FOOTNOTE:

FOOTNOTE:[10]By John Burroughs, an American writer on nature (1837- ).

[10]By John Burroughs, an American writer on nature (1837- ).

Expression: This and the selection which follows are fine examples of descriptive writing. Read them so that your hearers will understand every statement clearly and without special effort on their part. Talk about the various objects that are mentioned, and tell what you have learned about them from other sources.

Fancy yourself to be in a pretty country garden on a hot summer's morning. Perhaps you have been walking, or reading, or playing, but it is getting too hot now to do anything. So you have chosen the shadiest nook under the walnut tree, close to some pretty flower bed.

As you lie there you notice a gentle buzzing near you, and you see that on the flower bed close by several bees are working busily among the flowers. They do not seem to mind the heat, nor do they wish to rest; and they fly so lightly, and look so happy over their work, that it is pleasant to watch them.

That great bumblebee takes it leisurely enough as she goes lumbering along, poking her head into the larkspurs; she remains so long in each that you might almost think she had fallen asleep. The brown hive-bee, on the other hand, moves busily and quickly among the stocks, sweet peas, and mignonette. She is evidently out on active duty, and means to get all she can from each flower, so as to carry a good load back to the hive. In some blossoms she does not stay a moment, but draws her head back almost as soon as she has popped it in, as if to say, "No honey there." But over other flowers she lingers a little, and then scrambles out again with her drop of honey, and goes off to seek more.

Let us watch her a little more closely. There are many different plants growing in the flower bed, but, curiously enough, she does not go first to one kind and then to another, but keeps to one the whole time.

Now she flies away. Rouse yourself to follow her, and you will see she takes her way back to the hive. We all know why she makes so many journeys between the garden and the hive, and that she is collecting drops of nectar from the flowers and carrying it to the hive to be stored up in the honeycomb for the winter's food. When she comes back again to the garden, we will follow her in her work among the flowers, and see what she is doing for them in return for their gifts to her.

No doubt you have already learned that plants can make better and stronger seeds when they can get the pollen dust from other plants. But I am sure that you will be very much surprised to hear that the colors, the scent, and the curious shapes of the flowers are all so many baits to attract insects. And for what reason? In order that the insects may come and carry the pollen dust from one plant to another.

So far as we know, it is entirely for this purpose that the plants form honey in different parts of the flower. This food they prepare for the insects, and then they have all sorts of contrivances to entice the little creatures to come and get it. The plants hang out gay-colored signs, as much as to say:—

"Come to me, and I will give you honey, if you will bring me pollen dust in exchange."

If you watch the different kinds of grasses, sedges, and rushes, which have such tiny flowers that you can scarcely see them, you will find that no insects visit them. Neither will you ever find bees buzzing round oak trees, elms, or birches. But on the pretty and sweet-smelling apple blossoms you will find bees, wasps, and other insects.

The reason of this is that grasses, sedges, rushes, and oak trees have a great deal of pollen dust. As the wind blows them to and fro it wafts the dust from one flower to another. And so these plants do not need to give out honey, or to have gaudy or sweet-scented flowers to attract insects.

But the brilliant poppy, the large-flowered hollyhock, the flaunting dandelion, and the bright blue forget-me-not,—all these are visited by insects, which easily catch sight of them and hasten to sip their honey.

We must not forget what the fragrance of the flowers can do. Have you ever noticed the delicious odor which comes from beds of mignonette, mint, or sweet alyssum? These plants have found another way of attracting the insects; they have no need of bright colors, for their fragrance is quite as true and certain a guide. You will be surprised if you once begin to count them up, how many dull-looking flowers are sweet-scented, while some gaudy flowers have little or no scent. Still we find some flowers, like the beautiful lily, the lovely rose, and the delicate hyacinth, which have color and fragrance and graceful shapes all combined.

But there are still other ways by which flowers secure the visits of insects. Have you not observed that different flowers open and close at different times? The daisy receives its name "day's eye" because it opens at sunrise and closes at sunset, while the evening primrose spreads out its flowers just as the daisy is going to bed.What do you think is the reason of this? If you go near a bed of evening primroses just when the sun is setting, you will soon be able to guess. They will then give out such a sweet odor that you will not doubt for a moment that they are calling the evening moths to come and visit them. The daisy, however, opens by day and is therefore visited by day insects.

Again, some flowers close whenever rain is coming. Look at the daisies when a storm is threatening. As the sky grows dark and heavy, you will see them shrink and close till the sun shines again. They do this because in the center of the flower there is a drop of honey which would be spoiled if it were washed by the rain.

And now you will see why the cup-shaped flowers so often droop their heads,—think of the snowdrop, the lily-of-the-valley, and a host of others. How pretty they look with their bells hanging so modestly from the slender stalk! They are bending down to protect the honey within their cups.

We are gradually learning that everything which a plant does has its meaning, if we can only find it out. And when we are aware of this, a flower garden may become a new world to us if we open our eyes to all that is going on in it. And so we learn that even among insects and flowers, those who do most for others receive most in return. The bee and the flower do not reason about the matter; they only live their little lives as nature guides them, helping and improving each other.

I have been able to tell you but very little about the hidden work that is going on around us, and you must not for a moment imagine that we have fully explored the fairy land of nature. But at least we have passed through the gates, and have learned that there is a world of wonder which we may visit if we will. And it lies quite close to us, hidden in every dewdrop and gust of wind, in every brook and valley, in every little plant and animal.

FOOTNOTE:[11]From "The Fairy Land of Nature," by Arabella B. Buckley.

[11]From "The Fairy Land of Nature," by Arabella B. Buckley.

Expression: Make a list of all the natural objects that are mentioned in this selection. Read what is said of each. Describe as many of them as you can in your own words. Tell what you have observed about bees and flowers. The daisy that is referred to is the true European daisy. The daisy, or whiteweed, of the United States does not open and close in the manner here described.

A river went singing a-down to the sea,A-singing—low—singing—And the dim rippling river said softly to me,"I'm bringing, a-bringing—While floating along—A beautiful songTo the shores that are white where the waves are so weary,To the beach that is burdened with wrecks that are dreary."A song sweet and calmAs the peacefullest psalm;And the shore that was sadWill be grateful and glad,And the weariest wave from its dreariest dreamWill wake to the sound of the song of the stream;And the tempests shall ceaseAnd there shall be peace."From the fairest of fountainsAnd farthest of mountains,From the stillness of snowCame the stream in its flow.Down the slopes where the rocks are gray,Through the vales where the flowers are fair—Where the sunlight flashed—where the shadows layLike stories that cloud a face of care,The river ran on—and on—and on,Day and night, and night and day.Going and going, and never gone,Longing to flow to the "far away."Staying and staying, and never still,—Going and staying, as if one willSaid, "Beautiful river, go to the sea,"And another will whispered, "Stay with me"—And the river made answer, soft and low,"I go and stay—I stay and go.""But what is the song?" I said at lastTo the passing river that never passed;And a white, white wave whispered, "List to me,I'm a note in the song for the beautiful sea,A song whose grand accents no earth din may sever,And the river flows on in the same mystic keyThat blends in one chord the 'forever and never.'"

"A song sweet and calmAs the peacefullest psalm;And the shore that was sadWill be grateful and glad,And the weariest wave from its dreariest dreamWill wake to the sound of the song of the stream;And the tempests shall ceaseAnd there shall be peace."From the fairest of fountainsAnd farthest of mountains,From the stillness of snowCame the stream in its flow.

Down the slopes where the rocks are gray,Through the vales where the flowers are fair—Where the sunlight flashed—where the shadows layLike stories that cloud a face of care,The river ran on—and on—and on,Day and night, and night and day.Going and going, and never gone,Longing to flow to the "far away."Staying and staying, and never still,—Going and staying, as if one willSaid, "Beautiful river, go to the sea,"And another will whispered, "Stay with me"—And the river made answer, soft and low,"I go and stay—I stay and go."

"But what is the song?" I said at lastTo the passing river that never passed;And a white, white wave whispered, "List to me,I'm a note in the song for the beautiful sea,A song whose grand accents no earth din may sever,And the river flows on in the same mystic keyThat blends in one chord the 'forever and never.'"

FOOTNOTE:[12]By Abram J. Ryan, an American clergyman and poet.

[12]By Abram J. Ryan, an American clergyman and poet.

Expression: Read aloud the three lines which introduce the song of the river. Read them in such a manner as to call up a mental picture of the river on its way to the sea. Read the first five lines of the third stanza in a similar way, and tell what picture is now called up in your mind. Now read the river's song. Read what the white wave said. Read the whole poem with spirit and feeling.Notice the words "a-down," "a-singing," "a-bringing." What effect is produced by the use of these unusual forms?

Notice the words "a-down," "a-singing," "a-bringing." What effect is produced by the use of these unusual forms?

Out of the hills of Habersham,Down the valleys of Hall,I hurry amain to reach the plain,Run the rapid and leap the fall,Split at the rock and together again,Accept my bed or narrow or wide,And flee from folly on every sideWith a lover's pain to attain the plainFar from the hills of Habersham,Far from the valleys of Hall.All down the hills of Habersham,All through the valleys of Hall,The rushes cried, "Abide, abide,"The willful waterweeds held me thrall,The loving laurel turned my tide,The ferns and the fondling grass said, "Stay,"The dewberry dipped for to work delay,And the little reeds sighed, "Abide, abide,"Here in the hills of Habersham,Here in the valleys of Hall.High o'er the hills of Habersham,Veiling the valleys of Hall,The hickory told me manifoldFair tales of shade; the poplar tallWrought me her shadowy self to hold;The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,Said, "Pass not so cold, these manifoldDeep shades of the hills of Habersham,These glades in the valleys of Hall."And oft in the hills of Habersham,And oft in the valleys of Hall,The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook stoneDid bar me of passage with friendly brawl;And many a luminous jewel lone(Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist,Ruby, garnet, or amethyst)Made lures with the lights of streaming stoneIn the clefts of the hills of Habersham,In the beds of the valleys of Hall.

All down the hills of Habersham,All through the valleys of Hall,The rushes cried, "Abide, abide,"The willful waterweeds held me thrall,The loving laurel turned my tide,The ferns and the fondling grass said, "Stay,"The dewberry dipped for to work delay,And the little reeds sighed, "Abide, abide,"Here in the hills of Habersham,Here in the valleys of Hall.

High o'er the hills of Habersham,Veiling the valleys of Hall,The hickory told me manifoldFair tales of shade; the poplar tallWrought me her shadowy self to hold;The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,Said, "Pass not so cold, these manifoldDeep shades of the hills of Habersham,These glades in the valleys of Hall."

And oft in the hills of Habersham,And oft in the valleys of Hall,The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook stoneDid bar me of passage with friendly brawl;And many a luminous jewel lone(Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist,Ruby, garnet, or amethyst)Made lures with the lights of streaming stoneIn the clefts of the hills of Habersham,In the beds of the valleys of Hall.

FOOTNOTE:[13]By Sidney Lanier, an American musician and poet (1842-1881). From thePoems of Sidney Lanier, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

[13]By Sidney Lanier, an American musician and poet (1842-1881). From thePoems of Sidney Lanier, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

Expression: Compare this poem with the one which precedes it. Compare them both with Tennyson's "Song of the Brook" ("Fifth Reader," p. 249). Which is the most musical? Which is the best simply as a description?Make a list of the unusual words in this last poem, and refer to the dictionary for their meaning. In what state is the Chattahoochee River? "Habersham" and "Hall" are the names of two counties in the same state.If you have access to a library, find Southey's poem, "The Cataract of Lodore," and read it aloud.

Make a list of the unusual words in this last poem, and refer to the dictionary for their meaning. In what state is the Chattahoochee River? "Habersham" and "Hall" are the names of two counties in the same state.

If you have access to a library, find Southey's poem, "The Cataract of Lodore," and read it aloud.

We still hear war extolled at times as the mother of valor and the prime agency in the world's advancement. By it, we are told, civilization has spread and nations have been created, slavery has been abolished and the American Union preserved. It is even held that without war human progress would have been impossible.

The answer: Men were at first savages who preyed upon each other like wild beasts, and so they developed a physical courage which they shared with the brutes. Moral courage was unknown to them. War was almost their sole occupation. Peace existed only for short periods that tribes might regain strength to resume the sacred duty of killing each other.

Advancement in civilization was impossible while war reigned. Only as wars became less frequent and long intervals of peace supervened could civilization, the mother of true heroism, take root. Civilization has advanced just as war has receded, until in our day peace has become the rule and war the exception.

Arbitration of international disputes grows more and more in favor. Successive generations of men now live and die without seeing war; and instead of the army and navy furnishing the only careers worthy of gentlemen, it is with difficulty that civilized nations can to-day obtain a sufficient supply of either officers or men.

In the past, man's only method for removing obstacles and attaining desired ends was to use brute courage. The advance of civilization has developed moral courage. We use more beneficent means than men did of old. Britain in the eighteenth century used force to prevent American independence. In more recent times she graciously grants Canada the rights denied America.

The United States also receives an award of the powers against China, and, finding it in excess of her expenditures, in the spirit of newer time, returns ten million dollars. Won by this act of justice, China devotes the sum to the education of Chinese students in the republic's universities. The greatest force is no longer that of brutal war, but the supreme force of gentlemen and generosity—the golden rule.

The pen is rapidly superseding the sword. Arbitration is banishing war. More than five hundred international disputes have already been peacefully settled. Civilization, not barbarism, is the mother of true heroism. Our lately departed poet and disciple of peace, Richard Watson Gilder, has left us the answer to the false idea that brute force employed against our fellows ranks with heroic moral courage exerted to save or serve them:—

'Twas said: "When roll of drum and battle's roarShall cease upon the earth, oh, then no moreThe deed, the race, of heroes in the land."But scarce that word was breathed when one small handLifted victorious o'er a giant wrongThat had its victims crushed through ages long;Some woman set her pale and quivering face,Firm as a rock, against a man's disgrace;A little child suffered in silence lestHis savage pain should wound a mother's breast;Some quiet scholar flung his gauntlet downAnd risked, in Truth's great name, the synod's frown;A civic hero, in the calm realm of laws,Did that which suddenly drew a world's applause;And one to the pest his lithe young body gaveThat he a thousand thousand lives might save.

On the field of carnage men lose all human instincts in the struggle to protect themselves. The true heroism inspired by moral courage prompts firemen, policemen, sailors, miners, and others to volunteer and risk their lives to save the lives of their fellowmen. Such heroism is now of everyday occurrence.

In our age there is no more reason for permitting war between civilized nations than for relaxing the reign of law within nations, which compels men to submit their personal disputes to peaceful courts, and never dreams that by so doing they will be made less heroic....

When war ceases, the sense of human brotherhood will be strengthened and "heroism" will no longer mean to kill, but only to serve or save our fellows.

Let us suppose that four centuries ago some far-seeing prophet dared to predict to the duchies composing the kingdom of France that the day would come when they would no longer make war upon each other. Let us suppose him saying:—

"You will have many disputes to settle, interests to contend for, difficulties to resolve; but do you know what you will select instead of armed men, instead of cavalry, and infantry, of cannon, lances, pikes, and swords?

"You will select, instead of all this destructive array, a small box of wood, which you will term a ballot-box, and from what shall issue—what? An assembly—an assembly in which you shall all live; an assembly which shall be, as it were, the soul of all; a supreme and popular council, which shall decide, judge, resolve everything; which shall say to each, 'Here terminates your right, there commences your duty: lay down your arms!'

"And in that day you will all have one common thought, common interests, a common destiny; you will embrace each other, and recognize each other as children of the same blood and of the same race; that day you shall no longer be hostile tribes—you will be a people; you will be no longer merely Burgundy, Normandy, Brittany, Provence—you will be France!

You will no longer make appeals to war; you will do so to civilization."

If, at that period I speak of, some one had uttered these words, all men would have cried out: "What a dreamer! what a dream! How little this pretended prophet is acquainted with the human heart!" Yet time has gone on and on, and we find that this dream has been realized.

Well, then, at this moment we who are assembled here say to France, to England, to Spain, to Italy, to Russia: "A day will come, when from your hands also the arms they have grasped shall fall. A day will come, when war shall appear as impossible, and will be as impossible, between Paris and London, between St. Petersburg and Berlin, as it is now between Rouen and Amiens, between Boston and Philadelphia.

"A day will come, when you, France; you, Russia; you, Italy; you, England; you, Germany; all of you nations of the continent, shall, without losing your distinctive qualities and your glorious individuality, be blended into a superior unity, and shall constitute an European fraternity, just as Normandy, Brittany, Burgundy, Lorraine, have been blended into France. A day will come when the only battle field shall be the market open to commerce, and the mind open to new ideas. A day will come when bullets and shells shall be replaced by votes, by the universal suffrage of nations, by the arbitration of a great sovereign senate.

Nor is it necessary for four hundred years to pass away for that day to come. We live in a period in which a year often suffices to do the work of a century.

Suppose that the people of Europe, instead of mistrusting each other, entertaining jealousy of each other, hating each other, become fast friends; suppose they say that before they are French or English or German they are men, and that if nations form countries, human kind forms a family. Suppose that the enormous sums spent in maintaining armies should be spent in acts of mutual confidence. Suppose that the millions that are lavished on hatred, were bestowed on love, given to peace instead of war, given to labor, to intelligence, to industry, to commerce, to navigation, to agriculture, to science, to art.

If this enormous sum were expended in this manner, know you what would happen? The face of the world would be changed. Isthmuses would be cut through. Railroads would cover the continents; the merchant navy of the globe would be increased a hundredfold. There would be nowhere barren plains nor moors nor marshes. Cities would be found where now there are only deserts. Asia would be rescued to civilization; Africa would be rescued to man; abundance would gush forth on every side, from every vein of the earth at the touch of man, like the living stream from the rock beneath the rod of Moses.

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;Dream of battled fields no more,Days of danger, nights of waking.In our isle's enchanted hall,Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,Fairy strains of music fall,Every sense in slumber dewing.Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,Dream of fighting fields no more;Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,Morn of toil nor night of waking.No rude sound shall reach thine ear,Armor's clang, or war steed champing,Trump nor pibroch summon hereMustering clan or squadron tramping.Yet the lark's shrill fife may comeAt the daybreak from the fallow,And the bittern sound his drum,Booming from the sedgy shallow.Ruder sounds shall none be near,Guards nor warders challenge here,Here's no war steed's neigh and champing,Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear,Armor's clang, or war steed champing,Trump nor pibroch summon hereMustering clan or squadron tramping.Yet the lark's shrill fife may comeAt the daybreak from the fallow,And the bittern sound his drum,Booming from the sedgy shallow.Ruder sounds shall none be near,Guards nor warders challenge here,Here's no war steed's neigh and champing,Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping.

Our bugles sang truce, for the night cloud had lowered,And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain;At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.Methought from the battle field's dreadful array,Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track;'Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the wayTo the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oftIn life's morning march, when my bosom was young;I heard my own mountain goats bleating aloft,And knew the sweet strain that the corn reapers sung.Then pledged we the wine cup, and fondly I sworeFrom my home and my weeping friends never to part;My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,And my wife sobbed aloud in her fullness of heart."Stay, stay with us—rest, thou art weary and worn;"And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

Our bugles sang truce, for the night cloud had lowered,And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain;At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle field's dreadful array,Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track;'Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the wayTo the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oftIn life's morning march, when my bosom was young;I heard my own mountain goats bleating aloft,And knew the sweet strain that the corn reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine cup, and fondly I sworeFrom my home and my weeping friends never to part;My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,And my wife sobbed aloud in her fullness of heart.

"Stay, stay with us—rest, thou art weary and worn;"And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

How sleep the brave who sink to restBy all their country's wishes blest!When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,Returns to deck their hallowed mold,She there shall dress a sweeter sodThan Fancy's feet have ever trod.By fairy hands their knell is rung,By forms unseen their dirge is sung:There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,To bless the turf that wraps their clay,And Freedom shall awhile repairTo dwell a weeping hermit there.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,By forms unseen their dirge is sung:There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,To bless the turf that wraps their clay,And Freedom shall awhile repairTo dwell a weeping hermit there.

FOOTNOTES:[14]By Andrew Carnegie, a Scottish-American manufacturer andphilanthropist (1837- ).[15]By Victor Hugo, a celebrated French writer (1802-1885).[16]By Sir Walter Scott, a Scottish novelist and poet(1771-1832).[17]By Thomas Campbell, a Scottish poet (1777-1844).[18]By William Collins, an English poet (1721-1759).

[14]By Andrew Carnegie, a Scottish-American manufacturer andphilanthropist (1837- ).

[15]By Victor Hugo, a celebrated French writer (1802-1885).

[16]By Sir Walter Scott, a Scottish novelist and poet(1771-1832).

[17]By Thomas Campbell, a Scottish poet (1777-1844).

[18]By William Collins, an English poet (1721-1759).

Expression: Which one of these three poems requires to be read with most spirit and enthusiasm? Which is the most pathetic? Which is the most musical? Which calls up the most pleasing mental pictures?Talk with your teacher about the three authors of these poems, and learn all you can about their lives and writings.

Talk with your teacher about the three authors of these poems, and learn all you can about their lives and writings.

In those good old days of simplicity and sunshine, a passion for cleanliness was the leading principle in domestic economy, and the universal test of an able housewife.

The front door was never opened, except for marriages, funerals, New Year's Day, the festival of St. Nicholas, or some such great occasion. It was ornamented with a gorgeous brass knocker, which was curiously wrought,—sometimes in the device of a dog, and sometimes in that of a lion's head,—and daily burnished with such religious zeal that it was often worn out by the very precautions taken for its preservation.

The whole house was constantly in a state of inundation, under the discipline of mops and brooms and scrubbing brushes; and the good housewives of those days were a kind of amphibious animal, delighting exceedingly to be dabbling in water,—insomuch that an historian of the day gravely tells us that many of his townswomen grew to have webbed fingers, "like unto ducks."

The grand parlor was thesanctum sanctorum, where the passion for cleaning was indulged without control. No one was permitted to enter this sacred apartment, except the mistress and her confidential maid, who visited it once a week for the purpose of giving it a thorough cleaning. On these occasions they always took the precaution of leaving their shoes at the door, and entering devoutly in their stocking feet.

After scrubbing the floor, sprinkling it with fine white sand,—which was curiously stroked with a broom into angles and curves and rhomboids,—after washing the windows, rubbing and polishing the furniture, and putting a new branch of evergreens in the fireplace, the windows were again closed to keep out the flies, and the room was kept carefully locked, until the revolution of time brought round the weekly cleaning day.

As to the family, they always entered in at the gate, and generally lived in the kitchen. To have seen a numerous household assembled round the fire, one would have imagined that he was transported to those happy days of primeval simplicity which float before our imaginations like golden visions.

The fireplaces were of a truly patriarchal magnitude, where the whole family, old and young, master and servant, black and white,—nay, even the very cat and dog,—enjoyed a community of privilege, and had each a right to a corner. Here the old burgher would sit in perfect silence, puffing his pipe, looking in the fire with half-shut eyes, and thinking of nothing, for hours together; the good wife, on the opposite side, would employ herself diligently in spinning yarn or knitting stockings.

The young folks would crowd around the hearth, listening with breathless attention to some old crone of a negro, who was the oracle of the family, and who, perched like a raven in a corner of the chimney, would croak forth, for a long winter afternoon, a string of incredible stories about New England witches, grisly ghosts, and bloody encounters among Indians.

In those happy days, fashionable parties were generally confined to the higher classes, ornoblesse; that is to say, such as kept their own cows, and drove their own wagons. The company usually assembled at three o'clock, and went away about six, unless it was in winter time, when the fashionable hours were a little earlier, that the ladies might reach home before dark.

The tea table was crowned with a huge earthen dish, well stored with slices of fat pork, fried brown, cut up into morsels, and swimming in gravy. The company seated round the genial board, evinced their dexterity in launching their forks at the fattest pieces in this mighty dish,—in much the same manner that sailors harpoon porpoises at sea, or our Indians spear salmon in the lakes.

Sometimes the table was graced with immense apple pies, or saucers full of preserved peaches and pears; but it was always sure to boast an enormous dish of balls of sweetened dough, fried in hog's fat and called doughnuts orolykoeks, a delicious kind of cake, at present little known in this city, except in genuine Dutch families.

The tea was served out of a majestic Delft teapot, ornamented with paintings of fat little Dutch shepherds and shepherdesses tending pigs,—with boats sailing in the air, and houses built in the clouds, and sundry other ingenious Dutch fancies. The beaux distinguished themselves by their adroitness in replenishing this pot from a huge copper teakettle. To sweeten the beverage, a lump of sugar was laid beside each cup, and the company alternately nibbled and sipped with great decorum; until an improvement was introduced by a shrewd and economic old lady, which was to suspend, by a string from the ceiling, a large lump directly over the tea table, so that it could be swung from mouth to mouth.

At these primitive tea parties, the utmost propriety and dignity prevailed,—no flirting nor coquetting; no romping of young ladies; no self-satisfied struttings of wealthy gentlemen, with their brains in their pockets, nor amusing conceits and monkey divertisements of smart young gentlemen, with no brains at all.

On the contrary, the young ladies seated themselves demurely in their rush-bottomed chairs, and knit their own woolen stockings; nor ever opened their lips, excepting to say "Yah, Mynheer," or "Yah, yah, Vrouw," to any question that was asked them; behaving in all things like decent, well-educated damsels. As to the gentlemen, each of them tranquilly smoked his pipe, and seemed lost in contemplation of the blue and white tiles with which the fireplaces were decorated; wherein sundry passages of Scripture were piously portrayed. Tobit and his dog figured to great advantage; Haman swung conspicuously on his gibbet; and Jonah appeared most manfully leaping from the whale's mouth, like Harlequin through a barrel of fire.

FOOTNOTE:[19]From Diedrich Knickerbocker's, "History of New York," by Washington Irving.

[19]From Diedrich Knickerbocker's, "History of New York," by Washington Irving.

Notes: More than two hundred and fifty years have passed since the "good old days" described in this selection. New York in 1660 was a small place. It was called New Amsterdam, and its inhabitants were chiefly Dutch people from Holland. Knickerbocker's "History of New York" gives a delightfully humorous account of those early times.The festival of St. Nicholas occurs on December 6, and with the Dutch colonists was equivalent to our Christmas.Word Study:sanctum sanctorum, a Latin expression meaning "holy of holies," a most sacred place.noblesse, persons of high rank.olykoeks(ŏl´ y cooks), doughnuts, or crullers.Mynheer(mīn hār´), sir, Mr.Vrouw(vrou), madam, lady.Tobit, a pious man of ancient times whose story is related in "The Book of Tobit."Haman(ha´ man), the prime minister of the king of Babylon, who was hanged on a gibbet which he had prepared for another. See "The Book of Esther."Har´ le quin, a clown well known in Italian comedy.Look in the dictionary for:gorgeous,rhomboids,primeval,patriarchal,burgher,crone,porpoises,beverage,divertisements.

The festival of St. Nicholas occurs on December 6, and with the Dutch colonists was equivalent to our Christmas.

Word Study:sanctum sanctorum, a Latin expression meaning "holy of holies," a most sacred place.noblesse, persons of high rank.olykoeks(ŏl´ y cooks), doughnuts, or crullers.Mynheer(mīn hār´), sir, Mr.Vrouw(vrou), madam, lady.Tobit, a pious man of ancient times whose story is related in "The Book of Tobit."Haman(ha´ man), the prime minister of the king of Babylon, who was hanged on a gibbet which he had prepared for another. See "The Book of Esther."Har´ le quin, a clown well known in Italian comedy.Look in the dictionary for:gorgeous,rhomboids,primeval,patriarchal,burgher,crone,porpoises,beverage,divertisements.

Shut in from all the world without,We sat the clean-winged hearth about,Content to let the north wind roarIn baffled rage at pane and door,While the red logs before us beatThe frost line back with tropic heat;And ever, when a louder blastShook beam and rafter as it passed,The merrier up its roaring draftThe great throat of the chimney laughed.The house dog on his paws outspreadLaid to the fire his drowsy head,The cat's dark silhouette on the wallA couchant tiger's seemed to fall;And, for the winter fireside meet,Between the andirons' straddling feetThe mug of cider simmered slow,And apples sputtered in a row.And, close at hand, the basket stoodWith nuts from brown October's woods.What matter how the night behaved?What matter how the north wind raved?Blow high, blow low, not all its snowCould quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow.

The house dog on his paws outspreadLaid to the fire his drowsy head,The cat's dark silhouette on the wallA couchant tiger's seemed to fall;And, for the winter fireside meet,Between the andirons' straddling feetThe mug of cider simmered slow,And apples sputtered in a row.And, close at hand, the basket stoodWith nuts from brown October's woods.

What matter how the night behaved?What matter how the north wind raved?Blow high, blow low, not all its snowCould quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow.

A Winter Evening in Old New England.A Winter Evening in Old New England.

I do not know but it is that old New England holiday of Thanksgiving which, for one of New England birth, has most of home associations tied up with it, and most of gleeful memories. I know that they are very present ones.

We all knew when it was coming; we all loved turkey—not Turkey on the map, for which we cared very little after we had once bounded it—by the Black Sea on the east, and by something else on the other sides—but basted turkey, brown turkey, stuffed turkey. Here was richness!

We had scored off the days until we were sure, to a recitation mark, when it was due—well into the end of November, when winds would be blowing from the northwest, with great piles of dry leaves all down the sides of the street and in the angles of pasture walls.

I cannot for my life conceive why any one should upset the old order of things by marking it down a fortnight earlier. A man in the country wants his crops well in and housed before he is ready to gush out with a round, outspoken Thanksgiving; but everybody knows, who knows anything about it, that the purple tops and the cow-horn turnips are, nine times in ten, left out till the latter days of November, and husking not half over.

We all knew, as I said, when it was coming. We had a stock of empty flour barrels on Town-hill stuffed with leaves, and a big pole set in the ground, and a battered tar barrel, with its bung chopped out, to put on top of the pole. It was all to beat the last year's bonfire—and it did. The country wagoners had made their little stoppages at the back door. We knew what was to come of that. And if the old cook—a monstrous fine woman, who weighed two hundred if she weighed a pound—was brusque and wouldn't have us "round," we knew what was to come of that, too. Such pies as hers demanded thoughtful consideration: not very large, and baked in scalloped tins, and with such a relishy flavor to them, as on my honor, I do not recognize in any pies of this generation....

The sermon on that Thanksgiving (and we all heard it) was long. We boys were prepared for that too. But we couldn't treat a Thanksgiving sermon as we would an ordinary one; we couldn't doze—there was too much ahead. It seemed to me that the preacher made rather a merit of holding us in check—with that basted turkey in waiting. At last, though, it came to an end; and I believe Dick and I both joined in the doxology.

All that followed is to me now a cloud of misty and joyful expectation, until we took our places—a score or more of cousins and kinsfolk; and the turkey, and celery, and cranberries, and what nots, were all in place.

Did Dick whisper to me as we went in, "Get next to me, old fellow"?

I cannot say; I have a half recollection that he did. But bless me! what did anybody care for what Dick said?

And the old gentleman who bowed his head and said grace—there is no forgetting him. And the little golden-haired one who sat at his left—his pet, his idol—who lisped the thanksgiving after him, shall I forget her, and the games of forfeit afterwards at evening that brought her curls near to me?

These fifty years she has been gone from sight, and is dust. What an awful tide of Thanksgivings has drifted by since she bowed her golden locks, and clasped her hand, and murmured, "Our Father, we thank thee for this, and for all thy bounties!"

Who else? Well, troops of cousins—good, bad, and indifferent. No man is accountable for his cousins, I think; or if he is, the law should be changed. If a man can't speak honestly of cousinhood, to the third or fourth degree, whatcanhe speak honestly of? Didn't I see little Floy (who wore pea-green silk) make a saucy grimace when I made a false cut at that rolypoly turkey drumstick and landed it on the tablecloth?

There was that scamp Tom, too, who loosened his waistcoat before he went into dinner. I saw him do it. Didn't he make faces at me, till he caught a warning from Aunt Polly's uplifted finger?

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