES AND THE TEA-KETTLE. 49

“* Where are his brothers ? ”

‘* Hey-day! Is that it?” cried the kettle, all
alive with rage. ‘‘ So you don’t own the relation-
ship.” Let me tell you, with all your pitiful pride,
that though you won’t own me as a brother, I am
father and mother to you, for who would ever have
heard of a steam-engine, if it hadn’t been for a tea-
kettle ?”

The locomotives were abashed, and silent ; and
whilst I was drawing a moral from the just reproof
which the kettle had given their pride, my ear
caught up the following song, which was sung by
one of the workmen in a building hard by :

They may talk as they will about singing,
Their harps, and their lutes, and what not ;

Their fiddles are not worth the stringing,
Compared with the music I’ve got ;

For with lessons far deeper and higher
The song of the kettle may teem:

’Twas the kettle that sung on the fire,
That first proved the power of steam.

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

4-4
50 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

I love every inch of its metal,
From the tip of the spout to the knob:

‘© Lead a temperate life,” sings the kettle,—
The kettle that sings on the hob.

18.
THE LOST CAMEL.

DERVISH was travelling alone in the desert,
when two merchants suddenly met him.
‘©You have lost a camel,” said he to the mer-
chants. ‘‘ Indeed we have,” they replied. ‘* Was
he not blind in his right eye and lame in his left
leg ?” said the dervish.

‘© He was,” replied the merchants. ‘‘ Had he
lost a front tooth ? ” said the dervish. ‘‘ He had,”
rejoined the merchants. ‘‘ And was he not loaded
with honey on one side, and corn. on the other ? ”
‘“ Most certainly he was,” they replied ; ‘‘and, as
you have seen him so lately, and describe him so
well, we suppose you can conduct us to him.”

‘My friends,” said the dervish, ‘‘ I have never
seen your camel, nor even heard of him, but from

yourselves.” ‘*A pretty story, truly,” said the
merchants; ‘‘ but where are the jewels which
formed a part of his burden?” ‘‘TI have neither

seen your camel, nor your jewels,” repeated the:
dervish.
THE LOST CAMEL. 51

On this, they seized him, and took him to the
cadi, where, on the strictest search, nothing could
be found against him ; nor could any evidence be
produced to prove him guilty, either of falsehood
or of theft. They were then about to proceed
against him as a sorcerer, when the dervish,
with great calmness, thus addressed the
Court:— .

‘*T have been much amused with your surprise,
and own that there has been some ground for you
to think that I have deceived you; but I have
lived long, and alone, and have found ample room
for observation, even in a desert.

‘‘T knew that I had crossed the track. of a
camel that had strayed from its owner, because I
saw no mark of any human footsteps on the same
route. I knew that the animal was blind of one
eye, because it had cropped the herbage only on
one side of its path; and I saw that it was lame
in one leg, from the faint impression one foot had
made upon the sand.

‘*T also concluded that the animal had lost one
tooth, because, wherever it had grazed, a small
tuft of herbage was left uncropped, in the centre
of its bite. As to that which formed the burden
of the beast, the busy ants informed me that it was
corn on the one side; and the clustering flies,

that it was honey on the other.”
4°—4
52 ENGLISH READER BOOK IV.

19.
THE CROWS AND THE WIND-MILL.

ie seems there was once a wind-mill—history

does not tell us exactly where, and I suppose
it does not much matter where it was—which
went round and round, day after day. It did no
harm to anybody. It never knocked anybody
down, unless he got under it, within reach of its
great arms. What if it did use the air! It did
not hurt the air, for the air was just as good for
breathing after it had turned the mill, as it was .
before.

But there was a flock of crows in the neighbour-
hood, that took quite a dislike to the mill. They:
said there must be some mischief about it. They
did not at ail like its actions;—the swinging of those
long arms, for a whole day atatime. And, besides
that, it was rumoured, in the crow-village, that a
good-natured crow once went to look at the wind-
mill, and that the great thing hit him a knock with
one of its arms, and killed him on the spot.

Some half-a-dozen of the flock of crows that felt
so much alarmed were talking together, at one
time, when the conversation turned, as was
generally the case, upon the giant mill. After
talking awhile, it was thought best to call a
council of all the crows in the country, to see if
THE CROWS AND THE WIND-MILL.

TIL N TRUS VEE]
S\N DANS

\
au

ee

CROWS IN COUNCIL,


54 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

some means could not be hit upon, by which the
thing could be got rid of.

The meeting was called, and the council met in
a corn-field. Such cawing and chattering was
‘never before heard in that neighbourhood. They
appointed a chairman—perhaps we ought to say a
‘chair-crow—and other officers, and proceeded to
: business.

As is usual in public meetings of this nature,

‘there were many opinions as to the question,
‘What is best to be done with the wind-mill ?”
Most of the crows thought the wind-mill a danger-
ous thing—a very dangerous thing indeed: but
then, as to the best mode of getting rid of it, that
was not so easy a matter to decide.

There were some crows at the meeting who were
for going, at once, right over to the wind-mill—all
the crows in a body—to pull down the thing on
the spot. In justice to the crow family in general,
however, it ought to be stated that those who
talked about this warlike measure were rather
young. Their feathers were not yet quite fully
grown, and they had not seen so much of the
world as their fathers had.

After there had been much loud talking, all over
and around the great elm tree where the council
was held, one old crow said he had a few questions

_ to ask. He hada plan to propose, too—perhaps—
THE CROWS AND THE WIND-MILL. 55

and perhaps not. It would depend upon the
answers to his questions, whether he gave any
advice or not.

He would beg leave to inquire, he said, through
the chairman, if the wind-mill had ever been
known to go away from the place where it was
then standing, and to chase crows round the fields,
for the purpose of killing them.

It was admitted that such conduct on the part
of the giant had never been heard of. Even the
oldest crow, who had heard, from his grandfather,
the story about the unhappy fate of the crow that
perished by a blow from the giant’s arms, did
not remember to have heard that the wind-mill had
ever made such warlike visits.

‘‘ How then,” the speaker wished to know,
‘was that crow killed in old times ?”

The answer was, ‘‘ He ventured too near the
mill.”

‘‘ And is that the only way that any of us are
likely to get killed by the wind-mill 2?”

‘‘ Yes,” the scare-crow said, ‘that is the way,
I believe.”

And the crows generally nodded their heads, as
much as to say, ‘‘ Certainly, of course.”

‘‘ Well, then,” said the old crow who asked the
questions, ‘‘let us keep away from the. mill.
That is all I have to say.”
56 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

At this, the whole council set up a noisy laugh.
The meeting broke up. The general opinion was,
that the advice of the last speaker was, on the
whole, the safest and best that could be given.

There are some things, very harmless in them-
selves, and very useful too in their proper places,
that will be very apt to injure us if we go too near
them. In such cases, remember the advice of the
wise crow, and keep away from the mill.

20.
ASPIRATIONS OF YOUTH.

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

Deeper, deeper let us toil,
In the mines of knowledge ;
Nature’s wealth, and learning’s spoil,
Win from school or college ;
Delve we there for richer gems
Than the stars of diadems.
THE RIVER. 57

Onward, onward may we press
Through the path of duty ;

Virtue is true happiness,
Excellence true beauty.

Minds are of celestial birth,
Make we then a heaven on earth.

Closer, closer let us knit
Hearts and hands together,

Where our fireside comforts sit,
In the wildest weather :

Oh! they wander wide who roam
For the joys of life from home.

THE RIVER.

IVER! River! little River !

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

River! River! swelling River !

On you rush o’er rough and smooth—
Louder, faster, brawling, leaping

Over rocks, by rose-banks sweeping,

Like impetuous youth.
ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.



F

THE RIVER.

River ! River! brimming River !
Broad, and deep, and still as Time,
Seeming still—yet still in motion,
Tending onward to the ocean,
Just like mortal prime.
THE CROCODILE AND THE ICHNEUMON. 59

River! River! rapid River !

Swifter now you slip away ;
Swift and silent as an arrow,
‘Through a channel dark and narrow,

Like life’s closing day.

River! River! headlong River!
Down you dash into the sea ;

Sea, that line hath never sounded,

Sea, that voyage hath never rounded,
Like eternity.

2I.
‘THE CROCODILE AND THE ICHNEUMON.

LONG time ago a very fierce crocodile of great
size, that dwelt on the marshy banks of the
river Nile, by his ravages spread dismay over the
whole country around. He seized the shepherds,
together with the sheep, and devoured the herds-
men as well as the cattle.

Growing bold by success, and by the terror
which spread in advance of his ravages, he ventured -
even into the island of Tentyra, whose people had
long boasted that they were the only tamers of the
crocodile race.
60 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

But even they were now struck with horror

at the appearance of a monster, so much
more terrible than they had ever before seen.
Even the boldest of them were afraid to
attack him openly ; and, with all their art and -
address, it was in vain that they tried to surprise
him.
While they were holding council in great fear,
as to what they should do under these circum-.
stances, an ichneumon, a little animal not so big’
as a weasel, stepped forth, and thus addressed
them: ‘‘T perceive your distress, neighbours ;
and, though I cannot assist you in your present
trouble, yet I can offer you some advice that may
be of use to you in the future. A little prudence
is worth all your courage: for, although it may be
glorious to overcome a great evil, it is often the
wisest way to prevent it.

‘You despise the crocodile while he is small
and weak, and do not consider that he is a long-
lived animal, and continues to grow as long as he
lives. You see I am a poor, little, feeble creature;
yet I am much more terrible to the crocodiles, and
more useful to the country than youare. I attack
him in the egg, and, while you are contriving for
months together how to get rid of one crocodile,
and all to no purpose, I easily destroy fifty of them
in a day.” ;
NESTS OF BIRDS. 61

22.
NESTS OF BIRDS.

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



NEST OF MAGPIE.

nature has given them the power of carrying
through the air. Their strength is so great that
they can carry great weights with ease.

A dwelling of this kind, when once finished,
it may be at the expense of much time and
trouble, serves for a long line of descend-
ants from the first builders, for it is seldom
62 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

that these abodes are deserted untit decay has
altogether unfitted them for their purpose ; and
they are so firmly built that many years must
elapse before they are utterly unfit for habitation.
Birds of prey are the only members of the-feathered
tribes which take upon themselves to erect nests of
this enduring kind; for the greater number of
birds are content with lighter dwellings on the
branch of a tree, against the side of a house, on
the turf, or amongst the reeds.

Some make use of bits of straw, small sticks,
moss, down, cotton, or a hundred little things
picked-up here and there with great pains, and
arranged in order at the place chosen. Their
claws and beak are the only tools used in knitting
together the matters which form the nest. Other
species hang their nests.from flexible branches
which are set in motion by every wind. Others
collect gravel and leaves, which they cement by
means of their saliva, and thus form a piece of

_ waterproof masonry.

The nest, so built, is usually placed in the angle
of a chimney or a rock. Here, the male bird
nestles, looks abroad like a sentinel for foes, and
then sleeps in his own little chamber when the
time for rest comes. Surely, in works like these,
there is food for admiration. To complete a work
of this kind, think of the pains taken !
NESTS OF BIRDS. — 63;

Some birds build on the ground, between
hillocks of earth, which protect them from the
wind and from an overflow of water. These nests
are, perhaps, not so carefully wrought as other
kinds. Others content themselves with digging a
hole in the sand, and there laying their eggs,
which they leave the sun to hatch during the day,
but to which they return at night.

We cannot be expected to give any regular
account of nests here; but it. may be amusing"
to mention some strange kinds; and we will
begin with the nest of the Long-tailed Titmouse.
This bird is not much larger than the wren; its.
head, neck, and breast are white; the rest of its.
body is chiefly black; its tail is very long and
wedge-shaped. Pennant, after remarking that the
young follow their parents for the whole winter, says
that, ‘‘ from the slimness of their bodies and great
length of tail, they appear, while flying, like so.
many darts cutting the air.” The nest is closed
over, both above and below; only one little
circular opening at the side is left, serving for door
and window.

As the cold might enter by the opening, the bird
makes use of door-curtains similar to those which
some of our rooms possess; the entrance to its.
home being furnished with a hanging of feathers.
Thus it is protected from rain, and from the gaze
64 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

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

23.
This is not all ; the titmouse is so small a bird
‘that it has much to fear from foes of many kinds ;
and, therefore, to conceal the place of its abode, it



NEST OF HEDGE-SPARROW.

‘fixes its nest to the trunk of a tree, and then covers
it up with mosses, lichens and other plants such as
-grow on the bark, so as not to disturb the natural
appearance in the least. Sometimes, the nest is
placed in the centre of a thick bush, and so firmly is
it seated, that, if we desire to procure it, it must be
‘cut out. The nest is made by the female, who is
NESTS OF BIRDS. 65

two or three weeks in building it. There
is another member of the tit tribe which takes still
greater pains. It is one that builds in watery
places, where it stands in danger of being attacked
by reptiles. Accordingly, it suspends its nest from
a flexible branch over the water. The entrance to
the nest is formed by a sort of pipe, through which
no snake can force its way.

Another kind of titmouse adds to its nest a little
cell, in which the male and female rest after tend-
ing their young. The birds are very small, delicate,
and weak ; yet the nest they build is very large:
indeed, wonderfully so, when the small size of the
builder is considered. The labour is begun in the
middle of winter, and is not completed until spring.
The hatching is a long process, twenty-two being
the customary number of eggs; and the female
takes all the trouble of sitting on them to herself.

The-reed warbler, so named from the places it
frequents, builds at once a house and a boat. The
nest is slightly attached to the reeds, and is
coated with a gummy substance, which prevents
the water from entering, in case the nest should
slip down, or the water should rise.

We have seen a nest of the tailor bird so
artfully constructed, that to view its interior we
were forced to unrip the stitches and cut off the
tightly drawn knots. Several leaves had been

5—4
66 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

sewn together by means of cotton or fibrous plants.
There you had the thread ; but can you guess the
needle. It was no other than the beak of the bird
itself.

As examples of fine art we might adduce the
nests of the thrush, the goldfinch, and above all, of
the grossbeaks, who erect an immense dwelling,
place, to contain five or six hundred inhabitants-



NESTS OF GROSSBEAKS.

all living together on good terms. A_ great
number of these birds form a building society, and
unite their efforts to erect a little town of nests.
Having selected a large tree proper for the purpose,
they first construct a roof woven out of large
plants, close enough to be rain-proof. This labour
ended, they divide the space within amongst
the members of this bird partnership, and the
NESTS OF BIRDS. 67

nests are attached, side by side, to the roof, all being
of the same size. Each bird has, generally, its
Private entrance; but, sometimes, it happens that
one door gives access to two or three nests. Each
nest is about three inches in diameter, and is made
of plants, but of a less coarse kind than those used
for the roof ; and, within, there isa lining of down.

As the population increases, new nests are
placed upon the old ones, and some of these latter
are converted into a public pathway, leading to
the new dwellings.

24.

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

its young from their many foes, and conceals the
5*~4
68 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

cradle where they commence a life full of risks
should not be without its meed of applause. A
short cane, between two trees above water, is
taken and the prudent mother fastens her nest
to it by a band, at the same time strong and
pliant. The wind may shake this aérial house,
and beat it to and fro; but it is well pro-
tected against invasion by rats and such like
vermin. But, should a bird of prey approach the
little dwelling, its attention is diverted by the male
or the female hopping as if wounded, only a short
distance in advance of the enemy.

We shall close this imperfect sketch with an ac-
count of a nest which forms an article of food. We
allude to the nests of Tonquin, which form no
trivial article of commerce in the Chinese and
Indian seas. This strange article of diet is the
work of a kind of swallow ; it is not composed,
as some have stated, of fish and other animal
matter, but of seaweed.

A plant of the Indian seas, which contains a large
quantity of sugar, has been found in the nest.
When the bird has bruised it, it is placed in cup-
like layers, and then the eggs are laid in it. These
nests are chiefly sought for in caverns along the
coast of the islands which separate the Pacific and
the Indian oceans. To reach these caverns,
scooped out by the sea, it is often necessary
NESTS OF BIRDS. 69

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

25.

Accidents, however, do not happen very often.
Sometimes, in the midst of the silence with which
the gathering is carried on, a sudden cry is heard,
a torch goes out, and a portion of rock rolls down
the precipice with a noise like thunder, echoed and
re-echoed through all the chambers of the vast
cavern. The affrighted searchers then know that
they have lost a comrade.

The nests most sought after are those picked up
in the dampest places, and those which have been
most recently built. They are whiter, and cleaner
than the others. The gathering takes place twice
a year, and, if care is taken not to injure the rocks
at the first taking, the number on the second
occasion is pretty nearly equal to that on the first.
TO ENGLISH READER. EOOK Iv.

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



NEST OF GOLDFINCH.

ever, the only recommendation is the high price,
which flatters the vanity of the rich, who can alone
afford to buy them. A favourite dish with the
Chinese is a soup made of these edible nests.
They are torn into very thin filaments, as trans-
parent as isinglass and as tasteless as vermicelli.
The quantity of nests imported into China.
annually is about two hundred and fifty thousand
ODE TO THE CUCKOO. 7I

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

26.
ODE TO THE CUCKOO.
AIL, beauteous stranger of the wood,
Attendant on the spring !
Now Heav’n repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.
72

ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV

Soon as the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear :

Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year ?

Delightful visitant ! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,

When heaven is fill’d with music sweet
Of birds among the bowers.

The school-boy wand ’ring in the wood
To pull the flowers so gay,

Starts, thy curious voice to hear,
And imitates thy lay.

Soon as the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fly’st thy vocal vale,

An annual guest in other lands,
Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bow’r is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear ;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year !

O could I fly, I’d fly with thee :
We'd make, with social wing,

Our annual visit o’er the globe,
Companions of the spring.
THE SKYLARK. 13

THE SKYLARK.

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

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

O’er fell and fountain sheen,
O’er moor and mountain green,

O’er the red streamer that heralds the day ;
Over the cloudlet dim,

_ Over the rainbow’s rim,

Musical cherub, hie, hie thee away !

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

an
A NOBLE REVENGE.

A YOUNG officer so far forgot himself, in a

moment of anger, as to strike a private
soldier, well-known for his courage. The laws
forbade to the soldier any redress—he could not
return the blow. Words only were at his com-
mand, and, in a tumult of passion, as he turned
away, the soldier said to his officer that he would
‘“make him repent it.” This, wearing the shape
of a threat, rekindled the officer’s anger, and thus
the breach between the two young men grew wider
than before.

Some weeks after this, an action took place with
the enemy. Suppose yourself looking down into
the valley filled by the two armies. They are
facing each other, you see, in warlike array. But
it is no more than a skirmish which is going on;
in the course of which, however, a chance arises,
all at once, for a service full of danger. A fort,
which has fallen into the hands of the foe, must be
retaken at any price; but the service needed for
this seems to be all but hopeless. ;

A strong party, however, has offered to make
the attempt; there is a cry for someone to head
them ; you see a soldier step out from the ranks to
assume the leadership; the party moves rapidly
A NOBLE REVENGE. 75

forward ; in a few minutes it is swallowed up from
your eyes in clouds of smoke ; for one half hour,
from behind these clouds, you receive fierce signals,
flashes from the guns, rolling musketry, and
hurras—advancing or receding, slackening or re-
doubling.

At length, all is over; the fort has been retaken :
crimson with glorious gore, those that are left of
the victors are at liberty to return. From the
river you see them advance. The plume-crested
officer in command rushes forward, with his left
hand raising his hat in homage to.the blackened
fragments of what once was a flag, while with his
right hand he seizes that of the leader, though not
more than a private from the ranks. For, in the
hour of danger, ‘“‘high and low” are words
without a meaning, and to wreck goes every
notion or feeling that divides the noble from the
noble, or the brave man from the brave.

But how is it that now,when suddenly they recog-
nise one another,suddenly they pause? This soldier,
this officer—who are they ? O reader! once before
they had stood face to face—the soldier that was
struck, the officer that struck him. Once again
they meet ; and the gaze of armies is upon them.
If for a moment a doubt divides them, in a moment
the doubt has perished. One glance between them
publishes the forgiveness that is sealed for ever.
76 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

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

28.
HOW BIG WAS ALEXANDER ?
[Rev. E. Jones.]

[Alexander of Macedon, a famous general, and conqueror of many nations,
was called ‘‘ Alexander the Great,” on account of his great victories.
After conquering Persia, he died at Babylon, in the year 324 before the:
Christian era. ]

Son. few big was Alexander, pa,
That people call him great ?

Was he, like old Goliath, tall,
His spear a hundredweight ?

Was he so large that he could stand,
Like some tall steeple high,

And while his feet were on the ground,
His hands could touch the sky ?

father. O no, my child; about as large
As I or Uncle James ;
77

HOW BIG WAS ALEXANDER?

























































































































ALEXANDER THE GREAT.
78

Son.

Father.

Son.

Father.

Son.

ENGLISH READER. BOOK Iv.

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

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

I mean, my child, his actions were
So great, he got a name,

That everybody speaks with praise,
That tells about his fame.

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

Why, he it was that conquered Tyre,
And levelled down her wall,

And thousands of her people slew ;
And then to Persia went,

And fire and sword on every side
Through many a region sent.

A hundred conquered cities shone
With midnight burnings red ;

And strewed o’er many a battle-grqund
A thousand soldiers bled.

Did killing people make him great ?
Father.

Son.

Father.

Son.

Father.

Son.

HOW BIG WAS ALEXANDER ? 79.

Then why was Abel Young,

Who killed his neighbour, Christmas day,
Put into jail and hung?

I never heard them call him great.

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

Well, then, if I should kill a any
r d kill a hundred more ;

I should be great, and not get hung,
Like Abel Young, before.

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

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

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

‘But, pa, did Alexander wish

That some strong man would come.
And burn his house, and kill him too,,
80 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

And do as he had done ?

Does everybody call him great,
For killing people so?

Well, now, what right he had to kill,
I should be glad to know.

If one should burn the buildings here,
And kill the folks within,

Would anybody call him great
For such a wicked thing ?

29.
THE TWO ROBBERS
[Dr. Aikin. Adapted.]

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

Alexander.

Robber.

Alexander.

Robber.

Alexander.

Robber.

6—4

THE TWO ROBBERS. 81

Alexander, I am your captive : I must
hear what you please to say, and
endure what you please to inflict.
But, if I reply at all to your
reproaches, I will reply like a free
man.

Speak freely. Far be it from me to
take the advantage of my power to
silence those with whom I deign to
converse.

I must then answer your question by
another. How have you passed
your life ?

Like a hero. Ask Fame, and she
will tell you. Among the brave, I
have been the bravest; among
kings, the noblest; among con-
querors, the mightiést.

And does not fame _ speak of
me, too? Was there ever a
bolder captain or a braver band ?
Was there ever—but I scorn to
boast. You, yourself, know
that I have not been easily
taken.

Still, what are you but a robber—a
base robber ?

And what is a conqueror? Have not
82 ENGLISH READER BOOK IV.

you, too, gone about the earth, like
an evil genius, destroying the fair
fruits of peace, robbing and killing,
without law, without justice? All
that I have done to a single district,
with a hundred followers, you have
done to whole nations, with a
hundred thousand. If I have
stripped private persons, you have
ruined kings and princes. If I
have burned a few hamlets, you
have laid waste the finest king-
doms and cities of the earth. What
is, then, the difference, but that, as
you were born a king and I a
private man, you have been
able to become a mightier robber
than I?

Alexander. But if I have taken like a king, I
have given like a king. If I have
thrown down empires, I have
founded greater.

Robber. I, too, have freely given to the poor
what I took from the rich.

Alexander. Leave me. Take off his chains, and
use him well. Are we, then, so
much alike? Alexander like a
robber? Let me reflect.
JOSEPH JACQUARD. 83

JOSEPH JACQUARD.
30.

OSEPH JACQUARD was born at Lyons on
the seventh of, July, 1752; his father was a ,
master weaver of gold and silken tissues, his
mother was a pattern-reader, another branch of the
same trade; as for himself, he was bound apprentice
to a book-binder, and proved a clever and tasteful
workman. At the end of some years, he married,
and, having been left a small house by his
parents, he set up as a straw-bonnet maker, and
was getting on very well, when the French
Revolution broke out, and ruined him.

In 1793, during the siege, when Lyons held out
against the armies of the republic, his house was
burned to the ground, and, when the savage
consuls came with orders to punish the people
whom the brutal soldiers had spared, Jacquard’s
name was on the list, and he found himself forced
to fly from his native country. He owed his
safety to a son he had in the ranks of
the army. This young man dressed his father
in uniform, and, placing a musket in his
hand, marched with him to the French frontier.
They reached the borders of the Rhine to-
gether, but, there, Jacquard had the great mis-

fortune to lose his beloved son, who fell by ‘his
6f—4 ;
84 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

side, struck by acannon ball, and, soon afterwards,
died in his arms. When France was restored to
some degree of peace and order, Jacquard, weary
of a soldier’s life, for which old age began
to unfit him, desired to return to his former quiet
life; he had found friends amongst the very men
by whom he had been condemned to die ; and he
now set up once more at Lyons, and gave up his
spare time to the study of mechanics.

After the peace of Amiens, trade was re-opened,
for a short time, between England and France,
and, during this season, an English newspaper
happened to fall into the hands of Jacquard: he
read there that a prize was to be given by the
Royal Society in London, to anyone who could
invent a machine for making fishing nets, and
also for the nettings used on board ship. From
that moment, he thought of nothing but how to
win this prize. After groping long in the dark,
he discovered the secret of the machine; but the
satisfaction he derived from his success was the
only reward he chose to receive; the difficulty
once overcome, he thought no more about it, and
contented himself with giving a piece of the net
he had woven, to one of his friends. This friend,
however, showed it to several persons, and it
passed from hand to hand, until, it was sent at
last to Paris.
JOSEPH JACQUARD. 85







































































































































































































sTYULULoeet¥T
AML

ine


86 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

31.

Jacquard had long forgotten his invention, when,
one day, to his great surprise, he was summoned
before the Prefect of Lyons, who asked him
whether he had not invented a machine for making
nets. Jacquard did not remember that he had, till
the very piece of net that he had given to his friend
was shown him. The prefect then desired to see
the machine on which it had been made. Jacquard
asked for three weeks wherein to repair and com-
plete it, for it then lay neglected in a corner of his
dwelling ; at the end of that time, he carried it to
the prefect, who was able himself to count the
number of meshes, to strike the bar with his foot,
and to continue the web that was already begun.

When he had recovered from his surprise, he
dismissed Jacquard, telling him that his name
would soon become known. The machine was
sent off to Paris, and, soon after, an order arrived
that Jacquard himself should be sent after it. The
police of the town, mistaking the real import
of the order, laid hold of the honest artisan as a
traitor, and treated him like one. Without
giving him time to go home and make ready for
his journey, he was hurried into a post-chaise and
driven rapidly to Paris. Jacquard had never
before seen the great capital. On his arrival, he
JOSEPH JACQUARD. ‘ 87



i NAPOLEON.

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

it you, then, who pretend to make a slip knot upon
a tight sic 8

Jacquard, abashed by the presence of the master
of half Europe, and still more so by the manner of
his minister, only answered by setting his machine
to work. In this strange way was Jacquard’s first
essay made known. Napoleon, who knew how to
value genius wherever he found it, encouraged
him, and promised him his protection ; and in a
few days after this interview, he was installed at
the Society of Arts.

Jacquard’s joy was great when he found himself
in the midst of the wonders of art, and so able to
carry on his studies in science, which, hitherto, for
want of books he had had no means of doing ;
he had now the works of others to stand upon,
and the keys of knowledge were in his hands.
He soon set to work upon a machine which was
to produce brocaded silk, at less cost, and more
easily, than any then known; in this he fully
succeeded.

This famous machine was shown at the Exfosz-
tzon at Paris, in 1801. The first Consul, seeing at
once the great change which it was about to pro-
duce in the state of French industry, rewarded the
inventor with a pension of six thousand francs.
The jury, however, whose duty it was to judge of
the utility of all such inventions, showed themselves
JOSEPH JACQUARD. 89

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

32.
_ Less wonder will be excited by this verdict of the
Paris jury when we further relate, that at Lyons,
the whole face of whose trade was to be altered by
Jacquard’s invention, neither thanks nor rewards
were called forth by it. He returned there
with his machine, and found himself, like Galileo
of old, treated with cruelty.

He, the man of the people, the child of the
loom, was painted in the darkest colours to the
mob as their foe; one who, for his own selfish
purposes, was about to ruin their craft, and to.
increase the distress of their families.

From all parts of the district furious mobs
assembled against him, and his life was three
times in danger ; this blind hatred rose at last to
such. a height that the authorities of Lyons gave
way before the storm: and the new machine was
broken to pieces by their orders, in the great
square of the town, while the people loudly
cheered at the scene enacted before them. ‘‘ The
go ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

iron,” to use Jacquard’s own words, ‘‘ was sold as
old iron,—the wood, for fuel.”

It was not till France began to feel the fatal
effects of foreign rivalry, that the silk-weavers of
Lyons began to regret the narrowness of mind
which had prevented their reaping the benefit them-
selves of Jacquard’s invention ; they then saw that
they had destroyed the machine which would have
added to their prosperity. In the meantime, it was
adopted in many other countries.

Manchester received the Jacquard machine in
1813, with delight ; and the name once denounced
in every factory, is now honoured throughout
Europe. By slow degrees did this reward reach
Jacquard ; he had it after a twenty years’ struggle
against ignorance, envy, and selfishness ; and all
that time he knew that he had succeeded, and that
he had created a mighty agent for the welfare
of his native country, and that a day would surely
come in which he should see it at work.

He took out no patent to secure to himself the
gain of his invention, and he constantly refused
the grand offers made to him by foreigners ;
simply but firmly he refused to devote to them the
services he believed were due to France, and
waited patiently till she should be ready to receive
them at his hands. We have seen the humble
mention made of him with the bronze medal he
JOSEPH JACQUARD. 91

obtained in 1801 ; it was not till 1819 that a better
informed jury awarded to him the silver medal and
the Cross of the Legion of Honour.

33:

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

‘* The weary springs of life stood stzll at last.”

The morning after Jacquard’s death, a few
friends, and a very small number of admirers,
followed his remains to the little cemetery of the
92 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

village; the people of the village placed a
marble slab in their church to his memory, which
mentions simply and modestly his pure life and
his industry.

In his lifetime, like ‘most other great men,
Jacquard found little but neglect and cruelty,
in his own country ; it was only after his death
that he was really known, and his memory
duly honoured. The people of Lyons started a
fund for the purpose of raising a statue of
their well-known fellow-citizen, and, while the city
owed chiefly to him its yearly increasing wealth,
it was long before many thousand francs were
collected. The statue of Jacquard was raised at
last on the sixteenth of August, 1840.

It is well for us, in the midst of the feverish
strife of mere opinion, to turn to the example of
Jacquard. Humble and prosaic as his life may at
first sight appear, he stood alone with his genius,
surrounded by ignorance and tumult, waiting
patiently until his invention should be permitted to
produce the great results which it could not fail to
do when once it was fairly tried. While, doubt-
less, a thousand voices were raised to procure a
hearing for fresh schemes and new doctrines in
science, he expected silently the hour in which his
knowledge should be most usefully employed for
the benefit of his country. Jacquard and his
A LESSON WORTH ENSHRINING. 93

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

34.
A LESSON WORTH ENSHRINING.

LESSON in itself sublime, a lesson worth
enshrining,

Is this: ‘‘ I take no note of Time save when the
sun is shining.”

These motto words a dial bore: and wisdom | never
preaches

To human hearts a better lore than this ghort
sentence teaches.

As life is sometimes bright and fair, and some-
times dark and lonely,

Let us forget its toil and care, and. note its bright
hours only.

There is no grove on earth’s broad chart but has
some bird to cheer it ;

So Hope sings on in every heart, although we may
not hear it ;

And if, to-day, the heavy. wind of sorrow is
o’erpressing,

Perchance to-morrow’s sun will bring the weary
heart a blessing.

For life is sometimes bright and fair, and some-
times dark and lonely :
94 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

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

We bid the j joyous moments haste, and then for-
get their glitter ;

We take the cup of life, and taste no potion but
the bitter :

But we should teach our hearts to deem its
sweetest drop the strongest,

And pleasant hours should ever seem to linger
round us longest.

For life is sometimes bright and fair, and some-
times dark and lonely,

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

The darkest shadows of the night are just before
the morning ;

Then let us wait the coming light, all fancied
phantoms scorning ;

And while we’re floating down the tide of Time’s
fast ebbing river,

Let’s pluck the flowers that grace its side, and
thank the gracious Giver.

For life is sometimes bright and fair, and some-
times dark and lonely,

Then let’s forget its toil and care, and note its
bright hours only.
FOOD AND DRINK. 95

35:
FOOD AND DRINK.

AN is sent into this world to work ; and all
men have to work either with hand or head.
But some men work too much, whilst others work
too little. As a rule, those who work too much,
are happier than those who work too little; for
there is no surer road to real happiness, than a
wise system of hard work ; and we have all plenty

to do if we will but do it.

To work in any shape, we must possess energy,
for energy may be defined as the power to do
work ; we cannot work without energy. Some
workers, let us hope not very many, at times, try
to take in that energy in the form of strong drink ;
but the attempt is a vain one as we shall show
you.

A strong healthy man, passes into his body, in
the course of a year, about eight hundred pounds
of solid food, and fifteen hundred pounds of liquid
food—drink, if you like to call itso. Why does
he store away in his body all these solids and
liquids every year? Simply because, in this food
is hidden the energy without which he can do no
manner of work.

The food he daily passes into his system supplies
him with the energy he cannot create, but without
which his body would be a useless mass,

s
96 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

But why does he take into his system this
fifteen hundred pounds of liquid per year? He
takes this mass of substance simply to assist him
to prepare the solid food, in order that he may be
able to obtain from it the energy he needs, which
is locked up in that food. Unfortunately, how-
ever, a large number of our fellow-creatures pass
_ daily, year by year, as long as they manage to
last, strong drinks into their bodies, which
diminish their energy, lessen their power to work,
and destroy the body.

But how is this energy stored up in the eight
hundred pounds of solid food made to give up its
energy in movement, thought-making, and in
keeping the body in health and good repair?
Before this food can be made to give up even the
smallest portion of its energy to the human body,
for the use of either muscle or brain, it must be
built up into the substance of blood or of body
tissue, and then burnt. To do this burning, eight
hundred pounds of oxygen gas are annually taken
from the air, and passed into the blood by the
lungs in the act of breathing. Thus, we see that
the source of our bodily energy is the ton and a
half of substance—-food, drink, and air—which we
annually consume in our bodies.

We are, in the present course of lessons, con-
cerned mainly with drinking ; and we shall pass
FOOD AND DRINK. 97

on to consider, first, why we drink ; second, what
we drink, or, rather, what we ought to drink.

We drink for a three-fold reason. First, drink
helps us to swallow our food, and aids in mixing
the saliva and other juices of the body with the
food. It also helps to soften the food, and to
reduce it to a fluid state. Second, drink carries
the nourishing parts of our food to the various
parts of the body; and it also floats away the
poisonous waste, and so expels it from the system.
No liquid performs these important duties so well
as water.

Third, it regulates the heat of the body. The ©
normal heat of the blood is. about ninety-eight
degrees ; and, if it rises much above this point for
any length of time, death is certain. It has been
proved that enough heat is produced in the human
body in the course of each thirty-six hours to raise
the whole of its substance to the heat of boiling
water. To prevent this taking place, the skin and
lungs pass off daily from the body two or three
pounds of water, chiefly in the form of sweat. The
act of sweating cools the body, just as the forma-
tion of steam during the boiling of water prevents
a kettle from becoming red hot when on the top of
a fire.

When the skin gets too hot, owing to a want of
fluid in the blood to supply the needful amount of

7—4
98 - ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

sweat, we become feverish and thirsty. Water is
the best drink to queiich the thirst.

36.
WHY WE DRINK.

\WATER and other liquids, after being swal-

lowed, enter the stomach, and also pass.
through its lower outlet into’ the bowels. The
walls of the stomach and bowels are covered with
a close net-work of blood-vessels, consisting of
veins and arteries. The veins collect the impure
purple, or dark-looking blood from the coats of the
stomach and bowels.

_ The small veins possess the power of taking
water and other fluids through their walls. When,
therefore, water or any other similar liquid passes.
into the stomach and bowels, a large portion of it
is taken up by the small veins, carried to the liver,

. thence to the heart, next to the lungs, back again
to the heart, and, thence, to the rest of the system.

On entering the system generally, one of the first
visits made by the drink is to the kidneys. I wish
you to bear this fact in mind. When the blood is.
loaded with alcohol, or other liquids which irritate
the system, is it a matter of surprise that the liver,
kidneys, and lungs speedily become injured.

In order to answer the question, ‘ Why do we
WHY WE DRINK. 99

drink ?”’ it will be well to give a short outline of
digestion, the process which converts the useful
parts of the food into blood.



DIGESTIVE ORGANS.
I, 2, 3. Stomach. 4, 5, 6, 7. Bowels.

By chewing the food is broken up into small
particles so as to be more easily dissolved. Whilst
the food is thus broken up, chiefly by the action of

the teeth, the saliva or spittle is mixed with it.
4
a
f

I0o ENGLISH READER. BOOK Iv.

The starch, which forms the chief mass of bread,
potatoes, rice, sago, tapioca, and other such like
foods has to be converted into grape sugar before
it can be taken up into the blood. This work is
performed by the saliva; it converts the starch into
grape sugar, which then soaks through the walls
of the little veins of the stomach and bowels and
so mixes with the blood.

A fair amount of liquid taken with dry food helps
the saliva to enter the mass and thus promotes
swallowing and digestion in general. But, the
more liquid or juicy the food, the less saliva poured
into the mouth ; hence, excess of liquid taken with
food, lessens the quantity of saliva and so impedes
the digestion of bread and other starchy foods.

The food having passed through the mouth and
food pipe, and having been duly mixed with saliva,
enters the stomach. It here becomes mixed with
another fluid, the gastric juice, which dissolves
such matters as boiled white of egg, and lean
meat; but the gastric juice can only dissolve these
matters thoroughly at the proper heat of the
body. If cooled down it loses much of its solvent
power.

Large draughts of cold liquid, whether beer or
water, impede digestion both by cooling the stom-
ach and diluting the gastric juice. Asa rule, if
the system needs much liquid, it is better to take it
1of

WHY WE DRINK.



THE KIDNEYS.



LIVER.

THE
102 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

some time before or some time after a heavy meal.
A fair draught of water, taken some time after a
meal aids the process of digestion; but strong
spirits impede it.

The last process, fat-digestion, and the discharge
of the useless parts of the food, are aided by mod-
erate and discreet water drinking.

37:
WHAT WE DRINK.

ATER is the natural and most wholesome
drink we can take when it is pure ; but all
drinking water should be transparent, colourless,
and clear ; it should likewise be tasteless, without
odour, and should yield no deposit after standing
at rest for some time.

Whenever water is thought to have come from
impure sources, as in the case of wells near farm-
yards and in many villages, it should first be boiled
and then filtered. In all cases it should certainly
_ be boiled.

Rain-water, especially in or near towns, is quite
unfit to drink ; it is soiled with soot, the washings
of the air, acid, dead and rotting leaves, lead, zinc,
and other matters washed from the roof.

Drinking water should never be kept in lead cis-
terns ; if the lid of the-cistern is lined with lead it
WHAT WE DRINK. 103

will most likely do more harm to the water of the
cistern than all the rest of the lead put together.
In the morning, before the water is drawn from
leaden pipes for drinking purposes, it should be al-
lowed to run for a minute or so, in order to empty
the pipes of any water which has dissolved lead
during the night.



GASOGENE.

The presence of air in water, not only makes it
sparkle more, but also renders it more refreshing.
Water that has lately been boiled, or water obtained
by melting snow or ice, is not nearly so refreshing
as recently drawn spring-water, because it contains
neither air nor carbonic-acid gas. A gasogéne for
forcing carbonic-acid gas through water is a very
useful article, only a little less useful than a good
filter.
Io4 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

The best filters for household use are made up
of animal charcoal and broken up magnetic carbide
of iron. Filters in common every-day use should
be often cleaned or their use may even augment
the evils they are meant to avoid.

Blocks of compressed charcoal form good filters;
as they are cheap and can easily be cleaned by
brushing or scraping the surface when they are
clogged, they will last a long time. Dr. Parkes
suggests an easy way of making a very good filter
at little cost. He says:

‘*Get a common flower-pot, cover the hole with
a bit of zinc gauze or a bit of clean washed flannel,
which should be changed from time to time; then
get some rather small gravel, wash it very well and
put it into the pot to the height of three inches; then
get some white sand and wash it very clean, and
put that on the gravel to the height of three inches ;
then buy two pounds of animal charcoal, wash that
also by putting it into a jug and pouring boiling
water on it ; then, when the charcoal has subsided,
pour off the water, and put some more on for three
or four times. When the charcoal has been well
washed, put it on the sand and press it well down.
Have four inches of charcoal if possible. The fil-
ter is now ready, pour water into the pot, and let
it run through the whole into a large glass bottle.”

When the charcoal gets clogged, scrape a little
WHAT WE DRINK. Io5

off the top and boil it two or three times, then
spread it out to dry before the fire, and it will be
as good as ever.



38.

Tea and coffee have no food value; neither do
they lessen the waste of the system; they act as
stimulants only, and cause wakefulness. Used in
106 ENGLISH READER. BOOK Iv.

‘very moderate quantities they do no injury. Tea
contains a bitter substance called ‘‘ tannin,” which
soaks out in large quantities when tea is allowed
to stand and ‘‘stew.” Hence, tea should never
stand more than ten minutes or a quarter of
an hour in contact with the leaves from which
it is made. -When the tea is not to be used
at once, it should be poured away from the leaves
into a second vessel.

Warm tea promotes sweating and breathing;

and this, no doubt, is one of the chief reasons of
the relief it gives to the weary, who are usually
slightly feverish. Stewed tea in the middle of the
‘day, when a good meal ought to be taken, injures
the stomach, affects the nerves, and lowers the
tone.
Coffee, for those who like it, is better for break-
fast than tea, since it whips up the action of the
heart, which is more feeble in the morning, and
since it does not act so much upon the skin, which
is usually active then.

Cocoa stimulates less than tea or coffee; but it
is a true food, being very nourishing, and, hence,
much more wholesome than either of those.

In general, all these beverages retard digestion,
and therefore should not be taken as part of heavy
meals; they seem, however, to check the digestion
of salt meats less than fresh.
WHAT WE DRINK. 107

Meat teas, of course, should never be taken by
anyone.

Milk, the natural food of the young, both acts
as a food and a drink, but great care should be
taken to see that it is perfectly sweet, as many
wide-spread attacks of typhoid fever have been
traced to the use of milk which had,been conveyed
from farms in cans washed with impure well-water.

All milk used as drink should be first boiled in
order to kill the disease germs which lurk in it
when it has been in contact with impure air or
water.

Aérated waters, of which soda-water may be
taken as the type, owe their sharp taste and
sparkle to carbonic-acid gas.

Soda-water is made, on a large scale, by causing
dilute oil of vitriol to act on chalk, when carbonic-
acid gas is given off freely and forced into water
under pressure. True soda-water, however, differs
somewhat from this, as it is made by allowing a
pint of water to dissolve thirty grains of bicarbon-
ate of soda, and then forcing carbonic-acid gas into
it at a pressure of one hundred and five pounds on
the square inch.

Soda-water makes milk easier to digest, because
it renders neutral any acid the milk may contain ;
and it also renders any clot that may be formed
less dense.
108 ENGLISH READER. BOOK Iv.

Potass-water is made by passing carbonic-acid
gas, under pressure, into a solution of thirty grains
of bicarbonate of potash to the pint of water.

Seltzer-water contains carbonic-acid gas, with

carbonates of soda, magnesia and lime.
_ Lemonade, as commonly sold, is a very dilute
solution of oil of vitriol flavoured with oil of
lemons, and rendered sparkling by carbonic-acid
gas. Home-made lemonade, made by squeezing
the juice of a lemon into water, sweetening it to
suit the palate, and then forcing in carbonic-acid
gas from a gasogéne, is much more wholesome
than the kind sold by mineral water makers.

39:

All the alcoholic drinks in common use owe
their supposed virtues to the alcohol they contain ;
let us then briefly consider what claim this sub-
stance has to hold the place it fills in the expenses
of the nation.

And first, alcohol is not a food. It does not act
in the body asa bone, muscle, or nerve-former; and,
further, it is worse than useless as a heat-former,
since it lowers instead of raising the heat of the
body, and that most markedly too, in very cold
climes, as in the Arctic regions. Yet such is the
want of knowledge of this fact, that brandy-‘‘ nips”
«

WHAT WE DRINK. 109

and whiskey-‘‘nips” are the means taken by, alas,
too many of our fellow countrymen to ‘‘ keep out
the cold.” These ‘‘nips” really stupefy the
nerves so that those who take them do not know
how cold they really are, and cannot tell how cold
they ought to feel.

The health of the body acess on the due sup-
ply of pure blood and on the condition or tone of
the minute blood-vessels. Alcohol tends to
render the blood impure, and the minute blood-
vessels unable to perform their duties as they
should do.

Even a small quantity of alcohol causes the
walls of the minute blood-vessels to relax. The
redness of the face and neck after and during wine
and spirit drinking, is caused by this relaxation of
the blood-vessels. —

When the drinking of alcoholic liquors becomes
a habit, many evil results are brought about ; and
some of these we will now briefly mention.

We drink to allay thirst ; but alcohol drinking
tends to bring about a constant feeling of thirst.

In large quantities, spirits redden the inner coat
of the stomach; check digestion and produce a
gastric cough; they tend to wither up the working
parts of the liver and kidneys and set up in them a
growth of useless tissue ; they act on the lungs,
impairing their work and inducing disease ; they
IIo ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

give the heart more work to do and less time in
which to rest.

Spirits also lessen the changes which should
take place in the blood to render it pure ; and thus
cause waste products to collect in the system and
So give rise‘to gout. They enlarge the bore of the
minute blood-vessels of the skin, changing its
appearance altogether, as often seen in the purple
nose and face of the drunkard.

Alcohol, even in small quantities, lessens the
power of control over the thoughts, a result often
mistaken for greater power of imagination; it also
lessens the power, of resisting cold and the muscu-
lar power. It is the chief agent which fills our
lunatic asylums, causing more insanity than arises
from any other single source.

A man who has once gained the craving
for alcohol has no will at all; his will is
entirely gone. What then is the moral to be
learnt from all this? Is it not plain to all? Let
us avoid alcoholic drinking altogether, so as to be
free from the chain of evils which follows in its
train.

40.
It is the opinion of many writers on the social
aspects of the temperance question that the use
WHAT WE DRINK. Ill

of beer, wines, and even spirits, is largely due to.
bad and insipid cooking, and to the want of flavour:
in our other drinks. Water, or toast and water,
will not whip up a jaded appetite to enjoy a badly-
cooked and insipid dinner, whilst, to the trained
taste, a glass of good ale or beer does flog up the
appetite.

Undoubtedly, the practice of taking large:
draughts of beer at or before sitting down to a
hearty meal is bad, notwithstanding its power to
whip up the appetite, which I doubt. Many
attempts have been made to invent a non-alcoholic
drink which shall take the place of beer.

Is there nothing that will take the place of
alcohol for social purposes, as harmless as water,
and something that will please the palate as much
as beer or wine? Is there nothing that will relieve-
mental and bodily fatigue without working evil in
the system ?

Some say there is. We owe to Dr. Priestley
the gasogéne, by means of which common water:
may be aérated, so as to render it more refreshing ;
but aérated waters and such-like drinks do not give
that false sense of relief from weariness nicl al-.
cohol imparts, and for which it is so much prized.

Nothing so quickly relieves the sense of fatigue
as a cup of very strong beef tea thickened with a.
little oatmeal.
II2 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

Speaking of certain out-door amusements for
the people, the Lancet some years ago remarked—
“The people must drink, and sith have we done
to improve their tastes in this respect? Almost
nothing. The thirsty working man, woman, or
child has to choose between very questionable
water and fiery alcoholic liquors; for ginger-beer,
lemonade, and soda-water at fourpence or six-
pence a bottle are beyond their reach. They ought
to be able for a penny or twopence to get a bit of
ice, a fruit syrup, or half-a-pint of aérated water.

‘‘Why should there not be at every bar and
children’s. party a gasogéne, an ice-box, fruit
syrups, and good ginger-beer at three half-pence
a bottle. It is a disgrace to this country that
these cool, cooling, and wholesome drinks are not
to be found everywhere.

“Indian men, who must abstain from alcohol,
make ginger-tea from the root, adding syrup of
orange; or they drink ginger-lemonade-syrup with
water from a gasogéne; or they make a strong
tincture of cloves, cinnamon, ginger, orange and
lemon peel, a few drops of which, added to a
tumbler of water or ginger-tea makes a pleasant
drink, or, in winter, with sugar and hot water, a
good cordial.

‘‘ They also make use of various fruit-syrups,
with ginger and orange, mixed with lemonade or
WHAT WE DRINK. 113

aérated water.”’.... If these various drinks were once
known and tried i in this country, the drinking tastes
of the: people would’ i Wipes and that drink curse
gradually die out:
For time will set the matter night,
Good . sense assert tts proper power,
. Dethrone the tyrant of the hour.

Al. |

The English and Germans use alcohol more
freely than any other race on the face of the earth;
and this is the result of a strongly marked taste
handed down from father to son. The English
n.the forests of Germany and settled in
this country some fourteen centuries ago, Now,
we have from the pen of Tacitus, the Roman
historian, an account of the habits. of the old
German races who lived at the end of the first
century.

He describes the national features, the blue
eyes, the fair hair, and the stalwart frames. Then
he speaks of their love of drinking. Their
favourite drink then, as now, was beer. They
could not consult without drinking ; and, if they
quarrelled over their cups, they had recourse
rarely to words, usually to blows.

When our forefathers came to England, they
8—4


It4 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

Te f | ) ) i i

ri i i) Me



AN OLD ENGLISH FEAST.

brought with them the self-same old habits they
had practised in the forests of Germany; and,
when, centuries afterwards, their children went
forth from this country to found colonies in every
WHAT WE DRINK, 115

quarter of the- globe, oe carried with them the
same habits. :

Deep-rooted as is the taste for strong ‘drinks in
the English breast, there are signs that a change
has been slowly, surely, and ‘silently* working
amongst us. Only sixty or seventy years ago
_ people never met but they drank too much.
In the time of King George the Fourth, ‘when
‘the bishop of Lincoln was moving from the
‘deanery of St. Paul’s, he asked a learned friend
of his, by name Will Hay, how he should move
some* very fine claret, about which he ‘was
anxious,

§ Pray, my lord bishop,’ says Eiays ‘how much
of the wine have you ?’

The bishop said six dozen.

‘If that is all,’ Hay answered, ‘ you have but
to ask me to dinner six times, and I will: poe it
all away myself. cy a

There is now less use or rather abuse’ of strong
drink. It is daily being proved that: most mén
and women can enjoy as good, or better health,
without as with it. It used to be thought that
alcohol was needed by the soldier to support his
flagging strength under the fatigues of the march.
Yet, it has been shown that the soldier bears these
fatigues, even when exposed to extremés of heat

and cold, better without alcohol than with it. It
—4
116 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

has also been proved that coffee or. beef-tea are
far better than alcohol at such times. ;

The famous siege of Gibraltar had shown the
advantages of abstaining from strong drink to the
soldier, subject to great hardships. The practice
of the Swiss guides is worthy of note ; they allow
the use of very light wine, or else of no wine at
all when taking tourists across the glaciers. The
hardest mental work, likewise, can be done as well
without alcohol as with it, and this has been
shown over and over again.

Amongst many working men, however, alcohol
still retains its hold. Thousands of them, when
‘wages increase, have no mode of enjoyment other
than drink ; and there are reformers amongst us
who see no remedy for the evil except in removing
the temptation by Act of Parliament. Let us have
patience. As homes are made more healthy, as
the value of various kinds of food become better
known, and better modes of preparing it are prac-
tised, as more places of rational enjoyment are
opened up, the inducements to drown the cares of
life in drink will become fewer and fewer.

Let us look forward to the time when sobriety
and self-control will become the rule, for ‘

': Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, —
These three atone lead life to sovereign power.”
When this time arrives, the great mass of |
THE GOob TIME COMING. 117
disease will have ceased to exist, and the race of

the future will no longer number the evil effects of
strong drink among 3
“the ills that flesh zs heir to; ye

for, as the poet says,

“Man ts man and master of his fate,”
and being so, he will surely not remain a slave
and indulge in what can do no good, but is only
too likely to work much evil.

42.
THE GOOD TIME COMING.
[Charles Mackay.

ees S a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:

We may not live to see the day, »

But earth shall glisten in the ray
Of the good time coming.

Cannon balls may aid the truth,

_ But thought’s a weapon stronger,

We'll win our battles by its aid ;—
Wait a little longer.

There’s a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming :
The pen shall supersede the sword,
And right not might shall be the lord
18

ENGLISH READER. ROOK Iv.

In the good time coming.
Worth, not birth, shall cae eoiane
And be acknowledwed stronger ;
The proper impulse has been given ;—
Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming :
War in all men’s eyes shall be
A monster of iniquity,
In the good time coming.
Nations shall not quarrel then
To prove which is the stronger,
Nor slaughter men for glory’s sake ;—
Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming :

Hateful rivalries of creed

Shall not make their martyrs bleed,
In the good times coming.

Religion shall be shorn of pride,
And flourish all the stronger ;

And Charity shall trim, her lamp ;—
Wait a little longer.

There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming :
THE GOOD TIME COMING. 119g

And a poor man’s family
Shall not be in misery,
In the good time coming.
Every child shall be a help
To make his right arm stronger ;
The happier he, the more he has ;—
Wait a little longer.

There’s a good time coming, boys,

- A good time coming ;

Little children shall not toil,

Under or above the soil, .
In the good time coming.

’ But shall play in the healthful fields,
Till limbs and mind grow stronger,

And everyone shall read and write ;—
Wait a little longer.

There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming :

They shall pledge eternal hate,

‘Gainst all that can intoxicate,
In the good time coming.

They shall use and not abuse,
And make all virtue stronger ;

The reformation has begun ;—
Wait a little longer.
120 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming :

Let us aid it all we can,

Every woman every man,
The good time coming.

Smallest helps, if rightly given,
Make the impulse stronger ;

"Twill be strong enough one day ;—
Wait a little longer.

LOST IN A BALLOON.
43.

PANNY and Harry and little May all went with

their papa to see the balloon. At first they
felt afraid of it; but after they had seen several
persons get into the pretty basket car and ride
high up above the houses, and had seen them
drawn safely down again by the rope which held
the balloon, they were no longer afraid, but wished
to have a ride too.

Their father helped them into the basket : first
Fanny, who was nine years old; then Harry, who
was six ; and last, little May, who was not quite
sure that she was not afraid. —

The balloon rose slowly the whole length of the
rope; then, suddenly, the rope broke from the

windlass to which it was fastened, and slipped out
LOST IN’ A BALLOON. 121

of the man’s hands. Up flew the balloon, carrying
the children beyond all reach of help.

‘A great cry arose from the people below.
Fanny and Harry peeped timidly over the edge of
the basket, and soon knew what had happened.
They heard their father’s voice calling up to them;
but they could not catch his words.

How strange it was: ‘the balloon seemed to
them to be standing still, and, below it, the world
was dropping away from them—down! down!
down !—and everything grew smaller and smaller,
till the people, the trees, and even’ the ‘houses,
looked tike little Moye; ae che river ‘like a silver
ribbon. A

' Dizzy and‘sick, the children crept down to the
bottom of the basket, and kept tight hold of little
May. The car tipped so easily, that: puis were
afraid they would all be thrown out. :

They hugged each other close, and-cried bitverty
Little May kept all the ‘time sobbing: ‘I wants
my mamma!—I’s hungry !—I wants my mamma!”

Whién' they sat still’they could see nothing but
the sun and the clouds; but when they looked
down, ‘they could see that they were apes over
the country very fast indeed.

“After a while it grew cold; the sun went down,
and the stars came out.

The children had stopped dane now, and
122 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

Fanny remembered that she had some biscuits in
her pocket, which they ate.

Little May whispered, ‘‘ Do you think we are
near heaven now ?” f

‘‘No,” answered Harry, ‘‘ but it’s so cold, I
should not wonder if we were near the moon.”
Then Harry laughed, and began to sing—

‘* Up in a balloon, boys,
Sailing round the moon.”

After the children had sung this song, they felt
happier. Little May wished she could gather
some stars, to take home to mamma; but Harry
began to doubt.if they should ever get home
again, and May began to cry once more.

Then good, wise little Fanny comforted them,
and said: ‘‘ Perhaps the balloon will set in the
morning, as the moon does, and then we will go
to a house and beg for some breakfast, and ask
the way home.”

Then she coaxed them to say their prayers and
go to sleep. She wrapped her dress round:poor,
shivering May, and Harry took off his jacket and
wrapped it round her little aching knees; then he
crept close to Fanny and laid his head on her lap,
and, soon, he and May were fast asleep.

But Fanny could-not sleep ; she was cold, and
her head ached. She sat, crying softly to herself,
thinking of her dear mother and father grieving for
LOST IN A BALLOON. 123

their lost children—-thinking of all the stories she
had ever heard of lost children, but never so
strange a one as this.

Lost in the sky !—worse than being lost in the
woods, or at sea. ;

44.

To be sure, there were no fishes to devour them,
nor wild beasts to tear them to pieces; but how
could they ever get down? Would the balloon
set, or would they really sail right up to Heaven’s
gate ? |

At last, she made a little prayer in her. heart,
asking God to take care of them, and, then, she,
too, fell asleep.

The next morning, when Fanny awoke, she:
could not at first tell where she was; then, with
a start, she remembered it all. The sun was
shining into her face, and upon the great, dark
ball of the balloon above her. Harry and May
were still asleep.

Very carefully Fanny crept to the edge of the
car, to see if they were near the ground yet;
but she shrank back with a little shiver of fright.
She could not see the world at all. Then she
looked again—looked a long time. ‘‘ It’s like a
cloud. Yes, it must be a cloud. We are above
i24 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.





































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































ABOVE THE CLOUDS,

the clouds. O, mamma! mamma!” sobbed the
little girl.

~ As she lay back thinking, she noticed a small
rope hanging down from the centre of the balloon.
All at once Fanny seemed to remember something.
LOST IN A BALLOON, : 125

Getting. up quickly, she caught hold of the rope
and pulled it..

The next moment a dreadful thing happened:
a fog arose, so thick that she could not see the
sun—she could not even see the balloon over
her head. The frightened child crouched down,
trembling with fear. What had happened Fanny
could not think ; but it was this :

When Fanny pulled the rope she opened a little
hole in the top of the balloon, which let out some
of the gas, and the balloon had immediately fallen
into the cloud that Fanny had seen below her. A
few minutes after, Fanny saw the cloud again, but
this time above her, its soft folds shining bright
and white, as if,it were made of down.

The balloon had passed very quickly through
the cloud, which at the time appeared to Fanny to
be a fine, cold mist, that damped her clothes and
made her chilly. Fanny now looked again over
the edge of the car, and almost shouted as she
saw the green world below. She gave. ‘another
little pull at the rope, and, looked again. It
seemed to her that the world was running up to
meet them very fast indeed. The balloon was
really falling to the earth, but it appeared _ to
Fanny as if it were standing still and the eaith
were rising to meet it.

Perhaps you have noticed something lixe this
' 126 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

when riding in a railway carriage; tne carriage
seems to be standing still, and ali the trees and
fences appear to be running rapidly the other way.

They were now just over a little town. Fanny
could hear many noises coming up, and could see
many people running about. She thought they
saw the balloon, and began to hope that at last
the dangerous journey was at an end.

She awoke Harry and May, and told them
what had happened. She had hard work to keep
them from tipping the car over, in their eagerness
to see the people.

Everybody in the village had been for hours on
the look-out for the balloon; for Fanny's father
had sent telegrams all over the country, asking
the people to help him to find his lost children.

And, better still, the children’s father and mother
had received a telegram telling them that the bal-
loon had been seen near this place, and they had
taken a passing train and were there to meet their
dear children.

Down, down came the balloon. All the people
were looking up with tearful eyes, and holding
their breath for fear the children should yet be
dashed to pieces. Fortunately, the balloon passed
over the house-tops, and came slowly down in a
field near by.

Oh, the joy of that meeting. How the people
APRIL FLOWERS. 127

shouted, and rang the bells, and fired the cannon,
in their delight at the children’s safety !

45.
APRIL FLOWERS.

ATCH for the April

flowers, children. All
you have to do is to look,
as you go to school, and
you will find them. But
you must look up, not
down, for the blossoms
which I mean. They are
not little flowers on the
ground at your feet, but
they wave high above your
j heads, on the branches of

WILLOW CATKIN. great trees.

Perhaps you think that trees like the elm, pop-
lar, and maple, bear nothing but leaves; yet look
sharply, and you will find that they have flowers
too. In early spring the elm is in blossom. If
you break off a branch, you will find the tiny
brown flowers. They are so small that, when you
merely look up into the trees, you may think they
are nothing but buds.

In April the willows and poplars are also in
bloom. Those soft, silvery catkins, which the


128 ENGLISH READER. ; BOOK Iv.

children call pussies, are the, blossoms. On the
willow these stand erect, but on the, poplar. they
are long and drooping.

A little later, and the maple waves a cloud of
crimson blossoms against the ‘sunny sky, the oak
hangs out as many graceful tassels as the poplar,
and every cherry, and peach, “and oe is
turned into a huge bouquet. =e

I remember once seeing a cherry-tree burst into
bloom in.arain-storm. It was a pretty iree, just
opposite my, window. Its buds grew white very
early in the spring, and I thought that mine would
be the first cherry-blossoms of the season.

But something was the matter; either the tree
was obstinate, or the wind blew too cold, or the
sunshine ,;was not warm enough: the little buds
would: not come out. The soft, warm showers
came and coaxed them,-but they would not come.

One, afternoon, as I stoed looking at the tree, a
thunder-shower came up—first a few large, round
drops, then more; finally, they came down thick
and fast, pelting everything within their reach.

One would hit a bud; it would nod, and then,
slowly, its little white petals would unfold, and it
would look up as if surprised, and as if it did not
quite understand such rude treatment.

But the drops did not care; they pelted away,
and before half an hour, had..passed, they had
APRIL FLOWERS. 129



CHERRY BLOSSOMS.

opened every one of those buds. And, when the
storm was over, the last rays of the setting sun fell
upon the treé, covered with beautiful white

blossoms—the loveliest tree in the garden.
9-4
130 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

46.
THE WATER RAT.

(Ge with me toghe stream, on this bright summer
day,

And I'll show you the brown water-rat at his play;

A glad, innocent creature, for whom was ordained

The quiet of brooks, and the plants they contained.

But, hush! step as lightly as teaves in their fall :
Man has wronged him, and he is in fear of us all.
See! there he is sitting, the tree-roots among,
And the reed-sparrow by him is singing his song.

See how gravely he sits! how sedate and how still,
Like a hermit of old at his mossy door-sill !

See, see! now his mood of sedateness is gone,
And some very queer motions he'll show us anon.

Look! look now! how quickly the water he cleaves!

And again he is up ’mong those arrow-head leaves;

See his little black head! how his eyes, sparkling,
shine !

He has made up his mind on these dainties to dine!

Sure, he has not a want which he cannot supply
In a water like this, with these water plants nigh.
THE WATER RAT. 131

Yes; a plentiful table is spread for him here :—
What a pity it is man has taught him to fear !

Look! look at him now, he sitteth afloat,
On the broad water-lily leaf, as ig a boat!
See the antics he plays! how he dives in the stream
To and fro—-now he chases that dancing sunbeam ;
Now he stands for a moment, as if half perplexed
In his frolicsome heart, to know what to do next.

Ha! see him now! that dragon-fly sets him astir,
And he launches away like a brave mariner ;

See there! up the stream how he merrily rows,
And the tall fragrant water-reed bows as he goes !
And now he is lost at the foot of the tree ;—

Tis his home, and a snug little home it must be.

And ‘tis thus that the water-rat liveth all day,

In these small pleasures wearing the summer away;
And when winter comes, and the water-plants die,
And the little brooks yield him no longer supply ;
Down into his burrow he cozily creeps,

And quietly through the long wintcr-time sleeps.
‘Thus, in summer, his table by Nature is spread ;
And old mother Earth makes, in winter, his bed.

9° —4
132 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

_ 47.
A DIALOGUE.

Lucy. OQ: Belle, just look at your new dress—

it is all torn !

- Fanny. And your clean apron! What have you
on it? And your book is all in pieces !

John. You'll catch it!

Belle (half-crying)—I don’t care if I do! I
couldn’t help it. I was only playing
with Carlo, and he knocked me over,
right into the mud; and then he
trampled on me with his muddy paws ;
and then he ran away with my book,
and tore it. I wish I were a big dog,
and I’d pay him for it.

Lucy. What would you do to him, Belle ?

Belle. YVd—lI'd bark at him, and I’d—I’d bark—

John. Whew! what a fierce dog you would be!
—wouldn’t you, Belle ?

Fanny (laughing )—I'm afraid you wouldn’t make
anything but a little curly-haired puppy ;
and then you'd get the worst of it in a
tussle with Carlo.

John. I'msure your bark would be worse than

_ your bite.

Belle (half-laughing)—\ fancy you’d find out

whether it would or not! Wouldn’t
A DIALOGUE. 133

I worry your heels, though !—and gnaw
holes in your playthings !—and tear up
your books! —

John. Ah, yes. But, you see, I’d whisper
something to the dog-man; and then,
some fine morning, when the family
were all asleep, he would drive up, take
you out of the kennel, put you into his
waggon, and away you'd go to the dog’s
home, and that would be the last of
that dog !

Fanny. That reminds me of a poem I learned the
other day, about a little girl who wished
she were the lamb that followed Mary to
school. Let me see (putting her hand
to her head), how does that poem run.
Oh, yes ; this is it. She says :—

‘* That lamb had easy times, indeed ;
And all the lambs do, as for that :
They never have to write and read,
Or learn thecr notes with sharp and flat ;
They don’t wear out their frocks and shoes,
And needn’t mind their p’s and q’s.

‘‘ Out in the pleasant meadow-fiot,
They nibble clover-heads all day,
Or lie down in a shady spot
To sleep when they are tired of play.
134 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

Nobody says to them, ‘ My dear,
‘What dirty face and hands are here !’”
Belle. That little girl was quite right. I wish I
had not to wear nice dresses, and
could play in the meadow all day. I
think I should like to be a lamb.
Fanny. Take care, Belle! Wait until you hear
what happened to that little girl before
you turn into a lamb. One day she fell
asleep in her chair, and dreamed that
she was a snow-white lamb, running
about in a clover-field. She was greatly
delighted, and skipped about, and said
to herself, ‘‘ Ah, but isn’t this nice!”

Then she tried to clap her hands,
and shout; but, you see, she was only
a lamb, and could not. She could only
frisk. and jump, and bleat, “ Ba-a!
ba-a!"" Then, suddenly, she saw, coming
across the ead bas the butcher-man,
and he was running toward her to catch
her.

She tried to scream, and she tried to
run, but she was so frightened she
could not move. On came the frightful
butcher-man, and just as he caught her,
she gave a sudden jump and scream.
The jump waked her up, and the scream
A DIALOGUE. 135


I 36 ENGLISH READER, BOOK IV.

frightened her mother, who came run-
ning to see what was the matter. Then
the poem goes on :—

“She sat bolt upright in her chatr ;
She stared around in wild surprise,
And pulled her curling yellow hati,
And rubbed her sleepy, wondering eyes.
‘O dear!” she cried, ‘how glad I am
That I am really not a lamé f°

“*A lamb !’—her mother laughed outright
At such a very queer excuse ;
‘Lf that's the reason of your fright,
L think you are a little goose !’
‘ You wouldn't,’ sobbed poor silly Nan,
‘Tf you had seen that butcher-man !’”

John. Ha! ha! ha! What do you think of
that, Belle ?

Belle. | think it would be very nice to play in the
clover-fields. I wish I could be a little
girl and a lamb too! Mamma calls me
her lamb sometimes.

Lucy. That's a good idea, Belle !—But, Fanny,
we must go toschool. Good-bye, Belle!
ll tell you what to do: run to mother
and tell her all about it, and ask her to
CAUGHT BY THE TIDE. 137

take you into the country to-day and let
you play in the fields, just as if you were
a lamb. Only she must be sure to
bring you safe home to-night, for fear,
you know, of that dreadful butcher-
man. Good-bye, dear!

Fanny and John. Good-bye, Belle!

Little Belle (with dignity )—Good morning, all!

48.
CAUGHT BY THE TIDE.

“HOSE who have seen the sea know what the
tides are. The water rises slowly, and flows
higher and higher upon the land, until the beach
is covered ; then it turns, and flows out again as
slowly as it came in. The coming in of the water
is called the “‘ flow of the tide;”’ the going out is
called the ‘‘ ebb of the tide.”

One day, a little boy, whose name was Walter,
took his little sister, Ettie, to’the sea-beach to
gather shells. They walked up and down on the
sand searching for shells, but they could not find
any that were very pretty.

“Tt is too bad!” said Ettie; ‘‘ some-one has
been here before us and picked up all the prettiest
shells. I think they ought to have left some of
them for us,”
138 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

‘They had as much right to them as we have,”
said Walter. ‘‘ We must try to find some that no
one else has seen.”

‘* That will be rather hard to do, unless we can
find a place where no one else has been for some
time,” said Ettic. ‘Now, if we could only go
over to Rocky Islet, I am sure we should find as
many as we could carry. It is low tide, and the
rocks are all standing above the water.”

‘Let us go, then,” said Walter. ‘‘ There is
Jonas the fisherman's boat, just ahead of us; we
can borrow that, and row over to the islet easily
enough. Itis not very far.”

Ettie was delighted. They borrowed the fisher-
man’s boat, and, as Walter could row very well,
they soon reached Rocky Islet. Walter tied the
boat to.a large stone, and then they began to
search for shells.

They found many beautiful ones, which they
placed in the boat. Little Ettie thought she had
never seen such fine ones as some of these were,
- Will not mother be pleased,” she said, ‘‘ when
she sees how many we have-—and such beauties,
“too!

There was a pool of water on the islet, and in it
were two crabs, which had been left there by the
tide. Walter found them, and called to his sister
to come and see them.
139

E.

CAUGHT BY THE TID



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140 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

They watched the crabs for some time, and
laughed at their comical looks and ways. At last
Walter said: ‘‘Come, now; the tide is rising,
and we must start for home.” They walked to the
water's edge, where they had left the boat, but it
was not there. One of the oars lay on the rock,
but the boat was gone.

Walter had not tied the boat securely, and the
rising tide had carried it away. They could see it
drifting toward the shore.

‘““What shall we do,” cried Ettie, in alarm.
‘‘The tide will cover all these rocks. We must
get to the shore, or we shall be drowned. Can you
not swim to the boat, Walter.”’

“‘ Tt is too far off,” said Walter ‘‘and the wind
is blowing it along faster than I could swim.
Perhaps some-one will see us, and help us.”

49.

They were very much frightened. Ettie began

to cry. Walter shouted as loud as he could,

hoping that some one would hear him; but it

was of no use, for the shore was too far off, and

there was no boat in sight except the empty one
that was drifting away.

‘¢ Here is one of the oars,” said Walter, picking

it up. ‘‘ Let me take your apron, Ettie ; I will tie
CAUGHT BY THE TIDE. I4I

it fast to the oar, and wave it, to let them know
that we need help.”

He tied the apron fast to the oar and waved it,
in the hope that some one would see it. Mean-
while the water was slowly rising, and they had
to go back, step by step, to the middle of the
islet. They climbed upon the highest rock they
could find, and stood there, shouting, and waving
the oar with Ettie’s apron tied to the end of it.

At last the water reached the rock on which
they were standing. Little Ettie screamed, as
a wave rippled over the rock and wetted her
feet.

‘“‘Tt is of no use,” said Walter; ‘‘no one hears
or sees us. Perhaps, after all, the water will not
rise high enough to cover our heads. Let us hold
fast to each other, so that we may not be washed
off the rock.”

The water was up to their knees now, and still
rising. Walter told Ettie to put both her arms
over the oar; then he tied her fast to it with the
apron. ‘‘ There,” he said, ‘‘that will keep
you from sinking, if the water gets too deep, or
washes us off the rock ; and I can take hold of an
end and swim for some time. I will take off my
coat and shoes, before the water gets deeper.”

The two children kissed each other, and Walter
took hold of the oar to which his sister was tied.
142 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

Sak









THE RISING TIDE,

Just then they heard a shout. They looked towards
the shore, and saw a boat coming out to them ;
Jonas the fisherman was in it.

The old man had seen the boat drifting towards
_the shore, and knew at.once that it must have floated —
THE COURAGEOUS BOY. 143

away from the children, and that they were in
danger. He dashed into the water and swam to
the boat. |

He found one of the oars lying among the shells
in the bottom. He quickly took off the rudder,
pushed the oar over the back part of the boat, and
began to scull it towards Rocky Islet.

As he came near, he could see the children
standing in the water. He shouted to let them
know that help was near. The boy shouted in
reply, and soon they were all safe in the boat.

It would be hard to tell how glad they all were.
Ettie cried and laughed by turns; she threw her
arms about Jonas, and kissed him again and
again. It was not long before they were safe at
home once more, and Ettie was telling her father
and mother all that had happened. Walter was
silent, for he felt that their danger had been caused
by ie carelessness in tying the boat ; but it made
him happy when his mother kissed him, and
called him her brave boy.

50.
_THE COURAGEOUS BOY.
(2 day, a farmer at work in his fields saw a
party of huntsmen riding over his farm. He
had a field in which the wheat was just coming up,
144 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

and he was anxious that the gentlemen should not
go into that, as the trampling of the horses and
dogs would spoil the crop.

8 he sent one of his farm hands, a bright young
boy, to shut the gate of that field and to keep
guard over it. He told him that he must, on no
account, permit the gate to be opened.

Scarcely had the boy reached the field and closed
the gate, when the huntsmen came galloping up
and ordered him to open it. This the boy declined
to do.

‘* Master,” said he, ‘‘ has ordered me to permit
no one to pass through this gate, and I can
neither open it myself nor allow anyone else
to do so.”

First one gentleman threatened to thrash him if

he did not open it; then another offered him a
sovereign ; ‘but all to no effect. The brave boy
was neither to be frightened nor bribed.
_ Then a grand and stately gentleman came for-
ward and said: ‘‘ My boy,.do you not know me.
I am the Duke of Wellington—one not accustomed
to be disobeyed ; and I command you to open that
gate, that I and my friends may pass.”

The boy took off his hat to the great man whom
all’ England delighted to honour, and answered :
‘“‘T am’ sure the Duke of Wellington’ would not
wish-me to’ disobey orders. I must keep this gate
FAITHFUL FIDO. 145

shut, nor permit anyone to pass without my
master’s express permission.”

The brave old warrior was greatly pleased at the .
boy’s answer, and lifting his own hat, he said:

‘*T honour the man or the boy who can neither
be bribed nor frightened into doing wrong. With
an army of such soldiers I could conquer, not only
the French, but the whole world.”

As the party galloped away, the boy ran off to
his work, shouting at the top of his voice,
‘‘ Hurrah ! hurrah for the Duke of Wellington !”

51.
FAITHFUL FIDO.

to go on a long journey,
and he took her with him.
He rode a beautiful horse,
and Fido trotted cheerfully at
the horse’s heels. Often the master would speak
a cheering word to the dog, and she would wag
her tail and bark a glad answer. And so they
travelled on and on.

The sun shone hot, and the road was dusty.
The beautiful horse was covered with sweat, and
poor Fido’s tongue lolled out of her mouth, and

10—4


146 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

her little legs were so tired they could hardly run
another step.

At last they came to a cool, shady wood, and
the master.stopped, dismounted, and tied his horse
‘to a tree. He took from the saddle his heavy
saddle-bags : they were meavyi because they were
filled with gold,.

The man laid the bags down very carefully | in a
shady place, and, pointing to them, said to Fido,
‘‘'Watch them.’”’ Then he drew his cloak about
him, lay down with his head. on the ee and
soon was fast asleep.

Little Fido curled herself up close to her master’s
head, with her nose over one end of the bags, and
went to sleep too. But she did not sleep very
soundly, for her master had told her to watch, and

every few moments she would open her eyes and
prick up her ears, to learn if anybody were coming.
. Her master was tired, and slept soundly and
long—very much longer than he had intended.
At last he was awakened by Fido licking his face.

The dog saw that the sun was nearly setting,
and knew that it was time for her master to go.
The. man patted Fido, and .jumped up, much
troubled to find he had slept so long. aes

He snatched up his cloak, threw. it over: his
horse, untied his bridle, sprang into the saddle,
and, calling Fido, started off in great haste.. But
FAITHFUL FIDO. 147

little Fido did not seem ready to follow him. She
ran after the horse and bit at his heels, and then
ran back again to the woods, all the time barking
furiously. This she did several times: but her
master had no time to heed her foolish pranks, and
galloped away, thinking she would follow him.

At last, the little dog sat down by the roadside,
and looked sorrowfully after her master, until he
-had turned a bend in the road. ;

When he was no longer in sight, she sprang up
with a wild bark and ran after him. She overtook
him just as he had stopped to water his horse in a
brook that flowed across the road. She stood
beside the brook and barked so savagely, that her
master rode back and called her to him; but,
instead of coming back to him, she dared off
down the road, still barking.

Her master did not ena what to think, and
began to fear that his dog was going mad. Mad
dogs:are afraid of water, and act strangely when
they see it. While the man was thinking of this,
Fido came running back again, and dashed at him
furiously. She leaped up on the legs of the horse,
.and even jumped up and bit the toe of her master’s
boot ; then she ran down the road again, barking
with all her little might.

Her master was now convinced that she was
mad, and, taking out his pistol, he shot her.

10*—4
148 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

He rode away quickly, for he loved her dearly,
and did not wish to see her die; but he had not
ridden very far when he stopped as suddenly as if
he had himself been shot. He felt quickly under
his cloak for his saddle-bags. They were not
there ! ;

Had he dropped them, or had he left them
behind, in the wood, for he could not recall picking
them up or fastening them to his saddle. He
turned quickly about, and rode back again as fast
as his horse could go.

When he came to the brook, he said, ‘‘ Poor
Fido!” and looked about, but he could see
nothing of her. After he had crossed the stream,
he saw some drops of blood upon the ground ; and
all along the road, as he went, he still saw drops
of blood. Poor little Fido!

Tears came into the man’s eyes, and his heart
began to ache, for he understood now why little
Fido had acted so strangely. She was not mad at
all. She knew that her master had left his precious
bags of gold, and she had tried to tell him in the
only way she could.

Oh, how guilty the man felt, as he allped
along and saw the drops of blood by the road-
side! At last he came to the wood, and there, all
safe, lay the bags of gold ; and there, beside them,
lay faithful Fido, dead.
THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM. 149

52.
THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM.

AN old clock, that had stood for fifty years in a

farmer’s kitchen without giving its owner any
cause of complaint, early one summer’s morning,
before the family was stirring, suddenly stopped.
Upon this, the dial-plate (if we may credit the
fable) changed countenance with alarm ; the hands
made a vain effort to continue their course; the
wheels remained motionless with surprise; the
weights hung speechless; and each member felt
disposed to lay the blame on the others.

At length the dial called “for a formal inquiry
into the cause of the stop; when hands, wheels,
weights, with one voice protested their innocence.
But now a faint tick was heard below from the
pendulum, who thus spoke: ‘‘ I confess myself to
be the sole cause of the stoppage; and I am
willing to give my reasons. The truth is, that I
am tired of ticking.” Upon hearing this, the old
clock became so enraged that it was on the very
point of striking.

‘* Lazy wire !” exclaimed the dial-plate, holding
up itshands. ‘‘Very good !” replied the pendulum.
‘‘It is vastly easy for you, Mistress Dial, who
have always, as everybody knows, set yourself
up above me—it is vastly easy for you, I say, to
BOOK IV.

ENGLISH READER.

150







THE FARMER’S OLD CLOCK,
THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM. 15t

accuse other people of laziness! . You, who have
had nothing to do all your life but to stare people:
in the face, and to amuse yourself with watching
all that goes on in the kitchen !; Think how you
would like to be shut up for life in this dark’
closet, and wag backward and forward, year after
year, as I do.”

‘“As to that,’’ said the dial, ‘fis there not a’
window in your house on purpose for you to poh
eee % I

“For. all that,” deatinicd the pendulum, ‘‘ it is
very dark here ; and, although there is a window,
I dare not stop, even for an instant, to look out.
Besides, I am really tired of my way of life; and,
if you wish, I’ll tell you how I took this disgust at
my employment. This morning I reckoned up
how many times I should have to tick in the —
course of only the next twenty-four hours ; perhaps
some ot you, above there, can give me the exact
sum.

The minute hand, being quick at figures, in-
stantly replied, ‘‘ Eighty-six thousand four hundred
times.” . ‘‘ Exactly so,’ replied the pendulum.
‘Well, I appeal to you all, if the thought of this
was. not: enough. to fatigue one. And, when I
began to multiply the strokes of one day by those
of months and years, really it is no wonder if I felt
discouraged at the prospect ; so, after a great deal
152 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

of reasoning and hesitation, thinks I to myself
‘Tl stop !’”

The dial could scarcely keeps its countenance
during this speech ;. but resuming its gravity, it at
last replied: ‘‘ My dear Pendulum, I am really
astonished that such a useful, industrious person
as yourself should have been overcome by this. It
is true you have done a great deal of work in your
time ; so have we all, and are likely to do; and,
though this may fatigue us to think of, the question
is, will it fatigue us to do. Would you now do me
the favour to give about half-a-dozen strokes to
illustrate my argument.”

The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at
its usual pace. ‘‘ Now,” resumed the dial, ‘‘ may
I be allowed to ask, was that exertion at all fatigu-
ing to you?”

‘¢ Not in the least,” replied the pendulum; ‘‘it
is not of six strokes that I complain, nor of sixty,
but of millions.”

‘Very good,” replied the dial; but recollect
that, although you may think of a million strokes
in an instant, you are required to execute but one;
and that, however often you may hereafter have to
swing, a moment will always be given you to
swing in.”

‘That consideration staggers me, I confess,”
said the pendulum. ‘‘ Then I hope,” resumed the
NOW AND THEN :—BY AND BY. 153

dial-plate, ‘‘we shall all return to our duty at
once ; for the maids will be in bed till noon if we
stand idling thus.”

Upon this the weights, who had never been
accused of light conduct, used all their influence in
urging him to proceed; when, as with one consent,
the wheels began to turn, the hands began to
move, the pendulum began to swing, and, to its
credit, ticked as loud as ever ; while a beam of the
rising sun, that streamed through a hole in the
kitchen shutter, shining full upon the dial-plate,
made it brighten up as if nothing had been the
matter.

When the farmer came down to breakfast that
morning, upon looking at the clock, he declared
that his watch had gained half-an-hour in the
night.

53-
NOW AND THEN :—BY AND BY.

OW ” is the word ever ticking from the clock
~*~‘ of Time. ‘‘ Now” is the watchword of the
wise. ‘‘ Now” is on the banner of the prudent.
Let us keep this little word always in mind.
Whenever we have any work or study to do, we
should do it with all our might; for ‘‘ Now” is
the only time we can call our own.
‘I54 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

We shall find it a poor way to get through. the
world, if we fall into the habit of putting off till
to-morrow what should be done to-day saying
“ Theri I will do it.” No! this will never answer.
‘“Now” is ours; ‘* Then?’ may never be. :
« Do not trust to ‘‘ By-and-By.” He is a bad
pilot ; and‘if you listen to him on the shores of
“Never” he will be sure to land you by-and-by.

There is a little mischief-making
Elfin, who is ever nigh ;

Thwarting.every undertaking
And his name is By-and-By.

What we ought to do this minute,
“Will be better done,” he’ll cry,
‘‘ If to-morrow we begin it :”
‘* Put it off,” says By-and-By.

Those who heed the treacherous wooing,
Will his faithless guidance rue ;

What we always put off doing,
Clearly we shall never do.

We shall reach what we endeavour,
If on ‘‘ Now” we more rely ;

But unto the realms of Never,
Leads the pilot By-and-By.
TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. THs"

TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW.

ON’T tell me of to-morrow ;
Give me the man who'll say,
That when a good deed’s to be done,
‘* Let’s do the deed to-day.”
We may all command the present,
If we act, and never wait,
But repentance is the phantom
Of a past that comes too; late !

Don’t tell me of to-morrow ;
_ There is much to do to-day, »
“That can never be accomplished
>If we throw the hours away ;. ©
Every moment has its duty,.
Who the future can foretell ?
Why put off until to-morrow
What to-day can do as well?

Don’t tell me of to-morrow:
If we look upon the past,
How much that we have left to do
We cannot do at last !
~ To-day—it is the only time
5 ‘For all upon the earth ;
> Jt takes an age to form a life—
A moment gives it birth!-.-. ©. --~
156 ENGLISH READER BOOK IV.

54
LESSONS OF INDUSTRY.

OW very small is the little plant that springs

up from the acorn, and how slowly it grows!

and yet, by growing a little each day, and year by

year, it finally becomes a mighty oak; and the

birds sing in its branches, and many cattle repose
in its shade.

There are little coral animals that begin to work
away down on the bottom of the ocean: they build
there cell after cell, one upon another, like little
grains of sand. But day by day, and year by
year, these little insects keep cheerfully toiling on,
never stopping to rest or to play, until, at length,
their rocky dwellings reach above the waters ; and
in this way beautiful islands are formed, and men
go and dwell upon them.

“Little by little, and lesson after lesson, I will
gather up the knowledge which I find in books,
and in the world around me,” said a thoughtful
boy. And by learning a little every day, and
learning it well, he became at length, a wise and a
useful man, honoured and respected by all who
knew him. Here are these three lessons of in-
dustry in verse :
LESSONS OF INDUSTRY. 157

‘* Little by little,’ an acorn said,
As it slowly sank in its mossy bed,
‘‘T am improving every day,
Hidden deep in the earth away.”

Little by little each day it grew ;

Little by little it sipped the dew ;
Downward it sent out a thread-like root ;
Up in the air sprung a tiny shoot.

Day after day, and year after year,

Little by little, the leaves appear ;

And the slender branches spread far and wide,
Till the mighty oak is the forest’s pride.

Far down in the depths of the dark blue sea
The coral train work ceaselessly ;

Grain by grain, they are building well,
Each one alone in its little cell ;

Moment by moment, and day by day,
Never stopping to rest or to play.
Rocks upon rocks they are rearing high,
Till the top looks out on the sunny sky ;
158 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

The gentle wind and the balmy air, .
Littie by little, bring verdure there ;

Till the summer sunbeams gaily smile .
On the buds and flowers of the coral isle.

‘* Little by little,” said a thoughtful boy,
‘Moment by moment, T’ll well: employ,
Learning a little every day,

And not spending all my time in play.

And still this rule in my mind shall dwell,
‘Whatever I-do, I will do it well.’

Little by little, Pll learn to know

The treasured wisdom of long ago;

And one of these days perhaps we’ll see
That the world will be better for me.”
And do not you think that this simple plan
Made him a wise and a useful man. .

55-
THE ANT AND THE CRICKET.
Q* the approach of winter a company. of ants

were busy at work collecting a supply of food,
which they kept, for a time, at the doors’ of chee
THE ANT AND THE CRICKET. . 159

country dwelling, and then stored away in cham-
bers beneath the ground.

A cricket, who had chanced to outlive the
summer, and was now wet, and shivering with
cold, ready to starve with hunger, approached
the ants with great humility, and begged
that they would relieve her wants with one
mouthful of food, and give her shelter from
the storm.

“But how is it,” said one of the ants, ‘‘ that

you have not taken pains to provide yourself. a
house; and to lay in a supply of food for the
winter, as we have done?”
_ “Alas, friends,” said she, “I needed no
house to live in in the summer; and I passed
away the time merely in drinking, singing,
and dancing, and never once thought of
winter.”

, ‘CIf that be the case,” replied the ant,
laughing, ‘‘all I have to say is, that they who
-drink, sing, and dance all summer, must starve
in winter. We ants never borrow, and we never
lend.”

Moral.—-Do not, like the silly cricket, waste all
your time in play andidleness, but store your mind
with knowledge, which, like the hoard of the
. industrious ants, will be of use to yout in hg winter
of adversity. ni
160 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.







CRICKETS.

A silly young cricket, accustomed to sing
Through the warm sunny months of gay summer
and spring,
Began to complain, when he found that, at home,
His cupboard was empty, and winter was come—
Not a crumb to be found
On the snow-covered ground ;
Not a flower could he see,
Not a leaf on a tree:
‘©Oh, what will become,” says the cricket, ‘‘ of
me?”
THE ANT AND THE CRICKET. 161

At last, by starvation and famine made bold,
All dripping with wet,. and all trembling with
cold,
Away he set off to a miserly ant,
To see if, to keep him alive, he would grant
ne Him shelter from rain,
And a mouthful of grain.
He wished only to borrow ;
He'd repay it to-morrow ;
If ‘riot, he must die of starvation and sorrow.

Says the ant to the cricket, ‘‘ I’m your servant and
friend
But we ants never borrow: we ants never lend.
But tell me, dear cricket, did you lay nothing by
When the weather was warm?” Quoth the cricket,
“Not I!”
‘¢ My heart was so light
That I sang day and night,
For all nature looked gay ’—
‘You sang, sir, you say.
Go then,” says the ant, ‘‘ and dance winter away.”

Thus ending, he hastily lifted the wicket,

And out of the door turned the poor little cricket.

Folks call this a fable ; Tl warrant it truce:

Some crickets have four legs ; and some have but
two.

I1—4
162 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

‘A GOOD INVESTMENT
[Adapted from Hreeman Hunt.]
56.
a (8 you lend me two
hundred pounds, to
set myself up in a small
retail business ?”’ asked
a young man, not yet
out of his teens, of a
middle-aged gentleman,
who was poring over
his ledger in the count-
ing-house of one of the
largest firms in London.
The person spoken to
turned towards the speaker, and, looking at him
for a moment in surprise, asked, ‘‘ What security
can you give me, Mr. Strong?”

‘‘ Nothing. but my note,” replied the young
man, promptly.—‘‘ Which I fear would be below
par in market,” replied the merchant, smiling.

‘Perhaps so,” said the young man; ‘‘ but, Mr.
Barton, remember that the boy is not the man:
the time may come when Henry Strong’s note will
be as good as that of any other man.”

‘True, very true,” replied Mr. Barton, mildly ;
‘but, you know, business men seldom lend money


A GOOD INVESTMENT. 163°
without good Ce ; otherwise they might soon
be reduced to want.’

At this remark, the young man’s face esate very
pale ; and, Having kept silent for several moments,
he asked, in a voice whose tones showed his deep
distress, ‘‘ Then you cannot help me—can you?”

**Call upon me to-morrow, and I will give you
a reply,” said Mr. Barton ; at the young man
went away.

Mr. Barton resumed his labours at the desk ; but
his mind was so much upon the boy and his strange
errand that he could not go on with his task ; and,
after having made several sad blunders, he closed the
ledger, took his hat, and went out into the street.

57:

_Reachiag the shop of a rich merchant, in Milk
Street, Mr. Barton entered the door.
~“ Good morning, Mr. Hawley,” said he, walking
up to the owner of the shop, who was seated at his
desk, counting over the profits of the week

‘© Good morning,” replied the merchant, blandly.
‘‘ Pleased to see you. Take a seat? Any news?”

Taking no notice of these questions, Mr. Barton
said, ‘‘ Young Strong wishes to set up in a small
retail business, and called this morning to borrow
two hundred pounds of me for that purpose.”

“*Tndeed!” said Mr. Hawley ; ‘‘ but you do not
think of lending that sum—do you?’

r1*—4
164 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

‘*T do not know,” replied Mr. Barton. ‘‘ Mr.
Strong is a young man of business talent and
strict honesty, and will be likely to succeed in
whatever he undertakes.”

‘‘ Perhaps so,” replied Mr. Hawley, doubtfully;
‘‘but I am heartily tired of helping to set up these
young beginners.”

‘* Have you ever suffered from such a course?”
asked Mr. Barton, at the same time casting a
roguish glance at Mr. Hawley.

“* No,” cope the latter ; ‘‘ for I never ran ‘the
risk of doing so.’

‘*Then here i is a fine chance to doso. It may prove
better than stock in the bank. As for myself, I
have made up my mind that, if you will lend him
one hundred pounds, I will advance an equal sum.”

‘* Not a single farthing would J advance for such
a purpose ; and, if you do anything of that kind, I
shall think you very foolish.”

Mr. Barton was silent for several minutes, and
then rose to depart. ‘‘ If you do not feel disposed
to share with me in this venture, I shall advance
the sum myself; ”’ saying which, he left the shop.

58.

Ten years have passed away since the events
related in the last lesson took place, and Mr.
Barton, pale and worried, is standing at the same
desk at which he stood when first we saw him. As
* A GOOD INVESTMENT, 165

‘page after page of his ledger is gone through, his

despair becomes deeper and deeper, till, at last, he
exclaims, ‘‘ I am ruined—utterly ruined !”

‘‘ How so?” asked Henry Strong, who walked
into the room in time to hear the remark.

‘‘ The last steamer brought news of the failure
of the house of Jackson & Company, of New

York, who owe me nearly forty thousand pounds
News of the failure has become general, and my ©
creditors are pressing for payment. The banks
refuse me credit, and I have not the means to meet
my debts. If I could pass the crisis, perhaps I
could rally again, but if not, I cannot much longer
keep above the tide,” replied Mr. Barton.

‘‘What is the amount of your debts ?” asked
Strong.

- “* Fifteen thousand pounds,” replied Mr. Barton.
‘‘ Would that sum be enough to relieve you?”
“Tt would.”

‘* Then, sir, you shall have it,” said Strong, as
he stepped up to the desk, and drew a cheque for
four thousand pounds. ‘‘ Take this, and when you
~ need more call upon me. Remember that it was you
who lent me money to start mysef in business.”

‘* But that money was paid several years ago,”
replied Mr. Barton, as a ray of hope. shot across
his troubled mind.

‘True, replied Strong, but the debt af gratitude
- 766 ENGLISH READER. BOOK Iv.

that I owe has never been paid; now that the scale
is turned, I deem it my duty to come to the rescue.”

At this turn in the tide of fortune, Mr. Barton
fairly wept for joy. Every claim against him was
paid, and in less than a month he had passed the
crisis, and stood safe and secure: his credit im-
proved, and his business increased, while several
others sank under the blow, and could not rally,
among whom was Mr. Hawley.

‘¢ How did you manage to keep your head above
the tide ?”’ asked Mr. Hawley of Mr. Barton, one
morning, several months after these events had
‘taken place, as he met the latter in the street, on
his way to his shop.

‘© Very easily, indeed, I can assure you,” replied
Mr. Barton.

‘* Well do tell me how,” Mr. Hawley went on;
‘*T lay claim to be a shrewd man, but my wits did
not save me; and yet you, whose losses were twice
as heavy as my own, have stood the shock, and
have come off even bettered by the storm.”

‘‘ The truth is,” replied Mr. Barton, ‘‘ I cashed
my paper as soon as it was sent in.”

‘‘T suppose so,” said Mr. Hawley, gazing at
Mr. Barton with a look of surprise ; ‘‘but how did
you get the funds? As for me, I could not obtain
credit: the banks refused to take my paper, and
even my friends turned their backs on me.”
THE LABOURER. 167

‘*A small sum invested some ten years ago,”
replied Mr. Barton, smiling, ‘‘has lately proved
one of great profit.”

‘What was that?” echoed Mr. Hawley.

‘Why, do you not remember how I set young
Strong up in business some ten years ago?”

‘*O yes, yes,’’ ne Mr. Hawley, ‘‘ but what
of that ?”

‘‘ He is now one of the largest dealers in the
city ; and when this trouble fell. upon me, he came
forward, and very kindly lent me fifteen thousand
pounds. You know I told you on the morning I
called to offer you an equal share of the stock, that it -
might prove better than money placed in the bank.”

On hearing this news, Mr. Hawley bent his
_eyes upon the ground, and, drawing a deep sigh,
moved sadly on, while Mr. Barton went back to
his shop with his mind cheered by happy thoughts.

THE LABOURER.

[* is always held as natural that what men have

made, they should, in some sense, consider
their own; and that they should have a certain
right of ownership in everything they have helped
to make, or reclaim, or improve. If a man has
added to the public stock, surely he has a claim
upon it, unless he has done something to forfeit
that claim; surely he has the world in his debt,
168 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

unless the world can prove the balance of debt is
against him.

Let us now see how this matter stands with
regard to land. The labourer has helped to make
it what it is; he has watered it with his sweat, and,
it may be said, his very blood; he has sunk
thereon his whole capital, and devoted to it his
little all. He knows the land is now worth more
for his labour ; should he not, then, think he has
a right init? Surely it is no idle dream. No;
it is founded on truth and justice ; and, were it not
so, it would not be so strong an opinion, so deep-
rooted a sentiment.

“Let us try to express this sentiment in words
and images—though words cannot reach what
is so deep and heartfelt. Here is an aged
labourer, whom Nature has suffered to survive
his strength. He was born in the parish, and
there was brought up; he gave to it the first-
fruits of his labour. His whole life has been one
of use and service to the parish. As far as he or
any mortal man can strike the balance, he has
given vastly more than he has received, and so
deserves a blessing. All that he sees or hears tells
him of his work, a work which, in the case of most
labourers, is a work of love. He knows that the
produce of the soil has been increased by the labour
of his hands, He sees a present triumph, which is
THE LABOURER. 169

' the result of fifty hard-fought battles with Nature.

It is no barren victory, but a real conquest, yield-
ing sterling fruits. He helped to redeem that bog
from barrenness; he helped to drain the marsh
of its surplus moisture. Those fields of wheat
which now present such a waving surface of
golden ears, rising shoulder high, once would
only produce in alternate strip; half the crop
was drowned or starved by standing -water,—
he under-drained it ; he has seen the flock of sheep
that feed upon that down increase from five to
seven or eight hundred.

Many a winter month has he toiled knee-deep
in mud at those dykes, and helped to give its
present useful direction to that stream, which, in
the reeds and willows that now fringe its bed,
seems to forget the violence once done to it; he
tempered with marl that field of hungry sand;
he, when plough and harrow and hoe had failed,
dug up with his pick-axe, and tore up with his
hands, one by one, the myriads of matted and
ropy weeds that once infested that northward slope.

In some one or other of the numberless pro-
cesses of modern farming, he has traversed a
hundred times every square foot of the parish,
till he knows every land-mark as if it were in
his own cottage garden; he first set, and has
five times trimmed down. to the stocks, those
c ‘T70 ENGLISH READER: BOOK IV.

ancient hedges; he helped to plant that belt of
forest trees, now grown enough to adorn and
shelter the country, and supply both fuel and
“timber ; he helped to make and maintain the roads
and the bridges; he has.lent his labour to every
_ improvement—everything that has increased the
- value, ‘the. comfort, the beauty of the village and
the parish.
tie 60.
What closer connection can there bé than this.
It is all in a manner the work of his own hands;
the village, the parish, the land, the fields and
“meadows, the woods, the streams, are part of him-
“self. He is indeed, as he is sometimes called, ‘a
‘ Clod of the soil ; well may he be so called; the
trees that grow on the land are not nearer to it.
The mere matter of ownership is nothing to
this. Though he, who has thus helped to make
not only the yearly produce, but the very soil itself,
and thenatural qualities and features of the country,
. Should be separated ever so far, it seems as if some-
. thing must come of it. So much nearer and dearer
-a tie is it, than a mere right by title-deed to enjoy
othe produce.
_ Yet is not all told. This relation of makership,
_ this long partnership with the powers of nature, is
cemented by suffering, and endeared by the most
affecting associations. .The poet who tells the
THE LABOURER.



CHELSEA HOSPITAL.
172 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

British sailor that the spirits of his fathers start from
every wave, would only speak the unborn poetry
of every rustic breast, if he said the same here.

The labourer’s fathers, brothers, friends, have all
died in this bloodless, though not painless, warfare.
Perhaps he is the last of a gallant band of com-
panions, the last to tell their deserts, the last to
receive in his one person the rewards of many.

As for himself, he is not without honourable
wounds: his body remembers the elemental
strife: his sprained sinews, his aching joints, his
blunted organs, recall continually this or that
stormy scene; many a winter day on the bleak
hill side, many a night watch, many a surprise of
flood and storm.

Above all does he remember the last time he
forgot he was old, and, after a useless bravado
of endurance, crept home late one terrible day,
from the scene of half a century’s labours, never
to return to it again.

Of his children, some died in their infancy,
yet not too young to have tasted the hardships
of their condition; a daughter caught a chill
in the fields at fourteen, was never strong after,
and died at twenty; a son, who had roughed ‘it
well enough so far, returned to work too soon
after the scarlet fever, and lived an ailing but
still a working man, till five-and-twenty. His


a Ps s m~ > waeead





























































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































“AHANOGVT AHL



lr



GREENWICH HOSPITAL.
174 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

kindred and offspring live as he lived, labour as he
laboured, suffer as he suffered. He still serves
through them, and looks for a portion in the fruits
of theirs, that is, of his labour.

We are justly proud—too proud, our neighbours
say—of our Greenwich and our Chelsea, and take
care that all nations shall see, as they come up
our noble river, how we house and maintain our
wounded or worn-out soldiers and sailors. But in
what buildings, and with what uniform, and with
what fare, and in what company, and with what
‘ honours are we prepared to treat those equally
stout-hearted patriots, who devoted the flower and
strength of their days to preserve us from famine
and death.




WORD BUILDING. 175

WORD BUILDING.

Words accented on the last syllable, ending with a
single consonant which follows a single vowel, double
the final consonant when a suffix which begins with a
vowel 1s added.

ad-mit admit-ting admit-ted
com-mit commit-ting commit-ted
e-mit emit-ting emit-ted
o-mit omit-ting omit-ted
per-mit permit-ting permit-ted
re-mit remit-ting remit-ted
trans-mit transmit-ting — transmit-ted
com-pel compel-ling compel-led
dis-pel dispel-ling dispel-led
ex-pel expel-ling expel-led
im-pel impel-ling impel-led
re-pel repel-ling repel-led
con-cur concur-ring concur-red
in-cur incur-ring incur-red
oc-cur occur-ring occur-red
re-cur recur-ring recur-red
con-fer confer-ring confer-red
de-fer defer-ring defer-red
in-fer infer-ring infer-red
pre-fer _ prefer-ring prefer-red
re-fer refer-ring refer-red
trans-fer transfer-ring transfer-red

Boy
176 ENGLISH READER, BOOK IV.

- dis-til distil-ling distil-led
in-stil instil-ling instil-led
ex-cel excel-ling excel-led
for-bid ‘forbid-ding forbid-den _
for-get forget-ting forgot-ten
be-gin begin-ning
de-bar debar-ring debar-red
re-gret regret-ting regret-ted

When a word ends with two consonants, when a
diphthong precedes the last consonant, or when the ac-
cent is not on the last syllable, the final consonant is not
doubled when a suffix which begins with a vowel is

added.

at-tend at-tend-ing at-tend-ed
con-tend con-tend-ing con-tend-ed
dis-tend dis-tend-ing dis-tend-ed
ex-tend ex-tend-ing ex-tend-ed
in-tend in-tend-ing in-tend-ed
pre-tend pre-tend-ing pre-tend-ed
as-sist as-sist-Ing as-sist-ed
con-sist con-sist-ing con-sist-ed
in-sist in-sist-ing in-sist-ed
per-sist per-sist-ing per-sist-ed
re-sist re-sist-ing re-sist-ed
-con-tent con-tent-ing con-tent-ed
in-vent in-vent-ing in-vent-ed
pre-vent pre-vent-ing pre-vent-ed
a-vail
pre-vail
be-wail
a-wait
con-ceal
en-treat
re-main
re-sound
sus-tain
ex-claim
al-low
fol-low

dif-fer
of-fer
suf-fer
cov-er
en-ter
flat-ter
flut-ter
ut-ter
wan-der
won-der
lis-ten
al-arm

WORD BUILDING.

a-vail-ing
pre-vail-ing
be-wail-ing
a-wait-ihg
con-ceal-ing
en-treat-ing
re-main-ing
re-sound-ing
sus-tain-ing
ex-claim-ing
al-low-ing
fol-low-ing

dif-fer-ing
of-fer-ing
suf-fer-ing
cov-er-ing
en-ter-ing
flat-ter-ing
flut-ter-ing
ut-ter-ing
wan-der-ing
won-der-ing
lis-ten-ing
al-arm-ing

Exceptions.

a-vail-ed
pre-vail-ed
be-wail-ed
a-wait-ed
con-ceal-ed
en-treat-ed
re-main-ed
re-sound-ed
sus-tain-ed
ex-claim-ed
al-low-ed
fol-low-ed

dif-fer-ed
of-fer-ed
suf-fer-ed
cov-er-ed
en-ter-ed
flat-ter-ed
flut-ter-ed
ut-ter-ed
wan-der-ed
won-der-ed
lis-ten-ed
al-arm-ed

Words ending with 1, although the accent may wct
be on the last syllable, mostly double the final | when a

suffix is added.

can-cel
coun-sel
12*—4

cancel-ling
counsel-ling

cancel-led
counsel-led
178 ENGLISH READER. BOOK IV.

ex-cel excel-ling excel-led
du-el duel-ling

jew-el jewel-ling jewel-led
mar-vel marvel-ling marvel-led
quar-rel quarrel-ling quarrel-led
rev-el revel-ling revel-led
trav-el travel-ling travel-led
e-qual equal-ling equal-led
ri-val rival-ling rival-led

Some words which end in p double the final letter
when a suffix beginning with a vowel is added.

wor-ship

worship-ping

worship-ped

Silent final e is dropped when a suffix beginning
with a vowel rs added.

ar-rive arriving arrived
de-rive deriving derived
re-vive reviving revived
sur-vive surviving survived
ad-mire admiring admired
de-sire desiring desired
con-sole consoling consoled
for-sake forsaking forsaken
in-trude intruding intruded
pro-trude protruding protruded
Exceptions.
ex-change exchange-able
cou-rage courage-ous
service service-able
man-age manage-able

no-tice

notice-able
WORD BUILDING. 179

Silent final e is mostly retained when a suffix begin-
ning with a consonant is added; but the following
words are exceptions to this rule.

a-bridge
ac-know-ledge
ar-gue

judge

abridgment
acknowledgment
argument
judgment

The words below follow the rule.

a-bate
ex-cite
in-cite

abate-ment
excite-ment
incite-ment

Many foreign nouns have. been introduced into the
English language, and these generally retain their

original plurals.
Sugular.

analysis
axis
bandit
basis
beau
cactus
cherub
crisis

‘datum
effluvium
ellipsis
emphasis
erratum

Plural.

analyses
axes
banditti
bases
beaux
cacti

‘ cherubim

crises
data
effluvia
ellipses
emphases
errata
focus
fungus
genus _
gymnasium
medium
larva
madam
memorandum
monsieur
nebula
seraph
oasis

radius
stimulus
stratum
terminus

ENGLISH READER.

BOOK Iv.

foci*
fungi"
genera
gymnasia
media
larvae
mesdames
memoranda
messieurs
nebulze
seraphim
oases
radi
stimuli
strata
termini

1 C hard in singular, soft in plural.

2 G hard in singular, soft in plural.

Words nearly alike in sound which must be carefully

distinguished. —

assistance emersion salary
assistants immersion celery
adherence petition prophecy
adherents partition prophesy
attendance elicit deviser
attendants illicit divisor
barrenness eruption difference
baroness irruption deference
formerly
formally
comity
committee

confidant
confident

oracle
auricle

descendant
descendent

century
sentry

dualist
duellist

councillor
counsellor
erruption
irruption
impostor
imposture

minister
minster

precedent
president
veracity
voracity

WORD BUILDING,

accidence
accidents

eminence
imminence

eminent
imminent

emigrate
immigrate

emigrant
immigrant

courtesy
curtsy

venial
venal

calendar
calender

deprecate
depreciate

elacier
glazier

impotent
impudent

ordinance
ordnance
preposition °
proposition

181
principal
principle
allusion
illusion
cereous
serious
capitol
capital

compliment
complement

corporal
corporeal
apposite
opposite

absolute
obsolete

envelop
envelope
ingenious
ingenuous

lineament
liniment .

poplar
popular

populace
populous
182 ENGLISH READER, BOOK IV,

The suffix fy means to make.

peace paci-fy | sign signi-fy
terror terri-fy | justice justi-fy
pure puri-fy | beauty beauti-fy
deity dei-fy | mystic mysti-fy
glory glori-fy | liquid lique-fy

The suffix ous means full of.

care curl-ous | ruin ruin-ous
spirit spirit-ous envy envi-ous
study studi-ous omen omin-ous
pity pite-ous | duty dute-ous

The termination graph means a writing.

tele-graph photo-graph litho-graph
auto-graph phono-graph stylo-graph
para-graph
PITMAN’S SHORTHAND.

Recognized by the Education Department.

HE value of Pitman’s Shorthand as a means of education can
scarcely be over-rated. Being founded on a scientific and
rational basis, its acquisition trains the mind and improves the
intellect. Its use gives a correct pronunciation, and is a great
help in learning to spell. In deciding which Specific Subject
shall be taken up, teachers will be influenced chiefly by the fol-
lowing considerations—its. immediate and prospective value to
the pupil; ease of acquisition ; the popularity of the subject with
the scholar, and its grant-earning power. All these conditions.
Pitman’s Shorthand satisfies in a marked degree. Shorthand has
always been a popular subject with the young, and whenever their
inclinations are consulted, it’ is generally chosen in preference to
any other study.. The connection between inclination and suc-
cess is so obvious that it is not necessary to enlarge upon it.

“ Apart from its immense practical value,” says the Cyclopedia of Education,
‘* Shorthand has a high educative worth which should commend it to all good
teachers. The first point which a Principal, thinking of introducing Shorthand
into his school, has to decide is the system to be adopted, and no hesitation
need be felt in recommending Pitman’s Phonography, because it is easy te
write, easy to read, and easy to learn.”

The most remarkable success has attended the introduction ot
Pitman’s Shorthand into Elementary Schools. It has at once
sprung into favor, becoming one of the most popular of “Specifics,”
and the number of “ passes” obtained is frequently 100 per cent.

PITMAN’S SHORTHAND PRIMERS...

Prepared expressly to meet the requirements of the New Code, in three books.

First Shorthand Primer, 40 pp. ... a 6d.
Second Shorthand Primer, 4o pp. ... w= 6d.
Third Shorthand Primer, 40 pp. .. ww. Od.

‘Pitman’s ‘‘Fono” Shorthand Copy Books.
Containing Exercises on the Principles developed in the ‘‘ Shorthand

Primers,” set as Shorthand copies. Designed primarily to train the pupil

in the proper formation of Outlines, and secondly, to teach him the system

by imitation.

Nos. 1 to6 ... aes vs price 3d. each.

Descriptive Catalogue and specimen copies of the ‘* Shorthand Primers”
and ‘* Fono” Headline Copy Books,” together with copy of ‘‘ Pitman’s Short-
hand in Schools,” free to Head Teachers.

Sir I. Pitman & Sons, Ltd., 1 Amen Corner, London, E.C. ; Bath & New York
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