(1)Omitting a vowel sound, or substituting one vowel sound for another, in an unaccented syllable.Of all faults in pronunciation probably this is the commonest. As a rule it results from carelessness in utterance. Examples of it are:—pronouncing—arithmetic,’rithmetic; library,līb’ry; literature,lit’rature; geography,j’ography; barrel,barr’l; below,b’low; family,fam’ly; violent,vi’lent; history,hist’ry; memory,mem’ry; regular,reg’lar; usual,ūzh’al; alwāys,alwŭz; afford,ŭfford; abundant,abundŭnt; eatable,eatŭble; America,Ameriky; childrĕn,childrin; modĕst,modŭst; commandment,commandmŭnt; judgment,judgmŭnt; moment,momŭnt; kindness,kindniss; gospĕl,gospil; pockĕt,pockit; ēmotion,immotion; charĭty,charŭty; opposĭte,oppozŭt; potatō,pŭtatĕh; patriŏt,patriŭt; ōbedience,ŭbediĕnce; accūrāte,ak’er-ĭt; particūlar,partikĭlĕr.(2)Substituting one vowel sound for another in an accented syllable or a one-syllabled word.This fault may result, not from carelessness, but from want of knowledge, for the correct pronunciation of the vowel sounds of words must be learned from some correct speaker, or from a dictionary. Examples of this fault are:—pronouncing—āte,ĕt; cătch,kĕtch; săt,sŏt; găther,gĕther; băde,bāde; was,wŭz; father,fătherorfawther; says (sĕz),sāz; get,git; kettle,kĭttle; deaf (dĕf),deef; creek,crick; rinse,rĕnse; bŏnnet,bŭnnet; bosom,bŭzum; frŏm,frum; just,jĕst; shut,shĕt; new (nū),noo; dūty,dooty; redūce,redooce; because,bekŭz; saucy,sāssy; point,pīnt; instead,instĭd; route, (rōōt),rout.(3)Omitting a consonant sound, or substituting one consonant sound for another; as in pronouncing—yeast,’east; February,Feb’uary; and,an’; old,ōl’; acts,ac’s; slept,slep’; depths,dep’s; fields,fiel’s; winds,win’s; breadths,bre’ths; twelfth,twel’thortwelf’; asked (askt),as’t; mostly,mōs’ly; swiftly,swif’ly; government,gover’ment; Arctic,Ar’tic; products,produc’s; consists,consis’; commands,comman’s; morning,mornin; strength,strenth; length,lenth; shrink,srink; shrill,srill; height,hīth; Asia (A’she-a),A’zhe-a; chimney,chimbly; covetous (cŭv’ĕt-ŭs),cŭv’e-chŭs; fortūne,forchin.(4)Introducing in the pronunciation of a word a sound that does not belong to it; as in pronouncing—drown,drownd; drowned,drownded; often (of’n),of´ten; epistle, (e-pis´l),e-pis´tel; elm,el´um; film,fil´um; height,hīt’th; grievous,grēv´i-us; mischievous (mis´chĭv-us),mis-chēv´i-us; column,col´yum; once (wŭns),wŭnst; across,acrost.(5)Misusing the sound ofr; as in pronouncing—Maria,Mariar; idea,idear; widow,widder; meadow,medder; farm,far-r-m; warm,war-r-m; war,wa’; door,do-ah; garden,gä’den; card,cä’d; warm,wä’m; forth,fo’th; hundred,hunderd; children,childern.(6)Misusing the aspirate(h); as in pronouncing—happy,’appy; apples,happles; whence,wence; which,wich; what,wot; whirl,wirl.
(1)Omitting a vowel sound, or substituting one vowel sound for another, in an unaccented syllable.Of all faults in pronunciation probably this is the commonest. As a rule it results from carelessness in utterance. Examples of it are:—pronouncing—arithmetic,’rithmetic; library,līb’ry; literature,lit’rature; geography,j’ography; barrel,barr’l; below,b’low; family,fam’ly; violent,vi’lent; history,hist’ry; memory,mem’ry; regular,reg’lar; usual,ūzh’al; alwāys,alwŭz; afford,ŭfford; abundant,abundŭnt; eatable,eatŭble; America,Ameriky; childrĕn,childrin; modĕst,modŭst; commandment,commandmŭnt; judgment,judgmŭnt; moment,momŭnt; kindness,kindniss; gospĕl,gospil; pockĕt,pockit; ēmotion,immotion; charĭty,charŭty; opposĭte,oppozŭt; potatō,pŭtatĕh; patriŏt,patriŭt; ōbedience,ŭbediĕnce; accūrāte,ak’er-ĭt; particūlar,partikĭlĕr.
(2)Substituting one vowel sound for another in an accented syllable or a one-syllabled word.This fault may result, not from carelessness, but from want of knowledge, for the correct pronunciation of the vowel sounds of words must be learned from some correct speaker, or from a dictionary. Examples of this fault are:—pronouncing—āte,ĕt; cătch,kĕtch; săt,sŏt; găther,gĕther; băde,bāde; was,wŭz; father,fătherorfawther; says (sĕz),sāz; get,git; kettle,kĭttle; deaf (dĕf),deef; creek,crick; rinse,rĕnse; bŏnnet,bŭnnet; bosom,bŭzum; frŏm,frum; just,jĕst; shut,shĕt; new (nū),noo; dūty,dooty; redūce,redooce; because,bekŭz; saucy,sāssy; point,pīnt; instead,instĭd; route, (rōōt),rout.
(3)Omitting a consonant sound, or substituting one consonant sound for another; as in pronouncing—yeast,’east; February,Feb’uary; and,an’; old,ōl’; acts,ac’s; slept,slep’; depths,dep’s; fields,fiel’s; winds,win’s; breadths,bre’ths; twelfth,twel’thortwelf’; asked (askt),as’t; mostly,mōs’ly; swiftly,swif’ly; government,gover’ment; Arctic,Ar’tic; products,produc’s; consists,consis’; commands,comman’s; morning,mornin; strength,strenth; length,lenth; shrink,srink; shrill,srill; height,hīth; Asia (A’she-a),A’zhe-a; chimney,chimbly; covetous (cŭv’ĕt-ŭs),cŭv’e-chŭs; fortūne,forchin.
(4)Introducing in the pronunciation of a word a sound that does not belong to it; as in pronouncing—drown,drownd; drowned,drownded; often (of’n),of´ten; epistle, (e-pis´l),e-pis´tel; elm,el´um; film,fil´um; height,hīt’th; grievous,grēv´i-us; mischievous (mis´chĭv-us),mis-chēv´i-us; column,col´yum; once (wŭns),wŭnst; across,acrost.
(5)Misusing the sound ofr; as in pronouncing—Maria,Mariar; idea,idear; widow,widder; meadow,medder; farm,far-r-m; warm,war-r-m; war,wa’; door,do-ah; garden,gä’den; card,cä’d; warm,wä’m; forth,fo’th; hundred,hunderd; children,childern.
(6)Misusing the aspirate(h); as in pronouncing—happy,’appy; apples,happles; whence,wence; which,wich; what,wot; whirl,wirl.
4.Syllabication(in Orthoëpy) is the correct formation of syllables in pronouncing words. A syllable is a sound, or a combination of sounds, uttered by a single impulse of the voice, and constituting a word or a part of a word. A word has as many syllables as it has separate vowel sounds. When words are uttered so that their vowel sounds are clearly and correctly articulated, they will be properly syllabified.
5.Accentuationis the correct placing of accent in uttering words.Accentis a superior stress or force of voice upon certain syllables of words which distinguishes them from the other syllables. In uttering a word of more than one syllable, one of the syllables receives a greater stress in pronunciation than the others, and is said to beaccented, or tohave the accent. Some words have more than one syllable accented, ascon´fla-gra´´tion,in-com´pre-hen´si-bil´´ity; but one syllable is always more strongly accented than the others, and is said to have themainorprimary accent. Accentuation, like the other elements of orthoëpy, is fixed by usage; that is, by the practice of those who are recognized as correct speakers.
6. In the pronunciation of a word care should be taken to give to the vowels their proper sounds, to place the accent upon the right syllable, and to sound the consonants distinctly. The tendency to drop consonant sounds, and to pronounce indistinctly or incorrectly the vowel sounds of unaccented syllables, should be carefully guarded against. The distinction between syllables should be carefully made, and especially, the distinction between separate words. Carelessness in this respect may make the meanings of sentences uncertain. For example:
He saw two beggars steal, may sound as,He sought to beg or steal;He had two small eggs, may sound as,He had two small legs; andCan there be an aim more lofty?as,Can there be a name more lofty?
He saw two beggars steal, may sound as,He sought to beg or steal;
He had two small eggs, may sound as,He had two small legs; and
Can there be an aim more lofty?as,Can there be a name more lofty?
This blending of the sounds of words is prevented, partly by distinctly uttering the sounds of their initial letters, but chiefly by distinctly uttering and slightly dwelling upon the sounds of their final letters.
Charles Dickens.
King Henry I. went over to Normandy with his son Prince William and a great retinue, to have the prince acknowledged as his successor, and to contract a marriage between him and the daughter of the Count of Anjou. Both these things were triumphantly done, with great show and rejoicing; and on the 25th of November, in the year 1120, the whole retinue prepared to embark, for the voyage home.
On that day, there came to the king, Fitz-Stephen, a sea-captain, and said, “My liege, my father served your father all his life, upon the sea. He steered the ship with the golden boy upon the prow, in which your father sailed to conquer England. I have a fair vessel in the harbor here, called The White Ship, manned by fifty sailors of renown. I pray you, Sire, to let your servant have the honor of steering you in The White Ship to England.”
“I am sorry, friend,” replied the king, “that my ship is already chosen, and that I cannot, therefore, sail with the son of the man who served my father. But the prince and his company shall go along with you in the fairWhite Ship, manned by the fifty sailors of renown.” An hour or two afterward, the king set sail in the vessel he had chosen, accompanied by other vessels, and, sailing all night with a fair and gentle wind, arrived upon the coast of England in the morning. While it was yet night, the people in some of these ships heard a faint, wild cry come over the sea, and wondered what it was.
A ship in a storm
Now, the prince was a dissolute young man of eighteen, who bore no love to the English, and who had declaredthat when he came to the throne he would yoke them to the plough like oxen. He went aboard The White Ship with one hundred and forty youthful nobles like himself, among whom were eighteen noble ladies of the highest rank. All this gay company, with their servants and the fifty sailors, made three hundred souls aboard the fair White Ship.
“Give three casks of wine, Fitz-Stephen,” said the prince, “to the fifty sailors of renown. My father the king has sailed out of the harbor. What time is there to make merry here, and yet reach England with the rest?”
“Prince,” said Fitz-Stephen, “before morning my fifty and The White Ship shall overtake the swiftest vessel in attendance on your father the king if we sail at midnight.” Then the prince commanded to make merry; and the sailors drank out the three casks of wine, and the prince and all the noble company danced in the moonlight on the deck of The White Ship.
When, at last, she shot out of the harbor, there was not a sober seaman on board. But the sails were all set and the oars all going merrily. Fitz-Stephen had the helm. The gay young nobles and the beautiful ladies, wrapped in mantles of various bright colors to protect them from the cold, talked, laughed, and sang. The prince encouraged the fifty sailors to row yet harder, for the honor of The White Ship.
Crash! A terrific cry broke from three hundred hearts. It was the cry the people in the distant vessels of the king heard faintly on the water. The White Ship had struck upon a rock,—was filling,—going down! Fitz-Stephenhurried the prince into a boat with some few nobles. “Push off,” he whispered, “and row to the land. It is not far, and the sea is smooth. The rest of us must die.” But as they rowed fast away from the sinking ship, the prince heard the voice of his sister calling for help. He never in his life had been so good as he was then. He cried in agony, “Row back at any risk! I cannot bear to leave her!”
They rowed back. As the prince held out his arm to catch his sister, such numbers leaped into the boat that it was overset. And in the same instant The White Ship went down. Only two men floated. They both clung to the mainyard of the ship, which had broken from the mast and now supported them. One asked the other who he was. He replied, “I am a nobleman,—Godfrey by name, son of Gilbert. And you?”—“I am a poor butcher of Rouen,” was the answer. Then they said together, “Lord be merciful to us both!” and tried to encourage each other as they drifted in the cold, benumbing sea on that unfortunate November night.
By and by another man came swimming toward them, whom they knew, when he pushed aside his long wet hair, to be Fitz-Stephen. “Where is the prince?” said he. “Gone, gone!” the two cried together. “Neither he, nor his brother, nor his sister, nor the king’s niece, nor her brother, nor any one of all the brave three hundred, noble or commoner, except us three, has risen above the water!” Fitz-Stephen, with a ghastly face, cried, “Woe! woe to me!” and sank to the bottom.
The other two clung to the yard for some hours. Atlength the young noble said faintly, “I am exhausted, and chilled with the cold, and can hold no longer. Farewell, good friend! God preserve you!” So he dropped and sank; and, of all the brilliant crowd, the poor butcher of Rouen alone was saved. In the morning some fishermen saw him floating in his sheep-skin coat, and got him into their boat,—the sole relator of the dismal tale.
For three days no one dared to carry the intelligence to the king. At length they sent into his presence a little boy, who, weeping bitterly and falling at his feet, told him that The White Ship was lost with all on board. The king fell to the ground like a dead man, and never, never afterward was seen to smile.
Word Exercise.liege (lēj)niece (nēs)Gil´berten-cour´age (en-kur´-aj)helmcon´quer (kŏng´ker)An-jou (an´joo)float´edex-haust´ed (egz-awst´ed)butch´erGod´freyRou-en (roo´en)man´tlesdis´so-lūtetri-umph´ant (tri-umf´ant)whis´percom´mon-erag´o-nywrappedNo-vem´bercom-mand´ed
liege (lēj)niece (nēs)Gil´berten-cour´age (en-kur´-aj)helmcon´quer (kŏng´ker)An-jou (an´joo)float´edex-haust´ed (egz-awst´ed)butch´erGod´freyRou-en (roo´en)man´tlesdis´so-lūtetri-umph´ant (tri-umf´ant)whis´percom´mon-erag´o-nywrappedNo-vem´bercom-mand´ed
Phrase Exercise.1. Great retinue.—2.Contracta marriage.—3. Sailors of renown.—4.Fairwind.—5. To make merry.—6. Sails were set.—7. Oarsgoing merrily.—8. Terrific cry.—9.Encourageeach other.—10.Benumbingsea.—11.Ghastlyface.—12. Brilliant crowd.—13. Sole relator of the dismal tale.—14. Carry the intelligence.
1. Great retinue.—2.Contracta marriage.—3. Sailors of renown.—4.Fairwind.—5. To make merry.—6. Sails were set.—7. Oarsgoing merrily.—8. Terrific cry.—9.Encourageeach other.—10.Benumbingsea.—11.Ghastlyface.—12. Brilliant crowd.—13. Sole relator of the dismal tale.—14. Carry the intelligence.
Howe’er it be, it seems to me’Tis only noble to be good.—Tennyson.
Howe’er it be, it seems to me’Tis only noble to be good.—Tennyson.
Howe’er it be, it seems to me’Tis only noble to be good.—Tennyson.
Howe’er it be, it seems to me
’Tis only noble to be good.
—Tennyson.
Mrs. Hemans.
Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son of the Admiral of the French fleet, remained at his post, in the Battle of the Nile, after his ship, the “Orient,” had caught fire, and after all the guns had been abandoned. He perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames reached the powder magazine.
The boy stood on the burning deck,Whence all but he had fled;The flame, that lit the battle’s wreck,Shone round him o’er the dead.Yet beautiful and bright he stood,As born to rule the storm;A creature of heroic blood,A proud, though childlike, form.The flames rolled on,—he would not goWithout his father’s word;That father, faint in death below,His voice no longer heard.He called aloud:—“Say, Father, sayIf yet my task is done!”He knew not that the chieftain layUnconscious of his son.“Speak, Father!” once again he cried,“If I may yet be gone!”And but the booming shots replied,And fast the flames rolled on.Upon his brow he felt their breath,And in his waving hair,And looked from that lone post of deathIn still, yet brave, despair;And shouted but once more aloud,“My Father! must I stay?”While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud,The wreathing fires made way.They wrapped the ship in splendor wild,They caught the flag on high,And streamed above the gallant childLike banners in the sky.There came a burst of thunder sound—The boy—oh! where was he?Ask of the winds that far aroundWith fragments strewed the sea!—With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,That well had borne their part!—But the noblest thing that perished thereWas that young faithful heart.
The boy stood on the burning deck,Whence all but he had fled;The flame, that lit the battle’s wreck,Shone round him o’er the dead.Yet beautiful and bright he stood,As born to rule the storm;A creature of heroic blood,A proud, though childlike, form.The flames rolled on,—he would not goWithout his father’s word;That father, faint in death below,His voice no longer heard.He called aloud:—“Say, Father, sayIf yet my task is done!”He knew not that the chieftain layUnconscious of his son.“Speak, Father!” once again he cried,“If I may yet be gone!”And but the booming shots replied,And fast the flames rolled on.Upon his brow he felt their breath,And in his waving hair,And looked from that lone post of deathIn still, yet brave, despair;And shouted but once more aloud,“My Father! must I stay?”While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud,The wreathing fires made way.They wrapped the ship in splendor wild,They caught the flag on high,And streamed above the gallant childLike banners in the sky.There came a burst of thunder sound—The boy—oh! where was he?Ask of the winds that far aroundWith fragments strewed the sea!—With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,That well had borne their part!—But the noblest thing that perished thereWas that young faithful heart.
The boy stood on the burning deck,Whence all but he had fled;The flame, that lit the battle’s wreck,Shone round him o’er the dead.
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame, that lit the battle’s wreck,
Shone round him o’er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,As born to rule the storm;A creature of heroic blood,A proud, though childlike, form.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike, form.
The flames rolled on,—he would not goWithout his father’s word;That father, faint in death below,His voice no longer heard.
The flames rolled on,—he would not go
Without his father’s word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud:—“Say, Father, sayIf yet my task is done!”He knew not that the chieftain layUnconscious of his son.
He called aloud:—“Say, Father, say
If yet my task is done!”
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.
“Speak, Father!” once again he cried,“If I may yet be gone!”And but the booming shots replied,And fast the flames rolled on.
“Speak, Father!” once again he cried,
“If I may yet be gone!”
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,And in his waving hair,And looked from that lone post of deathIn still, yet brave, despair;
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death
In still, yet brave, despair;
And shouted but once more aloud,“My Father! must I stay?”While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud,The wreathing fires made way.
And shouted but once more aloud,
“My Father! must I stay?”
While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapped the ship in splendor wild,They caught the flag on high,And streamed above the gallant childLike banners in the sky.
They wrapped the ship in splendor wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound—The boy—oh! where was he?Ask of the winds that far aroundWith fragments strewed the sea!—
There came a burst of thunder sound—
The boy—oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea!—
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,That well had borne their part!—But the noblest thing that perished thereWas that young faithful heart.
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part!—
But the noblest thing that perished there
Was that young faithful heart.
Phrase Exercise.1. Battle’swreck.—2. To rule the storm.—3. A creature of heroic blood.—4. Layunconsciousof his son.—5.Boomingshots.—6.Lone postof death.—7. Brave despair.—8.Wreathingfires.—9. Wrapped in wild splendor.—10. Gallant child.—11. Streamed like banners.—12. Fair pennon.—13.Noblestthing.—14. Faithful heart.
1. Battle’swreck.—2. To rule the storm.—3. A creature of heroic blood.—4. Layunconsciousof his son.—5.Boomingshots.—6.Lone postof death.—7. Brave despair.—8.Wreathingfires.—9. Wrapped in wild splendor.—10. Gallant child.—11. Streamed like banners.—12. Fair pennon.—13.Noblestthing.—14. Faithful heart.
There are few sights more pleasing than a herd of tall, graceful giraffes. With their heads reaching a height of from twelve to eighteen feet, they move about in small herds on the open plains of Africa, eating the tender twigs and leaves of the mimosa and other trees.
Three giraffes by a stand of trees
The legs of a large giraffe are about nine feet long and its neck nearly six feet; while its body measures only seven feet in length and slopes rapidly from the neck to the tail. The graceful appearance of the giraffe is increased by the beauty of its skin, which is orange red in color, and mottled with dark spots. Its long tail has at the end a tuft of thick hair, which serves the purpose of keeping off the flies and stinging insects, so plentiful in the hot climate of Africa.
Its tongue is very wonderful. It is from thirteen to seventeen inches in length, is slender and pointed, and is capable of being moved in so many ways, that it is almost as useful to the giraffe as the trunk is to the elephant.
The horns of the giraffe are very short and covered with skin. At the ends there are tufts of short hair. The animal has divided hoofs somewhat resembling those of the ox.
The head of the giraffe is small, and its eyes large and mild looking. These eyes are set in such a way that the animal can see a great deal of what is behind it, without turning its head. In addition to its wonderful power of sight, the giraffe can scent danger from a great distance; so that there is no animal more difficult of approach.
Strange to relate, the giraffe has no voice. In London, some years ago, two giraffes were burned to death in their stables, when the slightest sound would have given notice of their danger, and have saved their lives.
The giraffe is naturally both gentle and timid, and he will always try to avoid danger by flight. It is when running that he exposes his only ungraceful point. He runs swiftly, but since he moves his fore and hind legs on each side at the same time, the movement gives him a very awkward gait. But though timid, he will, when overtaken, turn even upon the lion or panther, and defend himself successfully by powerful kicks with his strong legs.
The natives of Africa capture the giraffe in pitfalls, which are deep holes covered over with branches of trees and dirt. When captured, the giraffe can be tamed, and during its captivity it gives scarcely any trouble.
Fifty years ago, but little was known about the giraffe in America or Europe. Now it is to be found in menageries and the public gardens of large cities. The giraffe thrives in captivity and seems to be well satisfied with a diet of corn and hay. It is a source of great satisfaction to those who admire this beautiful animal, that there is nothing to prevent it from living in a climate so different from that of its African home.
R. W. Emerson.
The mountain and the squirrelHad a quarrel,And the former called the latter “Little Prig.”Bun replied:“You are doubtless very big,But all sorts of things and weatherMust be taken in togetherTo make up a year,And a sphere:And I think it no disgraceTo occupy my place.If I am not so large as you,You are not so small as I,And not half so spry:I’ll not deny you makeA very pretty squirrel track.Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;IfIcannot carry forests on my back,Neither canyoucrack a nut.”
The mountain and the squirrelHad a quarrel,And the former called the latter “Little Prig.”Bun replied:“You are doubtless very big,But all sorts of things and weatherMust be taken in togetherTo make up a year,And a sphere:And I think it no disgraceTo occupy my place.If I am not so large as you,You are not so small as I,And not half so spry:I’ll not deny you makeA very pretty squirrel track.Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;IfIcannot carry forests on my back,Neither canyoucrack a nut.”
The mountain and the squirrelHad a quarrel,And the former called the latter “Little Prig.”Bun replied:“You are doubtless very big,But all sorts of things and weatherMust be taken in togetherTo make up a year,And a sphere:And I think it no disgraceTo occupy my place.If I am not so large as you,You are not so small as I,And not half so spry:I’ll not deny you makeA very pretty squirrel track.Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;IfIcannot carry forests on my back,Neither canyoucrack a nut.”
The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel,
And the former called the latter “Little Prig.”
Bun replied:
“You are doubtless very big,
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together
To make up a year,
And a sphere:
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I am not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry:
I’ll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track.
Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
IfIcannot carry forests on my back,
Neither canyoucrack a nut.”
Wordsworth.
Little girl feeding a lamb from a dish
The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;I heard a voice; it said, “Drink, pretty creature, drink!”And, looking o’er the hedge, before me I espiedA snow-white mountain lamb with a maiden at its side.No other sheep were near, the lamb was all alone,And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel,While to that mountain lamb she gave its evening meal.The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took,Seemed to feast with head and ears, and his tail with pleasure shook.“Drink, pretty creature, drink,” she said in such a toneThat I almost received her heart into my own.’Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare!I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair.Now with her empty can the maiden turned away;But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.Towards the lamb she looked; and from that shady placeI unobserved could see the workings of her face:If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid might sing:—“What ails thee, young one? What? Why pull so at thy cord?Is it not well with thee? Well both for bed and board?Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be;Rest, little young one, rest; what is’t that aileth thee?“What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy heart?Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art.This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers;And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears!“If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain;For rain and mountain storms, the like thou need’st not fear—The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here.“Rest, little young one, rest; thou hast forgot the dayWhen my father found thee first in places far away;Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none,And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone.“He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home:A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam?A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yeanUpon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been.“Thou know’st that twice a day I have brought thee in this canFresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran;And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew,I bring thee draughts of milk,—warm milk it is, and new.“Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now;Then I’ll yoke thee to my cart, like a pony in the plough:My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold,Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.“It will not, will not rest!—Poor creature, can it beThat ’tis thy mother’s heart which is working so in thee?Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.“Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair!I’ve heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there;The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play,When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.“Here thou need’st not dread the raven in the sky;Night and day thou art safe,—our cottage is hard by.Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain?Sleep,—and at break of day I will come to thee again!”As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,This song unto myself did I oftentimes repeat;And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line,That but half of it was hers, and one-half of it wasmine.Again, and once again, did I repeat the song;“Nay,” said I, “more than half to thedamselmust belong;For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone,That I almost received her heart into my own.”
The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;I heard a voice; it said, “Drink, pretty creature, drink!”And, looking o’er the hedge, before me I espiedA snow-white mountain lamb with a maiden at its side.No other sheep were near, the lamb was all alone,And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel,While to that mountain lamb she gave its evening meal.The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took,Seemed to feast with head and ears, and his tail with pleasure shook.“Drink, pretty creature, drink,” she said in such a toneThat I almost received her heart into my own.’Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare!I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair.Now with her empty can the maiden turned away;But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.Towards the lamb she looked; and from that shady placeI unobserved could see the workings of her face:If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid might sing:—“What ails thee, young one? What? Why pull so at thy cord?Is it not well with thee? Well both for bed and board?Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be;Rest, little young one, rest; what is’t that aileth thee?“What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy heart?Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art.This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers;And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears!“If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain;For rain and mountain storms, the like thou need’st not fear—The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here.“Rest, little young one, rest; thou hast forgot the dayWhen my father found thee first in places far away;Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none,And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone.“He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home:A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam?A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yeanUpon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been.“Thou know’st that twice a day I have brought thee in this canFresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran;And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew,I bring thee draughts of milk,—warm milk it is, and new.“Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now;Then I’ll yoke thee to my cart, like a pony in the plough:My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold,Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.“It will not, will not rest!—Poor creature, can it beThat ’tis thy mother’s heart which is working so in thee?Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.“Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair!I’ve heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there;The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play,When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.“Here thou need’st not dread the raven in the sky;Night and day thou art safe,—our cottage is hard by.Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain?Sleep,—and at break of day I will come to thee again!”As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,This song unto myself did I oftentimes repeat;And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line,That but half of it was hers, and one-half of it wasmine.Again, and once again, did I repeat the song;“Nay,” said I, “more than half to thedamselmust belong;For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone,That I almost received her heart into my own.”
The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;I heard a voice; it said, “Drink, pretty creature, drink!”And, looking o’er the hedge, before me I espiedA snow-white mountain lamb with a maiden at its side.
The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
I heard a voice; it said, “Drink, pretty creature, drink!”
And, looking o’er the hedge, before me I espied
A snow-white mountain lamb with a maiden at its side.
No other sheep were near, the lamb was all alone,And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel,While to that mountain lamb she gave its evening meal.
No other sheep were near, the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;
With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel,
While to that mountain lamb she gave its evening meal.
The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took,Seemed to feast with head and ears, and his tail with pleasure shook.“Drink, pretty creature, drink,” she said in such a toneThat I almost received her heart into my own.
The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took,
Seemed to feast with head and ears, and his tail with pleasure shook.
“Drink, pretty creature, drink,” she said in such a tone
That I almost received her heart into my own.
’Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare!I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair.Now with her empty can the maiden turned away;But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.
’Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare!
I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair.
Now with her empty can the maiden turned away;
But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.
Towards the lamb she looked; and from that shady placeI unobserved could see the workings of her face:If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid might sing:—
Towards the lamb she looked; and from that shady place
I unobserved could see the workings of her face:
If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,
Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid might sing:—
“What ails thee, young one? What? Why pull so at thy cord?Is it not well with thee? Well both for bed and board?Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be;Rest, little young one, rest; what is’t that aileth thee?
“What ails thee, young one? What? Why pull so at thy cord?
Is it not well with thee? Well both for bed and board?
Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be;
Rest, little young one, rest; what is’t that aileth thee?
“What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy heart?Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art.This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers;And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears!
“What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy heart?
Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art.
This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers;
And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears!
“If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain;For rain and mountain storms, the like thou need’st not fear—The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here.
“If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,
This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain;
For rain and mountain storms, the like thou need’st not fear—
The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here.
“Rest, little young one, rest; thou hast forgot the dayWhen my father found thee first in places far away;Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none,And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone.
“Rest, little young one, rest; thou hast forgot the day
When my father found thee first in places far away;
Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none,
And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone.
“He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home:A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam?A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yeanUpon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been.
“He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home:
A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam?
A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean
Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been.
“Thou know’st that twice a day I have brought thee in this canFresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran;And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew,I bring thee draughts of milk,—warm milk it is, and new.
“Thou know’st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can
Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran;
And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew,
I bring thee draughts of milk,—warm milk it is, and new.
“Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now;Then I’ll yoke thee to my cart, like a pony in the plough:My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold,Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.
“Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now;
Then I’ll yoke thee to my cart, like a pony in the plough:
My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold,
Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.
“It will not, will not rest!—Poor creature, can it beThat ’tis thy mother’s heart which is working so in thee?Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.
“It will not, will not rest!—Poor creature, can it be
That ’tis thy mother’s heart which is working so in thee?
Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,
And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.
“Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair!I’ve heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there;The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play,When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.
“Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair!
I’ve heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there;
The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play,
When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.
“Here thou need’st not dread the raven in the sky;Night and day thou art safe,—our cottage is hard by.Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain?Sleep,—and at break of day I will come to thee again!”
“Here thou need’st not dread the raven in the sky;
Night and day thou art safe,—our cottage is hard by.
Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain?
Sleep,—and at break of day I will come to thee again!”
As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,This song unto myself did I oftentimes repeat;And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line,That but half of it was hers, and one-half of it wasmine.
As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,
This song unto myself did I oftentimes repeat;
And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line,
That but half of it was hers, and one-half of it wasmine.
Again, and once again, did I repeat the song;“Nay,” said I, “more than half to thedamselmust belong;For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone,That I almost received her heart into my own.”
Again, and once again, did I repeat the song;
“Nay,” said I, “more than half to thedamselmust belong;
For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone,
That I almost received her heart into my own.”
Word Exercise.bal´ladcov´ert (kŭv´ert)draught (draft)Bar´ba-rawool´lenLew´-thwaite
bal´ladcov´ert (kŭv´ert)draught (draft)Bar´ba-rawool´lenLew´-thwaite
In Asia and in Africa there are vast plains of sand, upon which no grass grows, and through which no river runs. These plains are as smooth as the ocean unmoved by waves. As far as the eye can reach, nothing is to be seen but sand. In the middle of the day when the sun is hottest, the sand dazzles the eyes of the traveller, as if there were a sun beneath the sand as well as one above.
Here and there, but many miles apart, are green spots consisting of bushes, trees, and grass, growing around a small pool or spring of water. These green spots are called oases. Here the tired traveller can find food and shade, and can sleep awhile, sheltered from the blazing sun.
How do you think the traveller crosses these burning plains? Not in carriages, nor on horseback, nor in railroad trains, but on the backs of tall, long-necked, humpbacked camels.
Even if you have seen camels alive, or pictures of them, you will still be glad to learn more about these very useful animals.
The camel lives on grass, and the dry short herbage, which is found on the edges of the desert. While travelling in the desert, it is fed upon dates and barley. It is able to eat a great deal of food at a time and to drink enough water to last some days. By this means, it can go for a long time without food, and travel long distances without stopping to eat or drink. The camel has a curious lump of fat on the top of its back called a “hump.” One kind of camel has two humps. One purpose of these humps,is to supply the camel with strength, when it has neither food nor water, and would otherwise die from want.
The foot of the camel is a wonderful thing. It is broad, and has a soft pad at the bottom, which keeps it from sinking in the yielding sand, when the camel crosses the arid deserts.
A camel train arriving at a desert oasis, surrounded by palm trees
The camel with two humps on its back is much larger and stronger than the camel with one hump. The one-humpedcamel is known as the Arabian camel or dromedary. Asia is the home of the camel, but numbers of them are used in Africa and other parts of the world. The camel is trained to kneel down to receive its load, and to let its master get on its back. The camel can smell water at a great distance. When its rider is nearly dead from thirst, and water is near, he can tell it by the greater speed at which the camel begins to travel.
The camel is often called the “ship of the desert.” As the desert is like a sea, and the green spots upon it like islands, so is the camel like a ship, that can carry the traveller from one point to another, quickly and safely. But even with his faithful camel, the traveller does not care to cross the desert alone. The difficulties of keeping in the right track, and the fear of wild Arabs, make it much safer for a number of travellers to cross the desert together.
Travellers take with them camel-drivers and men who know the way, to look after the beasts when they stop for the night. These men light the fires, cook the food, and fill the large skin-bottles with water when they come to a spring. The travellers, camels, and camel-drivers, together, form what is called a caravan.
Word Exercise.ar´iddaz´zlesisl´and (ī´land)dĕs´ert (dĕz-)oases (ō´a-sēz)car´riage (kăr´rij)dif´fi-cultherb´ageA-ra´bi-ancar´a-van (or,car-a-van´)pict´ure (pĭkt´yür)shel´tereddromedary (drŭm´e-da-re)trav´el-ler
ar´iddaz´zlesisl´and (ī´land)dĕs´ert (dĕz-)oases (ō´a-sēz)car´riage (kăr´rij)dif´fi-cultherb´ageA-ra´bi-ancar´a-van (or,car-a-van´)pict´ure (pĭkt´yür)shel´tereddromedary (drŭm´e-da-re)trav´el-ler
Wordsworth.
Lucy walking through the snow, cloaked, carrying a lantern
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray;And, when I crossed the wild,I chanced to see at break of dayThe solitary child.No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;She dwelt on a wide moor,—The sweetest thing that ever grewBeside a human door!You yet may spy the fawn at play,The hare upon the green;But the sweet face of Lucy GrayWill never more be seen.“To-night will be a stormy night—You to the town must go;And take a lantern, child, to lightYour mother through the snow.”“That, father, will I gladly do;’Tis scarcely afternoon,—The minster-clock has just struck two,And yonder is the moon.”At this the father raised his hookAnd snapped a fagot-band;He plied his work;—and Lucy tookThe lantern in her hand.Not blither is the mountain roe:With many a wanton strokeHer feet disperse the powdery snow,That rises up like smoke.The storm came on before its time;She wandered up and down;And many a hill did Lucy climb,But never reached the town.The wretched parents, all that night,Went shouting far and wide;But there was neither sound nor sightTo serve them for a guide.At daybreak on a hill they stoodThat overlooked the moor;And thence they saw the bridge of woodA furlong from their door.They wept, and, turning homeward, cried,“In heaven we all shall meet!”When in the snow the mother spiedThe print of Lucy’s feet.Then downward from the steep hill’s edgeThey tracked the footmarks small;And through the broken hawthorn hedge,And by the long stone wall;And then an open field they crossed;The marks were still the same;They tracked them on, nor ever lost,And to the bridge they came.They followed from the snowy bankThose footmarks, one by one,Into the middle of the plank;And further there were none!Yet some maintain that to this dayShe is a living child;That you may see sweet Lucy GrayUpon the lonesome wild.O’er rough and smooth she trips along,And never looks behind;And sings a solitary songThat whistles in the wind.
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray;And, when I crossed the wild,I chanced to see at break of dayThe solitary child.No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;She dwelt on a wide moor,—The sweetest thing that ever grewBeside a human door!You yet may spy the fawn at play,The hare upon the green;But the sweet face of Lucy GrayWill never more be seen.“To-night will be a stormy night—You to the town must go;And take a lantern, child, to lightYour mother through the snow.”“That, father, will I gladly do;’Tis scarcely afternoon,—The minster-clock has just struck two,And yonder is the moon.”At this the father raised his hookAnd snapped a fagot-band;He plied his work;—and Lucy tookThe lantern in her hand.Not blither is the mountain roe:With many a wanton strokeHer feet disperse the powdery snow,That rises up like smoke.The storm came on before its time;She wandered up and down;And many a hill did Lucy climb,But never reached the town.The wretched parents, all that night,Went shouting far and wide;But there was neither sound nor sightTo serve them for a guide.At daybreak on a hill they stoodThat overlooked the moor;And thence they saw the bridge of woodA furlong from their door.They wept, and, turning homeward, cried,“In heaven we all shall meet!”When in the snow the mother spiedThe print of Lucy’s feet.Then downward from the steep hill’s edgeThey tracked the footmarks small;And through the broken hawthorn hedge,And by the long stone wall;And then an open field they crossed;The marks were still the same;They tracked them on, nor ever lost,And to the bridge they came.They followed from the snowy bankThose footmarks, one by one,Into the middle of the plank;And further there were none!Yet some maintain that to this dayShe is a living child;That you may see sweet Lucy GrayUpon the lonesome wild.O’er rough and smooth she trips along,And never looks behind;And sings a solitary songThat whistles in the wind.
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray;And, when I crossed the wild,I chanced to see at break of dayThe solitary child.
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray;
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;She dwelt on a wide moor,—The sweetest thing that ever grewBeside a human door!
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor,—
The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play,The hare upon the green;But the sweet face of Lucy GrayWill never more be seen.
You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.
“To-night will be a stormy night—You to the town must go;And take a lantern, child, to lightYour mother through the snow.”
“To-night will be a stormy night—
You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, child, to light
Your mother through the snow.”
“That, father, will I gladly do;’Tis scarcely afternoon,—The minster-clock has just struck two,And yonder is the moon.”
“That, father, will I gladly do;
’Tis scarcely afternoon,—
The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon.”
At this the father raised his hookAnd snapped a fagot-band;He plied his work;—and Lucy tookThe lantern in her hand.
At this the father raised his hook
And snapped a fagot-band;
He plied his work;—and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe:With many a wanton strokeHer feet disperse the powdery snow,That rises up like smoke.
Not blither is the mountain roe:
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time;She wandered up and down;And many a hill did Lucy climb,But never reached the town.
The storm came on before its time;
She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb,
But never reached the town.
The wretched parents, all that night,Went shouting far and wide;But there was neither sound nor sightTo serve them for a guide.
The wretched parents, all that night,
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.
At daybreak on a hill they stoodThat overlooked the moor;And thence they saw the bridge of woodA furlong from their door.
At daybreak on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood
A furlong from their door.
They wept, and, turning homeward, cried,“In heaven we all shall meet!”When in the snow the mother spiedThe print of Lucy’s feet.
They wept, and, turning homeward, cried,
“In heaven we all shall meet!”
When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy’s feet.
Then downward from the steep hill’s edgeThey tracked the footmarks small;And through the broken hawthorn hedge,And by the long stone wall;
Then downward from the steep hill’s edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone wall;
And then an open field they crossed;The marks were still the same;They tracked them on, nor ever lost,And to the bridge they came.
And then an open field they crossed;
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost,
And to the bridge they came.
They followed from the snowy bankThose footmarks, one by one,Into the middle of the plank;And further there were none!
They followed from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank;
And further there were none!
Yet some maintain that to this dayShe is a living child;That you may see sweet Lucy GrayUpon the lonesome wild.
Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.
O’er rough and smooth she trips along,And never looks behind;And sings a solitary songThat whistles in the wind.
O’er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.
Phrase Exercise.1. Crossed the wild.—2.Solitarychild.—3. Sweetest thing.—4.Minsterclock.—5. Snapped a fagot-band.—6.Pliedhis work.—7. Not blither is the mountain roe.—8. Wanton stroke.—9.Disperse the powderysnow.—10.Wretchedparents.—11. Sound nor sight.—12. Spied the print.—13. Tracked them on.—14. Lonesome wild.—15.Tripsalong.—16.Solitarysong.
1. Crossed the wild.—2.Solitarychild.—3. Sweetest thing.—4.Minsterclock.—5. Snapped a fagot-band.—6.Pliedhis work.—7. Not blither is the mountain roe.—8. Wanton stroke.—9.Disperse the powderysnow.—10.Wretchedparents.—11. Sound nor sight.—12. Spied the print.—13. Tracked them on.—14. Lonesome wild.—15.Tripsalong.—16.Solitarysong.
The Emperor Alexander, while travelling in Western Russia, came one day to a small town of which he knew very little; so, when he found that he must change horses, he thought that he would look around and see what the town was like.
The Emperor encountering the smoking major on a doorstep
Alone, habited in a plain military coat, without any mark of his high rank, he wandered through the place until he came to the end of the road that he had been following. There he paused, not knowing which way to turn; for two paths were before him,—one to the right and one to the left.
Alexander saw a man standing at the door of a house; and, going up to him, the Emperor said, “My friend, can you tell me which of these two roads I must take to get to Kalouga?” The man, who was in full military dress, was smoking a pipe with an air of dignity almost ridiculous. Astonished that so plain-looking a traveller should dare to speak to him with familiarity, the smoker answered shortly, “To the right.”
“Pardon!” said the Emperor. “Another word, if you please.”—“What?” was the haughty reply.—“Permit me to ask you a question,” continued the Emperor. “What is your grade in the army?”—“Guess.” And the pipe blazed away furiously.—“Lieutenant?” said the amused Alexander.—“Up!” came proudly from the smoker’s lips.—“Captain?”—“Higher.”—“Major?”—“At last!” was the lofty response. The Emperor bowed low in the presence of such greatness.
“Now, in my turn,” said the major, with the grand air that he thought fit to assume in addressing a humble inferior, “what are you, if you please?”—“Guess,” answered Alexander.—“Lieutenant?”—“Up!”—“Captain?”—“Higher.”—“Major?”—“Go on.”—“Colonel?”—“Again.”
The smoker took his pipe from his mouth: “Your Excellency is, then, General?” The grand air was fast disappearing.—“You are coming near it.”—The major put his hand to his cap: “Then your Highness is Field-Marshal?”
By this time the grand air had taken flight, and the officer, so pompous a moment before, looked as if thesteady gaze and the quiet voice of the traveller had reduced him to the last stage of fear.—“Once more, my good major,” said Alexander.—“His Imperial Majesty?” exclaimed the man, in surprise and terror, letting his pipe drop from his trembling fingers.—“His very self,” answered the Emperor; and he smiled at the wonderful change in the major’s face and manner.
“Ah, Sire, pardon me!” cried the officer, falling on his knees,—“pardon me!”—“And what is there to pardon?” said Alexander, with real, simple dignity. “My friend, you have done me no harm. I asked you which road I should take, and you told me. Thanks!”
But the major never forgot the lesson. If, in later years, he was tempted to be rude or haughty to his so-called inferiors, there rose at once in his mind a picture of a well-remembered scene, in which his pride of power had brought such shame upon him. Two soldiers in a quiet country-town made but an every-day picture, after all; but what a difference there had been between the pompous manner of the petty officer and the natural, courteous dignity of the Emperor of all the Russias!
Word Exercise.haughty (haw´te)Maj´es-tyColonel (kur´nel)Lieu-ten´ant (lĕu-ten´ant)Ka-lou´ga (kă-loo´gă)Em´per-orIm-pe´ri-alEx´cel-len-cy
haughty (haw´te)Maj´es-tyColonel (kur´nel)Lieu-ten´ant (lĕu-ten´ant)Ka-lou´ga (kă-loo´gă)Em´per-orIm-pe´ri-alEx´cel-len-cy
Phrase Exercise.1.Habited in a plain militarycoat.—2. Air of dignity.—3. Speak withfamiliarity.—4. Answered shortly.—5. Haughty reply.—6. Lofty response.—7. Steady gaze.—8. Exclaimed in surprise.—9. Simple dignity.—10. Pompous manner.—11. Petty officer.—12. Natural dignity.
1.Habited in a plain militarycoat.—2. Air of dignity.—3. Speak withfamiliarity.—4. Answered shortly.—5. Haughty reply.—6. Lofty response.—7. Steady gaze.—8. Exclaimed in surprise.—9. Simple dignity.—10. Pompous manner.—11. Petty officer.—12. Natural dignity.
J. T. Trowbridge.
Home from his journey, Farmer JohnArrived this morning safe and sound;His black coat off, and his old clothes on,“Now I’m myself,” said Farmer John;And he thinks, “I’ll look around.”Up leaps the dog: “Get down, you pup!Are you so glad you would eat me up?”The old cow lows at the gate to greet him;The horses prick up their ears to meet him.“Well, well, old Bay!Ha, ha, old Gray!Do you get good feed when I’m away?“You haven’t a rib,” says Farmer John;“The cattle are looking round and sleek;The colt is going to be a roan,And a beauty, too; how he has grown!We’ll wean the calf in a week.”Says Farmer John, “When I’ve been off,To call you again about the trough,And water you and pet you while you drink,Is a greater comfort than you can think!”And he pats old BayAnd he slaps old Gray;“Ah! this is the comfort of going away.“For after all,” says Farmer John,“The best of a journey is getting home:I’ve seen great sights, but I would not giveThis spot, and the peaceful life I live,For all their Paris and Rome;These hills for the city’s stifled air,And big hotels and bustle and glare;—Land all houses and roads all stones,That deafen your ears and batter your bones!Would you, old Bay?Would you, old Gray?That’s what one gets by going away.“There Money is king,” says Farmer John,“And Fashion is queen; and it’s very queerTo see how sometimes, while the manIs raking and scraping all he can,The wife spends, every year,Enough, you would think, for a score of wives,To keep them in luxury all their lives!The town is a perfect BabylonTo a quiet chap,” says Farmer John.“You see, old Bay,You see, old Gray,I’m wiser than when I went away.“I’ve found out this,” says Farmer John,“That happiness is not bought and sold,And clutched in a life of waste and hurry,In nights of pleasure and days of worry,And wealth isn’t all in gold,Mortgage and stocks, and ten per cent.,But in simple ways and sweet content,Few wants, pure hopes, and noble ends,Some land to till, and a few good friends,Like you, old Bay,And you, old Gray,—That’s what I’ve learned by going away.”And a happy man is Farmer John,—O a rich and happy man is he!He sees the peas and pumpkins growing,The corn in tassel, the buckwheat blowing,And fruit on vine and tree;The large kind oxen look their thanks,As he rubs their foreheads and strokes their flanks;The doves light round him, and strut and coo;Says Farmer John, “I’ll take you, too,—And you, old Bay,And you, old Gray,Next time I travel so far away.”
Home from his journey, Farmer JohnArrived this morning safe and sound;His black coat off, and his old clothes on,“Now I’m myself,” said Farmer John;And he thinks, “I’ll look around.”Up leaps the dog: “Get down, you pup!Are you so glad you would eat me up?”The old cow lows at the gate to greet him;The horses prick up their ears to meet him.“Well, well, old Bay!Ha, ha, old Gray!Do you get good feed when I’m away?“You haven’t a rib,” says Farmer John;“The cattle are looking round and sleek;The colt is going to be a roan,And a beauty, too; how he has grown!We’ll wean the calf in a week.”Says Farmer John, “When I’ve been off,To call you again about the trough,And water you and pet you while you drink,Is a greater comfort than you can think!”And he pats old BayAnd he slaps old Gray;“Ah! this is the comfort of going away.“For after all,” says Farmer John,“The best of a journey is getting home:I’ve seen great sights, but I would not giveThis spot, and the peaceful life I live,For all their Paris and Rome;These hills for the city’s stifled air,And big hotels and bustle and glare;—Land all houses and roads all stones,That deafen your ears and batter your bones!Would you, old Bay?Would you, old Gray?That’s what one gets by going away.“There Money is king,” says Farmer John,“And Fashion is queen; and it’s very queerTo see how sometimes, while the manIs raking and scraping all he can,The wife spends, every year,Enough, you would think, for a score of wives,To keep them in luxury all their lives!The town is a perfect BabylonTo a quiet chap,” says Farmer John.“You see, old Bay,You see, old Gray,I’m wiser than when I went away.“I’ve found out this,” says Farmer John,“That happiness is not bought and sold,And clutched in a life of waste and hurry,In nights of pleasure and days of worry,And wealth isn’t all in gold,Mortgage and stocks, and ten per cent.,But in simple ways and sweet content,Few wants, pure hopes, and noble ends,Some land to till, and a few good friends,Like you, old Bay,And you, old Gray,—That’s what I’ve learned by going away.”And a happy man is Farmer John,—O a rich and happy man is he!He sees the peas and pumpkins growing,The corn in tassel, the buckwheat blowing,And fruit on vine and tree;The large kind oxen look their thanks,As he rubs their foreheads and strokes their flanks;The doves light round him, and strut and coo;Says Farmer John, “I’ll take you, too,—And you, old Bay,And you, old Gray,Next time I travel so far away.”
Home from his journey, Farmer JohnArrived this morning safe and sound;His black coat off, and his old clothes on,“Now I’m myself,” said Farmer John;And he thinks, “I’ll look around.”Up leaps the dog: “Get down, you pup!Are you so glad you would eat me up?”The old cow lows at the gate to greet him;The horses prick up their ears to meet him.“Well, well, old Bay!Ha, ha, old Gray!Do you get good feed when I’m away?
Home from his journey, Farmer John
Arrived this morning safe and sound;
His black coat off, and his old clothes on,
“Now I’m myself,” said Farmer John;
And he thinks, “I’ll look around.”
Up leaps the dog: “Get down, you pup!
Are you so glad you would eat me up?”
The old cow lows at the gate to greet him;
The horses prick up their ears to meet him.
“Well, well, old Bay!
Ha, ha, old Gray!
Do you get good feed when I’m away?
“You haven’t a rib,” says Farmer John;“The cattle are looking round and sleek;The colt is going to be a roan,And a beauty, too; how he has grown!We’ll wean the calf in a week.”Says Farmer John, “When I’ve been off,To call you again about the trough,And water you and pet you while you drink,Is a greater comfort than you can think!”And he pats old BayAnd he slaps old Gray;“Ah! this is the comfort of going away.
“You haven’t a rib,” says Farmer John;
“The cattle are looking round and sleek;
The colt is going to be a roan,
And a beauty, too; how he has grown!
We’ll wean the calf in a week.”
Says Farmer John, “When I’ve been off,
To call you again about the trough,
And water you and pet you while you drink,
Is a greater comfort than you can think!”
And he pats old Bay
And he slaps old Gray;
“Ah! this is the comfort of going away.
“For after all,” says Farmer John,“The best of a journey is getting home:I’ve seen great sights, but I would not giveThis spot, and the peaceful life I live,For all their Paris and Rome;These hills for the city’s stifled air,And big hotels and bustle and glare;—Land all houses and roads all stones,That deafen your ears and batter your bones!Would you, old Bay?Would you, old Gray?That’s what one gets by going away.
“For after all,” says Farmer John,
“The best of a journey is getting home:
I’ve seen great sights, but I would not give
This spot, and the peaceful life I live,
For all their Paris and Rome;
These hills for the city’s stifled air,
And big hotels and bustle and glare;—
Land all houses and roads all stones,
That deafen your ears and batter your bones!
Would you, old Bay?
Would you, old Gray?
That’s what one gets by going away.
“There Money is king,” says Farmer John,“And Fashion is queen; and it’s very queerTo see how sometimes, while the manIs raking and scraping all he can,The wife spends, every year,Enough, you would think, for a score of wives,To keep them in luxury all their lives!The town is a perfect BabylonTo a quiet chap,” says Farmer John.“You see, old Bay,You see, old Gray,I’m wiser than when I went away.
“There Money is king,” says Farmer John,
“And Fashion is queen; and it’s very queer
To see how sometimes, while the man
Is raking and scraping all he can,
The wife spends, every year,
Enough, you would think, for a score of wives,
To keep them in luxury all their lives!
The town is a perfect Babylon
To a quiet chap,” says Farmer John.
“You see, old Bay,
You see, old Gray,
I’m wiser than when I went away.
“I’ve found out this,” says Farmer John,“That happiness is not bought and sold,And clutched in a life of waste and hurry,In nights of pleasure and days of worry,And wealth isn’t all in gold,Mortgage and stocks, and ten per cent.,But in simple ways and sweet content,Few wants, pure hopes, and noble ends,Some land to till, and a few good friends,Like you, old Bay,And you, old Gray,—That’s what I’ve learned by going away.”
“I’ve found out this,” says Farmer John,
“That happiness is not bought and sold,
And clutched in a life of waste and hurry,
In nights of pleasure and days of worry,
And wealth isn’t all in gold,
Mortgage and stocks, and ten per cent.,
But in simple ways and sweet content,
Few wants, pure hopes, and noble ends,
Some land to till, and a few good friends,
Like you, old Bay,
And you, old Gray,—
That’s what I’ve learned by going away.”
And a happy man is Farmer John,—O a rich and happy man is he!He sees the peas and pumpkins growing,The corn in tassel, the buckwheat blowing,And fruit on vine and tree;The large kind oxen look their thanks,As he rubs their foreheads and strokes their flanks;The doves light round him, and strut and coo;Says Farmer John, “I’ll take you, too,—And you, old Bay,And you, old Gray,Next time I travel so far away.”
And a happy man is Farmer John,—
O a rich and happy man is he!
He sees the peas and pumpkins growing,
The corn in tassel, the buckwheat blowing,
And fruit on vine and tree;
The large kind oxen look their thanks,
As he rubs their foreheads and strokes their flanks;
The doves light round him, and strut and coo;
Says Farmer John, “I’ll take you, too,—
And you, old Bay,
And you, old Gray,
Next time I travel so far away.”