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McGUFFEY'S

McGuffey Editions and Colophon are Trademarks of

John Wiley & Sons, Inc.
New York-Chichester-Weinheim-Brisbane-Singapore-Toronto

Copyright, 1879, by VAN ANTWERP, BRAGG & CO.
Copyright, 1896, by AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY.
Copyright, 1907 and 1920, by H. H. VAIL.
M'G. REV 5TH EC.
EP 310

The plan of the revision of McGUFFEY'S FIFTH READER is the same as that pursued in the other books of the REVISED SERIES. The book has been considerably enlarged, but the new pieces have been added or substituted only after the most careful consideration, and where the advantages to be derived were assured.

It has been the object to obtain as wide a range of leading authors as possible, to present the best specimens of style, to insure interest in the subjects, to impart valuable information, and to exert a decided and healthful moral influence. Thus the essential characteristics of McGUFFEY'S READERS have been carefully kept intact.

The preliminary exercises have been retained, and are amply sufficient for drill in articulation, inflection, etc. The additional exercises on these subjects, formerly inserted between the lessons, have been omitted to make room for other valuable features of the REVISED SERIES.

A full understanding of the text is necessary in order to read it properly. As all the books of reference required for this purpose are not within the reach of the majority of pupils, full explanatory notes have been given, which, it is believed, will add greatly not only to the interest of the reading lessons, but also to their usefulness from an instructive point of view.

The definitions of the more difficult words have been given, as formerly; and the pronunciation has been indicated by diacritical marks, in conformity with the preceding books of the REVISED SERIES.

Particular attention is invited to the notices of authors. Comparatively few pupils have the opportunity of making a separate study of English and American literature, and the carefully prepared notices in the REVISED SERIES are designed, therefore, to supply as much information in regard to the leading authors as is possible in the necessarily limited space assigned. The publishers have desired to illustrate McGUFFEY'S READERS in a manner worthy of the text and of the high favor in which they are held throughout the United States. The most celebrated designers and engravers of the country have been employed for this purpose.

It has been the privilege of the publishers to submit the REVISIED SERIES to numerous eminent educators in all parts of the country. To the careful reviews and criticisms of these gentlemen is due, in a large measure, the present form of McGUFFEY'S READERS. The value of these criticisms, coming from practical sources of the highest authority, can not well be overestimated, and the publishers take this occasion to express their thanks and their indebtedness to all who have thus kindly assisted them in this work.

Especial acknowledgment is due to Messrs. Houghton, Osgood & Co. for their permission to make liberal selections from their copyright editions of many of the foremost American authors whose works they publish.

TITLE. AUTHOR. 1. The Good Reader 2. The Bluebell 3. The Gentle Hand T. S. Arthur. 4. The Grandfather C. G. Eastman. 5. A Boy on a Farm C. D. Warner. 6. The Singing Lesson Jean Ingelow. 7. Do not Meddle 8. Work Eliza Cook. 9. The Maniac 10. Robin Redbreast W. Allingham. 11. The Fish I Did n't Catch Whittier. 12. It Snows Mrs. S. J. Hale. 13. Respect for the Sabbath Rewarded 14. The Sands o' Dee Charles Kingsley. 15. Select Paragraphs Bible. 16. The Corn Song Whittier. 17. The Venomous Worm John Russell. 18. The Festal Board 19. How to Tell Bad News 20. The Battle of Blenheim Southey. 21. I Pity Them 22. An Elegy on Madam Blaize Goldsmith. 23. King Charles II. and William Penn Mason L. Weems. 24. What I Live For 25. The Righteous Never Forsaken 26. Abou Ben Adhem Leigh Hunt. 27. Lucy Forrester John Wilson. 28. The Reaper and the Flowers. Longfellow. 29. The Town Pump Hawthorne. 30. Good Night Peter Parley. 31. An Old-fashioned Girl Louisa M. Alcott. 32. My Mother's Hands 33. The Discontented Pendulum. Jane Taylor. 34. The Death of the Flowers Bryant. 35. The Thunderstorm Irving. 36. April Day Mrs. C. A. Southey. 37. The Tea Rose 38. The Cataract of Lodore Southey. 39. The Bobolink Irving. 40. Robert of Lincoln Bryant. 41. Rebellion in Massachusetts State Prison J. T. Buckingham. 42. Faithless Nelly Gray Hood. 43. The Generous Russian Peasant Nikolai Karamzin. 44. Forty Years Ago 45. Mrs. Caudle's Lecture Douglas Jerrold. 46. The Village Blacksmith Longfellow. 47. The Relief of Lucknow "London Times." 48. The Snowstorm Thomson. 49. Behind Time 50. The Old Sampler Mrs. M. E. Sangster. 51. The Goodness of God Bible. 52. My Mother 53. The Hour of Prayer Mrs. F. D. Hemans. 54. The Will 55. The Nose and the Eyes Cowper. 56. An Iceberg L. L. Noble. 57. About Quail W. P. Hawes. 58. The Blue and the Gray F. M. Finch. 59. The Machinist's Return Washington "Capital." 60. Make Way for Liberty James Montgomery. 61. The English Skylark Elihu Burritt. 62. How Sleep the Brave William Collins. 63. The Rainbow John Keble. 64. Supposed Speech of John Adams Daniel Webster. 65. The Rising T. R. Read. 66. Control your Temper Dr. John Todd. 67. William Tell Sheridan Knowles. 68. William Tell Sheridan Knowles. 69. The Crazy Engineer 70. The Heritage Lowell. 71. No Excellence without Labor William Wirt. 72. The Old House Clock 73. The Examination. D. P. Thompson. 74. The Isle of Long Ago B. F. Taylor. 75. The Boston Massacre Bancroft. 76. Death of the Beautiful Mrs. E. L. Follen. 77. Snow Falling J. J. Piatt. 78. Squeers's Method Dickens. 79. The Gift of Empty Hands Mrs. S. M. B. Piatt. 80. Capturing the Wild Horse Irving. 81. Sowing and Reaping Adelaide Anne Procter. 82. Taking Comfort Whittier. 83. Calling the Roll Shepherd. 84. Turtle Soup C. F. Briggs. 85. The Best Kind of Revenge 86. The Soldier of the Rhine Mrs. C. E. S. Norton. 87. The Winged Worshipers Charles Sprague. 88. The Peevish Wife Maria Edgeworth. 89. The Rainy Day Longfellow. 90. Break, Break, Break Tennyson. 91. Transportation and Planting of Seeds H. D. Thoreau. 92. Spring Again Mrs. Celia Thaxter. 93. Religion the only Basis of Society W. E. Channing. 94. Rock Me to Sleep Mrs. E. A. Allen. 95. Man and the Inferior Animals Jane Taylor. 96. The Blind Men and the Elephant J. G. Saxe. 97. A Home Scene D. G. Mitchell. 98. The Light of Other Days Moore. 99. A Chase in the English Channel Cooper. 100. Burial of Sir John Moore Charles Wolfe. 101. Little Victories Harriet Martineau. 102. The Character of a Happy Life Sir Henry Wotton. 103. The Art of Discouragement Arthur Helps. 104. The Mariner's Dream William Dimond. 105. The Passenger Pigeon Audubon. 106. The Country Life R. H. Stoddard. 107. The Virginians Thackeray. 108. Minot's Ledge Fitz-James O'Brien. 109. Hamlet. Shakespeare. 110. Dissertation on Roast Pig Charles Lamb. 111. A Pen Picture William Black. 112. The Great Voices C. T. Brooks. 113. A Picture of Human Life Samuel Johnson. 114. A Summer Longing George Arnold. 115. Fate Bret Harte. 116. The Bible the Best of Classics T. S. Grimke. 117. My Mother's Bible G. P. Morris.

The Good Reader H. F. Farny.
The Fish I Did n't Catch H. F. Farny.
The Corn Song E. K. Foote.
I Pity Them. W. L. Sheppard.
The Town Pump Howard Pyle.
Good Night J. A. Knapp.
The Tea Rose C. S. Reinhart.
Forty Years Ago H. Fenn.
The Old Sampler Mary Hallock Foote.
The Old Sampler Mary Hallock Foote.
About Quail Alexander Pope.
The Crazy Engineer H. F. Farny.
Squeers's Method Howard Pyle.
Turtle Soup W. L. Sheppard.
Hamlet Alfred Fredericks.

The great object to be accomplished in reading, as a rhetorical exercise, is to convey to the hearer, fully and clearly, the ideas and feelings of the writer.

In order to do this, it is necessary that a selection should be carefully studied by the pupil before he attempts to read it. In accordance with this view, a preliminary rule of importance is the following:

RULE 1.—Before attempting to read a lesson, the learner should make himself fully acquainted with the subject as treated of in that lesson, and endeavor to make the thought and feeling and sentiments of the writer his own.

REMARK.—When he has thus identified himself with the author, he has the substance of all rules in his own mind. It is by going to nature that we find rules. The child or the savage orator never mistakes in inflection or emphasis or modulation. The best speakers and readers are those who follow the impulse of nature, or most closely imitate it as observed in others.

Articulation is the utterance of the elementary sounds of a language, and of their combinations.

An Elementary Sound is a simple, distinct sound made by the organs of speech.

The Elementary Sounds of the English language are divided into Vocals,
Subvocals, and Aspirates.

Vocals are sounds which consist of pure tone only. A diphthong is a union of two vocals, commencing with one and ending with the other.

DIRECTION.—Put the lips, teeth, tongue, and palate in their proper position; pronounce the word in the chart forcibly, and with the falling inflection, several times in succession; then drop the subvocal or aspirate sounds which precede or follow the vocal, and repeat the vocals alone.

Long Vocals. Vocal as in Vocal as in ——- ——- ——- ——- a hate e err a hare i pine a far o no a pass u tube a fall u burn e eve oo cool

Short Vocals Vocal as in Vocal as in ——- ——- ——- ——- a mat o hot e met u us i it oo book

Diphthongs. Vocal as in ——— ———— oi, oy oil, boy ou, ow out,now

REMARK 1.—In this table, the short sounds, except u, are nearly or quite the same in quality as certain of the long sounds. The difference consists chiefly in quantity.

REMARK 2. The vocals are often represented by other letters or combinations of letters than those used in the table; for instance, a is represented by ai in hail, ea in steak, etc.

REMARK 3.—As a general rule, the long vocals and the diphthongs should be articulated with a full, clear utterance; but the short vocals have a sharp, distinct, and almost explosive utterance.

Subvocals are those sounds in which the vocalized breath is more or less obstructed.

Aspirates consist of breath only, modified by the vocal organs.

Words ending with subvocal sounds should be selected for practice on the subvocals; words beginning or ending with aspirate sounds may be used for practice on the aspirates. Pronounce these words forcibly and distinctly several times in succession; then drop the other sounds, and repeat the subvocals and aspirates alone. Let the class repeat the words and elements at first in concert, then separately.

REMARK.—These sixteen sounds make eight pairs of cognates. In articulating the aspirates, the vocal organs are put in the position required in the articulation of the corresponding subvocals; but the breath is expelled with some force without the utterance of any vocal sound. The pupil should first verify this by experiment, and then practice on these cognates.

The following subvocals and aspirates have no cognates.

Subvocal as in Subvocal as in ———— ——- ———— ——- l mill r rule m rim r car n run w win ng sing y yet

Aspirate as in ———— ——- h hat wh when

Substitutes are characters used to represent sounds ordinarily represented by other characters.

Substitute for as in Substitute for as in ————— —- ——- ————— —- ——- a o what y i hymn e a there c s cite e a freight c k cap i e police ch sh machine i e sir ch k chaos o u son g j cage o oo to n ng rink o oo would s z rose o a corn s ah sure o u work x gz examine u oo pull gh f laugh u oo rude ph f sylph y i my qu k pique qu kw quick

DIRECTION.—Give to each sound, to each syllable, and to each word its full, distinct, and appropriate utterance.

For the purpose of avoiding the more common errors under this head, observe the following rules:

RULE II.—Avoid the omission of unaccented vowels.

Incorrect Correct Incorrect Correct ————- —————- ————— ————- Sep'rate sep-a-rate Ev'dent ev-i-dent met-ric'l met-ric-al mem'ry mem-o-ry 'pear ap-pear 'pin-ion o-pin-ion com-p'tent com-pe-tent pr'pose pro-pose pr'cede pre-cede gran'lar gran-u-lar 'spe-cial es-pe-cial par-tic'lar par-tic-u-lar

RULE III.—Avoid sounding incorrectly the unaccented vowels.

Incorrect Correct Incorrect Correct ————— —————- —————— —————— Sep-er-ate sep-a-rate Mem-er-ry mem-o-ry met-ric-ul met-ric-al up-pin-ion o-pin-ion up-pear ap-pear prup-ose pro-pose com-per-tent com-pe-tent gran-ny-lar gran-u-lar dum-mand de-mand par-tic-e-lar par-tic-u-lar ob-stur-nate ob-sti-nate ev-er-dent ev-i-dent

REMARK I.—In correcting errors of this kind in words of more than one syllable, it is very important to avoid a fault which is the natural consequence of an effort to articulate correctly. Thus, in endeavoring to sound correctly the a in met'ric-al, the pupil is very apt to say met-ric-al'. accenting the last syllable instead of the first.

REMARK 2.—The teacher should bear it in mind that in correcting a fault there is always danger of erring in the opposite extreme. Properly speaking, there is no danger of learning to articulate too distinctly, but there is danger of making the obscure sounds too prominent, and of reading in a slow, measured, and unnatural manner.

RULE IV.—Utter distinctly the terminating subvocals and aspirates.

Incorrect Correct Incorrect Correct ————- ———- ————- ———- An' and Mos' mosque ban' band near-es' near-est moun' mound wep' wept mor-nin' morn-ing ob-jec' ob-ject des' desk sub-jec sub-ject

REMARK 1.—This omission is still more likely to occur when several consonants come together.

Incorrect Correct Incorrect Correct ————- ———— ————- ————— Thrus' thrusts Harms' harm'st beace beasts wrongs' wrong'st thinks' thinkst twinkles' twinkl'dst weps' weptst black'ns black'n'dst

REMARK 2.—In all cases of this kind these sounds are omitted, in the first instance, merely because they are difficult, and require care and attention for their utterance, although after a while it becomes a habit. The only remedy is to devote that care and attention which may be necessary. There is no other difficulty, unless there should be a defect in the organs of speech, which is not often the case.

RULE V.—A void blending syllables which belong to different words.

INCORRECT. CORRECT.
————— ——————
He ga-zdupon. He gazed upon.
Here res tsis sed. Here rests his head.
Whattis sis sname? What is his name?
For ranninstantush. For an instant hush.
Ther ris sa calm, There is a calm.
For tho stha tweep. For those that weep.
God sglorou simage. God's glorious image.

This exercise and similar ones will afford valuable aid in training the organs to a distinct articulation.

  Every vice fights against nature.
  Folly is never pleased with itself.
  Pride, not nature, craves much.
  The little tattler tittered at the tempest.
  Titus takes the petulant outcasts.
  The covetous partner is destitute of fortune.
  No one of you knows where the shoe pinches.
  What can not be cured must be endured.
  You can not catch old birds with chaff.
  Never sport with the opinions of others.
  The lightnings flashed, the thunders roared.
  His hand in mine was fondly clasped.
  They cultivated shrubs and plants.
  He selected his texts with great care.
  His lips grow restless, and his smile is curled half into scorn.
  Wisdom's ways are ways of pleasantness.
  O breeze, that waftst me on my way!
  Thou boast'st of what should be thy shame.
  Life's fitful fever over, he rests well.
  Canst thou fill his skin with barbed irons?
  From star to star the living lightnings flash.
  And glittering crowns of prostrate seraphim.
  That morning, thou that slumber'd'st not before.
  Habitual evils change not on a sudden.
  Thou waft'd'st the rickety skiffs over the cliffs.
  Thou reef'd'st the haggled, shipwrecked sails.
  The honest shepherd's catarrh.
  The heiress in her dishabille is humorous.
  The brave chevalier behaves like a conservative.
  The luscious notion of champagne and precious sugar.

Inflections are slides of the voice upward or downward. Of these, there are two: the rising inflection and the falling inflection.

The Rising Inflection is that in which the voice slides upward, and is marked thus ('); as,

Did you walk'? Did you walk.

The Falling Inflection is that in which the voice slides downward, and is marked thus ('); as,

I did not walk'. I did not walk.

Both inflections are exhibited in the following question:

Did you walk' or ride'? walk or ride.

In the following examples, the first member has the rising and the second member the falling inflection:

  Is he sick', or is he well'?
  Did you say valor', or value'?
  Did you say statute', or statue'?
  Did he act properly', or improperly'?

[Footnote 1: These questions and similar ones, with their answers, should be repeatedly pronounced with their proper inflection, until the distinction between the rising and falling inflection is well understood and easily made by the learner. He will be assisted in this by emphasizing strongly the word which receives the inflection, thus. Did you RIDE' or did you WALK'?]

In the following examples, the inflections are used in a contrary order, the first member terminating with the falling and the second with the rising inflection:

  He is well', not sick'.
  I said value', not valor'.
  I said statue', not statute'.
  He acted properly', not improperly'.

Rule VI.—The falling inflection is generally proper wherever the sense is complete.

  Truth is more wonderful than fiction'.
  Men generally die as they live'.
  By industry we obtain wealth'.

REMARK.—Parts of a sentence often make complete sense in themselves, and in this case, unless qualified or restrained by the succeeding clause, or unless the contrary is indicated by some other principle, the falling inflection takes place according to the rule.

Truth is wonderful', even more so than fiction'.

Men generally die as they live' and by their actions we must judge of their character'.

Exception.—When a sentence concludes with a negative clause, or with a contrast or comparison (called also antithesis), the first member of which requires the falling inflection, it must close with the rising inflection. (See Rule XI, and paragraph 2, Note.)

No one desires to be thought a fool'.

I come to bury' Caesar, not to praise' him.

He lives in England' not in France'.

REMARK.—In bearing testimony to the general character of a man we say:

He is too honorable' to be guilty of a vile' act.

But if he is accused of some act of baseness, a contrast is at once instituted between his character and the specified act, and we change the inflections, and say:

He is too honorable' to be guilty of such' an act.

A man may say in general terms:

I am too busy' for projects'.

But if he is urged to embark in some particular enterprise, he will change the inflections, and say:

I am too busy' for projects'.

In such cases, as the falling inflection is required in the former part by the principle of contrast and emphasis (as will hereafter be more fully explained), the sentence necessarily closes with the rising inflection. Sometimes, also, emphasis alone seems to require the rising inflection on the concluding word. See exception to Rule VII.

(5.-2.)

RULE VII.—Language which demands strong emphasis generally requires the falling inflection.

EXAMPLES. 1. Command or urgent entreaty; as,

  Begone',
  Run' to your houses, fall' upon your knees,
  Pray' to the Gods to intermit the plagues.

  0, save' me, Hubert' save' me I My eyes are out
  Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.

2. Exclamation, especially when indicating strong emotion; as,

0, ye Gods'! ye Gods'! must I endure all this?

  Hark'! Hark'! the horrid sound
  Hath raised up his head.

For interrogatory exclamation, see Rule X, Remark.

3. A series of words or members, whether in the beginning or middle of a sentence, if it does not conclude the sentence, is called a commencing series, and usually requires the rising inflection when not emphatic.

  Wine', beauty', music', pomp', are poor expedients to heave off the load
  of an hour from the heir of eternity'.

  I conjure you by that which you profess,
  (Howe'er you came to know it,) answer me;
  Though you untie the winds and let them fight
  Against the churches'; though the yeasty waves
  Confound and swallow navigation' up;
  Though bladed corn be lodged, and trees blown down';
  Though castles topple on their warders' heads';
  Though palaces and pyramids do slope
  Their heads to their foundations'; though the treasures
  Of nature's germens tumble altogether',
  Even till destruction sicken'; answer me
  To what I ask' you.

4. A series of words or members which concludes a sentence is called a concluding series, and each member usually has the falling inflection.

They, through faith, subdued kingdoms', wrought righteousness' obtained promises', stopped the mouths of lions', quenched the violence of fire', escaped the edge of the sword', out of weakness were made strong', waxed valiant in fight', turned to flight the armies of the aliens'.

REMARK.—When the emphasis on these words or members is not marked, they take the rising inflection, according to Rule IX.

  They are the offspring of restlessness', vanity', and idleness'.
  Love', hope', and joy' took possession of his breast.

5. When words which naturally take the rising inflection become emphatic by repetition or any other cause, they often take the falling inflection.

Exception to the Rule.—While the tendency of emphasis is decidedly to the use of the falling inflection, sometimes a word to which the falling inflection naturally belongs changes this, when it is emphatic, for the rising inflection.

  Three thousand ducats': 't is a good round sum'.
  It is useless to point out the beauties of nature to one who is blind'.

Here sum and blind, according to Rule VI, would take the falling inflection, but as they are emphatic, and the object of emphasis is to draw attention to the word emphasized, this is here accomplished in part by giving an unusual inflection. Some speakers would give these words the circumflex, but it would he the rising circumflex, so that the sound would still terminate with the rising inflection.

RULE VIII.—Questions which can not be answered by yes or no, together with their answers, generally require the falling inflection.

Where has he gone'? Ans. To New York'.
What has he done'? Ans. Nothing'.
Who did this'? Ans. I know not'.
When did he go'? Ans. Yesterday'.

REMARK.—It these questions are repeated, the inflection is changed according to the principle stated under the Exception to Rule VII.

RULE IX.—Where a pause is rendered proper by the meaning, and the sense is incomplete, the rising inflection is generally required.

To endure slander and abuse with meekness' requires no ordinary degree of self-command',

Night coming on', both armies retired from the field of battle'.

As a dog returneth to his vomit', so a fool returneth to his folly'.

REMARK.—The person or object addressed, in ordinary conversation, comes under this head.

Fathers'! we once again are met in council.

My lords'! and gentlemen'! we have arrived at an awful crisis.

Age'! thou art shamed.

Rome'! thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods!

Exception.—Where a word which, according to this rule, requires the rising inflection, becomes emphatic, it generally has the falling inflec-tion; as, when a child addresses his father, he first says, Father'! but if he repeats it emphatically, he changes the inflection, and says, Father'! Father'! The falling inflection is also used in formal address; as, Fellow—citizens', Mr. President', etc.

When we aim at a high standard, if we do not attain' it, we shall secure a high degree of excellence.

Those who mingle with the vicious, if they do not become depraved', will lose all delicacy of feeling.

RULE X.—Questions which may be answered by yes or no, generally require the rising, and their answers the falling inflection.

Has he arrived'? Yes'.
Will he return'? No'.
Does the law condemn him'? It does not'.

Exception.—If these questions are repeated emphatically, they take the falling inflection, according to Rule VII.

Has he arrived'?
Will he return'?
Does the law condemn him'?

REMARK.—When a word or sentence is repeated as a kind of interrogatory exclamation, the rising inflection is used according to the principles of this rule.

You ask, who would venture' in such a cause! Who would venture'? Rather say, who would not' venture all things for such an object!

He is called the friend' of virtue. The friend'! ay! the enthusiastic lover' the devoted protector' rather.

So, also, when one receives unexpected information he exclaims, Ah'! indeed'!

REMARK.—In the above examples the words "venture," "friend," "ah," etc., may be considered as interrogatory exclamations, because if the sense were carried out it would be in the form of question; as, "Do you ask who would venture'?" "Do you say that he is the friend' of virtue?" "Is it possible'?" and thus they would receive the rising inflection according to this rule.

RULE XI.—The different members of a sentence expressing comparison, or contrast, or negation and affirmation, or where the parts are united by or used disjunctively, require different inflections; generally the rising inflection in the first member, and the falling inflection in the second member. This order is, however, sometimes inverted.

1. Comparison and contrast. This is also called antithesis.

In all things approving ourselves as the ministers of God; by honor', and dishonor'; by evil' report, and good' report; as deceivers', and yet true'; as unknown', and yet well' known; as dying', and behold we live'; as chastened', and not killed'; as sorrowful', yet always rejoicing'; as poor', yet making many rich'; as having nothing', yet possessing all' things.

Europe was one great battlefield, where the weak struggled for freedom', and the strong for dominion'. The king was without power', and the nobles without principle', They were tyrants at home', and robbers abroad'.

2. Negation and affirmation.

  He desired not to injure' his friend, but to protect' him.
  We desire not your money', but yourselves'.
  I did not say a better' soldier, but, an elder'.

If the affirmative clause comes first, the order of the inflections is inverted.

  He desired to protect' his friend, not to injure' him.
  We desire yourselves', not your money'.
  I said an elder' soldier, not a better'.

The affirmative clause is sometimes understood.

  We desire not your money'.
  I did not say a better' soldier.
  The region beyond the grave is not a solitary' land.

In most negative sentences standing alone, the corresponding affirmative is understood; hence the following.

REMARK.—Negative sentences, whether alone or connected with an affirmative clause, generally end with the rising inflection.

If such sentences are repeated emphatically, they take the falling inflection according to Rule VI.

  We do not' desire your money.
  I did not' say a. better soldier.

3. Or used disjunctively.

Did he behave properly', or improperly'?

Are they living/, or dead'?

Is he rich', or poor'?

  Does God, having made his creatures, take no further' care of them, or
  does he preserve and guide them'?

REMARK.—Where or is used conjunctively, this rule does not apply; as,
Will the law of kindness' or of justice' justify such conduct'?

The circumflex is a union of the rising and falling inflections. Properly speaking, there are two of these, the one called the rising circumflex, in which the voice slides down and then up; and the other, the falling circumflex, in which the voice slides upward and then downward on the same vowel. They may both be denoted by the same mark, thus, (^). The circumflex is used chiefly to indicate the emphasis of irony, of contrast, or of hypothesis.

1. Queen. Hamlet, you have your father much offended.
   Hamlet. Madam, you have my father much offended.

2. They offer us their protec'tion. Yes', such protection as vultures give
   to lambs, covering and devouring them.

3. I knew when seven justices could not make up a quarrel; but when the parties met themselves, one of them thought but of an if; as, If you said so, then I said so; O ho! did you say so! So they shook hands and were sworn brothers.

REMARKS.—In the first example, the emphasis is that of contrast. The queen had poisoned her husband, of which she incorrectly supposed her son ignorant, and she blames him for treating his father-in-law with disrespect. In his reply, Hamlet contrasts her deep crime with his own slight offense, and the circumflex upon "you" becomes proper.

In the second example the emphasis is ironical. The Spaniards pretended that they would protect the Peruvians if they would submit to them, whereas it was evident that they merely desired to plunder and destroy them. Thus their protection is ironically called "such protection as vultures give to lambs," etc.

In the third example, the word "so" is used hypothetically; that is, it implies a condition or supposition. It will be observed that the rising circumflex is used in the first "so," and the falling, in the second, because the first "so" must end with the rising inflection and the second with the falling inflection, according to previous rules.

When no word in a sentence receives an inflection, it is said to be read in a monotone; that is, in nearly the same tone throughout. This uniformity of tone is occa-sionally adopted, and is fitted to express solemnity or sublimity of idea, and sometimes intensity of feeling. It is used, also, when the whole sentence or phrase is emphatic. In books of elocution, when it is marked at all, it is generally marked thus (—-), as in the lines following.

Hence! loathed melancholy!
Where brooding darkness spreads her jealous wings,
And the night raven sings;
There, under ebon shades and low-browed rocks,
As ragged as thy locks,
In deep Cimmerian darkness ever dwell.

In every word which contains more than one syllable, one of the syllables is pronounced with a somewhat greater stress of voice than the others. This syllable is said to be accented. The accented syllable is distinguished by this mark ('), the same which is used in inflections.

      Love'ly, re-turn', re-mem'ber,
      Con'stant, re-main', a-sun'der,
      Mem'ber, a-bide', a-ban'don,
      Win'dow, a-tone', rec-ol-lect',
      Ban'ner, a-lone', re-em-bark',

REMARK.—In most cases custom is the only guide for placing the accent on one syllable rather than another. Sometimes, however, the same word is differently accented in order to mark its different meanings.

Con'jure, to practice enchantments. Con-jure', to entreat.
Gal'lant, brave. Gal-lant', a gay fellow.
Au'gust, a month. Au-gust', grand.

REMARK.—A number of words used sometimes as one part of speech, and sometimes as another, vary their accents irregularly.

Pres'ent, noun. Pres'ent, adjective. Pre-sent', verb.
Com'pact, noun. Com-pact', adjective. Com-pact', verb.

In words of more than two syllables there is often a second accent given, but more slight than the principal one, and this is called the secondary accent; as, car'a-van'', rep''ar-tee', where the principal accent is marked (') and the secondary (''); so, also, this accent is obvious in nav''-i-ga'tion, com''pre-hen'sion, plau''si-bil'i-ty, etc. The whole subject, however, properly belongs to dictionaries and spelling books.

A word is said to be emphasized when it is uttered with a greater stress of voice than the other words with which it is connected.

REMARK 1.—The object of emphasis is to attract particular attention to the word upon which it is placed, indicating that the idea to be conveyed depends very much upon that word. This object, as just stated, is generally accomplished by increasing the force of utterance, but sometimes, also, by a change in the inflection, by the use of the monotone, by pause, or by uttering the words in a very low key. Emphatic words are often denoted by italics, and a still stronger emphasis by SMALL CAPITALS or CAPITALS, according to the degree of emphasis desired.

REMARK 2.—Emphasis constitutes the most important feature in reading and speaking, and, properly applied, gives life and character to language. Accent, inflection, and indeed everything yields to emphasis.

REMARK 3.—In the following examples it will be seen that accent is governed by it.

  What is done cannot be undone.
  There is a difference between giving and forgiving.
  He that descended is the same that ascended.

Some appear to make very little difference between decency and indecency, morality and immorality, religion and irreligion.

REMARK 4.—There is no better illustration of the nature and importance of emphasis than the following examples. It will he observed that the meaning and proper answer of the question vary with each change of the emphasis.

QUESTIONS. ANSWERS. ————- ———— Did you walk into the city yesterday? No, my brother went.

Did you walk into the city yesterday? No, I rode.

Did you walk into the city yesterday? No, I went into the country.

Did you walk into the city yesterday? No, I went the day before.

Sometimes a word is emphasized simply to indicate the importance of the idea. This is called absolute emphasis.

  To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!
  Woe unto you, PHARISEES! HYPOCRITES!
  Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away.

REMARK.—In instances like the last, it is sometimes called the emphasis of specification.

Words are often emphasized in order to exhibit the idea they express as compared or contrasted with some other idea. This is called relative emphasis.

A friend can not be known in prosperity; an enemy can not be hidden in adversity.

It is much better to be injured than to injure.

REMARK.—In many instances one part only of the antithesis is expressed, the corresponding idea being understood; as,

A friendly eye would never see such faults.

Here the unfriendly eye is understood.

King Henry exclaims, while vainly endeavoring to compose himself to rest,

  "How many thousand of my poorest subjects
  Are at this hour asleep!"

Here the emphatic words thousand, subjects, and asleep are contrasted in idea with their opposites, and if the contrasted ideas were expressed it might be in this way:

While I alone, their sovereign, am doomed to wakefulness.

Sometimes several words in succession are emphasized, forming what is called an emphatic phrase.

Shall I, the conqueror of Spain and Gaul, and not only of the Alpine nations but of the Alps themselves—shall I compare myself with this HALF—YEAR—CAPTAIN?

Shall we try argument? Sir, we have been trying that for the LAST TEN
YEARS.

  And if thou said'st I am not peer
  To any lord in Scotland here,
  Lowland or Highland, far or near,
  Lord Angus-THOU-HAST-LIED!

The emphatic expression of a sentence often requires a pause where the grammatical construction authorizes none. This is sometimes called the rhetorical pause. Such pauses occur chiefly before or after an emphatic word or phrase, and sometimes both before and after it.

Rise—fellow-men! our country—yet remains!
By that dread name we wave the sword on high,
And swear for her—to live—with her—to die.

But most—by numbers judge the poet's song:
And smooth or rough, with them is—right or wrong.

He said; then full before their sight
Produced the beast, and lo!—'t was white.

Modulation includes the variations of the voice. These may be classed under the heads of Pitch, Compass, Quantity, and Quality.

If anyone will notice closely a sentence as uttered in private conversation, he will observe that very few successive words are pronounced in exactly the same key or with the same force. At the same time, however, there is a certain PITCH or key, which seems, on the whole, to prevail.

This keynote, or governing note, as it may be called, is that upon which the voice most frequently dwells, to which it usually returns when wearied, and upon which a sentence generally commences, and very frequently ends, while, at the same time, there is a considerable play of the voice above and below it.

This key may be high or low. It varies in different individuals, and at different times in the same individual, being governed by the nature of the subject and the emotions of the speaker. It is worthy of notice, however, that most speakers pitch their voices on a key too high.

The range of the voice above and below this note is called its COMPASS. When the speaker is animated, this range is great; but upon abstract subjects, or with a dull speaker, it is small. If, in reading or speaking, too high a note be chosen, the lungs will soon become wearied; if too low a pitch be selected, there is danger of indistinctness of utterance; and in either case there is less room for compass or variety of tone than if one be taken between the two extremes.

To secure the proper pitch and the greatest compass observe the following rule:

RULE XII.—The reader or speaker should choose that pitch in which he can feel himself most at ease, and above and below which he may have most room for variation.

REMARK 1.—Having chosen the proper keynote, he should beware of confining himself to it. This constitutes monotony, one of the greatest faults in elocution. One very important instrument for giving expression and life to thought is thus lost, and the hearer soon becomes wearied and disgusted.

REMARK 2.—There is another fault of nearly equal magnitude, and of very frequent occurrence. This consists in varying the pitch and force without reference to the sense. A sentence is commenced with vehemence and in a high key, and the voice gradually sinks until, the breath being spent, it dies away in a whisper.

NOTE—The power of changing the key at will is difficult to acquire, but of great importance.

REMARK 3.—The habit of singsong, so common in reading poetry, as it is a variation of pitch without reference to the sense, is a species of the fault above mentioned.

REMARK 4.—If the reader or speaker is guided by the sense, and if he gives that emphasis, inflection, and expression required by the meaning, these faults speedily disappear.

REMARK 5.—To improve the voice in these respects, practice is necessary. Commence, for example, with the lowest pitch the voice can comfortably sound, and repeat whole paragraphs and pages upon that key with gentle force. Then repeat the paragraph with increased force, taking care not to raise the pitch. Then rise one note higher, and practice on that, then another, and so on, until the highest pitch of the voice is reached. Reverse the process, and repeat as before until the lowest pitch is obtained.

NOTE.—In these and all similar exercises, be very careful not to confound pitch and force.

The tones of the voice should vary also in quantity, or time required to utter a sound or a syllable, and in quality, or expression, according to the nature of the subject.

REMARK.—We notice a difference between the soft, insinuating tones of persuasion; the full, strong voice of command and decision; the harsh, irregular, and sometimes grating explosion of the sounds of passion; the plaintive notes of sorrow and pity; and the equable and unimpassioned flow of words in argumentative style.

The following direction, therefore, is worthy of attention:

The tones of the voice should always correspond both in quantity and quality with the nature of the subject.

Passion and Grief

   "Come back! come back!" he cried, in grief.
   "Across this stormy water,
   And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
      My daughter! O, my daughter!"

Plaintive
  I have lived long enough: my way of life
  Is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf:
  And that which should accompany old age,
  As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,
  I must not look to have.

Calm
   A very great portion of this globe is covered with water, which is
   called sea, and is very distinct from rivers and lakes.

Fierce Anger

  Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
  And shook his very frame for ire,
        And—"This to me?" he said;
     "And 't were not for thy hoary beard,
  Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
     To cleave the Douglas' head!

Loud and Explosive

     "Even in thy pitch of pride,
  Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near,
      I tell thee thou 'rt defied!
  And if thou said'st I am not peer
  To any lord in Scotland here,
  Lowland or Highland, far or near,
  Lord Angus, thou hast lied '"

REMARK 1.—In our attempt to imitate nature it is important to avoid affectation, for to this fault even perfect monotony is preferable.

REMARK 2.—The strength of the voice may be increased by practicing with different degrees of loudness, from a whisper to full rotundity, taking care to keep the voice on the same key. The same note in music may be sounded loud or soft. So also a sentence may be pronounced on the same pitch with different degrees of loudness. Having practiced with different degrees of loudness on one key, make the same experiment on another, and then on another, and so on. This will also give the learner practice in compass,

In poetry we have, in addition to other pauses, poetic pauses. The object of these is simply to promote the melody.

At the end of each line a slight pause is proper, whatever be the grammatical construction or the sense. The purpose of this pause is to make prominent the melody of the measure, and in rhyme to allow the ear to appreciate the harmony of the similar sounds.

There is, also, another important pause, somewhere near the middle of each line, which is called the caesura or caesural pause. In the following lines it is marked thus (||):

  There are hours long departed || which memory brings,
    Like blossoms of Eden || to twine round the heart,
  And as time rushes by || on the might of his wings,
    They may darken awhile || but they never depart.

REMARK.—The caesural pause should never be so placed as to injure the sense. The following lines, if melody alone were consulted, would be read thus:

  With fruitless la || bor Clara bound,
  And strove to stanch || the gushing wound;
  The Monk with un || availing cares,
  Exhausted all || the church's prayers.

This manner of reading, however, would very much interfere with the proper expression of the idea. This is to be corrected by making the caesural pause yield to the sense. The above lines should be read thus:

  With fruitless labor || Clara bound,
  And strove || to stanch the gushing wound;
  The Monk || with unavailing cares,
  Exhausted || all the church's prayers,

I. DEATH OF FRANKLIN.
(To be read in a solemn tone.)

Franklin is dead. The genius who freed America', and poured a copious stream of knowledge throughout Europe', is returned unto the bosom of the Divinity'. The sage to whom two worlds' lay claim, the man for whom science' and politics' are disputing, indisputably enjoyed au elevated rank in human nature.

The cabinets of princes have been long in the habit of notifying the death of those who were great', only in their funeral orations'. Long hath the etiquette of courts', proclaimed the mourning of hypocrisy'. Nations' should wear mourning for none but their benefactors'. The representatives' of nations should recommend to public homage' only those who have been the heroes of humanity'.

He knew no motive' but interst'; acknowledged no criterion' but success'; he worshiped no God' but ambition'; and with an eastern devotion', he knelt at the shrine of his idolatry'. Subsidiary to this, there was no creed' that he did not profess'; there was no opinion' that he did not promulgate': in the hope of a dynasty', he upheld the crescent'; for the sake of a divorce', he bowed before the cross'; the orphan of St. Louis', he became the adopted child of the republic'; and, with a parricidal ingrati-tude', on the ruins both of the throne and the tribune, he reared the throne of his despotism'.

At his touch crowns' crumbled'; beggars' reigned'; systems' van-ished'; the wildest theories' took the color of his whim'; and all that was venerable' and all that was novel', changed places with the rapidity of a drama'. Nature had no obstacle' that he did not surmount'; space, no opposition' he did not spurn'; and whether amid Alpine rocks',—Arabian sands',—or Polar snows',—-he seemed proof' against peril', and empowered with ubiquity'.

Alas, poor Yorick'! I knew him', Horatio'; a fellow of infinite jest', of most excellent fancy'. He hath borne me on his back' a thousand times'; and now', how abhorred my imagination is'! My gorge rises' at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed', I know not how oft', Where be your gibes' now? your gambols'? your songs'? your flashes of merriment', that were wont to set the table on a roar'? Not one', now, to mock your own grinning'? quite chopfallen'? Now get you to my lady's chamber' and tell her', let her paint an inch thick' to this favor' she must come'; make her laugh at that'.

Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew'
With wavering flight', while fiercer grew
  Around, the battle yell.
The border slogan rent the sky',
A Home'! a Gordon'! was the cry';
  Loud' were the clanging blows';
Advanced',—forced back',—now low',—now high',
  The pennon sunk'—and rose';
As bends the bark's mast in the gale',
When rent are rigging', shrouds', and sail',
  It wavered 'mid the foes'.
The war, that for a space did fail',
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale',
  And Stanley'! was the cry;
A light on Marmion's visage spread',
  And fired his glazing eye':—
With dying' hand', above his head',
He shook the fragment of his blade',
  And shouted',—"Victory'!
Charge', Chester', charge'! On' Stanley', on'!"—
  Were the last words of Marmion.

For the inflections and emphasis in this selection, let the pupil be guided by his own judgment.

A chieftain to the Highlands bound,
  Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound,
  To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now, who be ye would cross Loch-Gyle
  This dark and stormy water?"
"Oh! I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
  And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men
  Three days we've fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
  My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride;
  Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride,
  When they have slain her lover?"

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight
  "I'll go, my chief—I'm ready:
It is not for your silver bright,
  But for your winsome lady:

"And, by my word! the bonny bird
  In danger shall not tarry;
So, though the waves are raging white,
  I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this, the storm grew loud apace,
  The water wraith was shrieking;
And, in the scowl of heaven, each face
  Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still, as wilder grew the wind,
  And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men,
  Their trampling sounded nearer.

"Oh I haste thee, haste!" the lady cries
  "Though tempest round us gather,
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
  But not an angry father."

The boat has left the stormy land,
  A stormy sea before her;
When, oh I too strong for human hand,
  The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed, amid the roar
  Of waters fast prevailing;
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,
  His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismay through storm and shade
  His child he did discover;
One lovely hand she stretched for aid,
  And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried, in grief,
  "Across this stormy water;
And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
  My daughter! O, my daughter!"

'T was vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,
  Return or aid preventing;
The waters wild went o'er his child,
  And he was left lamenting.

—Thomas Campbell

Name. Name. 1. ALCOTT, LOUISA M. 45. LAMB, CHARLES 2. ALLEN, Mrs. E. A. 46. LONDON TIMES 3. ALLINGHAM, W. 47. LONGFELLOW 4. ARNOLD, GEORGE 48. LOWELL 5. ARTHUR, T. S. 49. MARTINEAU, HARRIET 6. AUDUBON 50. MITCHELL, DONALD G. 7. BANCROFT 51. MONTGOMERY, JAMES 8. BIBLE, THE 52. MOORE 9. BLACK, WILLIAM 53. MORRIS. G. P. 10. BRIGGS, C. F. 54. NOBLE, L. L. 11. BROOKS, C. T. 55. NORTON, MRS. C. E. S. 12. BRYANT 56. O'BRIEN, FITZ-JAMES 13. BUCKINGHAM, J. T. 57. PIATT, J. J. 14. BURRITT, ELIHU 58. PIATT, MRS. S. M. B. 15. CAMPBELL, THOMAS 59. PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANNE 16. CHANNING, WILLIAM ELLERY 60. READ, T. B. 17. COLLINS, WILLIAM 61. RUSSELL, JOHN 18. COOK, ELIZA 62. SANGSTER, MRS. M. E. 19. COOPER, JAMES FENIMORE 63. SAXE, J. G. 20. COWPER 64. SHAKESPEARE 21. DICKENS 65. SHEPHERD 22. DIMOND, WILLIAM 66. SOUTHEY, MRS. C. A. 23. EASTMAN, C. G. 67. SOUTHEY, ROBERT 24. EDGEWORTH, MARIA 68. SPRAGUE, CHARLES 25. FINCH, F. M. 69. STODDARD. R. H. 26. FOLLEN, MRS. E. L. 70. TAYLOR, B. F. 27. GOLDSMITH. 71. TAYLOR, JANE 28. GOODRICH, S. G. 72. TENNYSON 29. GRIMKE', THOMAS S. 73. THACKERAY 30. HALE, Mrs. S. J, 74. THACKER, CELIA 31. HARTE. FRANCIS BRET 75. THOMPSON, D. P. 32. HAWES, W. P. 76. THOMSON, JAMES 33. HAWTHORNE 77. THOREAU, H. D. 34. HELPS, ARTHUR 78. TOOD, JOHN 35. HEMANS, FELICIA D. 79. WARNER, CHARLES DUDLEY 36. HOOD, THOMAS 80. "CAPITAL" (WASHINGTON) 37. HUNT, LEIGH 81. WEBSTER 38. INGELOW, JEAN 82. WEEMS, MASON L. 39. IRVING 83. WHITTIER 40. JERROLD, DOUGLAS 84. WILSON, JOHN 41. JOHNSON, SAMUEL 85. WIRT, WILLIAM 42. KEBLE, JOHN 86. WOLFE, CHARLES 43. KINGSLEY, CHARLES 87. WOTTON, SIR HENRY 44. KNOWLES, SHERIDAN

McGuffey's Fifth Reader

1. It is told of Frederick the Great, King of Prussia, that, as he was seated one day in his private room, a written petition was brought to him with the request that it should be immediately read. The King had just returned from hunting, and the glare of the sun, or some other cause, had so dazzled his eyes that he found it difficult to make out a single word of the writing.

2. His private secretary happened to be absent; and the soldier who brought the petition could not read. There was a page, or favorite boy servant, waiting in the hall, and upon him the King called. The page was a son of one of the noblemen of the court, but proved to be a very poor reader.

3. In the first place, he did not articulate distinctly. He huddled his words together in the utterance, as if they were syllables of one long word, which he must get through with as speedily as possible. His pronunciation was bad, and he did not modulate his voice so as to bring out the meaning of what he read. Every sentence was uttered with a dismal monotony of voice, as if it did not differ in any respect from that which preceded it.

4. "Stop!" said the King, impatiently. "Is it an auctioneer's list of goods to be sold that you are hurrying over? Send your companion to me." Another page who stood at the door now entered, and to him the King gave the petition. The second page began by hemming and clearing his throat in such an affected manner that the King jokingly asked him whether he had not slept in the public garden, with the gate open, the night before.

5. The second page had a good share of self-conceit, however, and so was not greatly confused by the King's jest. He determined that he would avoid the mistake which his comrade had made. So he commenced reading the petition slowly and with great formality, emphasizing every word, and prolonging the articulation of every syllable. But his manner was so tedious that the King cried out, "Stop! are you reciting a lesson in the elementary sounds? Out of the room! But no: stay! Send me that little girl who is sitting there by the fountain."

6. The girl thus pointed out by the King was a daughter of one of the laborers employed by the royal gardener; and she had come to help her father weed the flower beds. It chanced that, like many of the poor people in Prussia, she had received a good education. She was somewhat alarmed when she found herself in the King's presence, but took courage when the King told her that he only wanted her to read for him, as his eyes were weak.

7. Now, Ernestine (for this was the name of the little girl) was fond of reading aloud, and often many of the neighbors would assemble at her father's house to hear her; those who could not read themselves would come to her, also, with their letters from distant friends or children, and she thus formed the habit of reading various sorts of handwriting promptly and well.

8. The King gave her the petition, and she rapidly glanced through the opening lines to get some idea of what it was about. As she read, her eyes began to glisten, and her breast to heave. "What is the matter?" asked the King; "don't you know how to read?" "Oh, yes! sire," she replied, addressing him with the title usually applied to him: "I will now read it, if you please."

9. The two pages wore about to leave the room. "Remain," said the King. The little girl began to read the petition. It was from a poor widow, whose only son had been drafted to serve in the army, although his health was delicate and his pursuits had been such as to unfit him for military life. His father had been killed in battle, and the son had a strong desire to become a portrait painter.

10. The writer told her story in a simple, concise manner, that carried to the heart a belief of its truth; and Ernestine read it with so much feeling, and with an articulation so just, in tones so pure and distinct, that when she had finished, the King, into whose eyes the tears had started, exclaimed, "Oh! now I understand what it is all about; but I might never have known, certainly I never should have felt, its meaning had I trusted to these young gentlemen, whom I now dismiss from my service for one year, advising them to occupy their time in learning to read."

11. "As for you, my young lady," continued the King, "I know you will ask no better reward for your trouble than the pleasure of carrying to this poor widow my order for her son's immediate discharge. Let me see whether you can write as well as you can read. Take this pen, and write as I dictate." He then dictated an order, which Ernestine wrote, and he signed. Calling one of his guards, he bade him go with the girl and see that the order was obeyed.

12. How much happiness was Ernestine the means of bestowing through her good elocution, united to the happy circumstance that brought it to the knowledge of the King! First, there were her poor neighbors, to whom she could give instruction and entertainment. Then, there was the poor widow who sent the petition, and who not only regained her son, but received through Ernestine an order for him to paint the King's likeness; so that the poor boy soon rose to great distinction, and had more orders than he could attend to. Words could not express his gratitude, and that of his mother, to the little girl.

13. And Ernestine had, moreover, the satisfaction of aiding her father to rise in the world, so that he became the King's chief gardener. The King did not forget her, but had her well educated at his own expense. As for the two pages, she was indirectly the means of doing them good, also; for, ashamed of their bad reading, they commenced studying in earnest, till they overcame the faults that had offended the King. Both finally rose to distinction, one as a lawyer, and the other as a statesman; and they owed their advancement in life chiefly to their good elocution.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Pe-ti'tion, a formal request. 3. Ar-tic'u-late, to utter the elementary sounds. Mod'u-late, to vary or inflect. Mo-not'o-ny, lack of variety. 4. Af-fect'ed, unnatural and silly. 9. Draft'ed, selected by lot. 10. Con-cise', brief and full of meaning. 11. Dis-charge', release. Dic'tate, to utter so that another may write it down. 12. Dis-tinc'tion, honorable and notable position. Ex-press', to make known the feelings of.

NOTES.—Frederick II. of Prussia (b. 1712, d. 1788), or Frederick the Great, as he was called, was one of the greatest of German rulers. He was distinguished for his military exploits, for his wise and just government, and for his literary attainments. He wrote many able works in the French language. Many pleasant anecdotes are told of this king, of which the one given in the lesson is a fair sample.

1. There is a story I have heard—
    A poet learned it of a bird,
    And kept its music every word—

2. A story of a dim ravine,
    O'er which the towering tree tops lean,
    With one blue rift of sky between;

3. And there, two thousand years ago,
    A little flower as white as snow
    Swayed in the silence to and fro.

4. Day after day, with longing eye,
    The floweret watched the narrow sky,
    And fleecy clouds that floated by.

5. And through the darkness, night by night,
    One gleaming star would climb the height,
    And cheer the lonely floweret's sight.

6. Thus, watching the blue heavens afar,
    And the rising of its favorite star,
    A slow change came—but not to mar;

7. For softly o'er its petals white
    There crept a blueness, like the light
    Of skies upon a summer night;

8. And in its chalice, I am told,
    The bonny bell was formed to hold
    A tiny star that gleamed like gold.

9. Now, little people, sweet and true,
    I find a lesson here for you
    Writ in the floweret's hell of blue:

10. The patient child whose watchful eye
    Strives after all things pure and high,
    Shall take their image by and by.

 DEFINITIONS.—2. Rift, a narrow opening, a cleft. 3. Swayed, swung. 5.
 Height (pro. hite), an elevated place. 7. Pet'als, the colored leaves of
 a flower. 8. Chal'ice, a cup or bowl. Bon'ny, beautiful.

Timothy S. Arthur (b. 1809, d. 1885) was born near Newburgh, N.Y., but passed most of his life at Baltimore and Philadelphia. His opportunities for good schooling were quite limited, and he may be considered a self-educated man. He was the author of more than a hundred volumes, principally novels of a domestic and moral tone, and of many shorter tales—magazine articles, etc. "Ten Nights in a Barroom," and "Three Years in a Mantrap," are among his best known works.

1. When and where it matters not now to relate—but once upon a time, as I was passing through a thinly peopled district of country, night came down upon me almost unawares. Being on foot, I could not hope to gain the village toward which my steps were directed, until a late hour; and I therefore preferred seeking shelter and a night's lodging at the first humble dwelling that presented itself.

2. Dusky twilight was giving place to deeper shadows, when I found myself in the vicinity of a dwelling, from the small uncurtained windows of which the light shone with a pleasant promise of good cheer and comfort. The house stood within an inclosure, and a short distance from the road along which I was moving with wearied feet.

3. Turning aside, and passing through the ill-hung gate, I approached the dwelling. Slowly the gate swung on its wooden hinges, and the rattle of its latch, in closing, did not disturb the air until I had nearly reached the porch in front of the house, in which a slender girl, who had noticed my entrance, stood awaiting my arrival.

4. A deep, quick bark answered, almost like an echo, the sound of the shutting gate, and, sudden as an apparition, the form of an immense dog loomed in the doorway. At the instant when he was about to spring, a light hand was laid upon his shaggy neck, and a low word spoken.

5. "Go in, Tiger," said the girl, not in a voice of authority, yet in her gentle tones was the consciousness that she would be obeyed; and, as she spoke, she lightly bore upon the animal with her hand, and he turned away and disappeared within the dwelling.

6. "Who's that?" A rough voice asked the question; and now a heavy-looking man took the dog's place in the door.

7. "How far is it to G—?" I asked, not deeming it best to say, in the beginning, that I sought a resting place for the night.

8. "To G—!" growled the man, but not so harshly as at first. "It's good six miles from here."

9. "A long distance; and I'm a stranger and on foot," said I. "If you can make room for me until morning, I will be very thankful."

10. I saw the girl's hand move quickly up his arm, until it rested on his shoulder, and now she leaned to him still closer.

11. "Come in. We'll try what can be done for you." There was a change in the man's voice that made me wonder. I entered a large room, in which blazed a brisk fire. Before the fire sat two stout lads, who turned upon me their heavy eyes, with no very welcome greeting. A middle-aged woman was standing at a table, and two children were amusing themselves with a kitten on the floor.

12. "A stranger, mother," said the man who had given me so rude a greeting at the door; "and he wants us to let him stay all night."

13. The woman looked at me doubtingly for a few moments, and then replied coldly, "We don't keep a public house."

14. "I'm aware of that, ma'am," said I; "but night has overtaken me, and it's a long way yet to G—."

15. "Too far for a tired man to go on foot," said the master of the house, kindly, "so it's no use talking about it, mother; we must give him a bed."

16. So unobtrusively that I scarce noticed the movement, the girl had drawn to her mother's side. What she said to her I did not hear, for the brief words were uttered in a low voice; but I noticed, as she spoke, one small, fair hand rested on the woman's hand.

17. Was there magic in that touch? The woman's repulsive aspect changed into one of kindly welcome, and she said, "Yes, it's a long way to G—. I guess we can find a place for him."

18. Many times more during that evening, did I observe the magic power of that hand and voice—the one gentle yet potent as the other. On the next morning, breakfast being over, I was preparing to take my departure when my host informed me that if I would wait for half an hour he would give me a ride in his wagon to G—, as business required him to go there. I was very well pleased to accept of the invitation.

19. In due time, the farmer's wagon was driven into the road before the house, and I was invited to get in. I noticed the horse as a rough-looking Canadian pony, with a certain air of stubborn endurance. As the farmer took his seat by my side, the family came to the door to see us off.

20. "Dick!" said the farmer in a peremptory voice, giving the rein a quick jerk as he spoke. But Dick moved not a step. "Dick! you vagabond! get up." And the farmer's whip cracked sharply by the pony's ear.

21. It availed not, however, this second appeal. Dick stood firmly disobedient. Next the whip was brought down upon him with an impatient hand; but the pony only reared up a little. Fast and sharp the strokes were next dealt to the number of half a dozen. The man might as well have beaten the wagon, for all his end was gained.

22. A stout lad now came out into the road, and, catching Dick by the bridle, jerked him forward, using, at the same time, the customary language on such occasions, but Dick met this new ally with increased stubbornness, planting his fore feet more firmly and at a sharper angle with the ground.

23. The impatient boy now struck the pony on the side of the head with his clinched hand, and jerked cruelly at his bridle. It availed nothing, however; Dick was not to be wrought upon by any such arguments.

24. "Don't do so, John!" I turned my head as the maiden's sweet voice reached my ear. She was passing through the gate into the road, and in the next moment had taken hold of the lad and drawn him away from the animal. No strength was exerted in this; she took hold of his arm, and he obeyed her wish as readily as if he had no thought beyond her gratification.

25. And now that soft hand was laid gently on the pony's neck, and a single low word spoken. How instantly were the tense muscles relaxed—how quickly the stubborn air vanished!

26. "Poor Dick!" said the maiden, as she stroked his neck lightly, or softly patted it with a childlike hand. "Now, go along, you provoking fellow!" she added, in a half-chiding, yet affectionate voice, as she drew up the bridle.

27. The pony turned toward her, and rubbed his head against her arm for an instant or two; then, pricking up his ears, he started off at a light, cheerful trot, and went on his way as freely as if no silly crotchet had ever entered his stubborn brain.

28. "What a wonderful power that hand possesses!" said I, speaking to my companion, as we rode away.

29. He looked at me for a moment, as if my remark had occasioned surprise. Then a light came into his countenance, and he said briefly, "She's good! Everybody and everything loves her."

30. Was that, indeed, the secret of her power? Was the quality of her soul perceived in the impression of her hand, even by brute beasts! The father's explanation was doubtless the true one. Yet have I ever since wondered, and still do wonder, at the potency which lay in that maiden's magic touch. I have seen something of the same power, showing itself in the loving and the good, but never to the extent as instanced in her, whom, for want of a better name, I must still call "Gentle Hand."

DEFINITIONS.—2. Vi-cin'i-ty, neighborhood. 16. Un-ob-tru'-sive-ly, not noticeably, modestly. 17. Re-pul'sive, repelling, forbid-ding. 18. Po'tent, powerful, effective. Host, one from whom another receives food, lodging, or entertainment. 20. Per'emp-to-ry, commanding, decisive. 21. A-vailed', was of use, had effect. 22. Al-ly', a confederate, one who unites with another in some purpose. 25. Tense, strained to stiffness, rigid. Re-laxed', loosened. 20. Chid'ing, scolding, rebuking. 27. Crotch'et, a perverse fancy, a whim. 30. In'stanced, mentioned as an example.

Charles G. Eastman (b. 1816, d.1861) was born in Maine, but removed at an early age to Vermont, where he was connected with the press at Burlington, Woodstock, and Montpelier. He published a volume of poems in 1848, written in a happy lyric and ballad style, and faithfully portraying rural life in New England.

1. The farmer sat in his easy-chair
     Smoking his pipe of clay,
   While his hale old wife with busy care,
     Was clearing the dinner away;
   A sweet little girl with fine blue eyes,
   On her grandfather's knee, was catching flies.

2. The old man laid his hand on her head,
     With a tear on his wrinkled face,
   He thought how often her mother, dead,
     Had sat in the selfsame place;
   As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye,
   "Don't smoke!" said the child, "how it makes you cry!"

3. The house dog lay stretched out on the floor,
     Where the shade, afternoons, used to steal;
   The busy old wife by the open door
     Was turning the spinning wheel,
   And the old brass clock on the manteltree
   Had plodded along to almost three.

4. Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair,
     While close to his heaving breast
   The moistened brow and the cheek so fair
     Of his sweet grandchild were pressed;
   His head bent down, all her soft hair lay;
   Fast asleep were they both on that summer day.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Hale, healthy. 3. Man'tel-tree, shelf over a fireplace.
Plod'ded, went slowly. 4. Heaving, rising and falling.

Charles Dudley Warner (b. 1829,—) was born at Plainfield, Mass. In 1851 he graduated at Hamilton College, and in 1856 was admitted to the bar at Philadelphia, but moved to Chicago to practice his profession. There he remained until 1860, when he became connected with the press at Hartford, Conn., and has ever since devoted himself to literature. "My Summer in a Garden," "Saunterings," and "Backlog Studies" are his best known works. The following extract is from "Being a Boy."

1. Say what you will about the general usefulness of boys, it is my impression that a farm without a boy would very soon come to grief. What the boy does is the life of the farm. He is the factotum, always in demand, always expected to do the thousand indispensable things that nobody else will do. Upon him fall all the odds and ends, the most difficult things.

2. After everybody else is through, he has to finish up. His work is like a woman's,—perpetually waiting on others. Everybody knows how much easier it is to eat a good dinner than it is to wash the dishes afterwards. Consider what a boy on a farm is required to do,—things that must be done, or life would actually stop.

3. It is understood, in the first place, that he is to do all the errands, to go to the store, to the post office, and to carry all sorts of messages. If he had as many legs as a centiped, they would tire before night. His two short limbs seem to him entirely inadequate to the task. He would like to have as many legs as a wheel has spokes, and rotate about in the same way.

4. This he sometimes tries to do; and the people who have seen him "turning cart wheels" along the side of the road, have supposed that he was amusing himself and idling his time; he was only trying to invent a new mode of locomotion, so that he could economize his legs, and do his errands with greater dispatch.

5. He practices standing on his head, in order to accustom himself to any position. Leapfrog is one of his methods of getting over the ground quickly. He would willingly go an errand any distance if he could leapfrog it with a few other boys.

6. He has a natural genius for combining pleasure with business. This is the reason why, when he is sent to the spring for a pitcher of water, he is absent so long; for he stops to poke the frog that sits on the stone, or, if there is a penstock, to put his hand over the spout, and squirt the water a little while.

7. He is the one who spreads the grass when the men have cut it; he mows it away in the barn; he rides the horse, to cultivate the corn, up and down the hot, weary rows; he picks up the potatoes when they are dug; he drives the cows night and morning; he brings wood and water, and splits kindling; he gets up the horse, and puts out the horse; whether he is in the house or out of it, there is always something for him to do.

8. Just before the school in winter he shovels paths; in summer he turns the grindstone. He knows where there are lots of wintergreens and sweet flags, but instead of going for them, he is to stay indoors and pare apples, and stone raisins, and pound something in a mortar. And yet, with his mind full of schemes of what he would like to do, and his hands full of occupations, he is an idle boy, who has nothing to busy himself with but school and chores!

9. He would gladly do all the work if somebody else would do the chores, he thinks; and yet I doubt if any boy ever amounted to anything in the world, or was of much use as a man, who did not enjoy the advantages of a liberal education in the way of chores.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Fac-to'tum, a person employed to do all kinds of work. In-dis-pen'sa-ble, absolutely necessary. 2. Per-pet'u-al-ly, continually. 3. Cen'ti-ped, an insect with a great number of feet. 4. E-con'o-mize, to save. Dis-patch', diligence, haste. 6. Pen'-stock, a wooden tube for conducting water. 8. Chores, the light work of the household either within or without doors.

Jean Ingelow (b. 1830, d.1897) was born at Boston, Lincolnshire, England. Her fame as a poetess was at once established upon the publication of her "Poems" in 1863; since which time several other volumes have appeared. The most generally admired of her poems are "Songs of Seven" and "The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire," She has also written several successful novels, of which, "Off the Skelligs" is the most popular. "Stories Told to a Child," "The Cumberers," "Poor Mat," "Studies for Stories," and "Mopsa, the Fairy" are also well known. Miss Ingelow resided in London, England, and spent much of her time in deeds of charity.

1. A nightingale made a mistake;
     She sang a few notes out of tune:
   Her heart was ready to break,
     And she hid away from the moon.
   She wrung her claws, poor thing,
     But was far too proud to weep;
   She tucked her head under her wing,
     And pretended to be asleep.

2. A lark, arm in arm with a thrush,
     Came sauntering up to the place;
   The nightingale felt herself blush,
     Though feathers hid her face;
   She knew they had heard her song,
     She felt them snicker and sneer;
   She thought that life was too long,
     And wished she could skip a year.

3. "O nightingale!" cooed a dove;
     "O nightingale! what's the use?
   You bird of beauty and love,
     Why behave like a goose?
   Don't sulk away from our sight,
     Like a common, contemptible fowl;
   You bird of joy and delight,
     Why behave like an owl?

4. "Only think of all you have done;
     Only think of all you can do;
   A false note is really fun
     From such a bird as you!
   Lift up your proud little crest,
     Open your musical beak;
   Other birds have to do their best,
     You need only to speak!"

6. The nightingale shyly took
     Her head from under her wing,
   And, giving the dove a look,
     Straightway began to sing.
   There was never a bird could pass;
     The night was divinely calm;
   And the people stood on the grass
     To hear that wonderful psalm.

6. The nightingale did not care,
     She only sang to the skies;
   Her song ascended there,
     And there she fixed her eyes.
   The people that stood below
     She knew but little about;
   And this tale has a moral, I know,
     If you'll try and find it out.

DEFINITIONS.—2. Saun'ter-ing, wandering idly, strolling. Snick'er, to laugh in a half-suppressed manner. 4. Crest, a tuft growing on an animal's head. 5. Di-vine'ly, in a supreme degree. 6. Mor'al, the practical lesson which anything is fitted to teach.

NOTE.—The nightingale is a small bird, about six inches in length, with a coat of dark-brown feathers above and of grayish, white beneath. Its voice is astonishingly strong and sweet, and, when wild, it usually sings throughout the evening and night from April to the middle of summer. The bird is common in Europe, but is not found in America.

1. About twenty years ago there lived a singular gentleman in the Old Hall among the elm trees. He was about three-score years of age, very rich, and somewhat odd in many of his habits, but for generosity and benevolence he had no equal.

2. No poor cottager stood in need of comforts, which he was not ready to supply; no sick man or woman languished for want of his assistance; and not even a beggar, unless a known impostor, went empty-handed from the Hall. Like the village pastor described in Goldsmith's poem of "The Deserted Village,"

  "His house was known to all the vagrant train;
  He chid their wand'rings, but relieved their pain;
  The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
  Whose beard descending swept his aged breast."

3. Now it happened that the old gentleman wanted a boy to wait upon him at table, and to attend him in different ways, for he was very fond of young people. But much as he liked the society of the young, he had a great aversion to that curiosity in which many young people are apt to indulge. He used to say, "The boy who will peep into a drawer will be tempted to take something out of it; and he who will steal a penny in his youth will steal a pound in his manhood."

4. No sooner was it known that the old gentleman was in want of a boy than twenty applications were made for the situation; but he determined not to engage anyone until he had in some way ascertained that he did not possess a curious, prying disposition.

5. On Monday morning seven lads, dressed in their Sunday clothes, with bright and happy faces, made their appearance at the Hall, each of them desiring to obtain the situation. Now the old gentleman, being of a singular disposition had prepared a room in such a way that he might easily know if any of the young people who applied were given to meddle unnecessarily with things around them, or to peep into cupboards and drawers. He took care that the lads who were then at Elm Tree Hall should be shown into this room one after another.

6. And first, Charles Brown was sent into the room, and told that he would have to wait a little. So Charles sat down on a chair near the door. For some time he was very quiet, and looked about him; but there seemed to be so many curious things in the room that at last he got up to peep at them.

7. On the table was placed a dish cover, and Charles wanted sadly to know what was under it, but he felt afraid of lifting it up. Bad habits are strong things; and, as Charles was of a curious disposition, he could not withstand the temptation of taking one peep. So he lifted up the cover.

8. This turned out to be a sad affair; for under the dish cover was a heap of very light feathers; part of the feathers, drawn up by a current of air, flew about the room, and Charles, in his fright, putting the cover down hastily, puffed the rest of them off the table.

9. What was to be done? Charles began to pick up the feathers one by one; but the old gentleman, who was in an adjoining room, hearing a scuffle, and guessing the cause of it, entered the room, to the consternation of Charles Brown, who was very soon dismissed as a boy who had not principle enough to resist even a slight temptation.

10. When the room was once more arranged, Henry Wilkins was placed there until such time as he should be sent for. No sooner was he left to himself than his attention was attracted by a plate of fine, ripe cherries. Now Henry was uncommonly fond of cherries, and he thought it would be impossible to miss one cherry among so many. He looked and longed, and longed and looked, for some time, and just as he had got off his seat to take one, he heard, as he thought, a foot coming to the door; but no, it was a false alarm.

11. Taking fresh courage, he went cautiously and took a very fine cherry, for he was determined to take but one, and put it into his mouth. It was excellent; and then he persuaded himself that he ran no risk in taking another; this he did, and hastily popped it into his mouth.

12. Now, the old gentleman had placed a few artificial cherries at the top of the others, filled with Cayenne pepper; one of these Henry had unfortunately taken, and it made his month smart and burn most intolerably. The old gentleman heard him coughing, and knew very well what was the matter. The boy that would take what did not belong to him, if no more than a cherry, was not the boy for him. Henry Wilkins was sent about his business without delay, with his mouth almost as hot as if he had put a burning coal in to it.

13. Rufus Wilson was next introduced into the room and left to himself; but he had not been there ten minutes before he began to move from one place to another. He was of a bold, resolute temper, but not overburdened with principle; for if he could have opened every cupboard, closet, and drawer in the house, without being found out, he would have done it directly.

14. Having looked around the room, he noticed a drawer to the table, and made up his mind to peep therein. But no sooner did he lay hold of the drawer knob than he set a large bell ringing, which was concealed under the table. The old gentleman immediately answered the summons, and entered the room.

15. Rufus was so startled by the sudden ringing of the bell, that all his impudence could not support him. He looked as though anyone might knock him down with a feather. The old gentleman asked him if he had rung the bell because he wanted anything. Rufus was much confused and stammered, and tried to excuse himself, but all to no purpose, for it did not prevent him from being ordered off the premises.

16. George Jones was then shown into the room by an old steward; and being of a cautious disposition, he touched nothing, but only looked at the things about him. At last he saw that a closet door was a little open, and, thinking it would be impossible for anyone to know that he had opened it a little more, he very cautiously opened it an inch farther, looking down at the bottom of the door, that it might not catch against anything and make a noise.

17. Now had he looked at the top, instead of the bottom, it might have been better for him; for to the top of the door was fastened a plug, which filled up the hole of a small barrel of shot. He ventured to open the door another inch, and then another, till, the plug being pulled out of the barrel, the leaden shot began to pour out at a strange rate. At the bottom of the closet was placed a tin pan, and the shot falling upon this pan made such a clatter that George was frightened half out of his senses.

18. The old gentleman soon came into the room to inquire what was the matter, and there he found George nearly as pale as a sheet. George was soon dismissed.

19. It now came the turn of Albert Jenkins to be put into the room. The other boys had been sent to their homes by different ways, and no one knew what the experience of the other had been in the room of trial.

20. On the table stood a small round box, with a screw top to it, and Albert, thinking it contained something curious, could not be easy without unscrewing the top; but no sooner did he do this than out bounced an artificial snake, full a yard long, and fell upon his arm. He started back, and uttered a scream which brought the old gentleman to his elbow. There stood Albert, with the bottom of the box in one hand, the top in the other, and the snake on the floor.

21. "Come, come," said the old gentleman, "one snake is quite enough to have in the house at a time; therefore, the sooner you are gone the better." With that he dismissed him, without waiting a moment for his reply.

22. William Smith next entered the room, and being left alone soon began to amuse himself in looking at the curiosities around him. William was not only curious and prying, but dishonest, too, and observing that the key was left in the drawer of a bookcase, he stepped on tiptoe in that direction. The key had a wire fastened to it, which communicated with an electrical machine, and William received such a shock as he was not likely to forget. No sooner did he sufficiently recover himself to walk, than he was told to leave the house, and let other people lock and unlock their own drawers.

23. The other boy was Harry Gordon, and though he was left in the room full twenty minutes, he never during that time stirred from his chair. Harry had eyes in his head as well as the others, but he had more integrity in his heart; neither the dish cover, the cherries, the drawer knob, the closet door, the round box, nor the key tempted him to rise from his feet; and the consequence was that, in half an hour after, he was engaged in the service of the old gentleman at Elm Tree Hall. He followed his good old master to his grave, and received a large legacy for his upright conduct in his service.

DEFINITIONS.—2. Lan'guished, suffered, sank away. Im-pos'. tor, a deceiver. 3. A-ver'sion, dislike. In-dulge', to give way to. Pound, a British denomination of money equal in value to about $4.86. 4. Ap-pli-ca'tion, the act of making a request. 9. Con—ster-na'tion, excessive terror, dismay. Prin'ci-ple, a right rule of conduct. 12. Ar-ti-fi'cial (pro. ar-ti-fish'al), made by art, not real. In-tol'er-a-bly, in a manner not to be borne. 14. Sum'mons, a call to appear. 19. Ex-pe'ri-ence, knowledge gained by actual trial. 23. In-teg'ri-ty, honesty. Leg'a-cy, a gift, by will, of personal property.

Eliza Cook (b. 1817, d. 1889) was born at London. In 1837 she commenced contributing to periodicals. In 1840 the first collection of her poems was made. In 1849 she became editor of "Eliza Cook's Journal."

1. Work, work, my boy, be not afraid;
     Look labor boldly in the face;
   Take up the hammer or the spade,
     And blush not for your humble place.

2. There's glory in the shuttle's song;
     There's triumph in the anvil's stroke;
   There's merit in the brave and strong
     Who dig the mine or fell the oak.

3. The wind disturbs the sleeping lake,
     And bids it ripple pure and fresh;
   It moves the green boughs till they make
     Grand music in their leafy mesh.

4. And so the active breath of life
     Should stir our dull and sluggard wills;
   For are we not created rife
     With health, that stagnant torpor kills?

5. I doubt if he who lolls his head
     Where idleness and plenty meet,
   Enjoys his pillow or his bread
     As those who earn the meals they eat.

6. And man is never half so blest
     As when the busy day is spent
   So as to make his evening rest
     A holiday of glad content.

DEFINITIONS.—3. Mesh, network. 4. Rife, abounding. Stag'nant, inactive. 2. Tor'por, laziness, stupidity. 5. Lolls, reclines, leans.

1. A gentleman who had traveled in Europe, relates that he one day visited the hospital of Berlin, where he saw a man whose exterior was very striking. His figure, tall and commanding, was bending with age, but more with sorrow; the few scattered hairs which remained on his temples were white almost as the driven snow, and the deepest melancholy was depicted in his countenance.

2. On inquiring who he was and what brought him there, he started, as, if from sleep, and, after looking around him, began with slow and measured steps to stride the hall, repeating in a low but audible voice, "Once one is two; once one is two."

3. Now and then he would stop, and remain with his arms folded on his breast as if in contemplation, for some minutes; then again resuming his walk, he continued to repeat, "Once one is two; once one is two." His story, as our traveler understood it, is as follows:

4. Conrad Lange, collector of the revenues of the city of Berlin, had long been known as a man whom nothing could divert from the paths of honesty. Scrupulously exact in an his dealings, and assiduous in the discharge of all his duties, he had acquired the good will and esteem of all who knew him, and the confidence of the minister of finance, whose duty it is to inspect the accounts of all officers connected with the revenue.

5. On casting up his accounts at the close of a particular year, he found a deficit of ten thousand ducats. Alarmed at this discovery, he went to the minister, presented his accounts, and informed him that he did not know how it had arisen, and that he had been robbed by some person bent on his ruin.

6. The minister received his accounts, but thinking it a duty to secure a person who might probably be a defaulter he caused him to be arrested, and put his accounts into the hands of one of his secretaries for inspection, who returned them the day after with the information that the deficiency arose from a miscalculation; that in multiplying, Mr. Lange had said, once one is two, instead of once one is one.

7. The poor man was immediately released from confinement, his accounts returned, and the mistake pointed out. During his imprisonment, which lasted two days, he had neither eaten, drunk, nor taken any repose; and when he appeared, his countenance was as pale as death. On receiving his accounts, he was a long time silent; then suddenly awaking, as if from a trance, he repeated, "Once one is two."

8. He appeared to be entirely insensible of his situation; would neither eat nor drink, unless solicited; and took notice of nothing that passed around him. While repeating his accustomed phrase, if anyone corrected him by saying, "Once one is one," his attention was arrested for a moment, and he said, "Ah, right, once one is one;" and then resuming his walk, he continued to repeat, "Once one is two." He died shortly after the traveler left Berlin.

9. This affecting story, whether true or untrue, obviously abounds with lessons of instruction. Alas! how easily is the human mind thrown off its balance; especially when it is stayed on this world only, and has no experimental knowledge of the meaning of the injunction of Scripture, to cast all our cares upon Him who careth for us, and who heareth even the young ravens when they cry.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Ex-te'ri-or, outward appearance. De-pict'ed, painted, represented. 3. Con-tem-pla'tion, continued attention of the mind to one subject. 4. Rev'e-nues, the annual income from taxes, public rents, etc. Scru'pu-lous-ly, carefully. As-sid'u-ous, constant in attention. Fi-nance', the income of a ruler or a state. Def'i-cit, lack, want. Duc'at, a gold coin worth about $2.00. 6. De-fault'er, one who fails to account for public money intrusted to his care. 9. Ob'vi-ous-ly, plainly. In-junc'tion, a command.

William Allingham (b. 1828, d. 1889) was born at Ballyshannon, Ireland. His father was a banker, and gave him a good education in Irish schools. He showed his literary tastes at an early date, contributing to periodicals, etc. In 1850 he published his first volume of poems; in 1854 his "Day and Night Songs" appeared, and in 1864 a poem in twelve chapters entitled "Lawrence Bloomfield in Ireland," His reputation was established chiefly through his shorter lyrics, or ballad poetry. In 1864 he received a literary pension.

1. Good-by, good-by to Summer!
     For Summer's nearly done;
   The garden smiling faintly,
     Cool breezes in the sun;
   Our thrushes now are silent,
     Our swallows flown away,—
   But Robin's here in coat of brown,
     And scarlet brestknot gay.
   Robin, Robin Redbreast,
     O Robin dear!
   Robin sings so sweetly
     In the falling of the year.

2. Bright yellow, red, and orange,
     The leaves come down in hosts;
   The trees are Indian princes,
     But soon they'll turn to ghosts;
   The leathery pears and apples
     Hang russet on the bough;
   It's autumn, autumn, autumn late,
     'T will soon be winter now.
   Robin, Robin Redbreast,
     O Robin dear!
   And what will this poor Robin do?
     For pinching days are near.

3. The fireside for the cricket,
     The wheat stack for the mouse,
   When trembling night winds whistle
     And moan all round the house.
   The frosty ways like iron,
     The branches plumed with snow,—
   Alas! in winter dead and dark,
     Where can poor Robin go?
   Robin, Robin Redbreast,
     O Robin dear!
   And a crumb of bread for Robin,
     His little heart to cheer.

Note.—The Old World Robin here referred to is quite different in appearance and habits from the American Robin. It is only about half the size of the latter. Its prevailing color above is olive green, while the forehead, cheeks, throat, and breast are a light yellowish red. It does not migrate, but is found at all seasons throughout temperate Europe, Asia Minor, and northern Africa.

John Greenleaf Whittier was born near Haverhill, Mass., in 1807, and died at Hampton Falls, N.H., in 1892. His boyhood was passed on a farm, and he never received a classical education. In 1829 he edited a newspaper in Boston. In the following year he removed to Hartford, Conn., to assume a similar position. In 1836 he edited an antislavery paper in Philadelphia. In 1840 he removed to Amesbury, Mass. Mr. Whittier's parents were Friends, and he always held to the same faith. He wrote extensively both in prose and verse. As a poet, he ranked among those most highly esteemed and honored by his countrymen. "Snow Bound" is one of the longest and best of his poems.

1. Our bachelor uncle who lived with us was a quiet, genial man, much given to hunting and fishing; and it was one of the pleasures of our young life to accompany him on his expeditions to Great Hill, Brandy-brow Woods, the Pond, and, best of all, to the Country Brook. We were quite willing to work hard in the cornfield or the haying lot to finish the necessary day's labor in season for an afternoon stroll through the woods and along the brookside.

2. I remember my first fishing excursion as if it were but yesterday. I have been happy many times in my life, but never more intensely so than when I received that first fishing pole from my uncle's hand, and trudged off with him through the woods and meadows. It was a still, sweet day of early summer; the long afternoon shadows of the trees lay cool across our path; the leaves seemed greener, the flowers brighter, the birds merrier, than ever before.

3. My uncle, who knew by long experience where were the best haunts of pickerel, considerately placed me at the most favorable point. I threw out my line as I had so often seen others, and waited anxiously for a bite, moving the bait in rapid jerks on the surface of the water in imitation of the leap of a frog. Nothing came of it. "Try again," said my uncle. Suddenly the bait sank out of sight. "Now for it," thought I; "here is a fish at last."

4. I made a strong pull, and brought up a tangle of weeds. Again and again I cast out my line with aching arms, and drew it back empty. I looked at my uncle appealingly. "Try once more," he said; "we fishermen must have patience."

5. Suddenly something tugged at my line, and swept off with it into deep water. Jerking it up, I saw a fine pickerel wriggling in the sun. "Uncle!" I cried, looking back in uncontrollable excitement, "I've got a fish!" "Not yet," said my uncle. As he spoke there was a plash in the water; I caught the arrowy gleam of a scared fish shooting into the middle of the stream, my hook hung empty from the line. I had lost my prize.

6. We are apt to speak of the sorrows of childhood as trifles in comparison with those of grown-up people; but we may depend upon it the young folks don't agree with us. Our griefs, modified and restrained by reason, experience and self-respect, keep the proprieties, and, if possible, avoid a scene; but the sorrow of childhood, unreasoning and all-absorbing, is a complete abandonment to the passion. The doll's nose is broken, and the world breaks up with it; the marble rolls out of sight, and the solid globe rolls off with the marble.

7. So, overcome with my great and bitter disappointment, I sat down on the nearest hassock, and for a time refused to be comforted, even by my uncle's assurance that there were more fish in the brook. He refitted my bait, and, putting the pole again in my hands, told me to try my luck once more.

8. "But remember, boy," he said, with his shrewd smile, "never brag of catching a fish until he is on dry ground. I've seen older folks doing that in more ways than one, and so making fools of themselves. It's no use to boast of anything until it's done, nor then, either, for it speaks for itself."

9. How often since I have been reminded of the fish that I did not catch. When I hear people boasting of a work as yet undone, and trying to anticipate the credit which belongs only to actual achievement, I call to mind that scene by the brookside, and the wise caution of my uncle in that particular instance takes the form of a proverb of universal application: "NEVER BRAG OF YOUR FISH BEFORE YOU CATCH HIM."

DEFINITIONS.—1. Gen'ial, cheerful. 3. Haunts, places frequently visited. Con-sid'er-ate-ly, with due regard to others, kindly thoughtful. 4. Ap-peal'ing-ly, as though asking for aid. 6. Mod'i-fied, qualified, lessened. Pro-pri'e-ties, fixed customs or rules of conduct. Ab-sorb'ing, engaging the attention entirely. 7, Has'sock, a raised mound of turf. 9. An-tic'i-pate, to take before the proper time. A-chieve'ment, performance, deed.

Sarah Josepha Hale (b. 1788?, d.1879) was born in Newport, N.H. Her maiden name was Buell. In 1814 she married David Hale, an eminent lawyer, who died in 1822. Left with five children to support, she turned her attention to literature. In 1828 she became editor of the "Ladies' Magazine." In 1837 this periodical was united with "Godey's Lady's Book," of which Mrs. Hale was literary editor for more than forty years.

1. "It snows!" cries the Schoolboy, "Hurrah!" and his shout
     Is ringing through parlor and hall,
   While swift as the wing of a swallow, he's out,
     And his playmates have answered his call;
   It makes the heart leap but to witness their joy;
     Proud wealth has no pleasures, I trow,
   Like the rapture that throbs in the pulse of the boy
     As he gathers his treasures of snow;
   Then lay not the trappings of gold on thine heirs,
     While health and the riches of nature are theirs.

2. "It snows!" sighs the Imbecile, "Ah!" and his breath
     Comes heavy, as clogged with a weight;
   While, from the pale aspect of nature in death,
     He turns to the blaze of his grate;
   And nearer and nearer, his soft-cushioned chair
     Is wheeled toward the life-giving flame;
   He dreads a chill puff of the snow-burdened air,
     Lest it wither his delicate frame;
   Oh! small is the pleasure existence can give,
     When the fear we shall die only proves that we live!

3. "It snows!" cries the Traveler, "Ho!" and the word
     Has quickened his steed's lagging pace;
   The wind rushes by, but its howl is unheard,
     Unfelt the sharp drift in his face;
   For bright through the tempest his own home appeared,
     Ay, though leagues intervened, he can see:
   There's the clear, glowing hearth, and the table prepared,
     And his wife with her babes at her knee;
   Blest thought! how it lightens the grief-laden hour,
     That those we love dearest are safe from its power!

4. "It snows!" cries the Belle, "Dear, how lucky!" and turns
     From her mirror to watch the flakes fall,
   Like the first rose of summer, her dimpled cheek burns!
     While musing on sleigh ride and ball:
   There are visions of conquests, of splendor, and mirth,
     Floating over each drear winter's day;
   But the tintings of Hope, on this storm-beaten earth,
     Will melt like the snowflakes away.
   Turn, then thee to Heaven, fair maiden, for bliss;
     That world has a pure fount ne'er opened in this.

5. "It snows!" cries the Widow, "O God!" and her sighs
     Have stifled the voice of her prayer;
   Its burden ye'll read in her tear-swollen eyes,
     On her cheek sunk with fasting and care.
   'T is night, and her fatherless ask her for bread,
     But "He gives the young ravens their food,"
   And she trusts till her dark hearth adds horror to dread.,
     And she lays on her last chip of wood.
   Poor sufferer! that sorrow thy God only knows;
     'T is a most bitter lot to be poor when it snows.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Trow, to think, to believe. Trap'pings, ornanents. 2. Im'be-cile, one who is feeble either in body or mind. 3. In-ter-vened', were situated between. 4. Mus'ing, thinking in an absent-minded way. Con'quests, triumphs, successes. Tint'ings slight colorings. 5. Sti'fled, choked, suppressed.

REMARK.—Avoid reading this piece in a monotonous style. Try to express the actual feeling of each quotation; and enter into the descriptions with spirit.

1. In the city of Bath, not many years since, lived a barber who made a practice of following his ordinary occupation on the Lord's day. As he was on the way to his morning's employment, he happened to look into some place of worship just as the minister was giving out his text—"Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy." He listened long enough to be convinced that he was constantly breaking the laws of God and man by shaving and dressing his customers on the Lord's day. He became uneasy, and went with a heavy heart to his Sabbath task.

2. At length he took courage, and opened his mind to his minister, who advised him to give up Sabbath work, and worship God. He replied that beggary would be the consequence. He had a flourishing trade, but it would almost all be lost. At length, after many a sleepless night spent in weeping and praying, he was determined to cast all his care upon God, as the more he reflected, the more his duty became apparent.

3. He discontinued his Sabbath work, went constantly and early to the public services of religion, and soon enjoyed that satisfaction of mind which is one of the rewards of doing our duty, and that peace which the world can neither give nor take away. The consequences he foresaw actually followed. His genteel customers left him, and he was nicknamed "Puritan" or "Methodist." He was obliged to give up his fashionable shop, and, in the course of years, became so reduced as to take a cellar under the old market house and shave the poorer people.

4. One Saturday evening, between light and dark, a stranger from one of the coaches, asking for a barber, was directed by the hostler to the cellar opposite. Coming in hastily, he requested to be shaved quickly, while they changed horses, as he did not like to violate the Sabbath. This was touching the barber on a tender chord. He burst into tears; asked the stranger to lend him a half-penny to buy a candle, as it was not light enough to shave him with safety. He did so, revolving in his mind the extreme poverty to which the poor man must be reduced.

5. When shaved, he said, "There must be something extraordinary in your history, which I have not now time to hear. Here is half a crown for you. When I return, I will call and investigate your case. What is your name?" "William Reed," said the astonished barber. "William Reed?" echoed the stranger: "William Reed? by your dialect you are from the West." "Yes, sir, from Kingston, near Taunton." "William Reed from Kingston, near Taunton? What was your father's name?" "Thomas." "Had he any brother?" "Yes, sir, one, after whom I was named; but he went to the Indies, and, as we never heard from him, we supposed him to be dead."

6. "Come along, follow me," said the stranger, "I am going to see a person who says his name is William Reed, of Kingston, near Taunton. Come and confront him. If you prove to be indeed he who you say you are, I have glorious news for you. Your uncle is dead, and has left an immense fortune, which I will put you in possession of when all legal doubts are removed."

7. They went by the coach; saw the pretended William Reed, and proved him to be an impostor. The stranger, who was a pious attorney, was soon legally satisfied of the barber's identity, and told him that he had advertised him in vain. Providence had now thrown him in his way in a most extraordinary manner, and he had great pleasure in transferring a great many thousand pounds to a worthy man, the rightful heir of the property. Thus was man's extremity God's opportunity. Had the poor barber possessed one half-penny, or even had credit for a candle, he might have remained unknown for years; but he trusted God, who never said, "Seek ye my face," in vain.

DEFINITIONS.—2. Ap-par'ent, clear, plain. 3. Gen-teel', fashionable, elegant. Re-duced', brought to poverty. 4. Vi'o-late, to break, to profane. 5. In-ves'ti-gate, to inquire into with care. Di'a-lect, a local form of speech. 6. Con-front', to face, to stand before. 7. At-tor'ney (pro. at-tur'ny), a lawyer. I-den'ti-ty, the condition of being the same as something claimed. Trans-fer'ring, making over the possession of. Ex-trem'i-ty, greatest need. Op-por-tu'ni-ty, favorable time.

Charles Kingsley (b.1819, d.1875) was born at Holne, Devonshire, England. He took his bachelor's degree at Cambridge in 1842, and soon after entered the Church. His writings are quite voluminous, including sermons, lectures, novels, fairy tales, and poems, published in book form, besides numerous miscellaneous sermons and magazine articles. He was an earnest worker for bettering the condition of the working classes, and this object was the basis of most of his writings. As a lyric poet he has gained a high place. The "Saint's Tragedy" and "Andromeda" are the most pretentious of his poems, and "Alton Locke" and "Hypatia" are his best known novels.

1. "O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
       And call the cattle home,
       And call the cattle home,
     Across the sands o' Dee!"
   The western wind was wild and dank with foam,
     And all alone went she.

2. The creeping tide came up along the sand,
       And o'er and o'er the sand,
       And round and round the sand,
     As far as eye could see;
   The blinding mist came down and hid the land—
     And never home came she.

3. Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair?—
       A tress o' golden hair,
       O' drowned maiden's hair,
     Above the nets at sea.
   Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
     Among the stakes on Dee.

4. They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
       The cruel, crawling foam,
       The cruel, hungry foam,
     To her grave beside the sea;
   But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,
     Across the sands O' Dee.

Notes.—The Sands O' Dee.
        The Dee is a river of Scotland, noted for its salmon fisheries.
        O' is a contraction for of, commonly used by the Scotch.

RKMARK.—The first three lines of each stanza deserve special attention in reading. The final words are nearly or quite the same, but the expression of each line should vary. The piece should be read in a low key and with a pure, musical tone.

1. O give thanks unto the Lord; call upon his name; make known his deeds among the people. Sing unto him; sing psalms unto him; talk ye of all his wondrous works. Glory ye in his holy name; let the heart of them rejoice that seek the Lord. Remember his marvelous works that he hath done; his wonders, and the judgments of his mouth.

2. O Lord, our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth! who hast set thy glory above the heavens. When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers; the moon and the stars which thou hast ordained; what is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him? For thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honor. Thou madest him to have dominion over the work of thy hands; thou hast put all things under his feet. O Lord, our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth!

3. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress, my God; in him will I trust. Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him: I will set him on high, because he hath known my name. He shall call upon me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him, and honor him. With long life will I satisfy him, and show him my salvation.

4. O come, let us sing unto the Lord, let us heartily rejoice in the strength of our salvation. Let us come before his presence with thanksgiving, and show ourselves glad in him with psalms. For the Lord is a great God, and a great King above all gods. O worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness; let the whole earth stand in awe of him. For he cometh, for he cometh, to judge the earth; and with righteousness to judge the world, and the people with his truth.

5. Oh that men would praise the Lord' for his goodness, and for his wonderful works to the children of men! They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters; these see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep. For he commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof. They mount up to the heaven; they go down again to the depths; their soul is melted because of trouble; they reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wit's end. Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distresses. He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Then are they glad because they be quiet; so he bringeth them unto their desired haven. Oh that men would praise the Lord for his goodness, and for his wonderful works to the children of men!

6. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me: thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely, goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I1 will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. —Bible.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Mar'vel-ous, wonderful. 2. Or-dained', appointed, established. Do-min'ion (pro. do-min'yun). supreme power. 5. Ha ven, a harbor, a place where ships can lie in safety.

1. Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard!
     Heap high the golden corn!
   No richer gift has Autumn poured
     From out her lavish horn!

2. Let other lands, exulting, glean
     The apple from the pine,
   The orange from its glossy green,
     The cluster from the vine;

3. We better love the hardy gift
     Our rugged vales bestow,
   To cheer us, when the storm shall drift
     Our harvest fields with snow.

4. Through vales of grass and meads of flowers
     Our plows their furrows made,
   While on the hills the sun and showers
     Of changeful April played.

5. We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain,
     Beneath the sun of May,
   And frightened from our sprouting grain
     The robber crows away.

6. All through the long, bright days of June,
     Its leaves grew green and fair,
   And waved in hot midsummer's noon
     Its soft and yellow hair.

7. And now, with Autumn's moonlit eves,
     Its harvest time has come;
   We pluck away the frosted leaves
     And bear the treasure home.

8. There, richer than the fabled gift
     Apollo showered of old,
   Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,
     And knead its meal of gold.

9. Let vapid idlers loll in silk,
     Around their costly board;
   Give us the bowl of samp and milk,
     By homespun beauty poured!

10. Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth
      Sends up its smoky curls,
    Who will not thank the kindly earth
      And bless our farmer girls!

11. Then shame on all the proud and vain,
      Whose folly laughs to scorn
    The blessing of our hardy grain,
      Our wealth of golden corn!

12. Let earth withhold her goodly root;
      Let mildew blight the rye,
    Give to the worm the orchard's fruit,
      The wheat field to the fly:

13. But let the good old crop adorn
      The hills our fathers trod;
    Still let us, for his golden corn,
      Send up our thanks to God!
                                      From Whittier's "Songs of Labor."

DEFINITIONS.—1. Hoard, a large quantify of anything laid up. Lav'ish. profuse. 4. Meads, meadows. 9. Vap'id, spiritless, dull. Samp, bruised corn cooked by boiling.

Notes.—8. According to the ancient fable, Apollo, the god of music, sowed the isle of Delos, his birthplace, with golden flowers, by the music of his lyre.

John Russell (b. 1793, d. 1863) graduated at Middlebury College, Vt., in 1818. He was at one time editor of the "Backwoodsman," published at Grafton, Ill., and later of the "Louisville Advocate." He was the author of many tales of western adventure and of numerous essays, sketches, etc. His language is clear, chaste, and classical; his style concise, vigorous, and sometimes highly ornate.

1. Who has not heard of the rattlesnake or copperhead? An unexpected sight of either of these reptiles will make even the lords of creation recoil; but there is a species of worm, found in various parts of this country, which conveys a poison of a nature so deadly that, compared with it, even the venom of the rattlesnake is harmless. To guard our readers against this foe of human kind is the object of this lesson.

2. This worm varies much in size. It is frequently an inch in diameter, but, as it is rarely seen except when coiled, its length can hardly be conjectured. It is of a dull lead color, and generally lives near a spring or small stream of water, and bites the unfortunate people who are in the habit of going there to drink. The brute creation it never molests. They avoid it with the same instinct that teaches the animals of India to shun the deadly cobra.

3. Several of these reptiles have long infested our settlements, to the misery and destruction of many of our fellow citizens. I have, therefore, had frequent opportunities of being the melancholy spectator of the effects produced by the subtile poison which this worm infuses.

4. The symptoms of its bite are terrible. The eyes of the patient become red and fiery, his tongue swells to an immoderate size, and obstructs his utterance; and delirium of the most horrid character quickly follows. Sometimes, in his madness, he attempts the destruction of his nearest friends.

5. If the sufferer has a family, his weeping wife and helpless infants are not unfrequently the objects of his frantic fury. In a word, he exhibits, to the life, all the detestable passions that rankle in the bosom of a savage; and such is the spell in which his senses are locked, that no sooner has the unhappy patient recovered from the paroxysm of insanity occasioned by the bite, than he seeks out the destroyer for the sole purpose of being bitten again.

6. I have seen a good old father, his locks as white as snow, his step slow and trembling, beg in vain of his only son to quit the lurking place of the worm. My heart bled when he turned away; for I knew the fond hope that his son would be the "staff of his declining years," had supported him through many a sorrow.

7. Youths of America, would you know the name of this reptile? It is called the WORM OF THE STILL.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Rep'tiles, animals that crawl, as snakes, liz-ards, etc. Re-coil', to start back, to shrink from. 2. Co'bra, a highly venomous reptile inhabiting the East Indies. In-fest'ed, troubled, annoyed. 3. Sub'tile, acute, piercing. In-fus'es, intro-duces. 4. Ob-structs', hinders. De-lir'i-um, a wandering of the mind. 5. Ran'kle, to rage. Par'ox-ysm, a fit, a convulsion. 7. Worm, a spiral metallic pipe used in distilling liquors. Still, a vessel used in distilling or making liquors.

1. Come to the festal board tonight,
     For bright-eyed beauty will be there,
   Her coral lips in nectar steeped,
     And garlanded her hair.

2. Come to the festal board to-night,
     For there the joyous laugh of youth
   Will ring those silvery peals, which speak
     Of bosom pure and stainless truth.

3. Come to the festal board to-night,
     For friendship, there, with stronger chain,
   Devoted hearts already bound
     For good or ill, will bind again.
                      I went.

4. Nature and art their stores outpoured;
     Joy beamed in every kindling glance;
   Love, friendship, youth, and beauty smiled;
     What could that evening's bliss enhance?
                      We parted.

5. And years have flown; but where are now
     The guests who round that table met?
   Rises their sun as gloriously
     As on the banquet's eve it set?

6. How holds the chain which friendship wove?
     It broke; and soon the hearts it bound
   Were widely sundered; and for peace,
     Envy and strife and blood were found.

7. The merriest laugh which then was heard
     Has changed its tones to maniac screams,
   As half-quenched memory kindles up
     Glimmerings of guilt in feverish dreams.

8. And where is she whose diamond eyes
     Golconda's purest gems outshone?
   Whose roseate lips of Eden breathed?
     Say, where is she, the beauteous one?

9. Beneath yon willow's drooping shade,
     With eyes now dim, and lips all pale,
   She sleeps in peace. Read on her urn,
   "A broken heart." This tells her tale.

10. And where is he, that tower of strength,
      Whose fate with hers for life was joined?
    How beats his heart, once honor's throne?
      How high has soared his daring mind?

11. Go to the dungeon's gloom to-night;
      His wasted form, his aching head,
    And all that now remains of him,
      Lies, shuddering, on a felon's bed.

12. Ask you of all these woes the cause?
      The festal board, the enticing bowl,
    More often came, and reason fled,
      And maddened passions spurned control.

13. Learn wisdom, then. The frequent feast
      Avoid; for there, with stealthy tread
    Temptation walks, to lure you on,
      Till death, at last, the banquet spread.

14. And shun, oh shun, the enchanted cup!
      Though now its draught like joy appears,
    Ere long it will be fanned by sighs,
      And sadly mixed with blood and tears.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Fes'tal, mirthful, joyous. Gar'land-ed, adorned with wreaths of flowers. 3. De-vot'ed, solemnly set apart. 4. En-hance', increase. 6. Sun'dered, separated. 7. Glim'mer-ings, faint views, glimpses. 8. Ro'se-ate, blooming, rosy. 11. Fel'on, a public criminal. 12. En-tic'ing, attracting to evil. Spurned, rejected with disdain. 13. Lure, to attract, to entice. 14. En-chant'ed, affected with enchantment, bewitched.

NOTES.—8. Golconda is an ancient city and fortress of India, formerly renowned for its diamonds. They were merely cut and polished there, however, being generally brought from Parteall, a city farther south.

Mr. H. and the Steward.

Mr. H. Ha! Steward, how are you, my old boy? How do things go on at home?

Steward. Bad enough, your honor; the magpie's dead.

H. Poor Mag! So he's gone. How came he to die?

S. Overeat himself, sir.

H. Did he? A greedy dog; why, what did he get he liked so well?

S. Horseflesh, sir; he died of eating horseflesh,

H. How came he to get so much horseflesh?

S. All your father's horses, sir.

H. What! are they dead, too?

S. Ay, sir; they died of overwork.

H. And why were they overworked, pray?

S. To carry water, sir.

H. To carry water! and what were they carrying water for?

S. Sure, sir, to put out the fire.

H. Fire! what fire?

S. O, sir, your father's house is burned to the ground.

H. My father's house burned down! and how came it set on fire?

S. I think, sir, it must have been the torches.

H. Torches! what torches?

S. At your mother's funeral.

H. My mother dead!

S. Ah, poor lady! she never looked up, after it.

H. After what?

S. The loss of your father.

H. My father gone, too?

S. Yes, poor gentleman! he took to his bed as soon as he heard of it.

H. Heard of what?

S. The bad news, sir, and please your honor.

H. What! more miseries! more bad news!

S. Yes, sir; your bank has failed, and your credit is lost, and you are not worth a shilling in the world. I made bold, sir, to wait on you about it, for I thought you would like to hear the news.

Robert Southey (b. 1774, d. 1843) was born in Bristol, England. He entered Balliol College, Oxford, in 1793. In 1804 he established himself permanently at Greta Hall, near Keswick, Cumberland, in the "Lake Country," where he enjoyed the friendship and society of Wordsworth and Coleridge, other poets of the "Lake School." He was appointed poet laureate in 1813, and received a pension of 300 Pounds a year from the government in 1835. Mr. Southey was a voluminous writer in both prose and verse. As a poet, he can not be placed in the first rank, although some of his minor poems are very happy in thought and expression. Among his most noted poetical works are "Joan of Arc," "Thalaba the Destroyer," "Madoc," "Roderick," and the "Curse of Kehama,"

1. It was a summer evening,
     Old Kaspar's work was done,
   And he, before his cottage door,
     Was sitting in the sun;
   And by him sported on the green,
   His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

2. She saw her brother Peterkin
     Roll something large and round,
   Which he beside the rivulet,
     In playing there, had found;
   He came to ask what he had found,
   That was so large, and smooth, and round.

3. Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
     Who stood expectant by;
   And then the old man shook his head,
     And, with a natural sigh,
   " 'T is some poor fellow's skull," said he,
   "Who fell in the great victory.

4. "I find them in the garden,
     For there's many hereabout;
   And often when I go to plow,
     The plowshare turns them out;
   For many thousand men," said he,
   "Were slain in that great victory."

5. "Now tell us what 't was all about,"
     Young Peterkin he cries;
   While little Wilhelmine looks up
     With wonder-waiting eyes;
   "Now tell us all about the war,
   And what they killed each other for."

6. "It was the English," Kaspar cried,
     "Who put the French to rout,
   But what they killed each other for,
     I could not well make out;
   But everybody said," quoth he,
   "That 't was a famous victory:

7, "My father lived at Blenheim then,
     Yon little stream, hard by;
   They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
     And he was forced to fly;
   So, with his wife and child he fled,
   Nor had he where to rest his head.

8. "With fire and sword, the country round
     Was wasted, far and wide;
   And many a nursing mother then,
     And newborn baby died;
   But things like that, you know, must be
   At every famous victory.

9. "They say it was a shocking sight
     After the field was won;
   For many thousand bodies here
     Lay rotting in the sun:
   But things like that, you know, must be
   After a famous victory.

10. "Great praise the Duke of Marlboro' won,
      And our young prince, Eugene."
    "Why, 't was a very wicked thing!"
      Said little Wilhelmine.
    "Nay, nay, my little girl!" quoth he,
    "It was a famous victory.

11. "And everybody praised the Duke
      Who this great fight did win."
    "But what good came of it at last?"
      Quoth little Peterkin.
    "Why, that I can not tell," said he,
    "But 't was a glorious victory."

NOTES.—The Battle of Blenheim, in the "War of the Spanish Succession," was fought August 13, 1704, near Blenheim, in Bavaria, between the French and Bavarians, on one Ride, and an allied army under the great English general, the Duke of Marlborough, and Eugene, Prince of Savoy, on the other. The latter won a decisive victory: 10,000 of the defeated army were killed and wounded, and 13,000 were taken prisoners.

1. A poor man once undertook to emigrate from Castine, Me., to Illinois. When he was attempting to cross a river in New York, his horse broke through the rotten timbers of the bridge, and was drowned. He had but this one animal to convey all his property and his family to his new home.

2. His wife and children were almost miraculously saved from sharing the fate of the horse; but the loss of this poor animal was enough. By its aid the family, it may be said, had lived and moved; now they were left helpless in a land of strangers, without the ability to go on or return, without money or a single friend to whom to appeal. The case was a hard one.

3. There were a great many who "passed by on the other side." Some even laughed at the predicament in which the man was placed; but by degrees a group of people began to collect, all of whom pitied him.

4. Some pitied him a great deal, and some did not pity him very much, because, they said, he might have known better than to try to cross an unsafe bridge, and should have made his horse swim the river. Pity, however, seemed rather to predominate. Some pitied the man, and some the horse; all pitied the poor, sick mother and her six helpless children.

5. Among this pitying party was a rough son of the West, who knew what it was to migrate some hundreds of miles over new roads to locate a destitute family on a prairie. Seeing the man's forlorn situation, and looking around on the bystanders, he said, "All of you seem to pity these poor people very much, but I would beg leave to ask each of you how much."

6. "There, stranger," continued he, holding up a ten dollar bill, "there is the amount of my pity; and if others will do as I do, you may soon get another pony. God bless you." It is needless to state the effect that this active charity produced. In a short time the happy emigrant arrived at his destination, and he is now a thriving farmer, and a neighbor to him who was his "friend in need, and a friend indeed."

DEFINITIONS.—1. Em'i-grate, to remove from one country or state to another for the purpose of residence, to migrate. 2. Mi-rac'u-lous-ly, as if by miracle, wonderfully. A-bil'i-ty, power, capability. 3. Pre-dic'a-ment, condition, plight. 4. Pre-dom'i-nate, to prevail, to rule. 5. Lo'cate, to place. Des'ti-tute, needy, poor. 6. Des-ti-na'tion, end of a journey. Thriv'ing, prosperous through industry, economy, and good management.

Oliver Goldsmith (b. 1728, d. 1774) was born at Pallas, or Pallasmore, in the parish of Forney, Ireland. He received his education at several schools, at Trinity College, Dublin, at Edinburgh, and at Leyden. He spent some time in wandering over continental Europe, often in poverty and want. In 1756 he became a resident of London, where he made the acquaintance of several celebrated men, among whom were Dr. Johnson and Sir Joshua Reynolds. His writings are noted for their purity, grace, and fluency. His fame as a poet is secured by "The Traveler," and "The Deserted Village;" as a dramatist, by "She Stoops to Conquer;" and as a novelist, by "The Vicar of Wakefield." His reckless extravagance always kept him in financial difficulty, and he died heavily in debt. His monument is in Westminster Abbey.

1. Good people all, with one accord,
     Lament for Madam Blaize,
   Who never wanted a good word—
     From those who spoke her praise.

2. The needy seldom passed her door,
     And always found her kind;
   She freely lent to all the poor—
     Who left a pledge behind.

3. She strove the neighborhood to please,
     With manner wondrous winning:
   She never followed wicked ways—
     Unless when she was sinning.

4. At church, in silks and satin new,
     With hoop of monstrous size,
   She never slumbered in her pew—
     But when she shut her eyes.

5. Her love was sought, I do aver,
     By twenty beaux and more;
   The king himself has followed her
     When she has walked before.

6. But now, her wealth and finery fled,
     Her hangers-on cut short all,
   Her doctors found, when she was dead—
     Her last disorder mortal.

7. Let us lament, in sorrow sore;
     For Kent Street well may say,
   That, had she lived a twelvemonth more—
     She had not died to-day.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Ac-cord', agreement of opinion, consent. 2. Pledge, personal property delivered to another as a security for a debt. 6. Hang'ers-on, followers. Mor'tal, destructive to life.

King Charles. Well, friend William! I have sold you a noble province in North America; but still, I suppose you have no thoughts of going thither yourself?

Penn. Yes, I have, I assure thee, friend Charles; and I am just come to bid thee farewell.

K.C. What! venture yourself among the savages of North America! Why, man, what security have you that you will not be in their war kettle in two hours after setting foot on their shores?

P. The best security in the world.

K.C. I doubt that, friend William; I have no idea of any security against those cannibals but in a regiment of good soldiers, with their muskets and bayonets. And mind, I tell you beforehand, that, with all my good will for you and your family, to whom I am under obligations, I will not send a single soldier with you.

P. I want none of thy soldiers, Charles: I depend on something better than thy soldiers.

K.C. Ah! what may that be?

P. Why, I depend upon themselves; on the working of their own hearts; on their notions of justice; on their moral sense.

K.C. A fine thing, this same moral sense, no doubt; but I fear you will not find much of it among the Indians of North America.

P. And why not among them as well as others?

K.C. Because if they had possessed any, they would not have treated my subjects so barbarously as they have done.

P. That is no proof of the contrary, friend Charles. Thy subjects were the aggressors. When thy subjects first went to North America, they found these poor people the fondest and kindest creatures in the world. Every day they would watch for them to come ashore, and hasten to meet them, and feast them on the best fish, and venison, and corn, which were all they had. In return for this hospitality of the savages, as we call them, thy subjects, termed Christians, seized on their country and rich hunting grounds for farms for themselves. Now, is it to be wondered at, that these much-injured people should have been driven to desperation by such injustice; and that, burning with revenge, they should have committed some excesses?

K C. Well, then, I hope you will not complain when they come to treat you in the same manner.

P. I am not afraid of it.

K.C. Ah! how will you avoid it? You mean to get their hunting grounds, too, I suppose?

P. Yes, but not by driving these poor people away from them.

K.C. No, indeed? How then will you get their lands?

P. I mean to buy their lands of them.

K.C. Buy their lands of them? Why, man, you have already bought them of me!

P. Yes, I know I have, and at a dear rate, too; but I did it only to get thy good will, not that I thought thou hadst any right to their lands.

K.C. How, man? no right to their lands?

P. No, friend Charles, no right; no right at all: what right hast thou to their lands?

K.C. Why, the right of discovery, to be sure; the right which the Pope and all Christian kings have agreed to give one another.

P. The right of discovery? A strange kind of right, indeed. Now suppose, friend Charles, that some canoe load of these Indians, crossing the sea, and discovering this island of Great Britain, were to claim it as their own, and set it up for sale over thy head, what wouldst thou think of it?

K.C. Why—why—why—I must confess, I should think it a piece of great impudence in them.

P. Well, then, how canst thou, a Christian, and a Christian prince, too, do that which thou so utterly condemnest in these people whom thou callest savages? And suppose, again, that these Indians, on thy refusal to give up thy island of Great Britain, were to make war on thee, and, having weapons more destructive than thine, were to destroy many of thy subjects, and drive the rest away—wouldst thou not think it horribly cruel?

K. C. I must say, friend William, that I should; how can I say otherwise?

P. Well, then, how can I, who call myself a Christian, do what I should abhor even in the heathen? No. I will not do it. But I will buy the right of the proper owners, even of the Indians themselves. By doing this, I shall imitate God himself in his justice and mercy, and thereby insure his blessing on my colony, if I should ever live to plant one in North America. —Mason L. Weems.

DEFINITIONS.—Can'ni-bals, human beings that eat human flesh. Reg'i-ment, a body of troops, consisting usually of ten companies. Ag-gress'ors, those who first commence hostilities. Ven'i-son (pro. ven'i-zn, or ven'zn), the flesh of deer. Ex-cess'es, misdeeds, evil acts. Con-demn'est (pro. kon-dem'est), censure, blame.

NOTES.—Charles II. was king of England from A.D. 1660 to 1685. William Penn (b. 1644, d. 1718) was a noted Englishman who belonged to the sect of Friends. He came to America in 1682, and founded the province which is now the state of Pennsylvania. He purchased the lands from the Indians, who were so impressed with the justice and good will of Penn and his associates, that the Quaker dress often served as a sure protection when other settlers were trembling for their lives.

1. I live for those who love me,
     Whose hearts are kind and true;
   For the heaven that smiles above me,
     And awaits my spirit, too;
   For all human ties that bind me,
   For the task my God assigned me,
   For the bright hopes left behind me,
     And the good that I can do.

2. I live to learn their story,
     Who suffered for my sake;
   To emulate their glory,
     And follow in their wake;
   Bards, patriots, martyrs, sages,
   The noble of all ages,
   Whose deeds crown History's pages,
     And Time's great volume make.

3. I live to hail that season,
     By gifted minds foretold,
   When man shall live by reason,
     And not alone by gold;
   When man to man united,
   And every wrong thing righted,
   The whole world shall be lighted
     As Eden was of old.

4. I live for those who love me,
     For those who know me true;
   For the heaven that smiles above me,
     And awaits my spirit, too;
   For the cause that needs assistance,
   For the wrongs that need resistance,
   For the future in the distance,
     And the good that I can do.

DEFINITIONS.—l. As-signed' (pro. as-sind'), allotted, marked out. 2. Em'-u-late, to strive to equal or excel, to rival. Wake, the track left by a vessel in the water, hence, figuratively, in the train of. Bard, a poet. Mar'tyr, one who sacrifices what is of great value to him for the sake of principle. Sage, a wise man. 3. Hail, to salute.

1. It was Saturday night, and the widow of the Pine Cottage sat by her blazing fagots, with her five tattered children at her side, endeavoring by listening to the artlessness of their prattle to dissipate the heavy gloom that pressed upon her mind. For a year, her own feeble hand had provided for her helpless family, for she had no supporter: she thought of no friend in all the wide, unfriendly world around.

2. But that mysterious Providence, the wisdom of whose ways is above human comprehension, had visited her with wasting sickness, and her little means had become exhausted. It was now, too, midwinter, and the snow lay heavy and deep through all the surrounding forests, while storms still seemed gathering in the heavens, and the driving wind roared amid the neighboring pines, and rocked her puny mansion.

3. The last herring smoked upon the coals before her; it was the only article of food she possessed, and no wonder her forlorn, desolate state brought up in her lone bosom all the anxieties of a mother when she looked upon her children: and no wonder, forlorn as she was, if she suffered the heart swellings of despair to rise, even though she knew that He, whose promise is to the widow and to the orphan, can not forget his word.

4. Providence had many years before taken from her her eldest son, who went from his forest home to try his fortune on the high seas, since which she had heard no tidings of him; and in her latter time had, by the hand of death, deprived her of the companion and staff of her earthly pilgrimage, in the person of her husband. Yet to this hour she had upborne; she had not only been able to provide for her little flock, but had never lost an opportunity of ministering to the wants of the miserable and destitute.

5. The indolent may well bear with poverty while the ability to gain sustenance remains. The individual who has but his own wants to supply may suffer with fortitude the winter of want; his affections are not wounded, his heart is not wrung. The most desolate in populous cities may hope, for charity has not quite closed her hand and heart, and shut her eyes on misery.

6. But the industrious mother of helpless and depending children, far from the reach of human charity, has none of these to console her. And such a one was the widow of the Pine Cottage; but as she bent over the fire, and took up the last scanty remnant of food to spread before her children, her spirits seemed to brighten up, as by some sudden and mysterious impulse, and Cowper's beautiful lines came uncalled across her mind:

     "Judge not the Lord by feeble sense.
       But trust him for his grace;
     Behind a frowning Providence
       He hides a smiling face."

7. The smoked herring was scarcely laid upon the table, when a gentle rap at the door, and the loud barking of a dog, attracted the attention of the family. The children flew to open it, and a weary traveler, in tattered garments and in apparently indifferent health; entered, and begged a lodging and a mouthful of food. Said he: "It is now twenty-four hour's since I tasted bread." The widow's heart bled anew, as under a fresh complication of distresses; for her sympathies lingered not around her fireside. She hesitated not even now; rest, and a share of all she had, she proffered to the stranger. "'We shall not be forsaken," said she, "or suffer deeper for an act of charity."

8. The traveler drew near the board, but when he saw the scanty fare, he raised his eyes toward heaven with astonishment: "And is this all your store?" said he; "and a share of this do you offer to one you know not? then never saw I charity before! But, madam," said he, continuing, "do you not wrong your children by giving a part of your last mouthful to a stranger?"

9. "Ah," said the poor widow—and the tear-drops gushed into her eyes as she said it—"I have a boy, a darling son, somewhere on the face of the wide world, unless Heaven has taken him away, and I only act toward you as I would that others should act toward him. God, who sent manna from heaven, can provide for us as he did for Israel; and how should I this night offend him, if my son should be a wanderer, destitute as you, and he should have provided for him a home, even poor as this, were I to turn you unrelieved away!"

10. The widow ended, and the stranger, springing from his seat, clasped her in his arms. "God indeed has provided your son a home, and has given him wealth to reward the goodness of his benefactress: my mother! oh, my mother!" It was her long lost son, returned to her bosom from the Indies. He had chosen that disguise that he might the more completely surprise his family; and never was surprise more perfect, or followed by a sweeter cup of joy.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Fag'ots. bundles of sticks used for fuel. Prat'tle, trifling talk. Dis'si-pate, to scatter. 2. Pu'ny, small and weak. 4. Pil'grim-age, a journey. 5. Sus'te-nance, that which supports life. For'ti-tude, resolute endurance. 7. In-dif'fer-ent, neither very good nor very bad. Com-pli-ca'tion, entanglement. Sym'pa-thies, compassion. Prof'fered, offered to give. 9. Man'na, food miraculously provided by God for the Israelites.

James Henry Leigh Hunt (b. 1784, d. 1859) was the son of a West Indian, who married an American lady, and practiced law in Philadelphia until the Revolution; being a Tory, he then returned to England, where Leigh Hunt was born. The latter wrote many verses while yet a boy, and in 1801 his father published a collection of them, entitled "Juvenilia." For many years he was connected with various newspapers, and, while editor of the "Examiner," was imprisoned for two years for writing disrespectfully of the prince regent. While in prison he was visited frequently by the poets Byron, Moore, Lamb, Shelley, and Keats; and there wrote "The Feast of the Poets," "The Descent of Liberty, a Mask," and "The Story of Rimini," which immediately gave him a reputation as a poet. His writings include various translations, dramas, novels, collections of essays, and poems.

1. ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!)
   Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
   And saw within the moonlight in his room,
   Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,
   An angel writing in a book of gold.

2. Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold;
   And to the presence in the room he said,
   "What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,
   And, with a look made of all sweet accord,
   Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

3. "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
   Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
   But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
   Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

4. The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
   It came again, with a great wakening light,
   And showed the names whom love of God had blessed;
   And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

NOTE.—The above selection is written in imitation of an oriental fable.

John Wilson (b. 1785, d. 1854), better known as "Christopher North," was a celebrated author, poet, and critic, born at Paisley, Scotland, and educated at the University of Glasgow and at Oxford. In 1808 he moved to Westmoreland, England, where he formed one of the "Lake School" of poets. While at Oxford he gained a prize for a poem on "Painting, Poetry, and Architecture." In 1820 he became Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, which position he retained until 1851. He gained his greatest reputation as the chief author of "Noctes Ambrosianae," essays contributed to Blackwood's Magazine between 1822 and 1825. Among his poems may be mentioned "The Isle of Palms" and the "City of the Plague," This selection is adapted from "The Foresters," a tale of Scottish life.

1. Lucy was only six years old, but bold as a fairy; she had gone by herself a thousand times about the braes, and often upon errands to houses two or three miles distant. What had her parents to fear? The footpaths were all firm, and led to no places of danger, nor are infants themselves incautious when alone in then pastimes. Lucy went singing into the low woods, and singing she reappeared on the open hillside. With her small white hand on the rail, she glided along the wooden bridge, or tripped from stone to stone across the shallow streamlet.

2. The creature would be away for hours, and no fear be felt on her account by anyone at home; whether she had gone, with her basket on her arm, to borrow some articles of household use from a neighbor, or, merely for her own solitary delight, had wandered off to the braes to play among the flowers, coming back laden with wreaths and garlands.

3. The happy child had been invited to pass a whole day, from morning to night, at Ladyside (a farmhouse about two miles off) with her playmates the Maynes; and she left home about an hour after sunrise.

4. During her absence, the house was silent but happy, and, the evening being now far advanced, Lucy was expected home every minute, and Michael, Agnes, and Isabel, her father, mother, and aunt, went to meet her on the way. They walked on and on, wondering a little, but in no degree alarmed till they reached Ladyside, and heard the cheerful din of the children within, still rioting at the close of the holiday. Jacob Mayne came to the door, but, on their kindly asking why Lucy had not been sent home before daylight was over, he looked painfully surprised, and said that she had not been at Ladyside.

5. Within two hours, a hundred persons were traversing the hills in all directions, even at a distance which it seemed most unlikely that poor Lucy could have reached. The shepherds and their dogs, all the night through, searched every nook, every stony and rocky place, every piece of taller heather, every crevice that could conceal anything alive or dead: but no Lucy was there.

6. Her mother, who for a while seemed inspired with supernatural strength, had joined in the search, and with a quaking heart looked into every brake, or stopped and listened to every shout and halloo reverberating among the hills, intent to seize upon some tone of recognition or discovery. But the moon sank; and then the stars, whose increased brightness had for a short time supplied her place, all faded away; and then came the gray dawn of the morning, and then the clear brightness of the day,—and still Michael and Agnes were childless.

7. "She has sunk into some mossy or miry place," said Michael, to a man near him, into whose face he could not look, "a cruel, cruel death to one like her! The earth on which my child walked has closed over her, and we shall never see her more!"

8. At last, a man who had left the search, and gone in a direction toward the highroad, came running with something in his arms toward the place where Michael and others were standing beside Agnes, who lay, apparently exhausted almost to dying, on the sward. He approached hesitatingly; and Michael saw that he carried Lucy's bonnet, clothes, and plaid.

9. It was impossible not to see some spots of blood upon the frill that the child had worn around her neck. "Murdered! murdered!" was the one word whispered or ejaculated all around; but Agnes heard it not; for, worn out by that long night of hope and despair, she had fallen asleep, and was, perhaps, seeking her lost Lucy in her dreams.

10. Isabel took the clothes, and, narrowly inspecting them with eye and hand, said, with a fervent voice that was heard even in Michael's despair, "No, Lucy is yet among the living. There are no marks of violence on the garments of the innocent; no murderer's hand has been here. These blood spots have been put here to deceive. Besides, would not the murderer have carried off these things? For what else would he have murdered her? But, oh! foolish despair! What speak I of? For, wicked as the world is—ay! desperately wicked—there is not, on all the surface of the wide earth, a hand that would murder our child! Is it not plain as the sun in the heaven, that Lucy has been stolen by some wretched gypsy beggar?"

11. The crowd quietly dispersed, and horse and foot began to scour the country. Some took the highroads, others all the bypaths, and many the trackless hills. Now that they were in some measure relieved from the horrible belief that the child was dead, the worst other calamity seemed nothing, for hope brought her back to their arms.

12. Agnes had been able to walk home to Bracken-Braes, and Michael and Isabel sat by her bedside. All her strength was gone, and she lay at the mercy of the rustle of a leaf, or a shadow across the window. Thus hour after hour passed, till it was again twilight. "I hear footsteps coming up the brae," said Agnes, who had for some time appeared to be slumbering; and in a few moments the voice of Jacob Mayne was heard at the outer door.

13. Jacob wore a solemn expression of countenance, and he seemed, from his looks, to bring no comfort. Michael stood up between him and his wife, and looked into his heart. Something there seemed to be in his face that was not miserable. "If he has heard nothing of my child," thought Michael, "this man must care little for his own fireside." "Oh, speak, speak," said Agnes; "yet why need you speak? All this has been but a vain belief, and Lucy is in heaven."

14. "Something like a trace of her has been discovered; a woman, with a child that did not look like a child of hers, was last night at Clovenford, and left it at the dawning." "Do you hear that, my beloved Agnes?" said Isabel; "she will have tramped away with Lucy up into Ettrick or Yarrow; but hundreds of eyes will have been upon her; for these are quiet but not solitary glens; and the hunt will be over long before she has crossed down upon Hawick. I knew that country in my young days, What say you, Mr. Mayne? There is the light of hope in your face." "There is no reason to doubt, ma'am, that it was Lucy. Everybody is sure of it. If it was my own Rachel, I should have no fear as to seeing her this blessed night."

15. Jacob Mayne now took a chair, and sat down, with even a smile upon his countenance. "I may tell you now, that Watty Oliver knows it was your child, for he saw her limping along after the gypsy at Galla-Brigg; but, having no suspicion, he did not take a second look at her,—but one look is sufficient, and he swears it was bonny Lucy Forester."

16. Aunt Isabel, by this time, had bread and cheese and a bottle of her own elder-flower wine on the table. "You have been a long and hard journey, wherever you have been, Mr. Mayne; take some refreshment;" and Michael asked a blessing.

17. Jacob saw that he might now venture to reveal the whole truth. "No, no, Mrs. Irving, I am over happy to eat or to drink. You are all prepared for the blessing that awaits you. Your child is not far off; and I myself, for it is I myself that found her, will bring her by the hand, and restore her to her parents."

18. Agnes had raised herself up in her bed at these words, but she sank gently back on her pillow; aunt Isabel was rooted to her chair; and Michael, as he rose up, felt as if the ground were sinking under his feet. There was a dead silence all around the house for a short space, and then the sound of many voices, which again by degrees subsided. The eyes of all then looked, and yet feared to look, toward the door.

19. Jacob Mayne was not so good as his word, for he did not bring Lucy by the hand to restore her to her parents; but dressed again in her own bonnet and gown, and her own plaid, in rushed their own child, by herself, with tears and sobs of joy, and her father laid her within her mother's bosom.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Brae, shelving ground, a declivity or slope of a hill. Pas'times, sports, plays, 4. Ri'ot-ing, romping. 5. Heath'er, an evergreen shrub bearing beautiful flowers, used in Great Britain for making brooms, etc. 6. In-spired', animated, enlivened. Su-per—nat'u-ral, more than human. Brake, a place overgrown with shrubs and brambles. Re-ver'ber-at-ing, resounding, echoing. In-tent', having the mind closely fixed. 8. Plaid (pro. plad), a striped or decked overgarment worn by the Scotch. 9. E-jac'u-lat-ed, ex-claimed. 11. Scour, to pass over swiftly and thoroughly.

Note.—The scene of this story is laid in Scotland, and many of the words employed, such as brae, brake, heather, and plaid, are but little used except in that country.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (b. 1807, d. 1882), the son of Hon. Stephen Longfellow, an eminent lawyer, was born in Portland, Maine. He graduated at Bowdoin College in 1825. After spending four years in Europe, he was Professor of Modern Languages and Literature at Bowdoin till 1835, when he was appointed to the chair of Modern Languages and Belles-lettres in Harvard University. He resigned his professorship in 1854, after which time he resided in Cambridge, Mass. Longfellow wrote many original works both in verse and prose, and made several translations, the most famous of which is that of the works of Dante. His poetry is always chaste and elegant, showing traces of careful scholarship in every line. The numerous and varied editions of his poems are evidences of their popularity.

1. There is a Reaper whose name is Death,
     And, with his sickle keen,
   He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
     And the flowers that grow between.

2. "Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he;
     "Have naught but the bearded grain?
   Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
     I will give them all back again."

3. He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
     He kissed their drooping leaves;
   It was for the Lord of Paradise
     He bound them in his sheaves.

4. "My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"
     The Reaper said, and smiled;
   "Dear tokens of the earth are they,
     Where he was once a child.

5. "They shall all bloom in the fields of light,
     Transplanted by my care,
   And saints, upon their garments white,
     These sacred blossoms wear."

6. And the mother gave in tears and pain
     The flowers she most did love;
   She knew she should find them all again
     In the fields of light above.

7. O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
     The Reaper came that day,
   'T was an angel visited the green earth,
     And took the flowers away.

DEFINITIONS.—3. Sheaves, bundles of grain. 4. To'ken (pro. to'kn), a souvenir, that which is to recall some person, thing, or event. 6. Trans-plant'ed, removed and planted in another place.

Nathaniel Hawthorne (b.1804, d.1864) was born in Salem, Mass. He graduated at Bowdoin College in 1825. His earliest literary productions, written for periodicals, were published in two volumes—the first in 1837, the second in 1842—under the title of "Twice-Told Tales," "Mosses from an Old Manse," another series of tales and sketches, was published in 1845. From 1846 to 1850 he was surveyor of the port of Salem. In 1852 he was appointed United States consul for Liverpool. After holding this office four years, he traveled for some time on the continent. His most popular works are "The Scarlet Letter," a work showing a deep knowledge of human nature, "The House of the Seven Gables," "The Blithedale Romance." and "The Marble Faun," an Italian romance, which is regarded by many as the best of his works. Being of a modest and retiring disposition, Mr. Hawthorne avoided publicity. Most of his works are highly imaginative. As a prose writer he has no superior among American authors. He died at Plymouth, N. H., while on a visit to the White Mountains for his health.

[SCENE.—The corner of two principal streets. The Town Pump talking through its nose.]

1. Noon, by the north clock! Noon, by the east! High noon, too, by those hot sunbeams which fall, scarcely aslope, upon my head, and almost make the water bubble and smoke in the trough under my nose. Truly, we public characters have a tough time of it! And among all the town officers, chosen at the yearly meeting, where is he that sustains, for a single year, the burden of such manifold duties as are imposed, in perpetuity, upon the Town Pump?

2. The title of town treasurer is rightfully mine, as guardian of the best treasure the town has. The overseers of the poor ought to make me their chairman, since I provide bountifully for the pauper, without expense to him that pays taxes. I am at the head of the fire department, and one of the physicians of the board of health. As a keeper or the peace, all water drinkers confess me equal to the constable. I perform some of the duties of the town clerk, by promulgating public notices, when they are pasted on my front.

3. To speak within bounds, I am chief person of the municipality, and exhibit, moreover, an admirable pattern to my brother officers by the cool, steady, upright, downright, and impartial discharge of my business, and the constancy with which I stand to my post. Summer or winter, nobody seeks me in vain; for all day long I am seen at the busiest corner, just above the market, stretching out my arms to rich and poor alike; and at night I hold a lantern over my head, to show where I am, and to keep people out of the gutters.

4. At this sultry noontide, I am cupbearer to the parched populace, for whose benefit an iron goblet is chained to my waist Like a dramseller on the public square, on a muster day, I cry aloud to all and sundry, in my plainest accents, and at the very tiptop of my voice. "Here it is, gentlemen! Here is the good liquor! Walk up, walk up, gentlemen, walk up, walk up! Here is the superior stuff! Here is the unadulterated ale of father Adam! better than Cognac, Hollands, Jamaica, strong beer, or wine of any price; here it is, by the hogshead or the single glass, and not a cent to pay. Walk up, gentlemen, walk up and help yourselves!"

5. It were a pity if all this outcry should draw no customers. Here they come. A hot day, gentlemen. Quaff and away again, so as to keep yourselves in a nice, cool sweat. You, my friend, will need another cupful to wash the dust out of your throat, if it be as thick there as it is on your cowhide shoes. I see that you have trudged half a score of miles to-day, and, like a wise man, have passed by the taverns, and stopped at the running brooks and well curbs. Otherwise, betwixt heat without and fire within, you would have been burnt to a cinder, or melted down to nothing at all—in the fashion of a jellyfish.

6. Drink, and make room for that other fellow, who seeks my aid to quench the fiery fever of last night's potations, which he drained from no cup of mine. Welcome, most rubicund sir! You and I have been strangers hitherto; nor, to confess the truth, will my nose be anxious for a closer intimacy, till the fumes of your breath be a little less potent.

7. Mercy on you, man! The water absolutely hisses down your red-hot gullet, and is converted quite into steam in the miniature Tophet, which you mistake for a stomach. Fill again, and tell me, on the word of an honest toper, did you ever, in cellar, tavern, or any other kind of dramshop, spend the price of your children's food for a swig half so delicious? Now, for the first time these ten years, you know the flavor of cold water. Good-by; and whenever you are thirsty, recollect that I keep a constant supply at the old stand.

8. Who next? Oh, my little friend, you are just let loose from school, and come hither to scrub your blooming face, and drown the memory of certain taps of the ferule, and other schoolboy troubles, in a draught from the Town Pump. Take it, pure as the current of your young life; take it, and may your heart and tongue never be scorched with a fiercer thirst than now.

9. There, my dear child, put down the cup, and yield your place to this elderly gentleman, who treads so tenderly over the paving stones that I suspect he is afraid of breaking them. What! he limps by without so much as thanking me, as if my hospitable offers were meant only for people who have no wine cellars.

10. Well, well, sir, no harm done, I hope! Go, draw the cork, tip the decanter; but when your great toe shall set you a-roaring, it will be no affair of mine. If gentlemen love the pleasant titillation of the gout, it is all one to the Town Pump. This thirsty dog, with his red tongue lolling out, does not scorn my hospitality, but stands on his hind legs, and laps eagerly out of the trough. See how lightly he capers away again! Jowler, did your worship ever have the gout?

11. Your pardon, good people! I must interrupt my stream of eloquence, and spout forth a stream of water to replenish the trough for this teamster and his two yoke of oxen, who have come all the way from Staunton, or somewhere along that way. No part of my business gives me more pleasure than the watering of cattle. Look! how rapidly they lower the watermark on the sides of the trough, till their capacious stomachs are moistened with a gallon or two apiece, and they can afford time to breathe, with sighs of calm enjoyment! Now they roll their quiet eyes around the brim of their monstrous drinking vessel. An ox is your true toper.

12. I hold myself the grand reformer of the age. From my spout, and such spouts as mine, must flow the stream that shall cleanse our earth of a vast portion of its crime and anguish, which have gushed from the fiery fountains of the still. In this mighty enterprise, the cow shall be my great confederate. Milk and water!

13. Ahem! Dry work this speechifying, especially to all unpracticed orators. I never conceived till now what toil the temperance lecturers undergo for my sake. Do, some kind Christian, pump a stroke or two, just to wet my whistle. Thank you, sir. But to proceed.

14. The Town Pump and the Cow! Such is the glorious partnership that shall finally monopolize the whole business of quenching thirst. Blessed consummation! Then Poverty shall pass away from the land, finding no hovel so wretched where her squalid form may shelter itself. Then Disease, for lack of other victims, shall gnaw his own heart and die. Then Sin, if she do not die, shall lose half her strength.

15. Then there will be no war of households. The husband and the wife, drinking deep of peaceful joy, a calm bliss of temperate affections, shall pass hand in hand through life, and lie down, not reluctantly, at its protracted close. To them the past will be no turmoil of mad dreams, nor the future an eternity of such moments as follow the delirium of a drunkard. Their dead faces shall express what their spirits were, and are to be, by a lingering smile of memory and hope.

16. Drink, then, and be refreshed! The water is as pure and cold as when it slaked the thirst of the red hunter, and flowed beneath the aged bough, though now this gem of the wilderness is treasured under these hot stones, where no shadow falls, but from the brick buildings. But, still is this fountain the source of health, peace, and happiness, and I behold, with certainty and joy, the approach of the period when the virtues of cold water, too little valued since our father's days, will be fully appreciated and recognized by all.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Per-pe-tu'i-ty, endless duration. 2. Pro-mul'gat-ing, announcing. 3. Mu-nic-i-pal'i-ty, a division of a country or of a city. 4. Mus'ter day, parade day. Sun'dry, several. Un-a-dul'ter-at-ed, pure, unmixed. Co'gnac (pro. Kon'yak), a French brandy. 6. Po-ta'tions, drinkings. Ru'bi-cund, inclining to red-ness. 7. To'phet, the infernal regions. 10. Tit-il-la'tion, tickling. 11. Re-plen'ish, to fill again. 14. Mo-nop'o-lize, to obtain the whole. Con-sum-ma'tion, completion, termination. Squalid, filthy. 15. Pro-tract'ed, delayed. 16. Slaked, quenched.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich (b. 1793, d. 1860) was born in Ridgefield, Conn. Mr. Goodrich is best known as "Peter Parley," under which assumed name he commenced the publication of a series of Juvenile works about 1827. He edited "Parley's Magazine" from 1841 to 1854. He was appointed United States consul for Paris in 1848, and held that office four years. He was a voluminous writer, and his works are interesting and popular. His "Recollections of a Lifetime" was published in 1857, and "Peter Parley's Own Story" the year after his death.

1. The sun has sunk behind the hills,
     The shadows o'er the landscape creep;
   A drowsy sound the woodland fills,
     As nature folds her arms to sleep:
                  Good night—good night.

2. The chattering jay has ceased his din,
     The noisy robin sings no more;
   The crow, his mountain haunt within,
     Dreams 'mid the forest's surly roar:
                  Good night—good night.

3. The sunlit cloud floats dim and pale;
     The dew is falling soft and still,
   The mist hangs trembling o'er the vale,
     And silence broods o'er yonder mill:
                  Good night—good night.

4. The rose, so ruddy in the light,
     Bends on its stem all rayless now;
   And by its side a lily white,
     A sister shadow, seems to bow:
                  Good night—good night.

5. The bat may wheel on silent wing,
     The fox his guilty vigils keep,
   The boding owl his dirges sing;
     But love and innocence will sleep:
                  Good night—good night.

Louisa May Alcott (b. 1833, d. 1888) was born at Germantown, Pa., of New England parentage. Her parents afterwards returned to New England, and most of her life was spent in Concord, Mass. During the Civil War she went to Washington and nursed the wounded and sick until her own health gave way. As a child she used to write stories for the amusement of her playmates, and in 1857 published her first book, "Flower Fables." Her first novel, "Moods," appeared in 1865. "Little Women," published in 1868, is a picture of her own home life. "An Old Fashioned Girl," from which this extract is adapted, was published in 1870, and is one of her most popular books.

1. Polly hoped the "dreadful boy" (Tom) would not be present; but he was, and stared at her all dinner time in a most trying manner.

2. Mr. Shaw, a busy-looking gentleman, said, "How do you do, my dear? Hope you'll enjoy yourself;" and then appeared to forget her entirely. Mrs. Shaw, a pale, nervous woman, greeted her little guest kindly, and took care that she wanted for nothing.

3. Madam Shaw, a quiet old lady, with an imposing cap, exclaimed, on seeing Polly, "Bless my heart! the image of her mother—a sweet woman—how is she, dear?" and kept peering at the newcomer over her glasses till, between Madam and Tom, poor Polly lost her appetite.

4. Her cousin Fanny chatted like a magpie, and little Maud fidgeted, till Tom proposed to put her under the big dish cover, which produced such an explosion that the young lady was borne screaming away by the much-enduring nurse.

5. It was, altogether, an uncomfortable dinner, and Polly was very glad when it was over. They all went about their own affairs; and, after doing the honors of the house, Fan was called to the dressmaker, leaving Polly to amuse herself in the great drawing-room.

6. Polly was glad to be alone for a few minutes; and, having examined all the pretty things about her, began to walk up and down over the soft, flowery carpet, humming to herself, as the daylight faded, and only the ruddy glow of the fire filled the room.

7. Presently Madam came slowly in, and sat down in her armchair, saying, "That's a fine old tune; sing it to me, my dear. I have n't heard it this many a day."

8. Polly did n't like to sing before strangers, for she had no teaching but such as her busy mother could give her; but she had been taught the utmost respect for old people, and, having no reason for refusing, she directly went to the piano and did as she was bid.

9. "That's the sort of music it's a pleasure to hear. Sing some more, dear," said Madam, in her gentle way, when she had done.

10. Pleased with this praise, Polly sang away in a fresh little voice that went straight to the listener's heart and nestled there. The sweet old tunes that one is never tired of were all Polly's store. The more she sung, the better she did it; and when she wound up with "A Health to King Charlie," the room quite rung with the stirring music made by the big piano and the little maid.

11. "That's a jolly tune! Sing it again, please," cried Tom's voice; and there was Tom's red head bobbing up over the high back of the chair where he had hidden himself.

12. It gave Polly quite a turn, for she thought no one was hearing her but the old lady dozing by the fire. "I can't sing any more; I'm tired," she said, and walked away to Madam in the other room. The red head vanished like a meteor, for Polly's tone had been decidedly cool.

13. The old lady put out her hand, and, drawing Polly to her knee, looked into her face with such kind eyes that Polly forgot the impressive cap, and smiled at her confidently; for she saw that her simple music had pleased her listener, and she felt glad to know it.

14. "You mus'n't mind my staring, dear," said Madam, softly pinching her rosy cheek, "I haven't seen a little girl for so long, it does my old eyes good to look at you." Polly thought that a very odd speech, and could n't help saying, "Are n't Fan and Maud little girls, too?"

15. "Oh, dear, no! not what I call little girls. Fan has been a young lady this two years, and Maud is a spoiled baby. Your mother's a very sensible woman, my child."

16. "What a queer old lady!" thought Polly; but she said "Yes'm," respectfully, and looked at the fire. "You don't understand what I mean, do you?" asked Madam, still holding her by the chin. "No'm; not quite."

17. "Well, dear, I'll tell you. In my day, children of fourteen and fifteen did n't dress in the height of the fashion; go to parties as nearly like those of grown people as it's possible to make them; lead idle, giddy, unhealthy lives, and get blase' at twenty. We were little folks till eighteen or so; worked and studied, dressed and played, like children; honored our parents; and our days were much longer in the land than now, it seems to me."

18. The old lady appeared to forget Polly, at the end of her speech; for she sat patting the plump little hand that lay in her own, and looking up at a faded picture of an old gentleman with a ruffled shirt and a queue. "Was he your father, Madam?"

19. "Yes, my dear; my honored father. I did up his frills to the day of his death; and the first money I ever earned, was five dollars which he offered as a prize to whichever of his six girls would lay the handsomest darn in his silk stockings."

20. "How proud you must have been!" cried Polly, leaning on the old lady's knee with an interested face.

21. "Yes; and we all learned to make bread, and cook, and wore little chintz gowns, and were as gay and hearty as kittens. All lived to be grandmothers; and I'm the last—seventy next birthday, my dear, and not worn out yet; though daughter Shaw is an invalid at forty."

22. "That's the way I was brought up, and that's why Fan calls me old-fashioned, I suppose. Tell more about your papa, please; I like it," said Polly.

23. "Say, 'father.' We never called him papa; and if one of my brothers had addressed him as 'governor,' as boys now do, I really think he'd have him cut off with a shilling."

DEFINITIONS.—3. Im-pos'ing, having the power of exciting attention and feeling, impressive. 4. Mag'pie, a noisy, mischievous bird, common in Europe and America. 12. Van'ished, disappeared. Me'te-or, a shooting star. 13. Con'fi-dent-ly, with trust. 17. Bla-se' (pro. bla-za'), a French word meaning surfeited, rendered incapable further enjoyment. 21. In'va-lid, a person who is sickly.

1. Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
     They're neither white nor small;
   And you, I know, would scarcely think
     That they are fair at all.
   I've looked on hands whose form and hue
     A sculptor's dream might be;
   Yet are those aged, wrinkled hands
     More beautiful to me.

2. Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
     Though heart were weary and sad,
   Those patient hands kept toiling on,
     That the children might be glad.
   I always weep, as, looking back
     To childhood's distant day,
   I think how those hands rested not
     When mine were at their play.

3. Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
     They're growing feeble now,
   For time and pain have left their mark
     On hands and heart and brow.
   Alas! alas! the nearing time,
     And the sad, sad day to me,
   When 'neath the daisies, out of sight,
     These hands will folded be.

4. But oh! beyond this shadow land,
     Where all is bright and fair,
   I know full well these dear old hands
     Will palms of victory bear;
   Where crystal streams through endless years
     Flow over golden sands,
   And where the old grow young again,
     I'll clasp my mother's hands.

Jane Taylor (b. 1783, d. 1824) was born in London. Her mother was a writer of some note. In connection with her sister Ann, Jane Taylor wrote several juvenile works of more than ordinary excellence. Among them were "Hymns for Infant Minds" and "Original Poems." Besides these, she wrote "Display, a Tale," "Essays in Rhyme," and "Contributions of QQ." Her writings are graceful, and often contain a useful moral.

1. An old dock 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 instituted a formal inquiry as to the cause of the stagnation, when hands, wheels, weights, with one voice, protested their innocence.

2. But now a faint tick was heard below from the pendulum, who spoke thus: "I confess myself to be the sole cause of the present stoppage; and I am willing, for the general satisfaction, to assign my reasons. The truth is, that I am tired of ticking." Upon hearing this, the old clock became so enraged that it was upon the very point of striking. "Lazy wire!" exclaimed the dial plate, holding up its bands.

3. "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 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, I beseech you, how you would like to be shut up for life in this dark closet, and to wag backward and forward year after year, as I do."

4. "As to that," said the dial, "is there not a window in your house on purpose for you to look through?" "For all that," resumed the pendulum, "it is very dark here; and, although there is a window, I dare not stop even for an instant to look out at it. 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. I happened, this morning, to be calculating how many times I should have to tick in the course of only the next twenty-four hours; perhaps some one of you above there can give me the exact sum."

5. The minute hand, being quick at figures, presently replied, "Eighty-six thousand four hundred times." "Exactly so," replied the pendulum. "Well, I appeal to you all, if the very thought of this was not enough to fatigue anyone; and when I began to multiply the strokes of one day by those of months and years, really it was no wonder if I felt discouraged at the prospect. So, after a great deal of reasoning and hesitation, thinks I to myself, I'll stop."

6. The dial could scarcely keep its countenance during this harangue; but, resuming its gravity, thus replied: "Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that such a useful, industrious person as yourself should have been seized by this sudden weariness. It is true, you have done a great deal of work in your time; so have we all, and are likely to do; which, although it may fatigue us to think of, the question is, whether it will fatigue us to do. Would you now do me the favor to give about half a dozen strokes to illustrate my argument?"

7. The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at its usual pace. "Now," resumed the dial, "may I be allowed to inquire if that exertion is at all fatiguing or disagreeable to you?" "Not in the least," replied the pendulum; "it is not of six strokes that I complain, nor of sixty, but of millions."

8. "Very good," replied the dial; "but recollect that, although you may think of a million of 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 dial plate, "that we shall all return to our duty immediately; for the maids will be in bed if we stand idling thus."

9. Upon this, the weights, who had never been accused of light conduct, used all their influence in urging him to proceed; when, as if 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 red beam of the rising sun, that streamed through a hole in the kitchen, shining full upon the dial plate, it brightened up as if nothing had been the matter.

10. 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.

DEFINITIONS.—1. In'sti-tut-ed, commenced, began. Pro-test'ed, solemnly declared. 4. Cal'cu-lat-ing, reckoning, computing. 5. Pros'pect, anticipation, that to which one looks forward. 6. Ha-rangue' (pro. ha-rang'), speech. Il-lus'trate, to make clear, to exemplify. 7. Ex-er'tion (pro. egz-er'shun), effort. 8. Ex'e-eute, to complete, to finish. Con-sid-er-a'tion, reason.

William Cullen Bryant (b. 1794, d. 1878) was born in Cummington, Mass. He entered Williams College at the age of sixteen, but was honorably dismissed at the end of two years. At the age of twenty-one he was admitted to the bar, and practiced his profession successfully for nine years. In 1826 he removed to New York, and became connected with the "Evening Post"—a connection which continued to the time of his death. His residence for more than thirty of the last years of his life was at Roslyn, Long Island. He visited Europe several times; and in 1849 he continued his travels into Egypt and Syria, In all his poems, Mr. Bryant exhibits a remarkable love for, and a careful study of, nature. His language, both in prose and verse, is always chaste, correct, and elegant. "Thanatopsis," perhaps the best known of all his poems, was written when he was but nineteen. His excellent translations of the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey" of Homer and some of his best poems, were written after he had passed the age of seventy. He retained his powers and his activity till the close of his life.

1. The melancholy days are come,
     The saddest of the year,
   Of wailing winds, and naked woods,
     And meadows brown and sear.
   Heaped in the hollows of the grove
     The autumn leaves lie dead;
   They rustle to the eddying gust,
     And to the rabbit's tread.
   The robin and the wren are flown,
     And from the shrubs the jay,
   And from the wood top calls the crow
     Through all the gloomy day.

2. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers,
     That lately sprang and stood
   In brighter light and softer airs,
     A beauteous sisterhood?
   Alas! they all are in their graves;
     The gentle race of flowers
   Are lying in their lowly beds
     With the fair and good of ours.
   The rain is falling where they lie;
     But the cold November rain
   Calls not from out the gloomy earth
     The lovely ones again.

3. The windflower and the violet,
     They perished long ago,
   And the brier rose and the orchis died
     Amid the summer's glow;
   But on the hill, the golden-rod,
     And the aster in the wood,
   And the yellow sunflower by the brook,
     In autumn beauty stood,
   Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven,
     As falls the plague on men,
   And the brightness of their smile was gone
     From upland, glade, and glen,

4. And now, when comes the calm, mild day,
     As still such days will come,
   To call the squirrel and the bee
     From out their winter home;
   When the sound of dropping nuts is heard,
     Though all the trees are still,
   And twinkle in the smoky light
     The waters of the rill,
   The south wind searches for the flowers
     Whose fragrance late he bore,
   And sighs to find them in the wood
     And by the stream no more.

5. And then I think of one, who in
     Her youthful beauty died,
   The fair, meek blossom that grew up
     And faded by my side.
   In the cold, moist earth we laid her,
     When the forest cast the leaf,
   And we wept that one so lovely
     Should have a life so brief;
   Yet not unmeet it was that one,
     Like that young friend of ours,
   So gentle and so beautiful,
     Should perish with the flowers.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Wail'ing, lamenting, mourning. Sear, dry, withered. 3. Glade, an open place in the forest. Glen, a valley, a dale. 4. Un-meet', improper, unfitting.

Washington Irving (b. 1783, d. 1859). This distinguished author, whose works have enriched American literature, was born in the city of New York. He had an ordinary school education, and began his literary career at the age of nineteen, by writing for a paper published by his brother. His first book, "Salmagundi," was published in 1807. Two years later he published "Knickerbocker's History of New York." In 1815 he sailed for Europe, and remained abroad seventeen years, during which time he wrote several of his works. From 1842 to 1846 he was minister to Spain. The last years of his life were passed at "Sunnyside," near Tarrytown, N.Y. He was never married. "The Life of Washington," his last work, was completed in the same year in which he died. Mr. Irving's works are characterized by humor, chaste sentiment, and elegance and correctness of expression. The following selection is from "Dolph" in "Bracehridge Hall."

1. In the second day of the voyage, they came to the Highlands. It was the latter part of a calm, sultry day, that they floated gently with the tide between these stern mountains. There was that perfect quiet which prevails over nature in the languor of summer heat. The turning of a plank, or the accidental falling of an oar, on deck, was echoed from the mountain side and reverberated along the shores; and, if by chance the captain gave a shout of command, there were airy tongues that mocked it from every cliff.

2. Dolph gazed about him, in mute delight and wonder, at these scenes of nature's magnificence. To the left, the Dunderberg reared its woody precipices, height over height, forest over forest, away into the deep summer sky. To the right, strutted forth the bold promontory of Antony's Nose, with a solitary eagle wheeling about it; while beyond, mountain succeeded to mountain, until they seemed to lock their arms together and confine this mighty rive in their embraces.

3. In the midst of this admiration, Dolph remarked a pile of bright, snowy clouds peering above the western heights. It was succeeded by another, and another, each seemingly pushing onward its predecessor, and towering, with dazzling brilliancy, in the deep blue atmosphere; and now muttering peals of thunder were faintly heard rolling behind the mountains. The river, hitherto still and glassy, reflecting pictures of the sky and land, now showed a dark ripple at a distance, as the wind came creeping up it. The fishhawks wheeled and screamed, and sought their nests on the high, dry trees; the crows flew clamorously to the crevices of the rocks; and all nature seemed conscious of the approaching thunder gust.

4. The clouds now rolled in volumes over the mountain tops; their summits still bright and snowy, but the lower parts of an inky blackness. The rain began to patter down in broad and scattered drops; the wind freshened, and curled up the waves; at length, it seemed as if the bellying clouds were torn open by the mountain tops, and complete torrents of rain came rattling down. The lightning leaped from cloud to cloud, and streamed quivering against the rocks, splitting and rending the stoutest forest trees. The thunder burst in tremendous explosions; the peals were echoed from mountain to mountain; they crashed upon Dunderberg, and then rolled up the long defile of the Highlands, each headland making a new echo, until old Bull Hill seemed to bellow back the storm.

5. For a time the scudding rack and mist and the sheeted rain almost hid the landscape from the sight. There was a fearful gloom, illumined still more fearfully by the streams of lightning which glittered among the raindrops. Never had Dolph beheld such an absolute warring of the elements; it seemed as if the storm was tearing and rending its way through the mountain defile, and had brought all the artillery of heaven into action.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Lan'guor (pro. lang'gwer), exhaustion of strength, dullness. 3. Re-marked', noticed, observed. Pred-e-ces'-sor, the one going immediately before. Clam'or-ous-ly, with a loud noise. 4. Bel'ly-ing, swelling out. De-file', a long, narrow pass. 5. Rack, thin, flying, broken clouds. El'e-ments, a term usually including fire, water, earth, and air.

NOTES.—1. The Highlands are a mountainous region in New York, bordering the Hudson River above Peekskill.

2. The Dunderberg and Antony's Nose are names of two peaks of the Highlands.

4. Bull Hill, also called Mt. Taurus, is 15 miles farther north.

Caroline Anne Southey (b. 1786, d.1854), the second wife of Southey the poet, and better known as Caroline Bowles, was born near Lymington, Hampshire, England. Her first work, "Ellen Fitzarthur," a poem, was published in 1820; and for more than twenty years her writings were published anonymously. In 1839 she was married to Mr. Southey, and survived him over ten years. Her poetry is graceful in expression, and full of tenderness, though somewhat melancholy. The following extract first appeared in 1822 in a collection entitled, "The Widow's Tale, and other Poems."

1. All day the low-hung clouds have dropped
     Their garnered fullness down;
   All day that soft, gray mist hath wrapped
     Hill, valley, grove, and town.

2. There has not been a sound to-day
     To break the calm of nature;
   Nor motion, I might almost say,
     Of life or living creature;

3. Of waving bough, or warbling bird,
     Or cattle faintly lowing;
   I could have half believed I heard
     The leaves and blossoms growing.

4. I stood to hear—I love it well—
     The rain's continuous sound;
   Small drops, but thick and fast they fell,
     Down straight into the ground.

5. For leafy thickness is not yet
     Earth's naked breast to screen,
   Though every dripping branch is set
     With shoots of tender green.

6. Sure, since I looked, at early morn,
     Those honeysuckle buds
   Have swelled to double growth; that thorn
     Hath put forth larger studs.

7. That lilac's cleaving cones have burst,
     The milk-white flowers revealing;
   Even now upon my senses first
     Methinks their sweets are stealing.

8. The very earth, the steamy air,
     Is all with fragrance rife!
   And grace and beauty everywhere
     Are flushing into life.

9. Down, down they come, those fruitful stores,
     Those earth-rejoicing drops!
   A momentary deluge pours,
     Then thins, decreases, stops.

10. And ere the dimples on the stream
      Have circled out of sight,
    Lo! from the west a parting gleam
      Breaks forth of amber light.

* * * * * * *

11. But yet behold—abrupt and loud,
      Comes down the glittering rain;
    The farewell of a passing cloud,
      The fringes of its train.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Gar'nered, laid up, treasured. 6. Studs, knobs, buds. 7. Cleav'ing, dividing. 10. Dim'ples, small depressions. Am'ber, the color of amber, yellow.

1. There it stood, in its little green vase, on a light ebony stand in the window of the drawing-room. The rich satin curtains, with their costly fringes, swept down on either side of it, and around it glittered every rare and fanciful trifle which wealth can offer to luxury, and yet that simple rose was the fairest of them all. So pure it looked, its white leaves just touched with that delicious, creamy tint peculiar to its kind: its cup so full, so perfect its head bending, as if it were sinking and melting away in its own richness.—Oh! when did ever man make anything to equal the living, perfect flower!

2. But the sunlight that streamed through the window revealed something fairer than the rose—a young lady reclining on an ottoman, who was thus addressed by her livelier cousin: "I say, cousin, I have been thinking what you are to do with your pet rose when you go to New York; as, to our consternation, you are determined to do. You know it would be a sad pity to leave it with such a scatter-brain as I am. I love flowers, indeed,—that is, I like a regular bouquet, cut off and tied up, to carry to a party; but as to all this tending and fussing which is needful to keep them growing, I have no gifts in that line."

3. "Make yourself easy as to that, Kate," said Florence, with a smile; "I have no intention of calling upon your talent; I have an asylum in view for my favorite."

4. "Oh, then you know just what I was going to say. Mrs. Marshall, I presume, has been speaking to you; she was here yesterday, and I was quite pathetic upon the subject; telling her the loss your favorite would sustain, and so forth; and she said how delighted she would be to have it in her greenhouse; it is in such a fine state now, so full of buds. I told her I knew you would like to give it to her; you are so fond of Mrs. Marshall, you know."

5. "Now, Kate, I am sorry, but I have otherwise engaged."

"Whom can it be to? you have so few intimates here."

"Oh, it is only one of my odd fancies."

"But do tell me, Florence."

"Well, cousin, you know the little pale girl to whom we give sewing?"

6. "What! little Mary Stephens? How absurd, Florence! This is just another of your motherly, old-maidish ways; dressing dolls for poor children, making bonnets, and knitting socks for all the little dirty babies in the neighborhood. I do believe you have made more calls in those two vile, ill-smelling alleys behind our house than ever you have in Chestnut Street, though you know everybody is half dying to see you; and now, to crown all, you must give this choice little bijou to a seamstress girl, when one of your most intimate friends, in your own class, would value it so highly. What in the world can people in their circumstances want with flowers?"

7. "Just the same as I do," replied Florence, calmly. "Have you not noticed that the little girl never comes without looking wistfully at the opening buds? And don't you remember, the other morning she asked me so prettily if I would let her mother come and see it, she was so fond of flowers?"

8. "But, Florence, only think of this rare flower standing on a table with ham, eggs, cheese, and flour, and stifled in that close little room, where Mrs. Stephens and her daughter manage to wash, iron, and cook."

9. "Well, Kate, and if I were obliged to live in one coarse room, and wash, and iron, and cook, as you say; if I had to spend every moment of my time in toil, with no prospect from my window but a brick wall and a dirty lane, such a flower as this would be untold enjoyment to me."

10. "Pshaw, Florence; all sentiment! Poor people have no time to be sentimental. Besides, I don't believe it will grow with them; it is a greenhouse flower, and used to delicate living."

11. "Oh, as to that, a flower never inquires whether its owner is rich or poor; and poor Mrs. Stephens, whatever else she has not, has sunshine of as good quality as this that streams through our window. The beautiful things that God makes are his gifts to all alike. You will see that my fair rose will be as well and cheerful in Mrs. Stephens's room as in ours."

12. "Well, after all, how odd! When one gives to poor people, one wants to give them something useful—a bushel of potatoes, a ham, and such things."

13. "Why, certainly, potatoes and ham must be supplied; but, having ministered to the first and most craving wants, why not add any other little pleasures or gratifications we may have it in our power to bestow? I know there are many of the poor who have fine feeling and a keen sense of the beautiful, which rusts out and dies because they are too hard pressed to procure it any gratification. Poor Mrs. Stephens, for example; I know she would enjoy birds, and flowers, and music as much as I do. I have seen her eye light up as she looked upon these things in our drawing. room, and yet not one beautiful thing can she command. From necessity, her room, her clothing,—all she has, must be coarse and plain. You should have seen the almost rapture she and Mary felt when I offered them my rose."

14. "Dear me! all this may be true, but I never thought of it before. I never thought that these hard-working people had any ideas of taste!"

15. "Then why do you see the geranium or rose so carefully nursed in the old cracked teapot in the poorest room, or the morning-glory planted in a box and twined about the window? Do not these show that the human heart yearns for the beautiful in all ranks of life? You remember, Kate, how our washerwoman sat up a whole night, after a hard day's work, to make her first baby a pretty dress to be baptized in." "Yes, and I remember how I laughed at you for making such a tasteful little cap for it."

16. "True, Kate, but I think the look of perfect delight with which the poor woman regarded her baby in its new dress and cap was something quite worth creating; I do believe she could not have felt more grateful if 1 had sent her a barrel of flour."

17. "Well, I never thought before of giving anything to the poor but what they really needed, and I have always been willing to do that when I could without going far out of my way."

18. "Ah! cousin, if our heavenly Father gave to us after this mode, we should have only coarse, shapeless piles of provisions lying about the world, instead of all this beautiful variety of trees, and fruits, and flowers,"

19. "Well, well, cousin, I suppose you are right, but have mercy on my poor head; it is too small to hold so many new ideas all at once, so go on your own way;" and the little lady began practicing a waltzing step before the glass with great satisfaction.

DEFINITIONS.—2. Ot'to-man, a stuffed seat without a back. 3. A-sy'lum, a place of refuge and protection. 4. Pa-thet'ic, moving to pity or grief. 6. Bi-jou' (pro. be-zhoo'), a jewel. Cir'cum-stanc-es, condition in regard to worldly property. 10. Sen-ti-ment'al, showing an excess of sentiment or feeling. 13. Com-mand', to claim. Rap'-ture, extreme joy or pleasure, ecstasy. 14. Taste, the faculty of discerning beauty or whatever forms excellence. 15. Yearns, longs, is eager.

1. "How does the water
   Come down at Lodore?"
   My little boy asked me
     Thus once on a time;
   And, moreover, he tasked me
     To tell him in rhyme.

2. Anon at the word,
   There first came one daughter,
   And then came another,
     To second and third
   The request of their brother,
   And to hear how the water
     Comes down at Lodore,
     With its rush and its roar,
       As many a time
    They had seen it before.

3. So I told them in rhyme,
   For of rhymes I had store,
     And 't was in my vocation
     For their recreation
   That so I should sing;
   Because I was Laureate
   To them and the King.

4. From its sources which well
   In the tarn on the fell;
   From its fountains
   In the mountains,
Its rills and its gills;
  Through moss and through brake,
    It runs and it creeps
    For a while, till it sleeps
  In its own little lake.

5. And thence at departing,
   Awakening and starting,
   It runs through the reeds,
   And away it proceeds,
   Through meadow and glade,
   In sun and in shade,
   And through the wood shelter,
     Among crags in its flurry,
   Helter-skelter,
     Hurry-skurry.

6. Here it comes sparkling,
   And there it lies darkling;
   Now smoking and frothing
   Its tumult and wrath in,
   Till, in this rapid race
     On which it is bent,
   It reaches the place
     Of its steep descent.

7. The cataract strong
   Then plunges along,
   Striking and raging
   As if a war waging
Its caverns and rocks among;

8. Rising and leaping,
   Sinking and creeping,
   Swelling and sweeping,
   Showering and springing,
   Flying and flinging,
   Writhing and ringing,
   Eddying and whisking,
   Spouting and frisking,
   Turning and twisting,
   Around and around
   With endless rebound;
   Smiting and fighting,
   A sight to delight in;
   Confounding, astounding,
Dizzying, and deafening the ear with its sound

9. Collecting, projecting,
  Receding and speeding,
  And shocking and rocking,
  And darting and parting,
  And threading and spreading,
  And whizzing and hissing,
  And dripping and skipping,
  And hitting and splitting,
  And shining and twining,
  And rattling and battling,
  And shaking and quaking,
  And pouring and roaring,
  And waving and raving,
  And tossing and crossing,
  And guggling and struggling,
  And heaving and cleaving,
  And moaning and groaning,
  And glittering and frittering,
  And gathering and feathering,
  And whitening and brightening,
  And quivering and shivering,
  And hurrying and skurrying,
  And thundering and floundering;

10. Dividing and gliding and sliding,
    And falling and brawling and sprawling,
    And driving and riving and striving,
    And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling;

11. And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,
    And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;
    And so never ending, but always descending,
    Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending,
      All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,
      And this way the water comes down at Lodore.
                                      —Abridged from Southey.

DEFINITIONS.—4. Tarn, a small lake among the mountains. Fell (provincial English), a stony hill. Gills (provincial English), brooks. 10. Brawl'ing, roaring. Riv'ing, splitting.

NOTES.—1. Lodore is a cascade on the banks of Lake Derwentwater, in
Cumberland, England, near where Southey lived.

3. Laureate. The term probably arose from a custom in the English universities of presenting a laurel wreath to graduates in rhetoric and versification. In England the poet laureate's office is filled by appointment of the lord chamberlain. The salary is quite small, and the office is valued chiefly as one of honor.

This lesson is peculiarly adapted for practice on the difficult sound "ing".

1. The happiest bird of our spring, however, and one that rivals the European lark in my estimation, is the boblincoln, or bobolink as he is commonly called. He arrives at that choice portion of our year which, in this latitude, answers to the description of the month of May so often given by the poets. With us it begins about the middle of May, and lasts until nearly the middle of June. Earlier than this, winter is apt to return on its traces, and to blight the opening beauties of the year; and later than this, begin the parching, and panting, and dissolving heats of summer. But in this genial interval, Nature is in all her freshness and fragrance: "the rains are over and gone, the flowers appear upon the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land."

2. The trees are now in their fullest foliage and brightest verdure; the woods are gay with the clustered flowers of the laurel; the air is perfumed with the sweetbrier and the wild rose; the meadows are enameled with clover blossoms; while the young apple, peach, and the plum begin to swell, and the cherry to glow among the green leaves.

3. This is the chosen season of revelry of the bobolink. He comes amid the pomp and fragrance of the season; his life seems all sensibility and enjoyment, all song and sunshine. He is to be found in the soft bosoms of the freshest and sweetest meadows, and is most in song when the clover is in blossom. He perches on the topmost twig of a tree, or on some long, flaunting weed, and, as he rises and sinks with the breeze, pours forth a succession of rich, tinkling notes, crowding one upon another, like the outpouring melody of the skylark, and possessing the same rapturous character.

4. Sometimes he pitches from the summit of a tree, begins his song as soon as he gets upon the wing, and flutters tremulously down to the earth, as if overcome with ecstasy at his own music. Sometimes he is in pursuit of his mate; always in full song, as if he would win her by his melody; and always with the same appearance of intoxication and delight. Of all the birds of our groves and meadows, the bobolink was the envy of my boyhood. He crossed my path in the sweetest weather, and the sweetest season of the year, when all nature called to the fields, and the rural feeling throbbed in every bosom; but when I, luckless urchin! was doomed to be mewed up, during the live-long day, in a schoolroom.

5. It seemed as if the little varlet mocked at me as he flew by in full song, and sought to taunt me with his happier lot. Oh, how I envied him! No lessons, no task, no school; nothing but holiday, frolic, green fields, and fine weather. Had I been then more versed in poetry, I might have addressed him in the words of Logan to the cuckoo:

    "Sweet bird, thy bower is ever green,
      Thy sky is ever clear;
    Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
      No winter in thy year.

    "Oh. could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
      We'd make, with joyful wing,
    Our annual visit o'er the globe,
      Companions of the spring."

6. Further observation and experience have given me a different idea of this feathered voluptuary, which I will venture to impart for the benefit of my young readers, who may regard him with the same unqualified envy and admiration which I once indulged. I have shown him only as I saw him at first, in what I may call the poetical part of his career, when he, in a manner, devoted himself to elegant pursuits and enjoyments, and was a bird of music, and song, and taste, and sensibility, and refinement. While this lasted he was sacred from injury; the very schoolboy would not fling a stone at him, and the merest rustic would pause to listen to his strain.

7. But mark the difference. As the year advances, as the clover blossoms disappear, and the spring fades into summer, he gradually gives up his elegant tastes and habits, doffs his poetical suit of black, assumes a russet, dusty garb, and sinks to the gross enjoyment of common vulgar birds. His notes no longer vibrate on the ear; he is stuffing himself with the seeds of the tall weeds on which he lately swung and chanted so melodiously. He has become a bon vivant, a gourmand: with him now there is nothing like the "joys of the table." In a little while he grows tired of plain, homely fare, and is off on a gastronomic tour in quest of foreign luxuries.

8. We next hear of him, with myriads of his kind, banqueting among the reeds of the Delaware, and grown corpulent with good feeding. He has changed his name in traveling. Boblincoln no more, he is the reedbird now, the much-sought-for tidbit of Pennsylvanian epicures, the rival in unlucky fame of the ortolan! Wherever he goes, pop! pop! pop! every rusty firelock in the country is blazing away. He sees his companions falling by thousands around him. Does he take warning and reform? Alas! not he. Again he wings his flight. The rice swamps of the south invite him. He gorges himself among them almost to bursting; he can scarcely fly for corpulency. He has once more changed his name, and is now the famous ricebird of the Carolinas. Last stage of his career: behold him spitted with dozens of his corpulent companions, and served up, a vaunted dish, on some southern table.

9. Such is the story of the bobolink; once spiritual, musical, admired, the joy of the meadows, and the favorite bird of spring; finally, a gross little sensualist, who expiates his sensuality in the larder. His story contains a moral worthy the attention of all little birds and little boys; warning them to keep to those refined and intellectual pursuits which raised him to so high a pitch of popularity during the early part of his career, but to eschew all tendency to that gross and dissipated indulgence which brought this mistaken little bird to an untimely end.

—From Irving's "Birds of Spring."

DEFINITIONS.—En-am'eled, coated with a smooth, glossy surface. 3. Sen-si-bil'i-ty, feeling. 4. Mewed, shut up. 5. Var'let, a rascal. Versed, familiar, practiced. 6. Vo-lup'tu-a-ry, one who makes his bodily enjoyment his chief object. 7. Bon vi-vant (French, pro. bon ve-van'), one who lives well. Gour-mand (French, pro. goor'man), a glutton. Gas-tro-nom'ic, relating to the science of good eating. 8. Cor'pu-lent, fleshy, fat. Ep'i-cure, one who indulges in the luxuries of the table. Vaunt'ed, boasted. 9. Ex'pi-ates, atones for. Lard'er, a pantry. Es-chew', to shun.

NOTES.—5. John Logan (b. 1748, d.1788). A Scotch writer of note. His writings include dramas, poetry, history, and essays. 8. The ortolan is a small bird, abundant in southern Europe, Cyprus, and Japan. It is fattened for the table, and is considered a great delicacy.

1. Merrily swinging on brier and weed,
     Near to the nest of his little dame,
   Over the mountain side or mead,
     Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:
       "Bobolink, bobolink,
       Spink, spank, spink.
   Snug and safe is that nest of ours.
   Hidden among the summer flowers.
              Chee, chee, chee."

2. Robert of Lincoln is gaily dressed,
     Wearing a bright black wedding coat:
   White are his shoulders, and white his crest,
     Hear him call in his merry note:
       "Bobolink, bobolink,
       Spink, spank, spink,
   Look what a nice new coat is mine;
   Sure, there was never a bird so fine.
              Chee, chee, chee."

3. Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,
     Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,
   Passing at home a patient life,
     Broods in the grass while her husband sings:
       "Bobolink, bobolink,
       Spink, spank, spink,
   Brood, kind creature; you need not fear
   Thieves and robbers while I am here.
              Chee, chee, chee."

4. Modest and shy as a nun is she,
     One weak chirp is her only note;
   Braggart and prince of braggarts is he,
     Pouring boasts from his little throat:
       "Bobolink, Bobolink,
       Spink, spank, spink,
   Never was I afraid of man,
   Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can.
              Chee, chee, chee."

5. Six white eggs on a bed of hay,
     Flecked with purple, a pretty sight!
   There as the mother sits all day,
     Robert is singing with all his might:
      "Bobolink, bobolink,
      Spink, spank, spink,
   Nice good wife that never goes out,
   Keeping house while I frolic about.
              Chee, chee, chee."

6. Soon as the little ones chip the shell,
     Six wide mouths are open for food;
   Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,
     Gathering seeds for the hungry brood..
       "Bobolink, bobolink,
       Spink, spank, spink,
   This new life is likely to be
   Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
              Chee, chee, chee."

7. Robert of Lincoln at length is made
     Sober with work, and silent with care;
   Off is his holiday garment laid,
     Half forgotten that merry air:
       "Bobolink, bobolink,
       Spink, spank, spink,
   Nobody knows but my mate and I
   Where our nest and our nestlings lie.
              Chee, chee, chee."

8. Summer wanes; the children are grown;
     Fun and frolic no more he knows;
   Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone;
     Off he flies, and we sing as he goes:
       "Bobolink, bobolink,
       Spink, spank, spink,
   When you can pipe that merry old strain,
   Robert of Lincoln, come back again.
              Chee, chee, chee."

—William Cullen Bryan.

1. A more impressive exhibition of moral courage, opposed to the wildest ferocity under the most appalling circumstances, was never seen than that which was witnessed by the officers of our state prison; in the rebellion which occurred some years since.

2. Three convicts had been sentenced, under the rules of the prison, to be whipped in the yard, and, by some effort of one of the other prisoners, a door had been opened at midday communicating with the great dining hall and, through the warden's lodge, with the street.

3. The dining hall was long, dark, and damp, from its situation near the surface of the ground; and in this all the prisoners assembled, with clubs and such other tools as they could seize in passing through the workshops.

4. Knives, hammers, and chisels, with every variety of such weapons, were in the hands of the ferocious spirits, who are drawn away from their encroachments on society, forming a congregation of strength, vileness, and talent that can hardly be equaled on earth, even among the famed brigands of Italy.

5. Men of all ages and characters, guilty of every variety of infamous crime, dressed in the motley and peculiar garb of the institution, and displaying the wild and demoniac appearance that always pertains to imprisoned wretches, were gathered together for the single purpose of preventing the punishment which was to be inflicted on the morrow upon their comrades.

6. The warden, the surgeon, and some other officers of the prison were there at the time, and were alarmed at the consequences likely to ensue from the conflict necessary to restore order. They huddled together, and could scarcely be said to consult, as the stoutest among them lost all presence of mind in overwhelming fear. The news rapidly spread through the town, and a subordinate officer, of the most mild and kind disposition, hurried to the scene, and came calm and collected into the midst of the officers. The most equable-tempered and the mildest man in the government was in this hour of peril the firmest.

7. He instantly dispatched a request to Major Wainright, commander of the marines stationed at the Navy Yard, for assistance, and declared his purpose to enter into the hall and try the force of firm demeanor and persuasion upon the enraged multitude.

8. All his brethren exclaimed against an attempt so full of hazard, but in vain. They offered him arms, a sword and pistols, but he refused them, and said that he had no fear, and, in case of danger, arms would do him no service; and alone, with only a little rattan, which was his usual walking stick, he advanced into the hall to hold parley with the selected, congregated, and enraged villains of the whole commonwealth.

9. He demanded their purpose in thus coming together with arms, in violation of the prison laws. They replied that they were determined to obtain the remission of the punishment of their three comrades. He said it was impossible; the rules of the prison must be obeyed, and they must submit.

10. At the hint of submission they drew a little nearer together, prepared their weapons for service, and, as they were dimly seen in the further end of the hall by those who observed from the gratings that opened up to the day, a more appalling sight can not be conceived, nor one of more moral grandeur, than that of the single man standing within their grasp, and exposed to be torn limb from limb instantly if a word or look should add to the already intense excitement.

11. That excitement, too, was of a most dangerous kind. It broke not forth in noise and imprecations, but was seen only in the dark looks and the strained nerves that showed a deep determination. The officer expostulated. He reminded them of the hopelessness of escape; that the town was alarmed, and that the government of the prison would submit to nothing but unconditional surrender. He said that all those who would go quietly away should be forgiven for this offense; but that if every prisoner were killed in the contest, power enough would be obtained to enforce the regulations of the prison.

12. They replied that they expected that some would be killed,—that death would be better than such imprisonment; and, with that look and tone which bespeak an indomitable purpose, they declared that not a man should leave the hall alive till the flogging was remitted. At this period of the discussion their evil passions seemed to be more inflamed, and one or two offered to destroy the officer, who still stood firmer and with a more temperate pulse than did his friends, who saw from above, but could not avert, the danger that threatened him.

13. Just at this moment, and in about fifteen minutes from the commencement of the tumult, the officer saw the feet of the marines, on whose presence alone he relied for succor, filing by the small upper lights. Without any apparent anxiety, he had repeatedly turned his attention to their approach; and now he knew that it was his only time to escape, before the conflict became, as was expected, one of the most dark and dreadful in the world.

14. He stepped slowly backward, still urging them to depart before the officers were driven to use the last resort of firearms. When within three or four feet of the door, it was opened, and closed instantly again as he sprang through, and was thus unexpectedly restored to his friends.

15. Major Wainright was requested to order his men to fire down upon the convicts through the little windows, first with powder and then with ball, till they were willing to retreat; but he took a wiser as well as a bolder course, relying upon the effect which firm determination would have upon men so critically situated. He ordered the door to be again opened, and marched in at the head of twenty or thirty men, who filed through the passage, and formed at the end of the hall opposite to the crowd of criminals huddled together at the other.

16. He stated that he was empowered to quell the rebellion, that he wished to avoid shedding blood, but that he would not quit that hall alive till every convict had returned to his duty. They seemed balancing the strength of the two parties, and replied that some of them were ready to die, and only waited for an attack to see which was the more powerful; swearing that they would fight to the last, unless the punishment was remitted, for they would not submit to any such punishment in the prison. Major Wainright ordered his marines to load their pieces, and, that they might not be suspected of trifling, each man was made to hold up to view the bullet which he afterward put in his gun.

17. This only caused a growl of determination, and no one blenched or seemed disposed to shrink from the foremost exposure. They knew that their number would enable them to bear down and destroy the handful of marines after the first discharge, and before their pieces could be reloaded. Again they were ordered to retire; but they answered with more ferocity than ever. The marines were ordered to take their aim so as to be sure and kill as many as possible. Their guns were presented, but not a prisoner stirred, except to grasp more firmly his weapon.

18. Still desirous to avoid such a tremendous slaughter as must have followed the discharge of a single gun, Major Wainright advanced a step or two, and spoke even more firmly than before, urging them to depart. Again, and while looking directly into the muzzles of the guns which they had seen loaded with ball, they declared their intention "to fight it out." This intrepid officer then took out his watch, and told his men to hold their pieces aimed at the convicts, but not to fire till they had orders; then, turning to the prisoners, he said: "You must leave this hall; I give you three minutes to decide; if at the end of that time a man remains, he shall be shot dead."

19. No situation of greater interest than this can be conceived. At one end of the hall, a fearful multitude of the most desperate and powerful men in existence, waiting for the assault; at the other, a little band of disciplined men, waiting with arms presented, and ready, upon the least motion or sign, to begin the carnage; and their tall and imposing commander, holding up his watch to count the lapse of three minutes, given as the reprieve to the lives of hundreds. No poet or painter can conceive a spectacle of more dark and terrible sublimity; no human heart can conceive a situation of more appalling suspense.

20. For two minutes not a person nor a muscle moved; not a sound was heard in the unwonted stillness of the prison, except the labored breathings of the infuriated wretches, as they began to pant between fear and revenge: at the expiration of two minutes, during which they had faced the ministers of death with unblenching eyes, two or three of those in the rear, and nearest the further entrance, went slowly out; a few more followed the example, dropping out quietly and deliberately: and before half of the last minute was gone, every man was struck by the panic, and crowded for an exit, and the hall was cleared, as if by magic.

21. Thus the steady firmness of moral force and the strong effect of determination, acting deliberately, awed the most savage men, and suppressed a scene of carnage, which would have instantly followed the least precipitancy or exertion of physical force. —J. T. Buckingham.

   "It may be that more lofty courage dwells
     In one weak heart which braves all adverse fate
   Than does in his whose soul indignant swells,
     Warmed by the fight, or cheered through high debate."

DEFINITIONS.—2. Warden, a keeper, one who guards, 4. En-croach'ment, unlawful intrusion on the rights of others. Brig'ands, robbers, those who live by plunder. 5. Mot'ley, composed of various colors. De-mo'ni-ac, devil-like. 6. Sub-or'di-nate, inferior in power. 7. Ma-rines, soldiers that serve on board of ships. De-mean'or, be-havior, deportment. 8. Par'ley, conversation or conference with an enemy. 9. Re-mis'sion (pro. re-mish'un), pardon of transgression. 11. Im-pre-ca'tions, curses, prayers for evil. Ex-pos'tu-lat-ed, rea-soned earnestly. 12. In-dom'i-ta-ble, that can not be subdued or tamed. 17. Blenched. gave way, shrunk. 18. In-trep'id, fearless. 19, Re-prieve', a delay of punishment. 21. Pre-cip'i-tan-cy, headlong hurry.

Thomas Hood (b. 1798, d. 1845) was the son of a London bookseller. After leaving school he undertook to learn the art of an engraver, but soon turned his attention to literature. In 1821 he became sub-editor of the "London Magazine." Hood is best known as a humorist; but some of his poems are full of the tenderest pathos; and a gentle, humane spirit pervades even his lighter productions. He was poor, and during the last years of his life suffered much from ill health. Some of his most humorous pieces were written on a sick bed.

1. Ben Battle was a soldier bold,
     And used to war's alarms;
   But a cannon ball took off his legs,
     So he laid down his arms!

2. Now, as they bore him off the field,
     Said he, "Let others shoot,
   For here I leave my second leg,
     And the Forty-second Foot!"

3. The army surgeons made him limbs;
     Said he, "They're only pegs:
   But there's as wooden members quite,
     As represent my legs!"

4. Now Ben, he loved a pretty maid,
     Her Name was Nelly Gray;
   So he went to pay her his devoirs,
     When he'd devoured his pay.

5. But when he called on Nelly Gray,
     She made him quite a scoff;
   And when she saw his wooden legs,
     Began to take them off!

6. "O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray!
     Is this your love so warm'?
   The love that loves a scarlet coat
     Should be more uniform!"

7. Said she, "I loved a soldier once,
     For he was blithe and brave;
   But I will never have a man
     With both legs in the grave!

8. "Before you had these timber toes,
     Your love I did allow,
   But then, you know, you stand upon
     Another footing now!"

9. "O false and fickle Nelly Gray!
     I know why you refuse:
   Though I've no feet—some other man
     Is standing in my shoes!

10. "I wish I ne'er had seen your face;
      But, now, a long farewell!
    For you will be my death;—alas!
      You will not be my NELL!"

11. Now when he went from Nelly Gray,
      His heart so heavy got,
    And life was such a burden grown,
      It made him take a knot!

12. So round his melancholy neck,
      A rope he did entwine,
    And for the second time in life.
      Enlisted in the Line!

13. One end he tied around a beam,
      And then removed his pegs,
    And, as his legs were off, of course
      He soon was off his legs.

14. And there he hung till he was dead
      As any nail in town:
    For, though distress had cut him up,
      It could not cut him down!

DEFINITIONS.—4. De-voirs' (French, pro, de-vwor'), respects: compliments. 5. Scoff, an object of ridicule. 6, U'ni-form (adj.), consistent, (noun) military dress. 7. Blithe, merry, gay.

NOTES.—2. Forty-second Foot. Infantry in the army is spoken of as "the foot," and the "Forty-second Foot" means the Forty-second Regiment of Infantry.

3. Members. Persons elected to Parliament in Great Britain are called "Members," and are said to represent those who elect them.

12. The Line is another name for the regular infantry.

1. Let Vergil sing the praises of Augustus, genius celebrate merit, and flattery extol the talents of the great. "The short and simple annals of the poor" engross my pen; and while I record the history of Flor Silin's virtues, though I speak of a poor peasant, I shall describe a noble man. I ask no eloquence to assist me in the task; modest worth rejects the aid of ornament to set it off.

2. It is impossible, even at this distant period, to reflect without horror on the miseries of that year known in Lower Volga by the name of the "Famine Year." I remember the summer, whose scorching heats had dried up all the fields, and the drought had no relief but from the tears of the ruined farmer.

3. I remember the cold, comfortless autumn, and the despairing rustics, crowding round their empty barns, with folded arms and sorrowful countenances, pondering on their misery, instead of rejoicing, as usual, at the golden harvest. I remember the winter which succeeded, and I reflect with agony on the miseries it brought with it. Whole families left their homes to become beggars on the highway.

4. At night the canopy of heaven served them as their only shelter from the piercing winds and bitter frost. To describe these scenes would be to harm the feelings of my readers; therefore, to my tale. In those days I lived on an estate not far from Simbirsk; and, though but a child, I have not forgotten the impression made on my mind by the general calamity.

5. In a village adjoining lived Flor Silin, a poor, laboring peasant,—a man remarkable for his assiduity and the skill and judgment with which he cultivated his lands. He was blessed with abundant crops; and his means being larger than his wants, his granaries, even at this time, were full of corn. The dry year coming on had beggared all the village except himself. Here was an opportunity to grow rich. Mark how Flor Silin acted. Having called the poorest of his neighbors about him, he addressed them in the following manner:

6. "My friends, you want corn for your subsistence. God has blessed me with abundance. Assist in thrashing out a quantity, and each of you take what he wants for his family." The peasants were amazed at this unexampled generosity; for sordid propensities exist in the village as well as in the populous city.

7. The fame of Flor Silin's benevolence having reached other villages, the famished inhabitants presented themselves before him, and begged for corn. This good creature received them as brothers; and, while his store remained, afforded all relief. At length, his wife, seeing no end to the generosity of his noble spirit, reminded him how necessary it would be to think of their own wants, and hold his lavish hand before it was too late. "It is written in the Scripture," said he, "Give, and it shall be given unto you.'"

8. The following year Providence listened to the prayers of the poor, and the harvest was abundant. The peasants who had been saved from starving by Flor Silin now gathered around him.

9. "Behold," said they, "the corn you lent us. You saved our wives and children. We should have been famished but for you; may God reward you; he only can; all we have to give is our corn and grateful thanks." "I want no corn at present, my good neighbors," said he; "my harvest has exceeded all my expectations; for the rest, thank heaven: I have been but an humble instrument."

10. They urged him in vain. "No," said he, "I shall not accept your corn. If you have superfluities, share them among your poor neighbors, who, being unable to sow their fields last autumn, are still in want; let us assist them, my dear friends; the Almighty will bless us for it." "Yes," replied the grateful peasants, "our poor neighbors shall have this corn. They shall know it is to you that they owe this timely succor, and join to teach their children the debt of gratitude due to your benevolent heart." Silin raised his tearful eyes to heaven. An angel might have envied him his feelings. —Nikolai Karamzin.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Ex-tol', to elevate by praise. An'nals, history of events. En-gross', to occupy wholly. El'o-quence, the power of speaking well. 2. Drought (pro. drout), want of rain or water. 4. Es-tate', property in land. 5. Gran'a-ry, a storehouse far grain. 6. Sub-sist'ence, means of support. Pro-pen'si-ties, bent of mind, inclination. 10. Su-per-flu'i-ties, greater quantities than are wanted. Suc'cor, aid, help.

NOTES.—l. Vergil was the greatest of Roman poets. He was born in the year 70 B.C., and died 19 B.C.

Augustus Caesar was emperor of Rome in the latter portion of Vergil's life, and received many compliments in the verses of his friend the poet.

2. Lower Volga is a district in eastern Russia, bordering on the Caspian Sea, and takes its name from the river Volga.

4. Simbirsk is a town of eastern Russia, on the Volga.

1. I've wandered to the village, Tom,
      I've sat beneath the tree,
   Upon the schoolhouse playground,
     That sheltered you and me;
   But none were left to greet me, Tom,
     And few were left to know,
   Who played with me upon the green,
     Just forty years ago.

2. The grass was just as green, Tom,
     Barefooted boys at play
   Were sporting, just as we did then,
     With spirits just as gay.
   But the master sleeps upon the hill,
     Which, coated o'er with snow,
   Afforded us a sliding place,
     Some forty years ago.

3. The old schoolhouse is altered some;
     The benches are replaced
   By new ones very like the same
     Our jackknives had defaced.
   But the same old bricks are in the wall,
     The bell swings to and fro;
   Its music's just the same, dear Tom,
     'T was forty years ago.

4. The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill,
     Close by the spreading beech,
   Is very low; 't was once so high
     That we could almost reach;
   And kneeling down to take a drink,
     Dear Tom, I started so,
   To think how very much I've changed
     Since forty years ago.

5. Near by that spring, upon an elm,
     You know, I cut your name,
   Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom;
     And you did mine the same.
   Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark;
     'T was dying sure, but slow,
   Just as that one whose name you cut
     Died forty years ago.

6. My lids have long been dry, Tom,
     But tears came in my eyes:
   I thought of her I loved so well,
     Those early broken ties.
   I visited the old churchyard,
     And took some flowers to strew
   Upon the graves of those we loved
     Just forty years ago.

7. Some are in the churchyard laid,
     Some sleep beneath the sea;
   And none are left of our old class
     Excepting you and me.
   And when our time shall come, Tom,
     And we are called to go,
   I hope we'll meet with those we loved
     Some forty years ago.

Douglas Jerrold (b. 1803, d. 1857) was born in London. A midshipman's appointment was obtained for him, but he quit the naval service in a few years. He was then apprenticed to a printer. By improving his leisure hours he made himself master of several languages, and formed the habit of expressing his thoughts in writing An essay on the opera of Der Freischutz was his first published literary production. Before he was twenty-one years of age, he wrote "Black-eyed Susan," one of the most popular dramas of modern times. Several other popular plays followed this. He was a regular contributor to the London "Punch," from the second number, and edited, at different times, several papers and magazines. As a humorist, he occupies the first rank. The most noted of his works are his plays, and "Mrs Caudle's Curtain Lectures," "Saint Giles and Saint James," "Bubbles of a Day," and "Chronicles of Clovernook."

1. Well, Mr. Caudle, I hope you're in a little better temper than you were this morning. There, you need n't begin to whistle: people don't come to bed to whistle. But it's like you; I can't speak that you don't try to insult me. Once, I used to say you were the best creature living: now, you get quite a fiend. Do let you rest? No, I won't let you rest. It's the only time I have to talk to you, and you shall hear me. I'm put upon all day long: it's very hard if I can't speak a word at night; besides, it is n't often I open my mouth, goodness knows!

2. Because once in your lifetime your shirt wanted a button, you must almost swear the roof off the house. You did n't swear? Ha, Mr. Caudle! you don't know what you do when you're in a passion. You were not in a passion, wer'n't you? Well, then, I don't know what a passion is; and I think I ought by this time. I've lived long enough with you, Mr. Caudle, to know that.

3. It's a pity you hav'n't something worse to complain of than a button off your shirt. If you'd some wives, you would, I know. I'm sure I'm never without a needle and thread in my hand; what with you and the children, I'm made a perfect slave of. And what's my thanks? Why, if once in your life a button's off your shirt—what do you cry "oh" at? I say once, Mr. Caudle; or twice, or three times, at most. I'm sure, Caudle, no man's buttons in the world are better looked after than yours. I only wish I'd kept the shirts you had when you were first married! I should like to know where were your buttons then?

4. Yes, it is worth talking of! But that's how you always try to put me down. You fly into a rage, and then if I only try to speak, you won't hear me. That's how you men always will have all the talk to yourselves: a poor woman is n't allowed to get a word in. A nice notion you have of a wife, to suppose she's nothing to think of but her husband's buttons. A pretty notion, indeed, you have of marriage. Ha! if poor women only knew what they had to go through!—what with buttons, and one thing and another,—they'd never tie themselves up,—no, not to the best man in the world, I'm sure. What would they do, Mr. Caudle?—Why, do much better without you, I'm certain.

5. And it's my belief, after all, that the button was n't off the shirt; it's my belief that you pulled it off that you might have something to talk about. Oh, you're aggravating enough, when you like, for anything! All I know is, it's very odd that the button should be off the shirt; for I'm sure no woman's a greater slave to her husband's buttons than I am. I only say it's very odd.

6. However, there's one comfort; it can't last long. I'm worn to death with your temper, and sha'n't trouble you a great while. Ha! you may laugh! And I dare say you would laugh! I've no doubt of it! That's your love; that's your feeling! I know that I'm sinking every day, though I say nothing about it. And when I'm gone we shall see how your second wife will look after your buttons! You'll find out the difference then. Yes, Caudle, you'll think of me then; for then, I hope, you'll never have a blessed button to your back.

7. No, I'm not a vindictive woman, Mr. Caudle: nobody ever called me that but you. What do you say? Nobody ever knew so much of me? That's nothing at all to do with it. Ha! I would n't have your aggravating temper, Caudle, for mines of gold. It's a good thing I'm not as worrying as you are, or a nice house there'd be between us. I only wish you'd had a wife that would have talked to you! Then you'd have known the difference. But you impose upon me because, like a poor fool, I say nothing. I should be ashamed of myself, Caudle.

8. And a pretty example you set as a father! You'll make your boys as bad as yourself. Talking as you did all breakfast time about your buttons! and of a Sunday morning, too! And you call yourself a Christian! I should like to know what your boys will say of you when they grow up! And all about a paltry button off one of your wristbands! A decent man would n't have mentioned it. Why don't I hold my tongue? Because I won't hold my tongue. I'm to have my peace of mind destroyed—I 'm to be worried into my grave for a miserable shirt button, and I'm to hold my tongue! Oh! but that's just like you men!

9. But I know what I'll do for the future. Every button you have may drop off, and I won't so much as put a thread to 'em. And I should like to know what you'll do then! Oh, you must get somebody else to sew 'em, must you? That's a pretty threat for a husband to hold out to his wife! And to such a wife as I've been, too: such a slave to your buttons, as I may say. Somebody else to sew 'em'! No, Caudle, no; not while I'm alive! When I'm dead—and, with what I have to bear, there's no knowing how soon that may be—when I 'm dead, I say—oh! what a brute you must be to snore so!

10. You're not snoring? Ha! that's what you always say; but that's nothing to do with it. You must get somebody else to sew 'em, must you? Ha! I should n't wonder. Oh, no! I should be surprised at nothing now! Nothing at all! It's what people have always told me it would come to; and now the buttons have opened my eyes! But the whole world shall know of your cruelty, Mr. Caudle. After the wife I've been to you. Caudle, you've a heart like a hearthstone, you have!

DEFINITIONS.—5. Ag'gra-vat-ing, provoking, irritating. 6. Sink'ing, failing in strength. 7. Vin-dic'tive, revengeful. 8. Pal'try, mean, contemptible.

1. Under a spreading chestnut tree
     The village smithy stands;
   The smith, a mighty man is he,
     With large and sinewy hands;
   And the muscles of his brawny arms
     Are strong as iron bands.

2. His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
     His face is like the tan;
   His brow is wet with honest sweat,
     He earns whate'er he can,
   And looks the whole world in the face,
     For he owes not any man.

3. Week in, week out, from morn till night,
     You can hear his bellows blow;
   You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
     With measured beat and slow,
   Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
     When the evening sun is low.

4. And children coming home from school
     Look in at the open door;
   They love to see the flaming forge,
     And hear the bellows roar,
   And catch the burning sparks that fly
     Like chaff from a threshing floor.

5. He goes on Sunday to the church,
     And sits among his boys;
   He hears the parson pray and preach,
     He hears his daughter's voice
   Singing in the village choir,
     And it makes his heart rejoice.

6. It sounds to him like her mother's voice
     Singing in Paradise!
   He needs must think of her once more,
     How in the grave she lies;
   And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
     A tear out of his eyes.

7. Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
     Onward through life he goes;
   Each morning sees some task begin,
     Each evening sees its close;
   Something attempted, something done,
     Has earned a night's repose.

8. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
     For the lesson thou hast taught!
   Thus at the flaming forge of life
     Our fortunes must be wrought;
   Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
     Each burning deed and thought!
                                      —Longfellow.

[From a letter to the "London Times," by a lady, the wife of an officer at
Lucknow.]

1. On every side death stared us in the face; no human skill could avert it any longer. We saw the moment approach when we must bid farewell to earth, yet without feeling that unutterable horror which must have been experienced by the unhappy victims at Cawnpore. We were resolved rather to die than to yield, and were fully persuaded that in twenty-four hours all would be over. The engineer had said so, and all knew the worst. We women strove to encourage each other, and to perform the light duties which had been assigned to us, such as conveying orders to the batteries, and supplying the men with provisions, especially cups of coffee, which we prepared day and night.

2. I had gone out to try to make myself useful, in company with Jessie Brown, the wife of a corporal in my husband's regiment. Poor Jessie had been in a state of restless excitement all through the siege, and had fallen away visibly within the last few days. A constant fever consumed her, and her mind wandered occasionally, especially that day, when the recollections of home seemed powerfully present to her. At last, overcome with fatigue, she lay down on the ground, wrapped up in her plaid. I sat beside her, promising to awaken her when, as she said, her "father should return from the plowing."

3. She fell at length into a profound slumber, motionless and apparently breathless, her head resting in my lap. I myself could no longer resist the inclination to sleep, in spite of the continual roar of the cannon. Suddenly I was aroused by a wild, unearthly scream close to my ear; my companion stood upright beside me, her arms raised, and her head bent forward in the attitude of listening.

4. A look of intense delight broke over her countenance; she grasped my hand, drew me toward her, and exclaimed: "Dinna ye hear it? dinna ye hear it? Ay. I'm no dreaming: it's the slogan o' the Highlanders! We're saved! we're saved!" Then flinging herself on her knees, she thanked God with passionate fervor. I felt utterly bewildered; my English ears heard only the roar of artillery, and I thought my poor Jessie was still raving; but she darted to the batteries, and I heard her cry incessantly to the men, "Courage! courage! Hark to the slogan—to the Macgregor, the grandest of them a'! Here's help at last!"

5. To describe the effect of these words upon the soldiers would be impossible. For a moment they ceased firing, and every soul listened with intense anxiety. Gradually, however, there arose a murmur of bitter disappointment, and the wailing of the women, who had flocked to the spot, burst out anew as the colonel shook his head. Our dull Lowland ears heard only the battle of the musketry. A few moments more of this deathlike suspense, of this agonizing hope, and Jessie, who had again sunk on the ground, sprang to her feet, and cried in a voice so clear and piercing that it was heard along the whole line, "Will ye no believe it noo? The slogan has ceased, indeed, but the Campbells are comin'! D' ye hear? d' ye hear?"

6. At that moment all seemed indeed to hear the voice of God in the distance, when the pibroch of the Highlanders brought us tidings of deliverance; for now there was no longer any doubt of the fact. That shrill, penetrating, ceaseless sound, which rose above all other sounds, could come neither from the advance of the enemy nor from the work of the sappers. No, it was indeed the blast of the Scottish bagpipes, now shrill and harsh, as threatening vengeance on the foe, then in softer tones, seeming to promise succor to their friends in need.

7. Never, surely, was there such a scene as that which followed. Not a heart in the residency of Lucknow but bowed itself before God. All, by one simultaneous impulse, fell upon their knees, and nothing was heard but bursting sobs and the murmured voice of prayer. Then all arose, and there rang out from a thousand lips a great shout of joy, which resounded far and wide, and lent new vigor to that blessed pibroch.

8. To our cheer of "God save the Queen," they replied by the well-known strain that moves every Scot to tears, "Should auld acquaintance be forgot." After that, nothing else made any impression on me. I scarcely remember what followed. Jessie was presented to the general on his entrance into the fort, and at the officers' banquet her health was drunk by all present, while the pipers marched around the table playing once more the familiar air of "Auld Lang Syne."

DEFINITIONS.—1. A-vert', to turn aside. En-gi-neer', an officer in the army, who designs and constructs defensive and offensive works. 2. Siege, the setting of an army around a fortified place to compel its surrender. 3. Pro-found', deep. 4. Slo'gan, the war cry or gather-ing word of a Highland clan in Scotland. Fer'vor, intensity of feel-ing. 6. Pi'broch, a wild, irregular species of music belonging to the Highlands of Scotland; it is performed on a bagpipe. Sap'pers, men employed in making an approach to a fortified place by digging. 7. Res'i-den-cy, the official dwelling of a government officer in India. Si-mul-ta'ne-ous, happening at the same time.

NOTES.—Lucknow, a city in the British possession of India. In 1857 there was a mutiny of the native troops, and the British garrison of 1700 men was besieged by 10,000 mutineers. After twelve weeks' siege, fresh British troops forced an entrance, and the town was held until relieved three weeks later by the arrival of Sir Colin Campbell, as above described.

1. Cawnpore, also a city of India, near Lucknow, which was besieged during the mutiny. After surrendering, the English, two thirds of whom were women and children, were treacherously massacred.

4. The inhabitants of the northern part of Scotland are called Highlanders; those of the southern part, Lowlanders. The dialect of the former is very peculiar, as shown in the language of Jessie Brown; as, dinna for did not, a' for all, no for not, noo for now, auld for old. Macgregor and Campbell are names of Highland clans or families.

Whittier's poem, "The Pipes at Lucknow," and Robert T. S. Lowell's "The
Relief of Lucknow," are descriptive of this same incident.

James Thomson (b. 1700, d.1748) was born at Ednam, in the shire of Roxburgh, Scotland. He was educated at the University of Edinburgh, and afterwards studied for the ministry, but in a short time changed his plans and devoted himself to literature. His early poems are quite insignificant, but "The Seasons," from which the following selection is taken; and the "Castle of Indolence," are masterpieces of English poetry.

1. Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends,
   At first thin wavering; till at last the flakes
   Fall broad and wide and fast, dimming the day,
   With a continual flow. The cherished fields
   Put on their winter robe of purest white.
   'T is brightness all: save where the new snow melts
   Along the mazy current.

2. Low the woods
   Bow their hoar head; and ere the languid sun
   Faint from the west emits its evening ray,
   Earth's universal face, deep-hid and chill,
   Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide
   The works of man.

3. Drooping, the laborer ox
   Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands
   The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven,
   Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around
   The winnowing store, and claim the little boon
   Which Providence assigns them.

4. One alone,
   The Redbreast, sacred to the household gods,
   Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky,
   In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves
   His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man
   His annual visit.

5. Half-afraid, he first
   Against the window beats; then, brisk, alights
   On the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the floor,
   Eyes all the smiling family askance,
   And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is;
   Till, more familiar grown, the table crumbs
   Attract his slender feet.

6. The foodless wilds
   Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare,
   Though timorous of heart, and hard beset
   By death in various forms, dark snares and dogs,
   And more unpitying men, the garden seeks,
   Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kind.
   Eye the bleak heaven, and next the glistening earth,
   With looks of dumb despair; then, sad dispersed,
   Dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow

7. Now, shepherds, to your helpless charge be kind,
   Baffle the raging year, and fill their pens
   With food at will; lodge them below the storm,
   And watch them strict; for from the bellowing east,
   In this dire season, oft the whirlwind's wing
   Sweeps up the burden of whole wintry plains
   In one wide waft, and o'er the hapless flocks,
   Hid in the hollow of two neighboring hills,
   The billowy tempest 'whelms; till, upward urged,
   The valley to a shining mountain swells,
   Tipped with a wreath high-curling in the sky

DEFINITIONS.—1. Ma'zy, winding. 2. Hoar, white or grayish white. E-mits', sends forth, throws out, 3. Win'now-ing, separat-ing chaff from grain by means of wind. Boon, a gift. 4. Em—broil'ing, throwing into disorder or contention. 5, A-skance', side-ways. 6. Wilds, woods, forests. Be-set', hemmed in on all sides so that escape is difficult. 7. Dire, dreadful, terrible. Waft, a current of wind. Whelms', covers completely.

NOTE.—4. Household gods. An allusion to the belief of the ancient Romans in the Penates—certain gods who were supposed to protect the household and all connected with it. The idea here expressed is, that the Redbreast was secure from harm.

1. A railroad train was rushing along at almost lightning speed. A curve was just ahead, beyond which was a station where two trains usually met. The conductor was late,—so late that the period during which the up train was to wait had nearly elapsed; but he hoped yet to pass the curve safely. Suddenly a locomotive dashed into sight right ahead. In an instant there was a collision. A shriek, a shock, and fifty souls were in eternity; and all because an engineer had been behind time.

2. A great battle was going on. Column after column had been precipitated for eight hours on the enemy posted along the ridge of a hill. The summer sun was sinking in the west; reenforcements for the obstinate defenders were already in sight; it was necessary to carry the position with one final charge, or everything would be lost.

3. A powerful corps had been summoned from across the country, and if it came up in season all would yet be well. The great conqueror, confident in its arrival, formed his reserve into an attacking column, and ordered them to charge the enemy. The whole world knows the result. Grouchy failed to appear; the imperial guard was beaten back; and Waterloo was lost. Napoleon died a prisoner at St. Helena because one of his marshals was behind time.

4. A leading firm in commercial circles had long struggled against bankruptcy. As it had large sums of money in California, it expected remittances by a certain day, and if they arrived, its credit, its honor, and its future prosperity would be preserved. But week after week elapsed without bringing the gold. At last came the fatal day on which the firm had bills maturing to large amounts. The steamer was telegraphed at daybreak; but it was found, on inquiry, that she brought no funds, and the house failed. The next arrival brought nearly half a million to the insolvents, but it was too late; they were ruined because their agent, in remitting, had been behind time.

5. A condemned man was led, out for execution. He had taken human life, but under circumstances of the greatest provocation, and public sympathy was active in his behalf. Thousands had signed petitions for a reprieve; a favorable answer had been expected the night before, and though it had not come, even the sheriff felt confident that it would yet arrive. Thus the morning passed without the appearance of the messenger.

6. The last moment was up. The prisoner took his place, the cap was drawn over his eyes, the bolt was drawn, and a lifeless body swung revolving in the wind. Just at that moment a horseman came into sight, galloping down hill, his steed covered with foam. He carried a packet in his right hand, which he waved frantically to the crowd. He was the express rider with the reprieve; but he came too late. A comparatively innocent man had died an ignominious death because a watch had been five minutes too late, making its bearer arrive behind time.

7. It is continually so in life. The best laid plans, the most important affairs, the fortunes of individuals, the weal of nations, honor, happiness, life itself, are daily sacrificed, because somebody is "behind time." There are men who always fail in whatever they undertake, simply because they are "behind time." There are others who put off reformation year after year, till death seizes them, and they perish unrepentant, because forever "behind time."

DEFINITIONS.—1. Col-li'sion, the act of striking together violently. 2. Pre-cip'i-tat-ed, urged on violently. Re-en-force'ments, additional troops. 3. Corps (pro. kor), a body of troops. Re-serve', a select body of troops held back in case of special need for their services. 4. Bank'rupt-cy. inability to pay all debts, insolvency. Re-mit'tanc-es, mouey, drafts, etc., sent from a distance. Ma-tur'ing, approaching the time fixed for payment. 5. Prov-o-ca'tion, that which causes anger. 6. Ig-no-min'i-ous, infamous. 7. Weal, prosperity, happiness.

NOTES.—3. Emmanuel Grouchy was one of Napoleon's marshals at the battle of Waterloo, fought in 1815 between the French under Napoleon, and the English, Dutch, and German troops under Wellington.

Napoleon Bonaparte (b. 1769, d. 1821) was born on the island of Corsica. At school he was "studious, well-behaved, and distinguished in mathematical studies." In 1785 he was commissioned as a sublieutenant in the army. From this obscure position he raised himself to the head of the army, and in 1804 was elected emperor of the French. He is almost universally acknowledged to have been the greatest general the world has known.

1. Out of the way, in a corner
     Of our dear old attic room,
   Where bunches of herbs from the hillside
     Shake ever a faint perfume,
   An oaken chest is standing,
     With hasp and padlock and key,
   Strong as the hands that made it
     On the other side of the sea.

2. When the winter days are dreary,
     And we're out of heart with life,
   Of its crowding cares aweary,
     And sick of its restless strife,
   We take a lesson in patience
     From the attic corner dim,
   Where the chest still holds its treasures,
     A warder faithful and grim.

3. Robes of an antique fashion,
     Linen and lace and silk,
   That time has tinted with saffron,
     Though once they were white as milk;
   Wonderful baby garments,
     'Boidered with loving care
   By fingers that felt the pleasure,
     As they wrought the ruffles fair;

4. A sword, with the red rust on it,
     That flashed in the battle tide,
   When from Lexington to Yorktown
     Sorely men's souls were tried;
   A plumed chapeau and a buckle,
     And many a relic fine,
   And, an by itself, the sampler,
     Framed in with berry and vine.

5. Faded the square of canvas,
     And dim is the silken thread,
   But I think of white hands dimpled,
     And a childish, sunny head;
   For here in cross and in tent stitch,
     In a wreath of berry and vine,
   She worked it a hundred years ago,
     "Elizabeth, Aged Nine."

6. In and out in the sunshine,
     The little needle flashed,
   And in and out on the rainy day,
     When the merry drops down plashed,
   As close she sat by her mother,
     The little Puritan maid,
   And did her piece in the sampler,
     While the other children played.

7. You are safe in the beautiful heaven,
     "Elizabeth, aged nine;"
   But before you went you had troubles
     Sharper than any of mine.
   Oh, the gold hair turned with sorrow
     White as the drifted snow.
   And your tears dropped here where I'm standing,
     On this very plumed chapeau.

8. When you put it away, its wearer
     Would need it nevermore,
   By a sword thrust learning the secrets
     God keeps on yonder shore;
   And you wore your grief like glory,
     You would not yield supine,
   Who wrought in your patient childhood,
     "Elizabeth, Aged Nine."

9. Out of the way, in a corner,
     With hasp and padlock and key,
   Stands the oaken chest of my fathers
     That came from over the sea;
   And the hillside herbs above it
     Shake odors fragrant and fine,
   And here on its lid is a garland
     To "Elizabeth, aged nine."

10. For love is of the immortal,
      And patience is sublime,
    And trouble a thing of every day,
      And touching every time;
    And childhood sweet and sunny,
      And womanly truth and grace,
    Ever call light life's darkness
      And bless earth's lowliest place.
                                      —Mrs. M. E. Sangster.

DEFINITIONS.—2. Ward'er, a keeper, a guard. 3. An-tique', old, ancient.
Saf'fron, a deep yellow. 4. Cha-peau', a hat. 8. Su-pine', listless. 10.
Im-mort'al, undying.

NOTES.—6. Puritan. The Puritans were a religious sect who fled from persecution in England, and afterwards settled the most of New England.

A sampler is a needlework pattern; a species of fancywork formerly much in vogue.

1. Bless the Lord, O my soul! O Lord, my God, thou art very great; thou art clothed with honor and majesty: who coverest thyself with light as with a garment; who stretchest out the heavens like a curtain; who layeth the beams of his chambers in the waters; who maketh the clouds his chariot; who walketh upon the wings of the wind; who maketh his angels spirits, his ministers a flaming fire; who laid the foundations of the earth, that it should not be removed forever.

2. Thou coveredst it with the deep as with a garment: the waters stood above the mountains. At thy rebuke they fled; at the voice of thy thunder they hasted away. They go up by the mountains; they go down by the valleys unto the place which thou hast founded for them. Thou hast set a bound which they may not pass over; that they turn not again to cover the earth.

3. He sendeth the springs into the valleys, which run among the hills. They give drink to every beast of the field; the wild asses quench their thirst. By them shall the fowls of the heaven have their habitation, which sing among the branches. He watereth the hills from his chambers; the earth is satisfied with the fruit of thy works.

4. He caused the grass to grow for the cattle, and herb for the service of man, that he may bring forth food out of the earth; and wine that maketh glad the heart of man, and oil to make his face to shine, and bread which strengtheneth man's heart.

5. The trees of the Lord are full of sap; the cedars of Lebanon, which he hath planted, where the birds make their nests: as for the stork, the fir trees are her house. The high hills are a refuge for the wild goats, and the rocks for the conies.

6. He appointed the moon for seasons; the sun knoweth his going down. Thou makest darkness, and it is night, wherein all the beasts of the forest do creep forth. The young lions roar after their prey, and seek their meat from God. The sun ariseth, they gather themselves together, and lay them down in their dens. Man goeth forth unto his work, and to his labor until the evening.

7. O Lord, how manifold are thy works! in wisdom hast thou made them all: the earth is full of thy riches. So is this great and wide sea, wherein are things creeping innumerable, both small and great beasts. There go the ships: there is that leviathan, whom thou hast made to play therein. These wait all upon thee, that thou mayest give them their meat in due season.

8. That thou givest them they gather; thou openest thine hand, they are filled with good. Thou hidest thy face, they are troubled; thou takest away their breath, they die, and return to their dust. Thou sendest forth thy Spirit, they are created; and thou renewest the face of the earth.

9. The glory of the Lord shall endure forever: the Lord shall rejoice in his works. He looketh on the earth, and it trembleth: he toucheth the hills, and they smoke.

10. O that men would praise the Lord for his goodness, and for his wonderful works to the children of men! And let them sacrifice the sacrifices of thanksgiving, and declare his works with rejoicing.

11. O give thanks unto the Lord; call upon his name; make known his deeds among the people. Sing unto him, sing psalms unto him: talk ye of all his wondrous' works. Glory ye in his holy name: let the heart of them rejoice that seek the Lord. Seek the Lord, and his strength; seek his face evermore.

12. Remember his marvelous works that he hath done; his wonders, and the judgments of his mouth. He is the Lord our God; his judgments are in all the earth. I will sing unto the Lord as long as I live: I will sing praise to my God while I have my being. —Extracts from the Bible.

DEFINITIONS.—2. Found'ed, built, established. 3. Hab-i-ta' tion, place of abode. 5. Ref 'uge, shelter, protection. Co'ny, a kind of rabbit. 6. Ap-point'ed, ordained.

NOTES.—5. Cedars of Lebanon. A species of cedar, of great magnificence, formerly abundant in Mt. Lebanon and the Taurus Range in Asia Minor, but now almost entirely destroyed. The wood is durable and fragrant, and was used in the construction of costly buildings, such as the palace of David and Solomon's Temple.

7. Leviathan. This name is applied in the Old Testament to some huge water animal. In some cases it appears to mean the crocodile, but in others the whale or a large sea serpent.

1. Often into folly straying,
     O, my mother! how I've grieved her!
   Oft I've heard her for me praying,
     Till the gushing tears relieved her;
   And she gently rose and smiled,
   Whispering, "God will keep my child."

2. She was youthful then, and sprightly,
     Fondly on my father leaning,
   Sweet she spoke, her eyes shone brightly,
     And her words were full of meaning;
   Now, an autumn leaf decayed;
   I, perhaps, have made it fade.

3. But, whatever ills betide thee,
     Mother, in them all I share;
   In thy sickness watch beside thee,
     And beside thee kneel in prayer.
   Best of mothers! on my breast
   Lean thy head, and sink to rest.

Felicia Dorothea Hemans (b. 1794, d. 1835) was born in Liverpool, England. Her maiden name was Browne. Her childhood was spent in Wales. Her first volume of poems was published in 1808; her second in 1812. In 1812 she was married to Captain Hemans, but he left her about six years after their marriage, and they never again lived together. She went, with her five sons, to reside with her mother, then living near St. Asaph, in North Wales. Mrs. Hemans then resumed her literary pursuits, and wrote much and well. Her poetry is smooth and graceful, and she excels in description. Many of her poems are exceedingly beautiful.

1. Child, amid the flowers at play,
   While the red light fades away;
   Mother, with thine earnest eye,
   Ever following silently;
   Father, by the breeze at eve
   Called thy harvest work to leave;
   Pray! Ere yet the dark hours be,
   Lift the heart, and bend the knee.

2. Traveler, in the stranger's land,
   Far from thine own household band;
   Mourner, haunted by the tone
   Of a voice from this world gone;
   Captive, in whose narrow cell
   Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
   Sailor, on the darkening sea;
   Lift the heart and bend the knee.

3. Warrior, that from battle won,
   Breathest now at set of sun;
   Woman, o'er the lowly slain
   Weeping on his burial plain;
   Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
   Kindred by one holy tie,
   Heaven's first star alike ye see;
   Lift the heart, and bend the knee.

Characters.—SWIPES, a brewer; CURRIE, a saddler; FRANK MILLINGTON; and
SQUIRE DRAWL.

Swipes. A sober occasion, this, brother Currie. Who would have thought the old lady was so near her end?

Currie. Ah! we must all die, brother Swipes; and those who live the longest outlive the most.

Swipes. True, true; but, since we must die and leave our earthly possessions, it is well that the law takes such good care of us. Had the old lady her senses when she departed?

Cur. Perfectly, perfectly. Squire Drawl told me she read every word of the will aloud, and never signed her name better.

Swipes. Had you any hint from the Squire what disposition she made of her property?

Cur. Not a whisper; the Squire is as close as an underground tomb; but one of the witnesses hinted to me that she had cut off her graceless nephew, Frank, without a shilling.

Swipes. Has she, good soul, has she? You know I come in, then, in right of my wife.

Cur. And I in my own right; and this is no doubt the reason why we have been called to hear the reading of the will. Squire Drawl knows how things should be done, though he is as air-tight as one of your beer barrels. But here comes the young reprobate. He must be present, as a matter of course, you know. [Enter FRANK MILLINGTON.] Your servant, young gentleman. So your benefactress has left you at last.

Swipes. It is a painful thing to part with old and good friends, Mr.
Millington.

Frank. It is so, sir; but I could bear her loss better had I not so often been ungrateful for her kindness. She was my only friend, and I knew not her value.

Cur. It is too late to repent, Master Millington. You will now have a chance to earn your own bread.

Swipes. Ay, ay, or the sweat of your brow, as better people are obliged to. You would make a fine brewer's boy, if you were not too old.

Cur. Ay, or a saddler's lackey, if held with a tight rein.

Frank. Gentlemen, your remarks imply that my aunt has treated me as I deserved. I am above your insults, and only hope you will bear your fortune as modestly as I shall mine submissively. I shall retire. [Going: He meets SQUIRE DRAWL.]

Squire. Stop, stop, young man. We must have your presence. Good morning, gentlemen; you are early on the ground.

Cur. I hope the Squire is well to-day.

Squire. Pretty comfortable, for an invalid.

Swipes. I trust the damp air has not affected your lungs again.

Squire. No, I believe not. But, since the heirs at law are all convened, I shall now proceed to open the last will and testament of your deceased relative, according to law.

Swipes. [While the SQUIRE is breaking the seal,] It is a trying thing to leave all one's possessions, Squire; in this manner.

Cur. It really makes me feel melancholy when I look around and see everything but the venerable owner of these goods. Well did the Preacher say, "All is vanity."

Squire. Please to be seated, gentlemen. [He puts on his spectacles and begins to read slowly.] "Imprirmis; whereas, my nephew, Francis Millington, by his disobedience and ungrateful conduct, has shown himself unworthy of my bounty, and incapable of managing my large estate, I do hereby give and bequeath all my houses, farms, stocks, bonds, moneys, and property, both personal and real, to my dear cousins, Samuel Swipes, of Malt Street, brewer, and Christopher Currie, of Fly Court, saddler." [The SQUIRE here takes off his spectacles, and begins to wipe them very leisurely.]

Swipes. Generous creature! kind soul! I always loved her!

Cur. She was good, she was kind;—and, brother Swipes, when we divide, I think I'll take the mansion house.

Swipes. Not so fast, if you please, Mr. Currie. My wife has long had her eye upon that, and must have it.

Cur. There will be two words to that bargain, Mr. Swipes. And, besides, I ought to have the first choice. Did I not lend her a new chaise every time she wished to ride? And who knows what influence—

Swipes. Am I not named first in her will? and did I not furnish her with my best small beer for more than six months? And who knows—

Frank. Gentlemen, I must leave you. [Going.] Squire. [Putting on his spectacles very deliberately.] Pray, gentlemen, keep your seats, I have not done yet. Let me see; where was I? Ay, "All my property, both personal and real, to my dear cousins, Samuel Swipes, of Malt Street, brewer,"—

Swipes. Yes!

Squire. "And Christopher Currie, of Fly Court, saddler,"

Cur. Yes!

Squire. "To have and to hold, IN TRUST, for the sole and exclusive benefit of my nephew, Francis Millington, until he shall have attained the age of twenty-one years, by which time I hope he will have so far reformed his evil habits, as that he may safely be intrusted with the large fortune which I hereby bequeath to him."

Swipes. What is all this? You don't mean that we are humbugged? In trust!
How does that appear? Where is it?

Squire. There; in two words of as good old English as I ever penned.

Cur. Pretty well, too, Mr. Squire, if we must be sent for to be made a laughingstock of. She shall pay for every ride she has had out of my chaise, I promise you.

Swipes. And for every drop of my beer. Fine times, if two sober, hard-working citizens are to be brought here to be made the sport of a graceless profligate. But we will manage his property for him, Mr. Currie; we will make him feel that trustees are not to be trifled with.