DAYBREAK

Speak gently; it is better farTo rule by love than fear:Speak gently; let no harsh words marThe good we might do here.Speak gently to the little child;Its love be sure to gain;Teach it in accents soft and mild;It may not long remain.Speak gently to the aged one;Grieve not the care-worn heart:The sands of life are nearly run;Let such in peace depart.Speak gently, kindly, to the poor;Let no harsh tone be heard;They have enough they must endure,Without an unkind word.Speak gently to the erring; knowThey must have toiled in vain;Perhaps unkindness made them so;Oh, win them back again!Speak gently: ’tis a little thingDropped in the heart’s deep well;The good, the joy, which it may bring,Eternity shall tell.—David Bates.

Speak gently; it is better farTo rule by love than fear:Speak gently; let no harsh words marThe good we might do here.Speak gently to the little child;Its love be sure to gain;Teach it in accents soft and mild;It may not long remain.Speak gently to the aged one;Grieve not the care-worn heart:The sands of life are nearly run;Let such in peace depart.Speak gently, kindly, to the poor;Let no harsh tone be heard;They have enough they must endure,Without an unkind word.Speak gently to the erring; knowThey must have toiled in vain;Perhaps unkindness made them so;Oh, win them back again!Speak gently: ’tis a little thingDropped in the heart’s deep well;The good, the joy, which it may bring,Eternity shall tell.—David Bates.

Speak gently; it is better farTo rule by love than fear:Speak gently; let no harsh words marThe good we might do here.

Speak gently; it is better far

To rule by love than fear:

Speak gently; let no harsh words mar

The good we might do here.

Speak gently to the little child;Its love be sure to gain;Teach it in accents soft and mild;It may not long remain.

Speak gently to the little child;

Its love be sure to gain;

Teach it in accents soft and mild;

It may not long remain.

Speak gently to the aged one;Grieve not the care-worn heart:The sands of life are nearly run;Let such in peace depart.

Speak gently to the aged one;

Grieve not the care-worn heart:

The sands of life are nearly run;

Let such in peace depart.

Speak gently, kindly, to the poor;Let no harsh tone be heard;They have enough they must endure,Without an unkind word.

Speak gently, kindly, to the poor;

Let no harsh tone be heard;

They have enough they must endure,

Without an unkind word.

Speak gently to the erring; knowThey must have toiled in vain;Perhaps unkindness made them so;Oh, win them back again!

Speak gently to the erring; know

They must have toiled in vain;

Perhaps unkindness made them so;

Oh, win them back again!

Speak gently: ’tis a little thingDropped in the heart’s deep well;The good, the joy, which it may bring,Eternity shall tell.—David Bates.

Speak gently: ’tis a little thing

Dropped in the heart’s deep well;

The good, the joy, which it may bring,

Eternity shall tell.

—David Bates.

A wind came up out of the sea,And said, “O mists, make room for me.”It hailed the ships, and cried, “Sail on,Ye mariners, the night is gone.”And hurried landwards, far away,Crying, “Awake! it is the day.”It said unto the forest, “Shout!Hang all your leafy banners out!”It touched the wood-bird’s folded wing,And said, “O bird, awake and sing.”And o’er the farms, “O chanticleer,Your clarion blow; the day is near.”It whispered to the fields of corn,“Bow down and hail the coming morn.”It shouted through the belfry-tower,“Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour.”It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,And said, “Not yet! in quiet lie.”—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

A wind came up out of the sea,And said, “O mists, make room for me.”It hailed the ships, and cried, “Sail on,Ye mariners, the night is gone.”And hurried landwards, far away,Crying, “Awake! it is the day.”It said unto the forest, “Shout!Hang all your leafy banners out!”It touched the wood-bird’s folded wing,And said, “O bird, awake and sing.”And o’er the farms, “O chanticleer,Your clarion blow; the day is near.”It whispered to the fields of corn,“Bow down and hail the coming morn.”It shouted through the belfry-tower,“Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour.”It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,And said, “Not yet! in quiet lie.”—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

A wind came up out of the sea,And said, “O mists, make room for me.”

A wind came up out of the sea,

And said, “O mists, make room for me.”

It hailed the ships, and cried, “Sail on,Ye mariners, the night is gone.”

It hailed the ships, and cried, “Sail on,

Ye mariners, the night is gone.”

And hurried landwards, far away,Crying, “Awake! it is the day.”

And hurried landwards, far away,

Crying, “Awake! it is the day.”

It said unto the forest, “Shout!Hang all your leafy banners out!”

It said unto the forest, “Shout!

Hang all your leafy banners out!”

It touched the wood-bird’s folded wing,And said, “O bird, awake and sing.”

It touched the wood-bird’s folded wing,

And said, “O bird, awake and sing.”

And o’er the farms, “O chanticleer,Your clarion blow; the day is near.”

And o’er the farms, “O chanticleer,

Your clarion blow; the day is near.”

It whispered to the fields of corn,“Bow down and hail the coming morn.”

It whispered to the fields of corn,

“Bow down and hail the coming morn.”

It shouted through the belfry-tower,“Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour.”

It shouted through the belfry-tower,

“Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour.”

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,And said, “Not yet! in quiet lie.”—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,

And said, “Not yet! in quiet lie.”

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

One morning when Hercules was a fair-faced lad of twelve years, he was sent out to do an errand which he disliked very much. As he walked slowly along the road, his heart was full of bitter thoughts; and he murmured because others no better than himself were living in ease and pleasure, while for him there was little but labor and pain. Thinking upon these things, he came after a while to a place where two roads met; and he stopped, not certain which one to take.

The road on his right was hilly and rough, and there was no beauty in it or about it; but he saw that it led straight towards the blue mountains in the far distance. The road on his left was broad and smooth, with shade trees on eitherside, where sang thousands of beautiful birds; and it went winding in and out, through groves and green meadows, where bloomed countless flowers; but it ended in fog and mist long before reaching the wonderful mountains of blue.

While the lad stood in doubt as to which way he should go, he saw two women coming towards him, each by a different road. The one who came down the flowery way reached him first, and Hercules saw that she was beautiful as a summer day. Her cheeks were red, her eyes sparkled, her voice was like the music of morning.

“O noble youth,” she said, “this is the road which you should choose. It will lead you into pleasant ways where there is neither toil, nor hard study, nor drudgery of any kind. Your ears shall always be delighted with sweet sounds, and your eyes with things beautiful and gay; and you need do nothing but play and enjoy the hours as they pass.”

By this time the other fair woman had drawn near, and she now spoke to the lad.

“If you take my road,” said she, “you will find that it is rocky and rough, and that it climbs many a hill and descends into many a valley and quagmire. The views which you will sometimes get from the hilltops are grand and glorious, while the deep valleys are dark and the uphill ways are toilsome; but the road leads to the blue mountains of endless fame, of which you can see faint glimpses, far away.They cannot be reached without labor; there is nothing worth having but must be won through toil. If you would have fruits and flowers, you must plant and care for them; if you would gain the love of your fellow-men, you must love them and suffer for them; if you would be a man, you must make yourself strong by the doing of manly deeds.”

Then the boy saw that this woman, although her face seemed at first very plain, was as beautiful as the dawn, or as the flowery fields after a summer rain.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Some call me Labor,” she answered; “but others know me as Truth.”

“And what is your name?” he asked, turning to the first lady.

“Some call me Pleasure,” said she, with a smile; “but I choose to be known as the Joyous One.”

“And what can you promise me at the end if I go with you?”

“I promise nothing at the end. What I give, I give at the beginning.”

“Labor,” said Hercules, “I shall follow your road. I want to be strong and manly and worthy of the love of my fellows. And whether I shall ever reach the blue mountains or not, I want to have the reward of knowing that my journey has not been without some worthy aim.”

—James Baldwin.

Speed on, speed on, good Master!The camp lies far away;We must cross the haunted valleyBefore the close of day.How the snow-blight came upon meI will tell you as I go,—The blight of the Shadow-hunter,Who walks the midnight snow.To the cold December heavenCame the pale moon and the stars,As the yellow sun was sinkingBehind the purple bars.The snow was deeply driftedUpon the ridges drear,That lay for miles around meAnd the camps for which we steer.’Twas silent on the hillside,And by the solemn wood,No sound of life or motionTo break the solitude,Save the wailing of the moose-birdWith a plaintive note and low,And the skating of the red leafUpon the frozen snow.And said I, “Though dark is falling,And far the camp must be,Yet my heart it would be lightsomeIf I had but company.”And then I sang and shouted,Keeping measure, as I sped,To the harp-twang of the snow-shoeAs it sprang beneath my tread.Nor far into the valleyHad I dipped upon my way,When a dusky figure joined me,In a capuchon of gray,Bending upon the snow-shoes,With a long and limber stride;And I hailed the dusky strangerAs we travelled side by side.But no token of communionGave he by word or look,And the fear-chill fell upon meAt the crossing of the brook.For I saw by the sickly moonlightAs I followed, bending low,That the walking of the strangerLeft no footmarks on the snow.Then the fear-chill gathered o’er me,Like a shroud around me cast,As I sank upon the snow-driftWhere the Shadow-hunter passed.And the other trappers found me,Before the break of day,With my dark hair blanched and whitenedAs the snow in which I lay.But they spoke not as they raised me;For they knew that in the nightI had seen the Shadow-hunter,And had withered in his blight.Sancta Maria speed us!The sun is falling low,—Before us lies the valleyOf the Walker of the Snow!—Charles Dawson Shanly.

Speed on, speed on, good Master!The camp lies far away;We must cross the haunted valleyBefore the close of day.How the snow-blight came upon meI will tell you as I go,—The blight of the Shadow-hunter,Who walks the midnight snow.To the cold December heavenCame the pale moon and the stars,As the yellow sun was sinkingBehind the purple bars.The snow was deeply driftedUpon the ridges drear,That lay for miles around meAnd the camps for which we steer.’Twas silent on the hillside,And by the solemn wood,No sound of life or motionTo break the solitude,Save the wailing of the moose-birdWith a plaintive note and low,And the skating of the red leafUpon the frozen snow.And said I, “Though dark is falling,And far the camp must be,Yet my heart it would be lightsomeIf I had but company.”And then I sang and shouted,Keeping measure, as I sped,To the harp-twang of the snow-shoeAs it sprang beneath my tread.Nor far into the valleyHad I dipped upon my way,When a dusky figure joined me,In a capuchon of gray,Bending upon the snow-shoes,With a long and limber stride;And I hailed the dusky strangerAs we travelled side by side.But no token of communionGave he by word or look,And the fear-chill fell upon meAt the crossing of the brook.For I saw by the sickly moonlightAs I followed, bending low,That the walking of the strangerLeft no footmarks on the snow.Then the fear-chill gathered o’er me,Like a shroud around me cast,As I sank upon the snow-driftWhere the Shadow-hunter passed.And the other trappers found me,Before the break of day,With my dark hair blanched and whitenedAs the snow in which I lay.But they spoke not as they raised me;For they knew that in the nightI had seen the Shadow-hunter,And had withered in his blight.Sancta Maria speed us!The sun is falling low,—Before us lies the valleyOf the Walker of the Snow!—Charles Dawson Shanly.

Speed on, speed on, good Master!The camp lies far away;We must cross the haunted valleyBefore the close of day.

Speed on, speed on, good Master!

The camp lies far away;

We must cross the haunted valley

Before the close of day.

How the snow-blight came upon meI will tell you as I go,—The blight of the Shadow-hunter,Who walks the midnight snow.

How the snow-blight came upon me

I will tell you as I go,—

The blight of the Shadow-hunter,

Who walks the midnight snow.

To the cold December heavenCame the pale moon and the stars,As the yellow sun was sinkingBehind the purple bars.

To the cold December heaven

Came the pale moon and the stars,

As the yellow sun was sinking

Behind the purple bars.

The snow was deeply driftedUpon the ridges drear,That lay for miles around meAnd the camps for which we steer.

The snow was deeply drifted

Upon the ridges drear,

That lay for miles around me

And the camps for which we steer.

’Twas silent on the hillside,And by the solemn wood,No sound of life or motionTo break the solitude,

’Twas silent on the hillside,

And by the solemn wood,

No sound of life or motion

To break the solitude,

Save the wailing of the moose-birdWith a plaintive note and low,And the skating of the red leafUpon the frozen snow.

Save the wailing of the moose-bird

With a plaintive note and low,

And the skating of the red leaf

Upon the frozen snow.

And said I, “Though dark is falling,And far the camp must be,Yet my heart it would be lightsomeIf I had but company.”

And said I, “Though dark is falling,

And far the camp must be,

Yet my heart it would be lightsome

If I had but company.”

And then I sang and shouted,Keeping measure, as I sped,To the harp-twang of the snow-shoeAs it sprang beneath my tread.

And then I sang and shouted,

Keeping measure, as I sped,

To the harp-twang of the snow-shoe

As it sprang beneath my tread.

Nor far into the valleyHad I dipped upon my way,When a dusky figure joined me,In a capuchon of gray,

Nor far into the valley

Had I dipped upon my way,

When a dusky figure joined me,

In a capuchon of gray,

Bending upon the snow-shoes,With a long and limber stride;And I hailed the dusky strangerAs we travelled side by side.

Bending upon the snow-shoes,

With a long and limber stride;

And I hailed the dusky stranger

As we travelled side by side.

But no token of communionGave he by word or look,And the fear-chill fell upon meAt the crossing of the brook.

But no token of communion

Gave he by word or look,

And the fear-chill fell upon me

At the crossing of the brook.

For I saw by the sickly moonlightAs I followed, bending low,That the walking of the strangerLeft no footmarks on the snow.

For I saw by the sickly moonlight

As I followed, bending low,

That the walking of the stranger

Left no footmarks on the snow.

Then the fear-chill gathered o’er me,Like a shroud around me cast,As I sank upon the snow-driftWhere the Shadow-hunter passed.

Then the fear-chill gathered o’er me,

Like a shroud around me cast,

As I sank upon the snow-drift

Where the Shadow-hunter passed.

And the other trappers found me,Before the break of day,With my dark hair blanched and whitenedAs the snow in which I lay.

And the other trappers found me,

Before the break of day,

With my dark hair blanched and whitened

As the snow in which I lay.

But they spoke not as they raised me;For they knew that in the nightI had seen the Shadow-hunter,And had withered in his blight.

But they spoke not as they raised me;

For they knew that in the night

I had seen the Shadow-hunter,

And had withered in his blight.

Sancta Maria speed us!The sun is falling low,—Before us lies the valleyOf the Walker of the Snow!—Charles Dawson Shanly.

Sancta Maria speed us!

The sun is falling low,—

Before us lies the valley

Of the Walker of the Snow!

—Charles Dawson Shanly.

Long, long ago, before the white man came across the Sea of Peace to Japan, before the screaming engines frightened the white heron from the rice fields, and before the sparrows perched on telegraph wires, there lived two frogs, one in a well at Kioto, the other in a pond at Ozaka.

In the land of Japan there is a proverb that “the frog in the well knows not the great ocean.” The Kioto frog had heard this said many times by the maids who came to draw water, and one day he became vexed at their laughter.

“I shall stay here no longer,” he said to himself. “I shall go at once to see this great ocean of which they talk. I do not believe it is half as wide or as deep as my well, where I can see the stars even in the daytime, but I shall at least know what it looks like.”

Then Mr. Frog told his family that he was going on a journey, going out to Ozaka to see the great ocean. So Mrs. Frog gave him a package of boiled rice and snails, and tying it round his neck, he set off on his journey. When he came out of the well, he saw that the other animals did not leap, but walked upright on their legs. He thought he must walk in the same way, so he stood up on his hind legs and waddled off slowly across the fields.

On this very same day the frog who lived in the pond decided to see more of the world.

The Well at Kioto

The Well at Kioto

“Good-by,” he said to Mrs. Frog, as he jumped from a lily-pad into the grass, “I am tired of sitting here in the sun thinking and blinking, so I am going to Kioto.”

It so happened that the Kioto frog and the frog from Ozaka met on a hill halfway between the two cities.

“Good morning,” said one, bowing his head to the ground three times.

“Good morning,” said the other, also bowing respectfully.

Then they sank down in a shady spot, for they were very tired and lame from trying to walk on their hind feet.

“Where are you going?” asked the Ozaka frog. “This is a fine day for a journey.”

“I set out to see the great ocean at Ozaka, of which I have heard so often,” replied the frog who lived in the well, “but I am so tired that I think I shall be satisfied with looking at it from the top of this hill.”

“I am going to Kioto,” said the other frog.

“It is a long journey, my friend,” said the Kioto frog. “Why do you not look at it from this hill and save yourself the trouble of walking all the way?”

“That is a good plan, friend,” said the frog from Ozaka.

Then the two frogs climbed to the top of a flat rock, and stood up on their hind legs, the Kioto frog facing the great ocean at Ozaka, and the other facing the city of Kioto. A frog’s eyes, as you know very well, are so placedthat when he sits comfortably at home on his lily-pad, he looks before him. But when he stands on his hind legs with his head in the air, he sees only what is behind him. Standing in this way, on top of the rock, the frogs looked long and steadily at the landscape. At last, being very tired, they sat down again.

Two frogs standing talking

“Ozaka looks exactly like my home,” said the Kioto frog; “and as for the ocean, I saw nothing larger than the brook I swam across this morning.”

“You are right,” said the other. “Kioto looks just like Ozaka. They are as much alike as two grains of rice. I am glad that I met you, for you have saved me much trouble. I shall return to my pond at once. Good-by, my friend.”

Then the two frogs jumped to the ground and hurried off, leaping as a frog should do, and thus reaching home in a short time. That night they told their friends about their adventures, and still the frog in the pond thinks he has seen the great world, and “the frog in the well knows not the great ocean.”—William Elliot Griffis.

A good action is never thrown away.

Beneath the low-hung night cloudThat raked her splintering mastThe good ship settled slowly,The cruel leak gained fast.Over the awful oceanHer signal guns pealed out.Dear God! was that thy answerFrom the horror round about?A voice came down the wild wind,“Ho! ship ahoy!” its cry:“Our stout Three Bells of GlasgowShall lay till daylight by!”Hour after hour crept slowly,Yet on the heaving swellsTossed up and down the ship-lights,The lights of the Three Bells!And ship to ship made signals,Man answered back to man,While oft, to cheer and hearten,The Three Bells nearer ran;And the captain from her taffrailSent down his hopeful cry.“Take heart! Hold on!” he shouted,“The Three Bells shall lay by!”All night across the watersThe tossing lights shone clear;All night from reeling taffrailThe Three Bells sent her cheer,And when the dreary watchesOf storm and darkness passed,Just as the wreck lurched under,All souls were saved at last.Sail on, Three Bells, forever,In grateful memory sail!Ring on, Three Bells of rescue,Above the wave and gale!Type of the Love eternal,Repeat the Master’s cry,As tossing through our darknessThe lights of God draw nigh!—John Greenleaf Whittier.

Beneath the low-hung night cloudThat raked her splintering mastThe good ship settled slowly,The cruel leak gained fast.Over the awful oceanHer signal guns pealed out.Dear God! was that thy answerFrom the horror round about?A voice came down the wild wind,“Ho! ship ahoy!” its cry:“Our stout Three Bells of GlasgowShall lay till daylight by!”Hour after hour crept slowly,Yet on the heaving swellsTossed up and down the ship-lights,The lights of the Three Bells!And ship to ship made signals,Man answered back to man,While oft, to cheer and hearten,The Three Bells nearer ran;And the captain from her taffrailSent down his hopeful cry.“Take heart! Hold on!” he shouted,“The Three Bells shall lay by!”All night across the watersThe tossing lights shone clear;All night from reeling taffrailThe Three Bells sent her cheer,And when the dreary watchesOf storm and darkness passed,Just as the wreck lurched under,All souls were saved at last.Sail on, Three Bells, forever,In grateful memory sail!Ring on, Three Bells of rescue,Above the wave and gale!Type of the Love eternal,Repeat the Master’s cry,As tossing through our darknessThe lights of God draw nigh!—John Greenleaf Whittier.

Beneath the low-hung night cloudThat raked her splintering mastThe good ship settled slowly,The cruel leak gained fast.

Beneath the low-hung night cloud

That raked her splintering mast

The good ship settled slowly,

The cruel leak gained fast.

Over the awful oceanHer signal guns pealed out.Dear God! was that thy answerFrom the horror round about?

Over the awful ocean

Her signal guns pealed out.

Dear God! was that thy answer

From the horror round about?

A voice came down the wild wind,“Ho! ship ahoy!” its cry:“Our stout Three Bells of GlasgowShall lay till daylight by!”

A voice came down the wild wind,

“Ho! ship ahoy!” its cry:

“Our stout Three Bells of Glasgow

Shall lay till daylight by!”

Hour after hour crept slowly,Yet on the heaving swellsTossed up and down the ship-lights,The lights of the Three Bells!

Hour after hour crept slowly,

Yet on the heaving swells

Tossed up and down the ship-lights,

The lights of the Three Bells!

And ship to ship made signals,Man answered back to man,While oft, to cheer and hearten,The Three Bells nearer ran;

And ship to ship made signals,

Man answered back to man,

While oft, to cheer and hearten,

The Three Bells nearer ran;

And the captain from her taffrailSent down his hopeful cry.“Take heart! Hold on!” he shouted,“The Three Bells shall lay by!”

And the captain from her taffrail

Sent down his hopeful cry.

“Take heart! Hold on!” he shouted,

“The Three Bells shall lay by!”

All night across the watersThe tossing lights shone clear;All night from reeling taffrailThe Three Bells sent her cheer,

All night across the waters

The tossing lights shone clear;

All night from reeling taffrail

The Three Bells sent her cheer,

And when the dreary watchesOf storm and darkness passed,Just as the wreck lurched under,All souls were saved at last.

And when the dreary watches

Of storm and darkness passed,

Just as the wreck lurched under,

All souls were saved at last.

Sail on, Three Bells, forever,In grateful memory sail!Ring on, Three Bells of rescue,Above the wave and gale!

Sail on, Three Bells, forever,

In grateful memory sail!

Ring on, Three Bells of rescue,

Above the wave and gale!

Type of the Love eternal,Repeat the Master’s cry,As tossing through our darknessThe lights of God draw nigh!—John Greenleaf Whittier.

Type of the Love eternal,

Repeat the Master’s cry,

As tossing through our darkness

The lights of God draw nigh!

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

O world, as God has made it! All is beauty:And knowing this, is love, and love is duty.What further may be sought for or declared?

O world, as God has made it! All is beauty:And knowing this, is love, and love is duty.What further may be sought for or declared?

O world, as God has made it! All is beauty:And knowing this, is love, and love is duty.What further may be sought for or declared?

O world, as God has made it! All is beauty:

And knowing this, is love, and love is duty.

What further may be sought for or declared?

One day an Indian came back from a trip to his traps, and noticed, when he reached his wigwam, that a deer that had hung inside had been stolen. He at once set to work to find the thief.

Following the trail left by the evil-doer, the Indian soon met a party of white men. He asked if they had seen a little old man, lame and white, who had a short gun. The Indian added that the man he was seeking was followed by a small bobtailed dog, and that he carried a deer. Such a man, he said, had stolen the deer from his wigwam.

“Why did you not seize the thief when you saw him?” said they.

“I did not see him,” answered the Indian.

“How, then, do you know that he is little, and old, and lame, and white, and has a short gun, and is followed by a little bobtailed dog?” asked they.

“I know that he is short,” replied the Indian, “because he piled up stones to stand on when he took down the meat. He must be old, because his steps are short, as is shown by his tracks. His gun, I know, is short, for I found the place where he had leaned it against a sapling while he was taking down the deer, and the muzzle left a scratch on the bark near the ground. The dog, sitting down in the sand, left the print of a stumpy tail. I knew the man was white bythe tracks of his boots, for Indians wear moccasins, and do not turn out their toes when walking; and I knew that he was lame, because the steps of the left foot were shorter than those of the right, as was shown by the footprints.”

And the Indian passed on in pursuit of the one who had robbed him.—Selected.

On Linden, when the sun was low,All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.But Linden saw another sight,When the drum beat, at dead of night,Commanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.By torch and trumpet fast array’d,Each horseman drew his battle-blade,And furious every charger neigh’d,To join the dreadful revelry.Then shook the hills with thunder riven,Then rush’d the steed, to battle driven,And louder than the bolts of heaven,Far flash’d the red artillery.But redder yet that light shall glowOn Linden’s hills of stainèd snow,And bloodier yet the torrent flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,Shout in their sulph’rous canopy.The combat deepens. On, ye brave,Who rush to glory, or the grave!Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,And charge with all thy chivalry!Few, few, shall part, where many meet!The snow shall be their winding sheet,And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier’s sepulchre.—Thomas Campbell.

On Linden, when the sun was low,All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.But Linden saw another sight,When the drum beat, at dead of night,Commanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.By torch and trumpet fast array’d,Each horseman drew his battle-blade,And furious every charger neigh’d,To join the dreadful revelry.Then shook the hills with thunder riven,Then rush’d the steed, to battle driven,And louder than the bolts of heaven,Far flash’d the red artillery.But redder yet that light shall glowOn Linden’s hills of stainèd snow,And bloodier yet the torrent flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,Shout in their sulph’rous canopy.The combat deepens. On, ye brave,Who rush to glory, or the grave!Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,And charge with all thy chivalry!Few, few, shall part, where many meet!The snow shall be their winding sheet,And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier’s sepulchre.—Thomas Campbell.

On Linden, when the sun was low,All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.

On Linden, when the sun was low,

All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,

And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,When the drum beat, at dead of night,Commanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.

But Linden saw another sight,

When the drum beat, at dead of night,

Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array’d,Each horseman drew his battle-blade,And furious every charger neigh’d,To join the dreadful revelry.

By torch and trumpet fast array’d,

Each horseman drew his battle-blade,

And furious every charger neigh’d,

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,Then rush’d the steed, to battle driven,And louder than the bolts of heaven,Far flash’d the red artillery.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,

Then rush’d the steed, to battle driven,

And louder than the bolts of heaven,

Far flash’d the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glowOn Linden’s hills of stainèd snow,And bloodier yet the torrent flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.

But redder yet that light shall glow

On Linden’s hills of stainèd snow,

And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,Shout in their sulph’rous canopy.

’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun

Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,

Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,

Shout in their sulph’rous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,Who rush to glory, or the grave!Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,And charge with all thy chivalry!

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,

Who rush to glory, or the grave!

Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few, shall part, where many meet!The snow shall be their winding sheet,And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier’s sepulchre.—Thomas Campbell.

Few, few, shall part, where many meet!

The snow shall be their winding sheet,

And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre.

—Thomas Campbell.

The butterfly, an idle thing,Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing,As do the bee and bird;Nor does it, like the prudent ant,Lay up the grain for times of want,A wise and cautious hoard.

The butterfly, an idle thing,Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing,As do the bee and bird;Nor does it, like the prudent ant,Lay up the grain for times of want,A wise and cautious hoard.

The butterfly, an idle thing,Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing,As do the bee and bird;Nor does it, like the prudent ant,Lay up the grain for times of want,A wise and cautious hoard.

The butterfly, an idle thing,

Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing,

As do the bee and bird;

Nor does it, like the prudent ant,

Lay up the grain for times of want,

A wise and cautious hoard.

The dew is gleaming in the grass,The morning hours are seven;And I am fain to watch you pass,Ye soft white clouds of heaven.Ye stray and gather, part and fold;The wind alone can tame you;I think of what in time of oldThe poets loved to name you.They called you sheep, the sky your sward;A field without a reaper;They called the shining sun your lord,The shepherd wind your keeper.Your sweetest poets I will deemThe men of old for mouldingIn simple beauty, such a dream,And I could lie beholding,Where daisies in the meadow toss,The wind from morn till even,Forever shepherd you acrossThe shining field of heaven.—Archibald Lampman.

The dew is gleaming in the grass,The morning hours are seven;And I am fain to watch you pass,Ye soft white clouds of heaven.Ye stray and gather, part and fold;The wind alone can tame you;I think of what in time of oldThe poets loved to name you.They called you sheep, the sky your sward;A field without a reaper;They called the shining sun your lord,The shepherd wind your keeper.Your sweetest poets I will deemThe men of old for mouldingIn simple beauty, such a dream,And I could lie beholding,Where daisies in the meadow toss,The wind from morn till even,Forever shepherd you acrossThe shining field of heaven.—Archibald Lampman.

The dew is gleaming in the grass,The morning hours are seven;And I am fain to watch you pass,Ye soft white clouds of heaven.

The dew is gleaming in the grass,

The morning hours are seven;

And I am fain to watch you pass,

Ye soft white clouds of heaven.

Ye stray and gather, part and fold;The wind alone can tame you;I think of what in time of oldThe poets loved to name you.

Ye stray and gather, part and fold;

The wind alone can tame you;

I think of what in time of old

The poets loved to name you.

They called you sheep, the sky your sward;A field without a reaper;They called the shining sun your lord,The shepherd wind your keeper.

They called you sheep, the sky your sward;

A field without a reaper;

They called the shining sun your lord,

The shepherd wind your keeper.

Your sweetest poets I will deemThe men of old for mouldingIn simple beauty, such a dream,And I could lie beholding,

Your sweetest poets I will deem

The men of old for moulding

In simple beauty, such a dream,

And I could lie beholding,

Where daisies in the meadow toss,The wind from morn till even,Forever shepherd you acrossThe shining field of heaven.—Archibald Lampman.

Where daisies in the meadow toss,

The wind from morn till even,

Forever shepherd you across

The shining field of heaven.

—Archibald Lampman.

By special permission.

At the blacksmith’s shop the bay mare Betty is being fitted to new shoes. Already the fore feet are nicely shod and the blacksmith now has the near hind foot in hand. The other occupants of the place are a small donkey and the bloodhound Laura.

Betty is a sensible horse and enjoys the shoeing process. When the time comes around for her regular visit to the forge, she walks off voluntarily and unattended to the familiar spot. No halter is necessary to keep her standing; in fact, she would not tolerate such an indignity. She takes her place by the window as if perfectly at home.

Blacksmith and horse are old friends who understand each other well. The man has won the animal’s confidence by the care he has taken to fit the shoes comfortably. Though a plain, rough fellow, he is of a kindly nature and knows his business thoroughly. The shop is a quaint little place such as one finds in English villages. The thick masonry of the walls shows how old the building is; the floor is paved with large blocks of stone. Between the anvil and the forge there is only space enough for the horse to stand.

LandseerShoeing

LandseerShoeing

At the stage of the process seen in the picture the preparations are all over. The old shoes were first removed and the feet pared and filed. New shoes were chosen as near the right size as possible, and one by one shaped for each foot.And now, holding the shoe in his long tongs, the blacksmith thrusts it into the fire, while he fans the flames with the bellows. Thence it is transferred, a glowing red crescent, to the anvil. Now the workman swings his hammer upon it with ringing strokes, the sparks fly out in a shower, and the soft metal is shaped at will. The shoe may be made a little broader or a little longer, as the case may be; bent a trifle here or there, to accommodate the foot to be fitted. The steel toe calk is welded in, the ends are bent to form the heels, the holes for nails are punctured, the shoe taking an occasional plunge into the flames during these processes.

Now there must be a preliminary trying-on. The shoe, still hot, is held to the foot for which it is intended, and the air is filled with the fumes of burning hoof. Yet the horse does not flinch, for the thick hoof is a perfect protection for the sensitive parts of the foot. If the careful blacksmith is not quite satisfied with the fit, there must be more hammering on the anvil, and another trying-on. When the shoe is satisfactory, it is thrust hissing into a barrel of cold water, and, when cooled and hardened, is ready to be nailed on.

It is at this point in the story that we come upon Betty. The blacksmith, after the approved method of his trade, holds the foot firmly between his knees, and bends to his task. The nails, long and flat, are in the tool-box on the floor beside him. A few firm blows of the hammer drive each one into place, first on one side, then on the other;the projecting points are twisted off every time, and finally all the rough ends are filed smoothly on the outside of the hoof. Betty is at last fully shod and will step complacently home.

The painter, Sir Edwin Landseer, has arranged the four figures of the picture in such a way that we may see each one in a characteristic pose. The bay mare is, of course, the chief attraction,—a fine high-bred creature, with straight legs, arching neck, and gentle face, marked on the forehead with a pure white star. Landseer exerted his utmost skill in reproducing the texture of the glossy hide. Its beautiful sheen is more striking by contrast with the shaggy hair of the donkey. It was a clever thought to place this plebeian little beast beside the aristocratic, high-spirited horse.

The donkey bends his head in a deprecating way below Betty’s handsome neck, and the horse permits the companionship of an inferior with gentle tolerance. There is something very appealing about the donkey, a patient little beast of burden, meekly bearing his saddle. The bloodhound shows no little curiosity as to the shoeing process, as if it were something new to her. She sits on her haunches, thrusting her head forward, the long ears drooping, the sensitive nose sniffing the strange odors.

Among these dumb companions the blacksmith feels himself surrounded by friends. He is a lover of pets, as we see by the bird-cage hanging in the window. His sturdyframe looks equal to the demands of his trade, which are, in fact, very onerous. It is grimy work, and only the roughest clothes can be worn. A big leather apron with a cut down the middle is, as it were, his badge of office. He does his work with conscientious earnestness, concentrating all his thought and energy upon each blow of the hammer. The task completed, he will take an honest pride in the good piece of work he has done for Betty.

—Estelle M. Hurll.

From “Landseer,” in “The Riverside Art Series,” by permission of Houghton Mifflin and Company.

Under a spreading chestnut treeThe village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre strong as iron bands.His hair is crisp and black and long;His face is like the tan;His brow is wet with honest sweat,He earns whate’er he can,And looks the whole world in the face,For he owes not any man.Week in, week out, from morn till night,You can hear his bellows blow;You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,With measured beat and slow,Like a sexton ringing the village bell,When the evening sun is low.And children coming home from schoolLook in at the open door;They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that flyLike chaff from a threshing floor.He goes on Sunday to the church,And sits among his boys;He hears the parson pray and preach;He hears his daughter’s voiceSinging in the village choir,And it makes his heart rejoice.It sounds to him like her mother’s voiceSinging in Paradise!He needs must think of her once more,How in the grave she lies;And with his hard, rough hand he wipesA tear out of his eyes.Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,Onwards, through life he goes;Each morning sees some task begin,Each evening sees it close;Something attempted, something done,Has earned a night’s repose.Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,For the lesson thou hast taught!Thus, at the flaming forge of life,Our fortunes must be wrought;Thus, on its sounding anvil, shapedEach burning deed and thought!—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Under a spreading chestnut treeThe village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre strong as iron bands.His hair is crisp and black and long;His face is like the tan;His brow is wet with honest sweat,He earns whate’er he can,And looks the whole world in the face,For he owes not any man.Week in, week out, from morn till night,You can hear his bellows blow;You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,With measured beat and slow,Like a sexton ringing the village bell,When the evening sun is low.And children coming home from schoolLook in at the open door;They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that flyLike chaff from a threshing floor.He goes on Sunday to the church,And sits among his boys;He hears the parson pray and preach;He hears his daughter’s voiceSinging in the village choir,And it makes his heart rejoice.It sounds to him like her mother’s voiceSinging in Paradise!He needs must think of her once more,How in the grave she lies;And with his hard, rough hand he wipesA tear out of his eyes.Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,Onwards, through life he goes;Each morning sees some task begin,Each evening sees it close;Something attempted, something done,Has earned a night’s repose.Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,For the lesson thou hast taught!Thus, at the flaming forge of life,Our fortunes must be wrought;Thus, on its sounding anvil, shapedEach burning deed and thought!—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

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

Under a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.

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

His hair is crisp and black and long;

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate’er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

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

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.

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

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing floor.

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

He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach;

He hears his daughter’s voice

Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

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

It sounds to him like her mother’s voice

Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,Onwards, through life he goes;Each morning sees some task begin,Each evening sees it close;Something attempted, something done,Has earned a night’s repose.

Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,

Onwards, through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night’s repose.

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

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus, at the flaming forge of life,

Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus, on its sounding anvil, shaped

Each burning deed and thought!

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Two hundred years ago the great country lying between Lake Superior and the Rocky Mountains was unknown to the people who lived in the little stockaded forts, where Quebec, Montreal, and Three Rivers now stand. Great explorers had followed Columbus to America, and had sailed down the mighty St. Lawrence and its tributaries. They all longed to find the Great Western Sea, which Columbus had hoped would lead to Asia; but over two hundred years had passed since his voyage, and no one had yet reached the great water of the West.

When Pierre de la Vérendrye was a boy, living at Three Rivers, he heard many wonderful stories of adventure told by fur traders and explorers as they returned from expeditions to the North and West, and he longed for the time to come when he would be old enough to join such a party. When he was twenty-seven years old, he had charge of a trading-post on Lake Nepigon, and heard from the neighboring Indians of great lakes and rivers, and immense tracts of treeless country where herds of cattle roamed. He had not forgotten the dream of his boyhood, and when these tales of a land far west reached him, he made up his mind that he would be the one to explore the country and find a way to the Western Sea.

Years passed by, and it was not until 1731 that his dream was realized. He had spent years in preparing for the expedition. The governor at Quebec had given him a license to trade with the Indians, and Montreal merchants promised to supply him with money and goods. On the eighth day of June the company set out from Montreal. It consisted of Vérendrye, his three tall sons, Jean, Pierre and François, and fifty followers. There were the priests, the hardy voyageurs, the wood runners, and the Indian interpreters. They embarked in birch canoes measuring from eighty to ninety feet in length. In the bottom of the canoes were strongly wrapped packages of merchandise which were to be exchanged on the way for furs.

In seventy-eight days they reached Kaministiquia, a fur post on Lake Superior, where Fort William now stands. This was the last Western post. All the country beyond this would be new to the eager voyageurs. Sailing down the Pigeon River, they entered Rainy Lake and built Fort St. Pierre on its left bank. Winter was approaching and their supply of provisions was getting low, so it was necessary for some of the party to return to the nearest trading-post to obtain provisions and goods in exchange for valuable furs. The Cree Indians who inhabited this district had gazed in wonder at the presents of ammunition offered to them by the white men, and had gladly given generous supplies of furs in exchange for these new possessions.

When spring came, the voyageurs accepted the friendly offer of the Indians to guide them west to the Lake of the Woods. It was several months before the next long stop was made. They had reached the head of the lake when it was again necessary to stop and build a fort for their winter stay. This fort, built of logs, chinked up with clay and moss, and roofed with branches of trees, was called St. Charles.

The next year they reached Lake Winnipeg by way of the Winnipeg River, and near its mouth they built Fort Maurepas, now known as Fort Alexander. In 1738, after travelling over many miles of the surrounding country, Vérendrye left this fort, crossed the southern end of LakeWinnipeg, and entered the Red River, which he followed until he came to its junction with the Assiniboine, and to the place where the city of Winnipeg now stands. The land around the river was dotted with the tepees of the Assiniboine Indians, who probably now looked upon a white man for the first time. A rude fort called Fort Rouge was built, and leaving his sons to trade with the Indians, Vérendrye pushed on up the Assiniboine and in one week came to the “Portage of the Prairie.” This was called by the explorer, Fort De La Reine.

Vérendrye had now spent seven years in his search for the Western Sea. He had suffered many hardships. His men had often mutinied and deserted him. Winter had overtaken him when supplies were low, and in these times of famine he and his men had lived on roots and bark, coarse parchment, and often on the flesh of the sleigh dogs. His eldest son, Jean, had been cruelly murdered by the Indians, while he was journeying to one of the eastern forts for supplies. Still the brave explorer’s courage did not fail, and he pressed on hoping to find some sign, or hear some word that would tell him his quest had not been in vain.

The merchants at Montreal upon whom Vérendrye depended for aid were not interested in his work of exploration, but cared only for the loads of valuable furs which he sent to them. Fur traders were jealous of his success, and charged him with trading for his own profit, and deceivinghis partners. Leaving his sons to continue their explorations, he returned to Quebec in 1746 to defend himself against these false charges.

Nothing could be proved against him, but this was small comfort to the worn-out traveller. His life had been one of suffering and disappointment, and his countrymen did not realize the noble work he had done, yet he was eager to return to his sons and continue the work he had begun. In 1749 he was preparing for the journey back to the West, when he was taken ill, and died suddenly at Montreal. Though his work was not appreciated during his lifetime, he is now honored as the pioneer explorer of the Great West.

—Helen Palk.

The angel of the flowers, one day,Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay,—That spirit to whose charge ’tis givenTo bathe young buds in dews of heaven.Awaking from his light repose,The angel whispered to the rose:“O fondest object of my care,Still fairest found, where all are fair;For the sweet shade thou giv’st me,Ask what thou wilt, ’tis granted thee.”“Then,” said the rose, with deepened glow,“On me another grace bestow.”The spirit paused, in silent thought,—What grace was there the flower had not?’Twas but a moment,—o’er the roseA veil of moss the angel throws,And robed in nature’s simplest weed,Could there a flower that rose exceed?—F. A. Krummacher.

The angel of the flowers, one day,Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay,—That spirit to whose charge ’tis givenTo bathe young buds in dews of heaven.Awaking from his light repose,The angel whispered to the rose:“O fondest object of my care,Still fairest found, where all are fair;For the sweet shade thou giv’st me,Ask what thou wilt, ’tis granted thee.”“Then,” said the rose, with deepened glow,“On me another grace bestow.”The spirit paused, in silent thought,—What grace was there the flower had not?’Twas but a moment,—o’er the roseA veil of moss the angel throws,And robed in nature’s simplest weed,Could there a flower that rose exceed?—F. A. Krummacher.

The angel of the flowers, one day,Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay,—That spirit to whose charge ’tis givenTo bathe young buds in dews of heaven.Awaking from his light repose,The angel whispered to the rose:“O fondest object of my care,Still fairest found, where all are fair;For the sweet shade thou giv’st me,Ask what thou wilt, ’tis granted thee.”“Then,” said the rose, with deepened glow,“On me another grace bestow.”The spirit paused, in silent thought,—What grace was there the flower had not?’Twas but a moment,—o’er the roseA veil of moss the angel throws,And robed in nature’s simplest weed,Could there a flower that rose exceed?—F. A. Krummacher.

The angel of the flowers, one day,

Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay,—

That spirit to whose charge ’tis given

To bathe young buds in dews of heaven.

Awaking from his light repose,

The angel whispered to the rose:

“O fondest object of my care,

Still fairest found, where all are fair;

For the sweet shade thou giv’st me,

Ask what thou wilt, ’tis granted thee.”

“Then,” said the rose, with deepened glow,

“On me another grace bestow.”

The spirit paused, in silent thought,—

What grace was there the flower had not?

’Twas but a moment,—o’er the rose

A veil of moss the angel throws,

And robed in nature’s simplest weed,

Could there a flower that rose exceed?

—F. A. Krummacher.

Woodman, spare that tree!Touch not a single bough!In youth it sheltered me,And I’ll protect it now.’Twas my forefather’s handThat placed it near his cot;There, woodman, let it stand,Thy axe shall harm it not!That old familiar tree,Whose glory and renownAre spread o’er land and sea—And would’st thou hew it down?Woodman, forbear thy stroke!Cut not its earth-bound ties;Oh, spare that aged oakNow towering to the skies!When but an idle boy,I sought its grateful shade;In all their gushing joyHere, too, my sisters played.My mother kissed me here,My father pressed my hand—Forgive this foolish tear,But let that old oak stand.My heartstrings round thee cling,Close as thy bark, old friend!Here shall the wild bird sing,And still thy branches bend.Old tree! the storm still brave!And woodman, leave the spot;While I’ve a hand to save,Thy axe shall harm it not.—George P. Morris.

Woodman, spare that tree!Touch not a single bough!In youth it sheltered me,And I’ll protect it now.’Twas my forefather’s handThat placed it near his cot;There, woodman, let it stand,Thy axe shall harm it not!That old familiar tree,Whose glory and renownAre spread o’er land and sea—And would’st thou hew it down?Woodman, forbear thy stroke!Cut not its earth-bound ties;Oh, spare that aged oakNow towering to the skies!When but an idle boy,I sought its grateful shade;In all their gushing joyHere, too, my sisters played.My mother kissed me here,My father pressed my hand—Forgive this foolish tear,But let that old oak stand.My heartstrings round thee cling,Close as thy bark, old friend!Here shall the wild bird sing,And still thy branches bend.Old tree! the storm still brave!And woodman, leave the spot;While I’ve a hand to save,Thy axe shall harm it not.—George P. Morris.

Woodman, spare that tree!Touch not a single bough!In youth it sheltered me,And I’ll protect it now.’Twas my forefather’s handThat placed it near his cot;There, woodman, let it stand,Thy axe shall harm it not!

Woodman, spare that tree!

Touch not a single bough!

In youth it sheltered me,

And I’ll protect it now.

’Twas my forefather’s hand

That placed it near his cot;

There, woodman, let it stand,

Thy axe shall harm it not!

That old familiar tree,Whose glory and renownAre spread o’er land and sea—And would’st thou hew it down?Woodman, forbear thy stroke!Cut not its earth-bound ties;Oh, spare that aged oakNow towering to the skies!

That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown

Are spread o’er land and sea—

And would’st thou hew it down?

Woodman, forbear thy stroke!

Cut not its earth-bound ties;

Oh, spare that aged oak

Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy,I sought its grateful shade;In all their gushing joyHere, too, my sisters played.My mother kissed me here,My father pressed my hand—Forgive this foolish tear,But let that old oak stand.

When but an idle boy,

I sought its grateful shade;

In all their gushing joy

Here, too, my sisters played.

My mother kissed me here,

My father pressed my hand—

Forgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand.

My heartstrings round thee cling,Close as thy bark, old friend!Here shall the wild bird sing,And still thy branches bend.Old tree! the storm still brave!And woodman, leave the spot;While I’ve a hand to save,Thy axe shall harm it not.—George P. Morris.

My heartstrings round thee cling,

Close as thy bark, old friend!

Here shall the wild bird sing,

And still thy branches bend.

Old tree! the storm still brave!

And woodman, leave the spot;

While I’ve a hand to save,

Thy axe shall harm it not.

—George P. Morris.

Many years ago in an English village there lived a boy whose name was Dick Whittington. His father and mother died when he was so young that he did not remember them at all. He had no home, and was a ragged little fellow running about the streets of the little village.

Now the place where Dick lived was not very far fromLondon, and the people liked to talk about the great city. None of them had ever been to London, but they seemed to know all about the wonderful things that were to be seen there. Dick listened to their stories and longed to see for himself. One day a large wagon drawn by eight fine horses with bells on their heads was driven into the little town. When Dick saw this wagon he thought that it must be going to the city, and he asked the driver to let him go with him. When the driver learned that Dick was very poor, and that he had neither father nor mother, he told the lad that he might walk by the side of the wagon if he wished.

Dick Whittington sitting by roadside

It was a long walk for the little fellow, but at last they came to London. Dick was in a great hurry to see the wonderful sights of the city. He thanked the driver of the wagon and ran from one street to another. At last it began to grow dark, and in every street there was only dirt instead of gold. Nowhere could he find the golden pavements that he had heard so much about. He sat down in a dark corner and cried himself to sleep.

In the morning he woke up very hungry, but there was not even a crust of bread for him to eat. He thought now only of food, and asked every one he met to give him a penny to buy something to eat. Nobody stopped to speak to him, and the poor boy grew weak for want of food. At last he grew so faint and tired that he could go no farther. He sat down on the steps of a fine house to rest, and wished that he were back again in the little village where he was born.

Just at that time the owner of the house came home to dinner, and saw the ragged little fellow asleep on the steps.

“My lad, what are you doing here? Wake up, my boy. Why don’t you go to work?”

“I should like to work if I could find anything to do,” said Dick, “but I don’t know where to look for work. I have not had anything to eat for a long time.”

“Poor little fellow! Come with me, and I shall see what I can do for you.” The kind merchant took Dick into the house, where he was given a good dinner, and put to work in the kitchen.

Dick would have lived very happily in this new home if the old cook had not been so cross. She found fault with him, and scolded him from morning till night. But at last little Alice, his master’s daughter, heard how the poor little kitchen boy was treated, and she asked the cook to be kind to the lad.

From this time Dick was not treated so unkindly, and he would have been quite happy if it had not been for another trouble. His bed was in a garret at the top of the house, far away from other people. The floor was full of holes, and every night rats and mice kept him awake by running over his face. They tormented him so much that he tried to think of some way to get rid of them.

One day a gentleman gave him a penny for cleaning his shoes. Dick thought a long time about the best way to spend it. At last he made up his mind that he would buy a cat with the money. The very next day he went out into the street and saw a girl carrying a cat in her arms.

“I will give you a penny for your cat,” said Dick. “Will you take it?”

“Yes,” said the girl, “you may have her for a penny. She is worth more than that, for she knows how to catch rats and mice.”

So Dick bought the cat, and took her to the garret. Every day he carried a part of his dinner to her, and it was not long before she had driven all the rats and mice away. Then the little fellow could sleep soundly every night.

Soon after this a ship belonging to Dick’s master was about to start on a voyage across the sea. It was loaded with goods which were to be sold in other lands far away. The master called his servants together and asked if they hadanything they would like to send out in the ship for trade. He wanted to give his servants a chance for a good fortune, too. Every one had something to send out in the ship—every one but Dick. As he had neither money nor goods, he did not meet with the others.

But Alice, the merchant’s daughter, guessed why Dick did not come in with the rest of the servants, and sent for him. When the boy came into the room the merchant said, “Well, Dick, what are you going to send out on the ship?”

“I have nothing in the world,” Dick answered, “but a cat which I bought some time ago for a penny. But I should not like to part with her.”

“Go, and get your cat, my lad. We shall send her out on the ship. She may bring you some profit,—who knows?”

With tears in his eyes poor Dick carried puss down to the ship and gave her to the captain. Everybody laughed at the boy for sending off a cat to be sold. But little Alice felt sorry for him and gave him some money to buy another cat.

After this the old cook used him more cruelly than ever. She was always either scolding him, or making fun of him for sending his cat to sea. At last Dick could not bear her abuse any longer, and made up his mind to go back to his old home. So he packed up his few possessions and very early one morning started off. After walking some distancehe sat down on a stone which to this day is called “Whittington’s Stone.” While he sat there, wondering what it was best for him to do, the church bells began to ring. As he listened they seemed to say to him:—

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