FOOTNOTE:

Christmas Eve at Fezziwig's.Christmas Eve at Fezziwig's.

When the clock struck eleven, this domestic ball broke up. Mr. and Mrs. Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side of the door, and shaking hands with every person individually as he or she went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas. When everybody had retired but the two apprentices, they did the same to them; and thus the cheerful voices died away and the lads were left to their beds—which were under a counter in the back shop.

FOOTNOTE:[26]From "A Christmas Carol," by Charles Dickens.

[26]From "A Christmas Carol," by Charles Dickens.

The holly! the holly! oh, twine it with bay—Come give the holly a song;For it helps to drive stern winter away,With his garment so somber and long;It peeps through the trees with its berries of red,And its leaves of burnished green,When the flowers and fruits have long been dead,And not even the daisy is seen.Then sing to the holly, the Christmas holly,That hangs over peasant and king;While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glittering boughs,To the Christmas holly we'll sing.

FOOTNOTE:[27]By Eliza Cook, an English poet (1818-1889).

[27]By Eliza Cook, an English poet (1818-1889).

Expression: Imagine that you see Mr. Fezziwig with his apprentices preparing for the Christmas festivities. What is your opinion of him? Now read the story, paragraph by paragraph, trying to make it as interesting to your hearers as a real visit to Fezziwig warehouse would have been.

The Old Year being dead, the New Year came of age, which he does by Calendar Law as soon as the breath is out of the old gentleman's body. Nothing would serve the youth but he must give a dinner upon the occasion, to which all the Days of the Year were invited.

The Festivals, whom he appointed as his stewards, were mightily taken with the notion. They had been engaged time out of mind, they said, in providing mirth and cheer for mortals below; and it was time that they should have a taste of their bounty.

All the Days came to dinner. Covers were provided for three hundred and sixty-five guests at the principal table; with an occasional knife and fork at the sideboard for the Twenty-ninth of February.

I should have told you that cards of invitation had been sent out. The carriers were the Hours—twelve as merry little whirligig footpages as you should desire to see. They went all round, and found out the persons invited well enough, with the exception of Easter Day, Shrove Tuesday, and a few such Movables, who had lately shifted their quarters.

Well, they were all met at last, four Days, five Days, all sorts of Days, and a rare din they made of it. There was nothing but "Hail! fellow Day!" "Well met, brother Day! sister Day!" only Lady Day kept a little on the aloof and seemed somewhat scornful. Yet some said that Twelfth Day cut her out, for she came in a silk suit, white and gold, like a queen on a frost-cake, all royal and glittering.

The rest came, some in green, some in white—but Lent and his family were not yet out of mourning. Rainy Days came in dripping, and Sunshiny Days helped them to change their stockings. Wedding Day was there in his marriage finery. Pay Day came late, as he always does. Doomsday sent word he might be expected.

April Fool (as my lord's jester) took upon himself to marshal the guests. And wild work he made of it; good Days, bad Days, all were shuffled together. He had stuck the Twenty-first of June next to the Twenty-second of December, and the former looked like a Maypole by the side of a marrow bone. Ash Wednesday got wedged in betwixt Christmas and Lord Mayor's Day.

At another part of the table, Shrove Tuesday was helping the Second of September to some broth, which courtesy the latter returned with the delicate thigh of a pheasant. The Last of Lent was springing upon Shrovetide's pancakes; April Fool, seeing this, told him that he did well, for pancakes were proper to a good fry-day.

May Day, with that sweetness which is her own, made a neat speech proposing the health of the founder. This being done, the lordly New Year from the upper end of the table, in a cordial but somewhat lofty tone, returned thanks.

They next fell to quibbles and conundrums. The question being proposed, who had the greatest number of followers—the Quarter Days said there could be no question as to that; for they had all the creditors in the world dogging their heels. But April Fool gave it in favor of the Forty Days before Easter; because the debtors in all cases outnumbered the creditors, and they kept Lent all the year.

At last, dinner being ended, the Days called for their cloaks, and great coats, and took their leaves. Lord Mayor's Day went off in a Mist as usual; Shortest Day in a deep black Fog, which wrapped the little gentleman all round like a hedgehog.

Two Vigils, or watchmen, saw Christmas Day safe home. Another Vigil—a stout, sturdy patrol, called the Eve of St. Christopher—escorted Ash Wednesday.

Longest Day set off westward in beautiful crimson and gold—the rest, some in one fashion, some in another, took their departure.

FOOTNOTE:[28]By Charles Lamb, an English essayist and humorist (1775-1834).

[28]By Charles Lamb, an English essayist and humorist (1775-1834).

Expression: What holidays are named in this selection? What holidays do you know about that were not present at this dinner? Refer to the dictionary and learn about all the days here mentioned. Select the humorous passages in this story, and tell why you think they are humorous.

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

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 annual 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?

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 of 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 am pasted on my front.

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.

At this sultry noontide, I am cupbearer to the parched populace, for whose benefit an iron goblet is chained to my waist. Like a dram seller 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!"

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.

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.

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.

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 draft 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.

The Town Pump.The Town Pump.

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.

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?

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.

I hold myself the grand reformer of the age. From the Town Pump, as from other sources of water supply, must flow the stream that will cleanse our earth of a vast portion of the 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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

FOOTNOTE:[29]By Nathaniel Hawthorne, an American writer of romances and short stories (1804-1864).

[29]By Nathaniel Hawthorne, an American writer of romances and short stories (1804-1864).

Expression: Read this selection again and again until you understand it clearly and appreciate its rare charm. Study each paragraph separately, observing how the topic of each is developed. Select the expressions which are the most pleasing to you. Tell why each pleases.Did you ever see a town pump? In the cities and larger towns, what has taken its place? Can we imagine a hydrant or a water faucet talking as this town pump did? If Hawthorne were writing to-day, would he represent the town pump as the "chief person of the municipality"? Discuss this question fully.Talk with your teacher about the life and works of the author of this selection. If you have access to any of his books, bring them to the class and read selections from them. Compare the style of this story with that of the selection from Dickens, page22; or from Thackeray, page27; or from Goldsmith, page94.Word Study: Refer to the dictionary for the pronunciation and meaning of:perpetuity,constable,municipality,cognac,quaff,rubicund,Tophet,decanter,titillation,capacious.

Did you ever see a town pump? In the cities and larger towns, what has taken its place? Can we imagine a hydrant or a water faucet talking as this town pump did? If Hawthorne were writing to-day, would he represent the town pump as the "chief person of the municipality"? Discuss this question fully.

Talk with your teacher about the life and works of the author of this selection. If you have access to any of his books, bring them to the class and read selections from them. Compare the style of this story with that of the selection from Dickens, page22; or from Thackeray, page27; or from Goldsmith, page94.

Word Study: Refer to the dictionary for the pronunciation and meaning of:perpetuity,constable,municipality,cognac,quaff,rubicund,Tophet,decanter,titillation,capacious.

Come up from the fields, father; here's a letter from our Pete,And come to the front door, mother; here's a letter from thy dear son.Lo, 'tis autumn;Lo, where the fields, deeper green, yellower and redder,Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages, with leaves fluttering in the moderate wind;Where apples ripe in the orchards hang, and grapes on the trellised vines,(Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines?Smell you the buckwheat, where the bees were lately buzzing?)Above all, lo! the sky so calm, so transparent after the rain, and with wondrous clouds;Below, too, all calm, all vital and beautiful,—and the farm prospers well.Down in the fields all prospers well;But now from the fields come, father,—come at the daughter's call;And come to the entry, mother,—to the front door come, right away.Fast as she can she hurries,—something ominous,—her steps trembling;She does not tarry to smooth her white hair, nor adjust her cap.Open the envelope quickly;Oh, this is not our son's writing, yet his name is signed!Oh, a strange hand writes for our dear son—O stricken mother's soul!All swims before her eyes,—flashes with black,—she catches the main words only;Sentences broken,—gunshot wound in the breast—cavalry skirmish, taken to hospital,At present low, but will soon be better.Ah! now the single figure to meAmid all teeming and wealthy Ohio, with all its cities and farms,Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint,By the jamb of a door leans.Grieve not so, dear mother(the just grown daughter speaks through her sobs;The little sisters huddle around, speechless and dismayed).See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better.Alas, poor boy! he will never be better (nor, maybe, needs to be better, that brave and simple soul).While they stand at home at the door he is dead already,The only son is dead.

Where apples ripe in the orchards hang, and grapes on the trellised vines,(Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines?Smell you the buckwheat, where the bees were lately buzzing?)Above all, lo! the sky so calm, so transparent after the rain, and with wondrous clouds;Below, too, all calm, all vital and beautiful,—and the farm prospers well.

Down in the fields all prospers well;But now from the fields come, father,—come at the daughter's call;And come to the entry, mother,—to the front door come, right away.Fast as she can she hurries,—something ominous,—her steps trembling;She does not tarry to smooth her white hair, nor adjust her cap.

Open the envelope quickly;Oh, this is not our son's writing, yet his name is signed!Oh, a strange hand writes for our dear son—O stricken mother's soul!All swims before her eyes,—flashes with black,—she catches the main words only;Sentences broken,—gunshot wound in the breast—cavalry skirmish, taken to hospital,At present low, but will soon be better.

Ah! now the single figure to meAmid all teeming and wealthy Ohio, with all its cities and farms,Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint,By the jamb of a door leans.

Grieve not so, dear mother(the just grown daughter speaks through her sobs;The little sisters huddle around, speechless and dismayed).See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better.Alas, poor boy! he will never be better (nor, maybe, needs to be better, that brave and simple soul).While they stand at home at the door he is dead already,The only son is dead.

"Come up from the fields, father.""Come up from the fields, father."

But the mother needs to be better;She, with thin form, presently dressed in black;By day her meals untouched,—then at night fitfully sleeping, often waking,In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing,Oh, that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from life, escape and withdraw,To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son!

FOOTNOTE:[30]By Walt Whitman, an American poet (1819-1892).

[30]By Walt Whitman, an American poet (1819-1892).

Expression: This poem is descriptive of an incident which occurred during the Civil War. There were many such incidents, both in the North and in the South. Read the selection silently to understand its full meaning. Who are the persons pictured to your imagination after reading it? Describe the place and the time.Now read the poem aloud, giving full expression to its pathetic meaning. Select the most striking descriptive passage and read it. Select the stanza which seems to you the most touching, and read it.Study now the peculiarities of the poem. Do the lines rime? Are they of similar length? What can you say about the meter?Compare this poem with the two gems from Browning, pages38and41. Compare it with the selection from Longfellow, page54; with that from Lanier, page66. How does it differ from any or all of these? What is poetry? Name three great American poets; three great English poets.

Now read the poem aloud, giving full expression to its pathetic meaning. Select the most striking descriptive passage and read it. Select the stanza which seems to you the most touching, and read it.

Study now the peculiarities of the poem. Do the lines rime? Are they of similar length? What can you say about the meter?

Compare this poem with the two gems from Browning, pages38and41. Compare it with the selection from Longfellow, page54; with that from Lanier, page66. How does it differ from any or all of these? What is poetry? Name three great American poets; three great English poets.

Fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation—or any nation so conceived and so dedicated—can long endure.

We are met on a great battle field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as the final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow, this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note nor long remember what we say here; but it can never forget what they did here.

It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us;—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion;—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

FOOTNOTE:[31]By Abraham Lincoln, at the dedication of the National Cemetery, 1863.

[31]By Abraham Lincoln, at the dedication of the National Cemetery, 1863.

Sleep sweetly in your humble graves,Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause;Though yet no marble column cravesThe pilgrim here to pause.In seeds of laurel in the earthThe blossom of your fame is blown,And somewhere, waiting for its birth,The shaft is in the stone.Meanwhile, behalf the tardy yearsWhich keep in trust your storied tombs,Behold! Your sisters bring their tearsAnd these memorial blooms.Small tribute! but your shades will smileMore proudly on these wreathes to-day,Than when some cannon-molded pileShall overlook this bay.Stoop, angels, hither from the skies!There is no holier spot of groundThan where defeated valor lies,By mourning beauty crowned.

Sleep sweetly in your humble graves,Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause;Though yet no marble column cravesThe pilgrim here to pause.

In seeds of laurel in the earthThe blossom of your fame is blown,And somewhere, waiting for its birth,The shaft is in the stone.

Meanwhile, behalf the tardy yearsWhich keep in trust your storied tombs,Behold! Your sisters bring their tearsAnd these memorial blooms.

Small tribute! but your shades will smileMore proudly on these wreathes to-day,Than when some cannon-molded pileShall overlook this bay.

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies!There is no holier spot of groundThan where defeated valor lies,By mourning beauty crowned.

FOOTNOTE:[32]By Henry Timrod, an American poet (1829-1867).

[32]By Henry Timrod, an American poet (1829-1867).

Orestes? He is dead. I will tell all as it happen

He journeyed forth to attend the great games which Hellas counts her pride, to join the Delphic contests. There he heard the herald's voice, with loud and clear command, proclaim, as coming first, the chariot race, and so he entered, radiant, every eye admiring as he passed. And in the race he equaled all the promise of his form in those his rounds, and so with noblest prize of conquest left the ground.

Summing up in fewest words what many scarce could tell, I know of none in strength and act like him. And having won the prize in all the fivefold forms of race which the umpires had proclaimed, he then was hailed, proclaimed an Argive, and his name Orestes, the son of mighty Agamemnon, who once led Hellas's glorious host.

So far, well. But when a god will injure, none can escape, strong though he be. For lo! another day, when, as the sun was rising, came the race swift-footed of the chariot and the horse, he entered the contest with many charioteers. One was an Achæan, one was from Sparta, two were from Libya with four-horsed chariots, and Orestes with swift Thessalian mares came as the fifth. A sixth, with bright bay colts, came from Ætolia; the seventh was born in far Magnesia; the eighth was an Ænian with white horses; the ninth was from Athens, the city built by the gods; the tenth and last was a Bœotian.

The Chariot Race.The Chariot Race.

And so they stood, their cars in order as the umpires had decided by lot. Then, with sound of brazen trumpet, they started.

All cheering their steeds at the same moment, they shook the reins, and at once the course was filled with the clash and din of rattling chariots, and the dust rose high. All were now commingled, each striving to pass the hubs of his neighbors' wheels. Hard and hot were the horses' breathings, and their backs and the chariot wheels were white with foam.

Each charioteer, when he came to the place where the last stone marks the course's goal, turned the corner sharply, letting go the right-hand trace horse and pulling the nearer in. And so, at first, the chariots kept their course; but, at length, the Ænian's unbroken colts, just as they finished their sixth or seventh round, turned headlong back and dashed at full speed against the chariot wheels of those who were following. Then with tremendous uproar, each crashed on the other, they fell overturned, and Crissa's broad plain was filled with wreck of chariots.

The man from Athens, skilled and wise as a charioteer, saw the mischief in time, turned his steeds aside, and escaped the whirling, raging surge of man and horse. Last of all, Orestes came, holding his horses in check, and waiting for the end. But when he saw the Athenian, his only rival left, he urged his colts forward, shaking the reins and speeding onward. And now the twain continued the race, their steeds sometimes head to head, sometimes one gaining ground, sometimes the other; and so all the other rounds were passed in safety.

Upright in his chariot still stood the ill-starred hero. Then, just as his team was turning, he let loose the left rein unawares, and struck the farthest pillar, breaking the spokes right at his axles' center. Slipping out of his chariot, he was dragged along, with reins dissevered. His frightened colts tore headlong through the midst of the field; and the people, seeing him in his desperate plight, bewailed him greatly—so young, so noble, so unfortunate, now hurled upon the ground, helpless, lifeless.

The charioteers, scarcely able to restrain the rushing steeds, freed the poor broken body—so mangled that not one of all his friends would have known whose it was. They built a pyre and burned it; and now they bear hither, in a poor urn of bronze, the sad ashes of that mighty form—that so Orestes may have his tomb in his fatherland.

Such is my tale, full sad to hear; but to me who saw this accident, nothing can ever be more sorrowful.

FOOTNOTE:[33]Translated from the "Electra" of Sophocles, written about 450 years before Christ. The narrative is supposed to have been related by the friend and attendant of the hero, Orestes.

[33]Translated from the "Electra" of Sophocles, written about 450 years before Christ. The narrative is supposed to have been related by the friend and attendant of the hero, Orestes.

I crossed the Forum to the foot of the Palatine, and, ascending the Via Sacra, passed beneath the Arch of Titus. From this point I saw below me the gigantic outline of the Coliseum, like a cloud resting upon the earth.

As I descended the hillside, it grew more broad and high,—more definite in its form, and yet more grand in its dimensions,—till, from the vale in which it stands encompassed by three of the Seven Hills of Rome, the majestic ruin in all its solitary grandeur "swelled vast to heaven."

A single sentinel was pacing to and fro beneath the arched gateway which leads to the interior, and his measured footsteps were the only sound that broke the breathless silence of night.

What a contrast with the scene which that same midnight hour presented, when in Domitian's time the eager populace began to gather at the gates, impatient for the morning sports! Nor was the contrast within less striking. Silence, and the quiet moonbeams, and the broad, deep shadow of the ruined wall!

Where now were the senators of Rome, her matrons, and her virgins? Where was the ferocious populace that rent the air with shouts, when, in the hundred holidays that marked the dedication of this imperial slaughter house, five thousand wild beasts from the Libyan deserts and the forests of Anatolia made the arena sick with blood?

Where were the Christian martyrs that died with prayers upon their lips, amid the jeers and imprecations of their fellow men? Where were the barbarian gladiators, brought forth to the festival of blood, and "butchered to make a Roman holiday"?

The awful silence answered, "They are mine!" The dust beneath me answered, "They are mine!"

FOOTNOTE:[34]From "Outre Mer," by Henry W. Longfellow.

[34]From "Outre Mer," by Henry W. Longfellow.

Expression: Learn all you can about the Coliseum. When was it built? by whom? For what was it used?Word Study:Forum,Palatine,Via Sacra,Titus,Domitian,Libyan,Anatolia.

Expression: Learn all you can about the Coliseum. When was it built? by whom? For what was it used?

Word Study:Forum,Palatine,Via Sacra,Titus,Domitian,Libyan,Anatolia.

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,That was built in such a logical wayIt ran a hundred years to a day,And then, of a sudden, it—ah, but stay,I'll tell you what happened, without delay,Scaring the parson into fits,Frightening people out of their wits,—Have you ever heard of that, I say?Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.Georgius Secunduswas then alive,—Snuffy old drone from the German hive.That was the year when Lisbon townSaw the earth open and gulp her down,And Braddock's army was done so brown,Left without a scalp to its crown.It was on the terrible Earthquake dayThat the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,There is alwayssomewherea weakest spot,—In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,—lurking still,Find it somewhere, you must and will,—Above or below, or within or without,—And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,A chaisebreaks down, but doesn'twear out.But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,With an "I dew vum," or an "I tellyeou,")He would build one shay to beat the taown'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';It should be so built that itcouldn'break daown:"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plainThut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,Is only jestT' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.Georgius Secunduswas then alive,—Snuffy old drone from the German hive.That was the year when Lisbon townSaw the earth open and gulp her down,And Braddock's army was done so brown,Left without a scalp to its crown.It was on the terrible Earthquake dayThat the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,There is alwayssomewherea weakest spot,—In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,—lurking still,Find it somewhere, you must and will,—Above or below, or within or without,—And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,A chaisebreaks down, but doesn'twear out.

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,With an "I dew vum," or an "I tellyeou,")He would build one shay to beat the taown'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';It should be so built that itcouldn'break daown:"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plainThut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,Is only jestT' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

The Deacon's Masterpiece.The Deacon's Masterpiece.

So the Deacon inquired of the village folkWhere he could find the strongest oak,That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,That was for spokes and floor and sills;He sent for lancewood to make the thills;The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees;The panels of white wood, that cuts like cheese,But lasts like iron for things like these;The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"Last of its timber,—they couldn't sell 'em,Never an ax had seen their chips,And the wedges flew from between their lips,Their blunt ends frizzled like celery tips;Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin, too,Steel of the finest, bright and blue;Thoroughbrace bison skin, thick and wide;Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hideFound in the pit when the tanner died.That was the way he "put her through."—"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew."Do! I tell you, I rather guessShe was a wonder, and nothing less!Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,Deacon and deaconess dropped away,Children and grandchildren—where were they?But there stood the stout old one-hoss shayAs fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake day!Eighteen hundred,—it came and foundThe Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound,Eighteen hundred increased by ten,—"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.Eighteen hundred and twenty came,—Running as usual; much the same.Thirty and forty at last arrive,And then come fifty andFIFTY-FIVE.Little of all we value hereWakes on the morn of its hundredth yearWithout both feeling and looking queer.In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,So far as I know, but a tree and truth.(This is a moral that runs at large;Take it,—You're welcome.—No extra charge.)First of November,—the Earthquake day.—There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,A general flavor of mild decay,But nothing local, as one may say.There couldn't be,—for the Deacon's artHad made it so like in every partThat there wasn't a chance for one to start,For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,And the floor was just as strong as the sills,And the panels just as strong as the floor,And the whippletree neither less nor more,And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,And spring and axle and hubencore.And yet, as awhole, it is past a doubtIn another hour it will beworn out!

Do! I tell you, I rather guessShe was a wonder, and nothing less!Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,Deacon and deaconess dropped away,Children and grandchildren—where were they?But there stood the stout old one-hoss shayAs fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake day!

Eighteen hundred,—it came and foundThe Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound,Eighteen hundred increased by ten,—"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.Eighteen hundred and twenty came,—Running as usual; much the same.Thirty and forty at last arrive,And then come fifty andFIFTY-FIVE.

Little of all we value hereWakes on the morn of its hundredth yearWithout both feeling and looking queer.In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,So far as I know, but a tree and truth.(This is a moral that runs at large;Take it,—You're welcome.—No extra charge.)

First of November,—the Earthquake day.—There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,A general flavor of mild decay,But nothing local, as one may say.There couldn't be,—for the Deacon's artHad made it so like in every partThat there wasn't a chance for one to start,For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,And the floor was just as strong as the sills,And the panels just as strong as the floor,And the whippletree neither less nor more,And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,And spring and axle and hubencore.And yet, as awhole, it is past a doubtIn another hour it will beworn out!

First of November, Fifty-five!This morning the parson takes a drive.Now, small boys, get out of the way!Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay."Huddup!" said the parson.—Off went they.The parson was working his Sunday's text,—Had got tofifthly, and stopped perplexedAt what the—Moses—was coming next.All at once the horse stood still,Close by the meet'n'house on the hill.—First a shiver, and then a thrill,Then something decidedly like a spill,—And the parson was sitting upon a rock,At half-past nine by the meet'n'house clock,—Just the hour of the earthquake shock!—What do you think the parson found,When he got up and stared around?The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,As if it had been to the mill and ground.You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,How it went to pieces all at once,—All at once, and nothing first,—Just as bubbles do when they burst.End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.Logic is logic. That's all I say.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.Logic is logic. That's all I say.

FOOTNOTE:[35]From "The Autocrat or the Breakfast Table," by Oliver Wendell Holmes, a noted American author and physician (1809—1894).

[35]From "The Autocrat or the Breakfast Table," by Oliver Wendell Holmes, a noted American author and physician (1809—1894).

Expression: Read the selection silently to appreciate its humor. Now read it aloud with careful attention to naturalness of expression. Study the historical allusions—"Georgius Secundus," "Lisbon town," "Braddock's army," "the Earthquake day," etc.Read again the passages in which dialect expressions occur. Try to speak these passages as the author intended them to be spoken.Select the passages which appeal most strongly to your sense of humor. Read them in such manner as to make their humorous quality thoroughly appreciable to those who listen to you.Now study the selection as a poem, comparing it with several typical poems which you have already studied. Remembering your definition of poetry (page138), what is the real poetical value of this delightful composition? Is it a true poem? Find some other poems written by Dr. Holmes. Bring them to the class and read them aloud.Talk with your teacher about the life of Dr. Holmes and about his prose and poetical works. As a poet, how does he compare with Longfellow? with Whittier? with Walt Whitman? with Browning?

Read again the passages in which dialect expressions occur. Try to speak these passages as the author intended them to be spoken.

Select the passages which appeal most strongly to your sense of humor. Read them in such manner as to make their humorous quality thoroughly appreciable to those who listen to you.

Now study the selection as a poem, comparing it with several typical poems which you have already studied. Remembering your definition of poetry (page138), what is the real poetical value of this delightful composition? Is it a true poem? Find some other poems written by Dr. Holmes. Bring them to the class and read them aloud.

Talk with your teacher about the life of Dr. Holmes and about his prose and poetical works. As a poet, how does he compare with Longfellow? with Whittier? with Walt Whitman? with Browning?

Most people agree that the dog has intelligence, a heart, and possibly a soul; on the other hand, they declare that the cat is a traitor, a deceiver, an ingrate, a thief. How many persons have I heard say: "Oh, I can't bear a cat! The cat has no love for its master; it cares only for the house. I had one once, for I was living in the country, where there were mice. One day the cook left on the kitchen table a chicken she had just prepared for cooking; in came the cat, and carried it off, and we never saw a morsel of it. Oh, I hate cats; I will never have one."

True, the cat is unpopular. Her reputation is bad, and she makes no effort to improve the general opinion which people have of her. She cares as little about your opinion as does the Sultan of Turkey. And—must I confess—this is the very reason I love her.

In this world, no one can long be indifferent to things, whether trivial or serious—if, indeed, anything is serious. Hence, every person must, sooner or later, declare himself on the subjects of dogs and cats.

Well, then! I love cats.

Ah, how many times people have said to me, "What! do you love cats?"

"Certainly."

"Well, don't you love dogs better?"

"No, I prefer cats every time."

"Oh, that's very queer!"

The truth is, I would rather have neither cat nor dog. But when I am obliged to live with one of these beings, I always choose the cat. I will tell you why.

The cat seems to me to have the manners most necessary to good society. In her early youth she has all the graces, all the gentleness, all the unexpectedness that the most artistic imagination could desire. She is smart; she never loses herself. She is prudent, going everywhere, looking into everything, breaking nothing.

The cat steals fresh mutton just as the dog steals it, but, unlike the dog, she takes no delight in carrion. She is fastidiously clean—and in this respect, she might well be imitated by many of her detractors. She washes her face, and in so doing foretells the weather into the bargain. You may please yourself by putting a ribbon around her neck, but never a collar; she cannot be enslaved.

In short, the cat is a dignified, proud, disdainful animal. She defies advances and tolerates no insults. She abandons the house in which she is not treated according to her merits. She is, in both origin and character, a true aristocrat, while the dog is and always will be, a mere vulgar parvenu.

The only serious argument that can be urged against the cat is that she destroys the birds, not caring whether they are sparrows or nightingales. If the dog does less, it is because of his stupidity and clumsiness, not because he is above such business. He also runs after the birds; but his foolish barking warns them of his coming, and as they fly away he can only watch them with open mouth and drooping tail.

The dog submits himself to the slavery of the collar in order to be taught the art of circumventing rabbits and pigeons—and this not for his own profit, but for the pleasure of his master, the hunter. Foolish, foolish fellow! An animal himself, he delights in persecuting other animals at the command of the man who beats him.

But the cat, when she catches a bird, has a good excuse for her cruelty—she catches it only to eat it herself. Shall she be slandered for such an act? Before condemning her, men may well think of their own shortcomings. They will find among themselves, as well as in the race of cats, many individuals who have claws and often use them for the destruction of those who are gifted with wings.

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