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Title: Literature for Children
Author: Lowe, Orton
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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          New York

          _All rights reserved_


          COPYRIGHT, 1914,

          Set up and electrotyped. Published June, 1914.

          Norwood Press
          J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
          Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.


THIS book is about books of literature. Its excuse for being at all is
in the over-reading of books that are not literature. Confusion and
hurry confront both child and teacher in the land of books. The hope is
held that something can be done to lead the child out of this confusion.

There is no greater possibility existing in the child's educational life
than the possibility of self-cultivation in the reading of great books.
Nor has there ever been a greater need for the quiet reading of such
books than in a time of wonderful mechanical invention. Shall a boy fly
or shall he read? It seems both fair and possible to say that he may fly
but he must read. Whatever be the line of work he chooses to follow, he
will have spare hours. His contribution to the life of his community and
the rounding out of his individual life are dependent very largely on
the wise use of these spare hours. Some spare hours may be given to
music or the theatre, some to social entertainment, some to outdoor
sports, some to church aid work; but some must surely be given to the
reading of great books.

The following pages attempt to set the boy on the right trail, so that
when he reaches man's estate he will of his own accord devote a just
portion of his spare hours to books of literature. To do this, attention
needs to be given to these practices: the learning of a little choice
poetry by heart, the learning of a few fairy stories and myths through
the ear, the reading and rereading of a few great books, the saving of
money to build up a small but well-selected private bookshelf, the
practice of reading aloud by the fireside or in the schoolroom. The
chances are that a boy so directed will find reading a pleasure and will
turn to what is really worth while. The attempt by parents and teachers
to bring about an abiding love for books of power is a most commendable
attempt; and, if successful, the best contribution to a refined private
life. To all such attempts these pages aim to contribute.

The preparation of these pages has been made easier and surer by the
generous aid of Mr. Fred L. Homer, of the Central High School of
Pittsburgh, and Mr. Homer L. Clark, a business man of Cleveland, in
reading a greater portion of the manuscript; by Miss Emily Beal, of the
Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh, in information on illustrated editions
of children's books; and by Mr. Ernest C. Noyes, of the Peabody High
School of Pittsburgh, in reading the proof.

For kind permission to use copyright material the author thanks Mr.
Rudyard Kipling and Messrs. Doubleday, Page and Company for
"Recessional"; Professor Richard G. Moulton for the arrangement of the
selections of Hebrew poetry; Houghton, Mifflin and Company for the
selections from Longfellow, Holmes, Emerson, and Whittier; and The
Macmillan Company for the selections from Tennyson, Browning, Arnold,
Clough, and Rossetti.

          ORTON LOWE.

          May, 1914.


  PREFACE                                                        v

    I. THE VALUE OF GOOD BOOKS                                   3

       FIRST YEAR                                               33
       SECOND YEAR                                              44
       THIRD YEAR                                               56
       FOURTH YEAR                                              67
       FIFTH YEAR                                               81
       SIXTH YEAR                                               96
       SEVENTH YEAR                                            115
       EIGHTH YEAR                                             134

   II. CLASSIC MYTHS IN LITERATURE                             176
   IV. ON THE PURCHASE AND CARE OF BOOKS                       219
    V. EDITIONS OF STANDARD BOOKS                              232

  BIBLIOGRAPHY                                                 239






          "The cloak that I left at Troas with Carpus, when
          thou comest bring with thee, and the books, but
          especially the parchments."

THE man who believes that education and books are designed for the
imparting only of useful information had better read no farther than
this sentence; for if he does, he will be irritated many a time by what
he regards as ideal and foolish and unworthy of a practical age. But if
he believes life to be something more than meat and the body something
more than raiment, and that he needs his books as well as his cloak
brought into Macedonia, he may with patience and sympathy follow the
guesses herein at the ways and means by which good books may be brought
into the life of a boy. For in the living out of the great story of
securing shelter and food and raiment, the boy who has never felt the
charm of a great book in chimney-corner days, or the man who has never
pored over a "midnight darling" by candlelight, has missed one of the
most refined and harmless pleasures of life. The very books themselves
are refining because they make up the art of literature, an art that is
in its highest sense an expression and interpretation of life. This art
deals with the beautiful. Its appeal is primarily to the feelings. Its
basis is truth whether actual or hoped for. It is this very nature of
literature itself that at the start brings up the question whether the
investment put into it is really worth while. How far has education a
right to develop a sense of the beautiful? What abiding pleasures and
tastes, if any, should the boy of school age seek and cultivate? Just
what equipment for life does a boy need, anyhow?

These are big questions; they are knotty questions. They have never been
settled because they cannot be answered in a way satisfactory to all.
They are rather questions of temperament than of logic. To attempt an
investigation into the claims of literature in a scheme of education,
and to draw from such claims a logical conclusion, is beyond the
ability, knowledge, or inclination of the writer; only personal
impressions will be attempted in the chapters that follow. And besides,
such an investigation, if it could be made, would be so out of fashion
among schoolmasters at the present time that it might bring nothing but
reproach on the one attempting it. The very convenient plan is to assume
a certain educational specific as true and from that assumption to go
straight to a favourable conclusion. In accordance with this fashion it
seems the easiest way to take the privilege of the day and without more
ado assume that books of literature are necessary in the education of a
boy, and conclude therefrom that a principal business of the teacher is
to train the boy to read books intelligently and to form a substantial
taste for them. And why should not a schoolmaster who dotes on a few old
favourites have an unshaken faith in his assumption and go merrily on to
the business of the literature itself and what may be done toward
developing among school children a taste for it?

The late Professor Norton pointed out that a taste for literature is a
result of cultivation more often than a gift of nature. The years of the
elementary school seem to be the time in which cultivation is easiest
and the one in which the taste takes deepest root. Vigorous and tactful
effort will go far to develop pure taste and abiding taste for books.

The present age is more concerned about pure food than about pure
books--maybe an exemplification of John Bright's wish that the
working-men of England eat bacon rather than read Bacon. The bulky,
coarse food of the last century has been displaced by the sealed package
of condensed food done according to a formula, and a mystery to the man
who eats it. So is it in our books. We do not have the frankness and
vulgarity of the eighteenth century; but instead, we have the most
studied forms of insinuation, the harm of which was not approached by
the coarseness of former times. Many a present-day story makes the
ordinary course of life seem uninteresting, a dangerous thing for a book
to do, according to Ruskin. The conduct portrayed has in it too much of
personal freedom arising out of caprice, breaking too much with
traditional right through what a critic once designated as "debauching
innuendo and ill favoured love." The book is often spectacular or sullen
in tone. It may be melodramatic, leaving the reader rebellious or with a
weakened sense of responsibility. Or again, it may be given to
boisterous laughter over situations based on personal misfortune or bad
manners--the way of the comic supplement. And worst of all, it may
become the fashion; that is, a best seller. Its name and some of its
motives will probably get to the children through the talk of the
parents. Then to persuade the reading public that the pure taste for the
healthful story is much more worth while will try the resources of the
teacher. Yet that is exactly what should be expected of him--a Herculean
task and a most thankless one.

To secure a stable as well as a pure taste for things worth while in
books should be an aim of the teacher. He must do this in an age when
the vaudeville idea is deep-rooted. Variety takes the place of sustained
attention. This begets the mood for profligacy. Something new and good
is expected to turn up in the shape of a book. In this mood there is
nothing to inspire to steady purpose. And it seems that the best thing
left for the teacher to do is to "come out strong" on a few good books.
Through fortune and misfortune such books will be permanent possessions
to their reader.

The responsibility for securing this pure and abiding taste rests
primarily with the teacher. He needs to know and to appreciate the good
books which he desires the boy to read. He needs to know the poem or
story at first hand, not criticism about it. If the teacher has real
appreciation for a piece of literature, the boy will discern it in his
face. Then the boy can be put on the right scent and left to trail it
out for himself, as Scott long ago suggested. Time must be taken to do
this: a few good things must be done without fuss or hurry. It is
foolish to have a taste surfeited as soon as cultivated. Here is truly a
place to be temperate as well as enthusiastic.

A teacher should be able to read aloud from a book with good effect. The
voice can bring out the finer touches that are likely to be missed by
the eye. No explanation in reading is so good as is adequate vocal
expression. In fact, as a rule, the less explaining the better. If there
is a single thing that for the last dozen years has stood in the way of
boys' and girls' appreciating good literature, it is the so-called
laboratory method. Of all the quack educational specifics that have
been advanced, the laboratory method, with a poem or an imaginative
story, has been the most presumptuous and absurd. Who cares to treat
fancies and fairies according to formulæ? One might as well apply the
laboratory method to his faith and his hopes in his religion.

In this struggle to bring good books into the life of the boy, many
opposing forces must be met with tact and with patience. Censorship of
books, like inspection of foods, may be highly desirable; but by no
means is it efficacious. The worthless book will continue to obtrude
itself at all times and on all occasions. Then there are the reading
habits of the community, the notions of parents about what the child
should read, and the child's own natural or acquired tastes,--these must
all be reckoned with. Here are a few of the opposing forces to be
encountered in every community:

The juvenile series--the hardest problem to handle from the book side of
the question. The series is always "awful long," all of the volumes are
cut to the same pattern, they are always in evidence, and they are all
equally stupid. The themes range from boarding school proprieties to
criminal adventure; and they are all equally false to the facts of real
life or the longings for true romance. What shall be done with them?

The ease of access of the child to the daily paper with headlines
inviting attention to the doings of police courts and clinics.

The eagerness with which children read the comic supplement and even ask
at the public library if books of that class of humour cannot be had.

The low-grade selection that is many times given the child by the school
reader as subject-matter from which to learn the great art of reading.

The prejudice of parents and even of communities against fairy tales and
all forms of highly imaginative literature--the hardest thing to meet
from the reading side of the question. Librarians are requested not to
give fairy books to children. Such books are thought to be bad. The
demand is for true books. Parents have not discovered the existence of
the imagination and the part it has played in the intellectual,
artistic, and spiritual progress of man. But must school teachers not
first recognize the truth of this last statement before parents are
expected to do so?

The impression that books of information are real literature and that
they ought to be sufficient subject-matter for any child's reading.

The belief that books should teach facts and point morals rather than
entertain and refine and inspire.

The early acquired taste of boys and girls for stories of everyday life;
boys turning to the athletic story and girls to the school story.

Excessive reading and reading done at the suggestion of a chum.

Lack of ownership of books and of the rereading of great books.

The passing of the practice of reading aloud about the fireside.

The teacher will surely need to summon his judgment, courage, and
perseverance if he is to succeed measurably in the effort for good
reading. Let him not forget that his most enduring work will not be
seeking to cut off from the child the book that is not good, nor yet
convincing the parents that this or that book is good or bad; but it
will be getting the interest and confidence of the child himself. When
the teacher comes to consider that a boy naturally loves a hero, and
like Tom Sawyer longs to "die temporarily," or that a girl is naturally
curious to open the forbidden door of the closet as was Fatima, he
cannot but see that this is good ground where the right seed will spring
up many fold. Here then is the place for the teacher to sow with care.
For him, the pages that follow are designed as something of a guide in
the field of children's books, if, whilst working as a husbandman
therein, by chance he feels the need of a fellow labourer.



          "He hath not fed of the dainties that are bred in
          a book; he hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath
          not drunk ink; his intellect is not replenished;
          he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller
                                             --SIR NATHANIEL.

THE place of literature in the primary and grammar grades of schools
needs neither a defence nor an apology. Being a part of that branch
called reading, it is fundamental in the course. The claims set up by
branches other than that of reading and speaking English do not concern
us here. We assume that the first portion of time in a programme is
allotted to this. The object may be dramatic expression in the lower
grades, getting the exact thought from a printed page and reproducing it
in the upper grades, drill in the mechanical details of the language,
such as spelling and pronunciation; or it may be that rare growth of
personality that comes, say, through the skilful reading of poetry
aloud. Without a fair degree of mastery of the elements of reading and
speaking English by the time he completes the grammar grade work, the
boy will enter a secondary school or turn to earning a living,
ill-equipped either to organize and express his own thoughts, or to
find profit and pleasure in gathering the thoughts of another from a
printed page--the greatest accomplishment that a school can give to any
one. It is rather common to hear a high school student say that he
cannot get the story by reading "The Lady of the Lake." This inability
is a positive discredit to what should be normal mental vigour; and such
a student will be found inefficient for the serious business of life or
the refined pleasure of the fireside.

Now it behooves teachers to put on their thinking caps and devise ways
and means that will help students to get the thought from reading, to
tell this thought, and to appreciate the excellencies of good English
books. And they must do this single-handed and alone in the day school,
for but little help can be looked for from the Sunday school, from many
public libraries, and from the home as it is now governed. The child is
turned over to the teacher to train, and in that child lurk two
tendencies of American social life: the hope of getting something for
nothing and the passion for constant variety. And these tendencies are
unchecked by any exercise of that old-time positive authority in the
home, that had much salutary influence on young barbarians. But through
a foolish tolerance, the boy drifts into many habits that do not include
the exemplary ones of sustained attention, industry, thrift, and
self-reliance,--habits that make for efficient life. A royal road to
knowledge is expected, and travel thereon is to be unrestricted by
respect either for age or for authority. His hay must always be sugared.
He becomes a creature of whims, and with this creature the teacher finds
his task in hand. What are the reading habits and tastes that he brings
from his home, and how can the teacher best improve them?

It is clear to even a casual observer that children leave the public
school without the groundwork for a course of reading either for
pleasure or for profit through life. It is also clear that they will get
little help in this line from places other than the public school as
things now obtain. And it is equally clear that the reading habits
formed before the age of fourteen years are the habits and tastes that
last. If then, according to his natural gifts, the student is to be led
to gather the fullest measure from the field of literature, it is the
special duty and privilege of the teacher to direct that gathering. To
this attempt to develop a taste for good literature, some one may raise
the objection that it will not fit all children--and the objection is
well taken. The appeal of literature is not universal. There are a few
persons who find its counterpart in a study and appreciation of the
beauties and wonders of nature. Then again there are many who, instead
of taking themselves to the art of books, find pleasure in perhaps the
greatest of all arts, the art of social intercourse--an art that is
universal enough to reach from vagabondia to the very exclusive set.
However, there is a vast class devoted to a subdued and refined domestic
life, and here it is that good books will bear good fruit many fold.
With this class the teacher must work. What then is to be given to the

Of course it is understood that we are to deal with the enduring
literature of childhood, the literature of power. And it is also to be
understood that reading is to be done in moderation and with care. Then
again it is evident that a certain amount of reading must be prescribed
and thoroughly mastered. Reading must be from what is standard down to
the point of appeal, lest the point always hold the boy to the earth
earthy. After a taste for onions has once been developed, little hope
can be entertained of making the boy a judge of the delicate flavour of
grapes--they will hang high. The teacher must assert a bit of that
healthful positive authority that sets many an urchin on the right path.
A limited choice from books that are classics may be given in good time.
All the chords of life have been struck in great literature, and a fair
knowledge and good judgment can reach almost any disposition, even the
most whimsical.

The thing of first importance to be prescribed is learning classical
poetry by heart until its music has taken a hold on the learner.
Introduce the boy to the varied field of lyric poetry and you have put
before him one of the rarest and most abiding pleasures of life. Here
his troubled heart may always find consolation. Nothing will bring him
to a sense of his own personality with such a deft touch as a perfect
lyric coming to him through his own voice. The next thing to look to is
a right that is a fixed right of childhood and one that it is positively
vicious to suppress, the right to the land of fairy life. A free range
here will be meat and drink to any boy. Much sordidness and much
selfishness in old age come to the man or woman who has not a cultivated
imagination. Logic and cold facts are of precious little value in the
fireside life of a family. The best things of that life are not reasoned
out; but they are felt out and wondered out. Again, the great field of
mythology that is so fundamentally linked to that of literature, and
that is a capital mark of culture, should be open to the boy that he may
roam about and wonder at its mysteries. Then he may as certainly come to
own an "Age of Fable" as he must own a "Golden Treasury." And what a
pair are these!

From these three fields the step will be to a knowledge and
classification of books and their authors, what books to own, and how to
take care of them. And to this working grasp of poetry and stories may
be added a little of what is possible in history, biography, and
personal essay. In this age of cheap and spurious book-making the
reader must know standard editions without abridged and garbled texts.
Even editors of hymn books do not hesitate to mutilate great hymns to
suit their particular notions. This freedom may be a form of that
exaggerated idea of personal privilege that was the gift of democracy in
the past century. A good knowledge of fables and proverbial wisdom will
certainly temper that notion. Such are some of the things that might be
prescribed by the teacher and learned by the student. The field as thus
given is limited, but the friends therein are dear friends. Nor are they
to be exchanged for the new friends that may come through the
advertising appeal, founded on the unsubstantial instinct for constant

If enough idea of authority can ever be driven into the head of the
American boy to put him into the attitude of a willing learner, good
things may be looked for in habits of reading--provided the teacher be
equal to the responsible task that is laid upon him. The habits of
reading that measure the use of spare time, and in that way the
character of the individual, will work for a more sane and less showy
home life and through that for a community given to other than obtrusive
and frivolous social life. What bundle of habits will serve its slave
better than will this bundle? Or where is keener and more subdued
pleasure to be found? Though books are a bloodless substitute for life,
as Stevenson has well pointed out, we need some substitute in our hours
of ease, and a good book does passing well for such a substitute; and
this is especially true if the book be our favourite from the wonderful
Waverley series and with it we can square about to the fire, snuff the
candle, and let the rest of the world go spin.



          "These verses be worthy to keep a room in every
          man's memory: they be choicely good."

                                    --From "The Complete Angler."

THE teacher who is a workman skilled in his craft looks upon a few
educational practices as being of intrinsic merit--through and through
in an age of veneer and cheap imitation. Of these practices the one most
fruitful under cultivation, when done with care and in moderation, is
that of learning good poetry by heart. The sense of having truly learned
a thing by heart, of having completely mastered it, is a most pleasant
sense to have. And when the thing learned is one of the many perfect
lyrics from the field of English poetry, a far-sighted judge who has
lived and considered what is of most value to the individual is led to
say: That is well and good. In some mysterious way this possession of a
few choice poems makes for a rarer personality and gives that touch
which can come only through a perfect work of art. By sheer force of
intellect a man may become a cold, designing man of action and set plans
on foot for the time being; but the power that is back of all great
movements for civilization and culture is one that is grounded in
feeling and constructive imagination. The proverbial songs of a nation
are a greater force than are its laws. In one of his most entertaining
essays, De Quincey points out that, when the intellect sets itself up in
opposition to the feelings, one should always trust to the feelings.
Normal instincts are worth more than syllogisms. The man who has attuned
himself to the moods and impulses of lyric poetry is a safe man in
action. Yet he is more than this; he has in him that which is the
groundwork of fireside pleasures and of the joys of companionship. In
other words, he is a man of cultivated imagination, and he can play in
many moods.

Here it may not be amiss to mention the claim of the imagination to
consideration as a faculty of the mind and inquire to what extent it
should be cultivated in our schools; for if its claim be not good, there
is no warrant for using any of the literature of power as subject-matter
for education. Bearing on this question is the following excellent
remark by the late Charles Eliot Norton, who did so very much to raise
the standard of culture in American education: "The imagination is the
supreme intellectual faculty, and it is of all the one that receives
least attention in our common system of education. The reason is not far
to seek. The imagination is of all faculties the most difficult to
control, it is the most elusive of all, the rarest in its full power.
But upon its healthy development depend not only the sound exercise of
the faculties of observation and judgment, but also the command of the
reason, the control of the will, and the growth of the moral sympathies.
The means for its culture which good reading affords is the most
generally available and one of the most efficient." In the same
discussion Professor Norton has this to say of poetry as the highest
expression of the imagination: "Poetry is one of the most efficient
means of education of the moral sentiment, as well as of the
intelligence. It is the source of the best culture. A man may know all
science and yet remain uneducated. But let him truly possess himself of
the work of any one of the great poets, and no matter what else he may
fail to know, he is not without education."

To the evident truth of these quotations the humanist will readily
assent; and so will the true scientist whose earnest and frank devotion
to truth makes it clear to him that nothing great in his field has ever
been done without a constructive imagination. The loss of artistic
imagination through years of painstaking investigation will be a source
of regret to any one devoted to science, as was the loss of the ability
to appreciate the charm of great poetry Darwin's old age regret. The
taste for this great poetry is grounded on healthful and normal
instincts, and it is the part of wisdom to see that this taste be
developed in youth. The boy who has nurtured his youthful imagination
on the magic of great verse will waken up some morning to find himself
among the competent ones of his generation. His life will be bounded by
that restraint which can come only through an inability to solve the
mysteries and wonders that his imagination is constantly conjuring up.
He wants much that he cannot understand and reason out; and the deeper
things of life, things which touch him most vitally as a living
creature, he looks on with reverence. If his imagination is alive to the
experiences of great poetry, he cannot scoff at things felt in the soul
but impossible of explanation. To him there are sacred things in the
fireside life and at the altar that are not to be laid bare by the
curiosity of the reasoner in his search for truth. And when the twilight
of the gods falls about him he is not curious to know, but he trusts and
fears. A song is worth more to him than a proof. On this he is satisfied
to throw himself.

The music of the cathedral organ that Milton could hear daily as a boy
stirred his imagination, and in later years he brought forth verse that
for the grandeur and scope of its imagination has never been excelled.
In a minor but far more human key the songs and balladry of Scotland
awakened in Burns the imagination which has made him the idol of his
native land and loved wherever English poetry is known. Artistic
imagination for the creation or appreciation of poetry is contagious.
What is true of the poet himself is also true of the reader of great
poetry; its wonderful music causes him to feel and live poems that he
has not the gift to write down. It is with this feeling of poems, this
appreciation of the great work of poets, that we have to do. To awaken
feelings a teacher must have an imagination afire with a little verse
that is choicely good, must have at least felt the pure serene a time or
two. This same passion for verse, be it ever so limited, can be handed
over to the boy through a judicious use of the reading voice. That is
the teacher's work in hand.

What kind of verse is to be handed over to the boy, and how much is
there to be of it? To the latter question the only safe answer is this:
not too much. Talents and tastes vary. Every student can be made to get
by rote a certain amount of verse; but as for learning it by heart,
feeling and appreciating its music, that is a different thing. The
greatest and most painstaking of all anthologists of English verse,
Francis Turner Palgrave, claims that there ought to be more than a
glimpse into the Elysian fields of song. In the best collection that has
yet appeared for the teacher or student, "The Children's Treasury of
English Song," Professor Palgrave has this to say in the introduction:
"The treasures here collected are but a few drops from an ocean,
unequalled in wealth and variety by any existing literature. But the
hope is held that it may prove a pleasure and gain to the dear English
and English-speaking children, all the world over,--yet the editor will
hold his work but half fulfilled, unless they are tempted by it to go on
and wander, in whatever direction their fancy may lead them, through the
roads and winding ways of this great and glorious world of English
poetry. He aims only at showing them the path, and giving them a little
foretaste of our treasures.--'To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures
new.'" That hope is to be the hope of the teacher; and it needs back of
it the mastering of a few choice lyrics, after which the boy is to be
sent forth to browse alone to his heart's desire.

On the question of the kind of verse to give to the boy, Professor
Palgrave has made the following remark: "The standard of 'suitability to
childhood' must exclude many pieces that have 'merit as poetry':
pictures of life as it seems to middle age--poems coloured by
sentimentalism or morbid melancholy, however attractive to readers no
longer children--love as personal passion or regret (not love as the
groundwork of action)--artificial or highly allusive language--have, as
a rule, been held unfit. The aim has been to shun scenes and sentiments
alien from the temper of average healthy childhood, and hence of greater
intrinsic difficulty than poems containing unusual words." The
limitations of verse for children, as stated in the remark just quoted,
are reasonable and something of a guide to teachers. But they are not
always easy to follow. However, nothing must be given to the child
unless it has real merit as poetry, no matter how it may strike the
fancy at first reading. Nor is any poem that would be otherwise good, to
be excluded because it is feared the child may not completely grasp it.
He may read plenty of verse that is beyond him somewhat and be all the
better for having done so. The thing to be avoided is poetry that is not
poetry. He may be allowed to read verse at times that would not be
suitable for learning by heart. But what he learns thoroughly must be
through and through great poetry. And it matters little what form it may
have: ballad, song, fairy poem--he will learn to know it and to love it.
Nor is it to be always within the reach of his intellect; his feelings
will carry him safely beyond the narrow range of understanding.

If he would reach the boy, the teacher must find a point of contact
between the home life and the altogether new life in the school. This
point is without doubt the nursery rhymes. Wise indeed are parents who
have taught these melodies before the school age has been reached, for
the teacher can start at once with the poems he intends to have learned.
But where these rhymes have not been mastered in the home, it is
imperative on the part of the first-grade teacher to have them mastered
in the first school year. For the teacher who hesitates about the
advisability of using the Mother Goose melodies, it may be well to state
their claim by a quotation from Charles Welsh in his modest but most
excellent collection called "A Book of Nursery Rhymes": "The direct
simplicity, dramatic imagination, and spontaneous humour of the nursery
rhymes of Mother Goose will probably never be excelled by any modern
verse. They will for the most part doubtless remain for all time 'the
light literature of the infant scholar.' Although some fragments of what
has been written since the collection was first made may go to swell the
volume of this inheritance from past ages, the selection of any
permanent addition will be made finally by the mother and the child. The
choice will be by no means a haphazard one, for it will be founded on
basal elements of human character, and it will, for the very same cause,
be an absolutely autocratic choice. Experience has proved these old
rhymes and jingles to be best fitted for the awakening intelligence of
the child. The appeal to the imagination by evoking a sense of wonder
accounts for the abiding place which these rhymes and jingles have in
the literature of the nursery." The truth of these words is so evident
that the teacher who would make the learning of poetry by heart a
pleasure must surely recognize such rhymes as the hitching-on place
between the literature of the home and that of the school.

Next in simplicity, directness, and in the interest of its appeal is
verse in the ballad form. It is the easiest of all poetry to learn, for
it tells a dramatic tale in a simple way. But there are few short
ballads in the language suited to the grammar grades, and there is not
sufficient time for learning the longer ones by heart. Many of the best
old English ballads have difficulties for the child in the number of
obsolete words that they contain. These two things make it difficult to
use this absorbing field of poetry as subject-matter for learning by
heart. It is probably best to have the boy come to know the stories of
the ballads by hearing a frequent reading of them aloud by the teacher.
Of the ballads selected for such reading the teacher must go to the old
English field to get the greater number; but the modern field must not
be neglected, for no teacher could omit that powerful yet simple work of
genius, "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner." Its charm in holding the
hearer is as great as was the charm of the old mariner's eye itself when
telling the tale. If such a poem has been listened to in the elementary
school, it can be taught with greater ease in the secondary school. The
same thing is true of many poems.

The greater number of selections that follow these two simple and direct
types, the nursery rhyme and the ballad, must be classic lyrics, fairly
well suited to the boy, and it matters little whether the form be song,
sonnet, ode, elegy, or that of Hebrew verse. In making these selections
poems of a martial nature are not to be altogether neglected; but they
must have fire, for without it a war ode is one of the most obsolete
works of the human intellect. An objection may be raised to the effect
that this type of poem is not suited to girls. To this objection the
answer may be made, that what is good literature for a boy ought to be
good literature for a girl. Will not a girl appreciate that great poem
of a sea fight, "The 'Revenge'"? It seems unwise to put in a list of
poems to be learned by heart an example of nonsense verse. This verse
evidently has a definite place in the intellectual equipment of the
child, and he may pick it up later of his own accord. No one would
knowingly, however, deprive him of "The Owl and the Pussy Cat," or "The
Jabberwocky"; even grown-ups dote on "Little Billee," as Thackeray
doubtless did himself. We must all fool more or less--even in verse.

Some teachers will ask how poetry is to be taught. To that question the
absolute answer is: through the ear. All poetry is to be read aloud and
well read. The dry-as-dust fellow who wants to read it merely as prose
should be indicted for a crime against art. Poetry must be read
musically and with a natural time and swing. At this point it should be
understood that part of the work of a teacher is to develop a good
reading tone of voice. The present-day tendencies toward shrieking and a
mouthing of words are most deplorable tendencies. Let the teacher first
master the poem and then teach it by word of mouth, and teach it as
music. It will finally impress itself on the child. Now this reading by
which the poem is to be taught is to be merely a good natural
reading--not the affected and exaggerated one of the elocutionist. Let
the child get the idea that he must say the poem over and over until it
has become his own. There is much pleasure in saying poetry aloud when
one is walking by himself--a rare luxury in modern city or suburban
life. It does not matter if passers-by look on this practice as a sort
of lunacy, for it is a most commendable kind of lunacy to have and one
that all persons are not so lucky as to possess.

So much is inviting us that no claim is made that the included list is
by any means the best one hundred poems. But it is one that the
experience of some years of schoolroom work has proved passing good. At
least it is good enough for the teacher who has not made a thorough
study of the subject. This, that, and t'other substitute might be
offered; but when all is said, the selections as they stand, if well
mastered, will be something of a king's treasury to the boy.

For the convenience of the teacher the selections are given complete.
With but few exceptions the poems are unabridged and under the original
titles. When an extract has been made from a longer poem, the first
verse of the selection has generally been given as a title. All poems
might be remembered by first verses rather than by titles, and every
anthology should have an alphabetical index to first verses. The poems
as given below will vary in their appeal largely according to the mood
of the teacher and his natural temperament; but he can teach no poem
well unless he has mastered it himself and has come to appreciate it.
There are a few selections, however, as "The Fairy Life," "The Forsaken
Merman," and "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud," that are so wholly
delightful that the teacher may hold them as favourite children of the
imagination. Let the teacher master the selections given below, and if
he so choose tear out the pages containing them and then throw the rest
of the book away; for if he truly knows these poems by heart, he will no
longer be a stranger to literature of power, and the purpose of this
book will have been fulfilled.






                Hark, hark,
                The dogs do bark,
          The beggars are coming to town;
                Some in tags,
                Some in rags,
          And some in velvet gowns.


                Pease porridge hot,
                Pease porridge cold,
          Pease porridge in the pot, nine days old.
                Some like it hot,
                Some like it cold,
          Some like it in the pot, nine days old.


          "Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been?"
          "I've been to London to look at the Queen."
          "Pussy cat, pussy cat, what did you there?"
          "I frightened a little mouse under a chair."


          Three mice went into a hole to spin;
          Puss passed by and Puss looked in:
          "What are you doing, my little men?"
          "Weaving coats for gentlemen."
          "Please let me help you to wind off your threads."
          "Ah, no, Mistress Pussy, you'd bite off our heads."


          Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn,
          The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn.
          Where's the boy that looks after the sheep?
          He's under the haycock, fast asleep.
          "Will you wake him?" "No, not I;
          For if I do, he'll be sure to cry."


                Sleep, baby, sleep!
                Our cottage vale is deep:
          The little lamb is on the green,
          With snowy fleece so soft and clean.
                Sleep, baby, sleep!

                Sleep, baby, sleep!
                Thy rest shall angels keep:
          While on the grass the lamb shall feed,
          And never suffer want or need.
                Sleep, baby, sleep!


                Hush thee, my babby,
                Lie still with thy daddy,
          Thy mammy has gone to the mill,
                To grind thee some wheat
                To get thee some meat,
          And so, my dear babby, lie still.


          Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town,
          Upstairs and downstairs, in his nightgown,
          Rapping at the window, crying through the lock,
          "Are the children in their beds? now it's eight o'clock."


          Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep,
            And can't tell where to find them;
          Leave them alone and they'll come home,
            And bring their tails behind them.

          Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep,
            And dreamt she heard them bleating;
          But when she awoke she found it a joke,
            For still they all were fleeting.

          Then up she took her little crook,
            Determined for to find them;
          She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed,
            For they'd left all their tails behind 'em.
                                             --MOTHER GOOSE.


          I saw a ship a-sailing,
            A-sailing on the sea;
          And, oh! it was all laden
            With pretty things for thee.

          There were comfits in the cabin,
            And apples in the hold;
          The sails were made of silk,
            And the masts were made of gold.

          The four-and-twenty sailors
            That stood between the decks
          Were four-and-twenty white mice,
            With chains about their necks.

          The captain was a duck,
            With a packet on his back;
          And when the ship began to move,
            The captain said, "Quack! quack!"
                                    --MOTHER GOOSE.



          The world is so full of a number of things,
          I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.


          The rain is raining all around,
            It falls on field and tree,
          It rains on the umbrellas here,
            And on the ships at sea.


          Of speckled eggs the birdie sings
            And nests among the trees;
          The sailor sings of ropes and things
            In ships upon the seas.

          The children sing in far Japan,
            The children sing in Spain;
          The organ with the organ man
            Is singing in the rain.
                     --ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.


          Boats sail on the rivers,
            And ships sail on the seas;
          But clouds that sail across the sky
            Are prettier far than these.

          There are bridges on the rivers,
            As pretty as you please;
          But the bow that bridges heaven
            And overtops the trees,
          And builds a road from earth to sky,
            Is prettier far than these.
                                    --CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.


          Who has seen the wind?
            Neither I nor you;
          But when the leaves hang trembling
            The wind is passing through.

          Who has seen the wind?
            Neither you nor I;
          But when the trees bow down their heads
            The wind is passing by.
                            --CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.


          The friendly cow all red and white
            I love with all my heart;
          She gives me milk with all her might,
            To eat with apple tart.

          She wanders lowing here and there,
            And yet she cannot stray,
          All in the pleasant open air,
            The pleasant light of day.

          And blown by all the winds that pass,
            And wet with all the showers,
          She walks among the meadow grass
            And eats the meadow flowers.
                           --ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.


          Whenever the moon and stars are set,
            Whenever the wind is high,
          All night long in the dark and wet,
            A man goes riding by.
          Late in the night when the fires are out,
          Why does he gallop and gallop about?

          Whenever the trees are crying aloud,
            And ships are tossed at sea,
          By, on the highway, low and loud,
            By at the gallop goes he.
          By at the gallop he goes, and then
          By he comes back at the gallop again.
                                    --ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.


          In winter I get up at night
          And dress by yellow candle light;
          In summer, quite the other way,
          I have to go to bed by day.

          I have to go to bed and see
          The birds still hopping on the tree;
          Or hear the grown-up people's feet
          Still going past me in the street.

          And does it not seem hard to you,
          When all the sky is clear and blue,
          And I should like so much to play,
          To have to go to bed by day?
                            --ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.


          What does little birdie say,
          In her nest at peep of day?
          Let me fly, says little birdie,
          Mother, let me fly away.
          Birdie, rest a little longer,
          Till the little wings are stronger.
          So she rests a little longer,
          Then she flies away.

          What does little baby say,
          In her bed at peep of day?
          Baby says, like little birdie,
          Let me rise and fly away.
          Baby, sleep a little longer,
          Till the little limbs are stronger.
          If she sleeps a little longer,
          Baby too shall fly away.
                             --ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.


                Sleep, baby, sleep.
              Thy father is tending the sheep:
          Thy mother is shaking the dreamland tree,
          And down comes a little dream on thee.
                Sleep, baby, sleep.

                Sleep, baby, sleep.
              The large stars are the sheep:
          The little stars are the lambs, I guess,
          And the bright moon is the shepherdess.
                Sleep, baby, sleep.

                Sleep, baby, sleep.
              Our Saviour loves His sheep:
          He is the Lamb of God on high,
          Who for our sakes came down to die.
                Sleep, baby, sleep.
                  --_From the German by_ CAROLINE SOUTHEY.


      The Lord is my shepherd;
      I shall not want.

  He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
  He leadeth me beside the still waters.
  He restoreth my soul:
  He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
  I will fear no evil:
  For thou art with me;
  Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

      Thou preparest a table before me
      In the presence of mine enemies:
      Thou anointest my head with oil;
      My cup runneth over.

    Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:
  And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
                                             --KING DAVID.



          Oh, who is so merry, so merry, heigh ho!
          As the light-hearted fairy? heigh ho,
                        Heigh ho!
                  He dances and sings
                  To the sound of his wings
          With a hey and a heigh and a ho.

          Oh, who is so merry, so airy, heigh ho!
          As the light-headed fairy? heigh ho,
                        Heigh ho!
                  His nectar he sips
                  From the primroses' lips
          With a hey and a heigh and a ho.

          Oh, who is so merry, so merry, heigh ho!
          As the light-footed fairy? heigh ho,
                        Heigh ho!
                  The night is his noon
                  And his sun is the moon,
          With a hey and a heigh and a ho.


          When I was sick and lay a-bed,
          I had two pillows for my head,

          And all my toys beside me lay
          To keep me happy all the day.

          And sometimes for an hour or so
          I watched my leaden soldiers go,

          With different uniforms and drills,
          Among the bed-clothes through the hills;

          And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
          All up and down among the sheets;

          Or brought my trees and houses out,
          And planted cities all about.

          I was the giant great and still
          That sits upon the pillow-hill,

          And sees before him, dale and plain,
          The pleasant land of counterpane.
                               --ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.


          I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
          And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
          He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
          And I see him jump before me when I jump into my bed.

          The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow--
          Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
          For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
          And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

          He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
          And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
          He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;
          I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me.

          One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
          I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
          But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
          Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.
                                             --ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.


          Sweet and low, sweet and low,
            Wind of the western sea;
          Low, low, breathe and blow,
            Wind of the western sea.
          Over the rolling waters go,
          Come from the dying moon, and blow,
            Blow him again to me;
          While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

          Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
            Father will come to thee soon;
          Rest, rest on mother's breast,
            Father will come to thee soon;
          Father will come to his babe in the nest,
          Silver sails all out of the west
            Under the silver moon;
          Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
                                           --ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.


_First Fairy_

          You spotted snakes with double tongue,
            Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
          Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong;
            Come not near our fairy queen.


                  Philomel, with melody
                  Sing in our sweet lullaby;
          Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby:
                        Never harm,
                        Nor spell, nor charm,
                  Come our lovely lady nigh;
                  So, good night, with lullaby.

_Second Fairy_

          Weaving spiders, come not here;
            Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence;
          Beetles black, approach not near;
            Worm nor snail, do no offence.


                  Philomel, with melody
                  Sing in our sweet lullaby;
          Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby:
                        Never harm,
                        Nor spell, nor charm,
                  Come our lovely lady nigh;
                  So, good night, with lullaby.
                                     --WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.


          Hush! the waves are rolling in,
            White with foam, white with foam!
          Father toils amid the din;
            But baby sleeps at home.

          Hush! the winds roar hoarse and deep.
            On they come, on they come!
          Brother seeks the lazy sheep;
            But baby sleeps at home.

          Hush! the rain sweeps o'er the knowes,
            Where they roam, where they roam;
          Sister goes to seek the cows;
            But baby sleeps at home.




          Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander?
            Whither from this pretty home, the home where mother dwells?
          "Far, and far away," said the dainty little maiden,
          "All among the gardens, auriculas, anemones,
            Roses and lilies and Canterbury-bells."

          Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander?
            Whither from this pretty house, this city-house of ours?
          "Far and far away," said the dainty little maiden,
          "All among the meadows, the clover and the clematis,
            Daisies and kingcups, and honeysuckle-flowers."



          Minnie and Winnie
              Slept in a shell.
          Sleep, little ladies!
              And they slept well.

          Pink was the shell within,
              Silver without;
          Sounds of the great sea
              Wander'd about.

          Sleep, little ladies!
              Wake not soon!
          Echo on echo
              Dies to the moon.

          Two bright stars
              Peep'd into the shell.
          "What are they dreaming of?
              Who can tell?"

          Started a green linnet
              Out of the croft;
          Wake, little ladies,
              The sun is aloft!
                      --ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.


          Little Lamb, who made thee?
          Dost thou know who made thee?
          Gave thee life, and bade thee feed
          By the stream and o'er the mead;
          Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
          Gave thee such a tender voice,
          Making all the vales rejoice;
              Little Lamb, who made thee?
              Dost thou know who made thee?

          Little Lamb, I'll tell thee.
          Little Lamb, I'll tell thee.
          He is calléd by thy name,
          For He calls Himself a Lamb:--

          He is meek, and He is mild;
          He became a little child:
          I, a child, and thou, a lamb,
          We are calléd by His name.
              Little Lamb, God bless thee;
              Little Lamb, God bless thee.
                             --WILLIAM BLAKE.


          Up the airy mountain,
              Down the rushy glen,
          We daren't go a-hunting
              For fear of little men;
          Wee folk, good folk,
              Trooping all together;
          Green jacket, red cap,
              And white owl's feather!

          Down along the rocky shore
              Some make their home:
          They live on crispy pancakes
              Of yellow tide-foam;
          Some in the reeds
              Of the black mountain lake,
          With frogs for their watch-dogs,
              All night awake.

          By the craggy hill-side,
              Through the mosses bare,
          They have planted thorn-trees
              For pleasure here and there.
          Is any man so daring
              As dig them up in spite,
          He shall find their sharpest thorns
              In his bed at night.

          Up the airy mountain,
              Down the rushy glen,
          We daren't go a-hunting
              For fear of little men;
          Wee folk, good folk,
              Trooping all together;
          Green jacket, red cap,
              And white owl's feather!
                             --WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.


  Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king;
  Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
  Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
    Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

  The palm and may make country houses gay,
  Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
  And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,
    Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

  The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
  Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
  In every street these tunes our ears do greet,
    Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
        Spring, the sweet Spring!
                             --THOMAS NASH.


  "I love the moon and the moon loves me;
  God bless the moon and God bless me."--Old Song.

  "Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?"
            "Over the sea."
  "Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?"
            "All that love me."

  "Are you not tired with rolling, and never
            Resting to sleep?
  Why look so pale and so sad as forever
            Wishing to weep?"

  "Ask me not this, little child, if you love me;
            You are too bold.
  I must obey the great Father above me,
            And do as I'm told."
                             --LORD HOUGHTON.


          Entreat me not to leave thee,
              Or to return from following after thee;
          For whither thou goest, I will go;
              And where thou lodgest, I will lodge;
          Thy people shall be my people,
              And thy God my God;
          Where thou diest, will I die,
              And there will I be buried;
          The Lord do so to me,
          And more also,
              If aught but death part thee and me.
                                    --RUTH THE MOABITESS.



          I saw you toss the kites on high
          And blow the birds about the sky;
          And all around I heard you pass,
          Like ladies' skirts across the grass;
              O wind, a-blowing all day long,
              O wind, that sings so loud a song!

          I saw the different things you did,
          But always you yourself you hid.
          I felt you push, I heard you call,
          I could not see yourself at all:
              O wind, a-blowing all day long,
              O wind, that sings so loud a song!

          O you that are so strong and cold,
          O blower, are you young or old?
          Are you a beast of field and tree,
          Or just a stronger child than me?
              O wind, a-blowing all day long,
              O wind, that sings so loud a song!
                                --ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.



          Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
          In a cowslip's bell I lie;
          There I couch when owls do cry.
          On the bat's back I do fly
          After summer merrily.
              Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,
              Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.


          Come unto these yellow sands,
              And then take hands:
          Court'sied when you have, and kiss'd
              The wild waves whist,--
          Foot it featly here and there;
          And, sweet sprites, the burden bear.
              Hark, hark!
              The watch-dogs bark:
              Hark, hark! I hear
          The strain of strutting chanticleer
          Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!
                             --WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.



          When daffodils begin to peer,
              With heigh the doxy over the dale,
          Why then comes in the sweet o' the year:
              For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale.


          Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,
              And merrily hent the stile-a:
          A merry heart goes all the day,
              Your sad tires in a mile-a.


          A great while ago the world began,
              With heigh-ho the wind and the rain:
          But that's all one, our play is done,
              And we'll strive to please you every day.
                                    --WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.


          When cats run home and light is come,
              And dew is cold upon the ground,
          And the far-off stream is dumb,
              And the whirring sail goes round,
              And the whirring sail goes round;
                  Alone and warming his five wits,
                  The white owl in the belfry sits.

          When merry milkmaids click the latch,
              And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
          And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
              Twice or thrice his roundelay,
              Twice or thrice his roundelay;
                  Alone and warming his five wits,
                  The white owl in the belfry sits.
                                    --ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.


  Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,
  The linnet, and thrush, say, "I love and I love!"
  In the winter they're silent--the wind is so strong.
  What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud song.
  But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,
  And singing, and loving,--all come back together.
  But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
  The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
  That he sings, and he sings; and forever sings he--
  "I love my Love, and my Love loves me!"
                             --SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.


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

          Bright yellow, red, and orange,
            The leaves come down in hosts;
          The trees are Indian princes,
            But soon they'll turn to ghosts;
          The scanty pears and apples
            Hang russet on the bough;
          It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,
            'Twill soon be Winter now.
              Robin, Robin Redbreast,
                O Robin dear!
              And what will this poor Robin do?
                For pinching days are near.

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


    When children are playing alone on the green,
    In comes the playmate that never was seen.
    When children are happy and lonely and good,
    The Friend of the Children comes out of the wood.

    Nobody heard him and nobody saw,
    His is a picture you never could draw,
    But he's sure to be present, abroad or at home,
    When children are happy and playing alone.

    He lies in the laurel, he runs on the grass,
    He sings when you tinkle the musical glass;
    Whene'er you are happy and cannot tell why,
    The Friend of the Children is sure to be by!

    He loves to be little, he hates to be big,
    'Tis he that inhabits the caves that you dig;
    'Tis he when you play with your soldiers of tin
    That sides with the Frenchmen and never can win.

    'Tis he, when at night you go off to your bed,
    Bids you go to your sleep and not trouble your head;
    For wherever they're lying, in cupboard or shelf,
    'Tis he will take care of your playthings himself!
                                    --ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.


  When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,
  And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;
  When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
  And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;

  When the meadows laugh with lively green,
  And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene;
  When Mary, and Susan, and Emily,
  With their sweet round mouths sing, "Ha, ha, he!"

  When the painted birds laugh in the shade,
  Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread:
  Come live, and be merry, and join with me
  To sing the sweet chorus of "Ha, ha, he!"
                             --WILLIAM BLAKE.


  Oh, hush thee, my babie! thy sire was a knight,
  Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright;
  The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see,
  They all are belonging, dear babie, to thee.

  Oh, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows,
  It calls but the warders that guard thy repose;
  Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,
  Ere the step of a foeman draw near to thy bed.

  Oh, hush thee, my babie! the time soon will come,
  When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum;
  Then hush thee, my darling! take rest while you may;
  For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.
                                    --SIR WALTER SCOTT.


(An Old Song)

              Come follow, follow me,
              You fairy elves that be,
              Which circle on the green;
              Come, follow Mab your queen.
          Hand in hand let's dance around,
          For this place is fairy ground.

              The grasshopper, gnat, and fly,
              Serve for our minstrelsy;
              Grace said, we dance a while
              And so the time beguile:
          And if the moon doth hide her head,
          The glowworm lights us home to bed.

              On tops of dewy grass
              So nimbly do we pass,
              The young and tender stalk
              Ne'er bends when we do walk;
          Yet in the morning may be seen
          Where we the night before have been.


          Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
            The flying cloud, the frosty light:
            The year is dying in the night;
          Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

          Ring out the old, ring in the new,
            Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
            The year is going, let him go;
          Ring out the false, ring in the true.

          Ring in the valiant man and free,
            The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
            Ring out the darkness of the land,
          Ring in the Christ that is to be.
                                    --ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.


  The voice of my beloved! behold, he cometh,
      Leaping upon the mountains,
      Skipping upon the hills.
  My beloved is like a roe or a young hart:
      Behold, he standeth behind our wall,
  He looketh forth at the windows,
  Showing himself through the lattice.
      My beloved spake and said unto me:
  Rise up, my love, my fair one,
      And come away.

  For, lo, the winter is past,
      The rain is over and gone;
  The flowers appear on the earth;
      The time of the singing of birds is come,
      And the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;
  The fig tree putteth forth her green figs,
      And the vines with the tender grape
      Give a good smell.
  Arise, my love, my fair one,
      And come away.
                             --KING SOLOMON.



          The year's at the spring
          And day's at the morn;
          Morning's at seven;
          The hill-side's dew-pearled;
          The lark's on the wing;
          The snail's on the thorn:
          God's in his heaven--
          All's right with the world!
                             --ROBERT BROWNING.


          Full fathom five thy father lies:
              Of his bones are coral made;
          Those are pearls that were his eyes:
              Nothing of him that doth fade,
          But doth suffer a sea-change
          Into something rich and strange.
          Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
              Hark! now I hear them,--
                  Ding, dong, bell.
                             --WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.


          Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
              And Phoebus 'gins arise,
          His steeds to water at those springs
              On chalic'd flowers that lies;
          And winking Mary-buds begin
              To ope their golden eyes:
          With everything that pretty bin,
              My lady sweet, arise;
                  Arise, arise!
                             --WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.


          When icicles hang by the wall,
              And Dick the shepherd blows his nail
          And Tom bears logs into the hall,
              And milk comes frozen home in pail;
          When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul,
          Then nightly sings the staring owl,
          Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note,
          While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

          When all aloud the wind doth blow,
              And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
          And birds sit brooding in the snow,
              And Marion's nose looks red and raw;
          When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
          Then nightly sings the staring owl,
          Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note,
          While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
                             --WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.


          Over hill, over dale,
              Thorough bush, thorough brier,
          Over park, over pale,
              Thorough flood, thorough fire,
              I do wander everywhere,
              Swifter than the moon's sphere;
              And I serve the fairy queen,
              To dew her orbs upon the green:
              The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
              In their gold coats spots you see;
          Those be rubies, fairy favours,
          In those freckles live their savours:
          I must go seek some dewdrops here,
          And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
                                    --WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.


    Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
        Since o'er shady groves they hover,
        And with leaves and flowers do cover
    The friendless bodies of unburied men.
        Call unto his funeral dole
        The ant, the field mouse, and the mole
    To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm,
    And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm:
    But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men:
    For with his nails he'll dig them up again.
                                    --JOHN WEBSTER.


          My heart leaps up when I behold
              A rainbow in the sky:
          So was it when my life began,
          So is it now I am a man,
          So be it when I shall grow old
              Or let me die!
          The Child is father of the Man:
          And I could wish my days to be
          Bound each to each by natural piety.
                               --WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.


          Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day:
              With night we banish sorrow;
          Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft,
              To give my Love good-morrow!
          Wings from the wind to please her mind,
              Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
          Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing,
              To give my Love good-morrow;
                To give my Love good-morrow
                Notes from them both I'll borrow.

          Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast,
              Sing, birds, in every furrow;
          And from each hill, let music shrill
              Give my fair Love good-morrow!
          Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
              Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!
          You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
              Sing my fair Love good-morrow
                To give my Love good-morrow;
                Sing, birds, in every furrow!
                                    --THOMAS HEYWOOD.


              The cock is crowing,
              The stream is flowing,
              The small birds twitter,
              The lake doth glitter,
          The green field sleeps in the sun:
              The oldest and youngest
              Are at work with the strongest:
              The cattle are grazing,
              Their heads never raising,
          There are forty feeding like one!

              Like an army defeated,
              The snow has retreated,
              And now doth fare ill
              On the top of the bare hill;
          The ploughboy is whooping--anon--anon:
              There's joy in the mountains;
              There's life in the fountains,
              Small clouds are sailing,
              Blue sky prevailing,
          The rain is over and gone!
                             --WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.


          Up, up! ye dames, ye lasses gay!
          To the meadows trip away.
          'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn,
          And scare the small birds from the corn.
          Not a soul at home may stay:
              For the shepherds must go
              With lance and bow
          To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

          Leave the hearth and leave the house
          To the cricket and the mouse:
          Find grannam out a sunny seat,
          With babe and lambkin at her feet.
          Not a soul at home may stay:
              For the shepherds must go
              With lance and bow
          To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.
                             --SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.


    Come, dear children, let us away;
        Down and away below.
    Now my brothers call from the bay;
    Now the great winds shoreward blow;
        Now the salt tides seaward flow;
        Now the wild white horses play,
        Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.
            Children dear, let us away.
                This way, this way!

        Call her once before you go.
                Call once yet.
        In a voice that she will know:
            "Margaret! Margaret!"
        Children's voices should be dear
        (Call once more) to a mother's ear:
        Children's voices, wild with pain.
        Surely she will come again.
        Call her once and come away.
                This way, this way!
        "Mother dear, we cannot stay.
        The wild white horses foam and fret."
            Margaret! Margaret!

        Come, dear children, come away down.
                Call no more.
        One last look at the white-wall'd town,
    And the little gray church on the windy shore.
                Then come down.
        She will not come though you call all day.
            Come away, come away.

        Children dear, was it yesterday
        We heard the sweet bells over the bay?
        In the caverns where we lay,
        Through the surf and through the swell,
        The far-off sound of a silver bell?
        Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,
        Where the winds are all asleep;
        Where the spent lights quiver and gleam;
        Where the salt weed sways in the stream;
        Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round,
        Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground;
        Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,
        Dry their mail, and bask in the brine;
        Where great whales come sailing by,
        Sail and sail, with unshut eye,
        Round the world for ever and aye?
        When did music come this way?
        Children dear, was it yesterday?

        Children dear, was it yesterday
        (Call yet once) that she went away?
        Once she sate with you and me.
    On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,
        And the youngest sate on her knee.
    She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well,
    When down swung the sound of the far-off bell.
    She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea.
    She said, "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray
    In the little gray church on the shore to-day.
    'Twill be Easter-time in the world--ah me!
    And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee."
    I said, "Go up, dear heart, through the waves.
    Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves."
    She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.
        Children dear, was it yesterday?

        Children dear, were we long alone?
    "The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.
    Long prayers," I said, "in the world they say.
    Come," I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay.
    We went up the beach, by the sandy down
    Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town,
    Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still,
    To the little gray church on the windy hill.
    From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,
    But we stood without in the cold-blowing airs.
    We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains,
    And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes.
        She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:
        "Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here.
        Dear heart," I said, "we are long alone.
        The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan."
    But, ah! she gave me never a look,
    For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book.
    Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.
        Come away, children, call no more.
        Come away, come down, call no more.

            Down, down, down;
        Down to the depths of the sea.
    She sits at her wheel in the humming town,
        Singing most joyfully.
    Hark what she sings: "O joy, O joy,
    For the humming street, and the child with its toy;
    For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well;
        For the wheel where I spun,
        And the blessèd light of the sun."
        And so she sings her fill,
        Singing most joyfully,
        Till the shuttle falls from her hand,
        And the whizzing wheel stands still.
    She steals to the window, and looks at the sand;
        And over the sand at the sea;
        And her eyes are set in a stare;
        And anon there breaks a sigh,
        And anon there drops a tear,
        From a sorrow-clouded eye,
        And a heart sorrow-laden,
            A long, long sigh
    For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden,
        And the gleam of her golden hair.

        Come away, away, children.
        Come, children, come down.
        The hoarse wind blows colder;
        Lights shine in the town.
        She will start from her slumber
        When gusts shake the door;
        She will hear the winds howling,
        Will hear the waves roar.
        We shall see, while above us
        The waves roar and whirl,
        A ceiling of amber,
        A pavement of pearl.
        Singing, "Here came a mortal,
        But faithless was she:
        And alone dwell for ever
        The kings of the sea."

        But, children, at midnight,
        When soft the winds blow;
        When clear falls the moonlight;
        When spring-tides are low:
        When sweet airs come seaward
        From heaths starr'd with broom;
        And high rocks throw mildly
        On the blanch'd sands a gloom:
        Up the still, glistening beaches,
        Up the creeks we will hie;
        Over banks of bright seaweed
        The ebb-tide leaves dry.
        We will gaze, from the sand-hills,
        At the white, sleeping town;
        At the church on the hill-side--
            And then come back down,
        Singing, "There dwells a loved one,
            But cruel is she.
        She left lonely forever
            The kings of the sea."
                             --MATTHEW ARNOLD.


  O Lord, our Lord,
  How excellent is thy name in all the earth!

      Who hast set thy glory above the heavens,
      Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings hast thou ordained strength,
      Because of thine enemies,
      That thou mightest still the enemy and the avenger.

      When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers,
      The moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained;
      What is man that thou art mindful of him?
      And the son of man, that thou visitest him?

      For thou hast made him a little lower than the angels,
      And hast crowned him with glory and honour.
      Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of thy hands;
      Thou hast put all things under his feet:

      All sheep and oxen,
      Yea, and the beasts of the field;
      The fowl of the air, and the fish of the sea,
      And whatsoever passeth through the paths of the seas.

  O Lord, our Lord,
  How excellent is thy name in all the earth!
                                      --KING DAVID.



        The splendour falls on castle walls
            And snowy summits old in story:
        The long light shakes across the lakes,
            And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
    Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
    Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

        O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
            And thinner, clearer, farther going!
        O sweet and far from cliff and scar
            The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
    Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
    Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

        O love, they die in yon rich sky,
            They faint on hill or field or river:
        Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
            And grow forever and forever.
    Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
    And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
                             --ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.


          I come from haunts of coot and hern,
              I make a sudden sally,
          And sparkle out among the fern,
              To bicker down a valley.

          By thirty hills I hurry down,
              Or slip between the ridges,
          By twenty thorps, a little town,
              And half a hundred bridges.

          Till last by Philip's farm I flow
              To join the brimming river,
          For men may come and men may go,
              But I go on forever.

          I chatter over stony ways,
              In little sharps and trebles,
          I bubble into eddying bays,
              I babble on the pebbles.

          With many a curve my banks I fret
              By many a field and fallow,
          And many a fairy foreland set
              With willow-weed and mallow.

          I chatter, chatter, as I flow
              To join the brimming river,
          For men may come and men may go,
              But I go on forever.

          I wind about, and in and out,
              With here a blossom sailing,
          And here and there a lusty trout,
              And here and there a grayling,

          And here and there a foamy flake
              Upon me, as I travel
          With many a silvery waterbreak
              Above the golden gravel,

          And draw them all along, and flow
              To join the brimming river,
          For men may come and men may go,
              But I go on forever.

          I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
              I slide by hazel covers;
          I move the sweet forget-me-nots
              That grow for happy lovers.

          I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
              Among my skimming swallows;
          I make the netted sunbeam dance
              Against my sandy shallows.

          I murmur under moon and stars
              In brambly wildernesses;
          I linger by my shingly bars;
              I loiter round my cresses;

          And out again I curve and flow
              To join the brimming river,
          For men may come and men may go.
              But I go on forever.
                        --ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.


          Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,
              Now the sun is laid to sleep,
          Seated in thy silver chair
              State in wonted manner keep:
                  Hesperus entreats thy light,
                  Goddess excellently bright.

          Earth, let not thy envious shade
              Dare itself to interpose;
          Cynthia's shining orb was made
              Heaven to clear when day did close:
                  Bless us then with wishèd sight,
                  Goddess excellently bright.

          Lay thy bow of pearl apart
              And thy crystal-shining quiver;
          Give unto the flying hart
              Space to breathe, how short soever:
                  Thou that mak'st a day of night,
                  Goddess excellently bright!
                                       --BEN JONSON.


  As I in hoary winter's night stood shivering in the snow,
  Surprised I was with sudden heat, which made my heart to glow;
  And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,
  A pretty babe, all burning bright, did in the air appear;
  Who, scorchèd with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed,
  As though his floods should quench his flames which with his tears
          were fed:--
  "Alas!" quoth He, "but newly born, in fiery heats I fry,
  Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I!

  "My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns;
  Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns;
  The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals,
  The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defilèd souls,
  For which, as now on fire I am, to work them to their good,
  So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood."--
  With this He vanished out of sight, and swiftly shrunk away;
  And straight I callèd unto mind that it was Christmas-day.
                                           --ROBERT SOUTHWELL.


          A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
              A wind that follows fast
          And fills the white and rustling sail
              And bends the gallant mast;
          And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
              While like the eagle free
          Away the good ship flies, and leaves
              Old England on the lee.

          O for a soft and gentle wind!
              I heard a fair one cry;
          But give to me the snoring breeze
              And white waves heaving high;
          And white waves heaving high, my lads,
              The good ship tight and free:--
          The world of waters is our home,
              And merry men are we.

          There's tempest in yon hornèd moon,
              And lightning in yon cloud;
          But hark the music, mariners!
              The wind is piping loud;
          The wind is piping loud, my boys,
              The lightning flashes free--
          While the hollow oak our palace is,
              Our heritage the sea.
                             --ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.


          Where lies the land to which the ship would go?
          Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.
          And where the land she travels from? Away,
          Far, far behind, is all that they can say.

          On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face,
          Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace;
          Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch below
          The foaming wake far widening as we go.

          On stormy nights when wild north-westers rave,
          How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave!
          The dripping sailor on the reeling mast
          Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past.

          Where lies the land to which the ship would go?
          Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.
          And where the land she travels from? Away,
          Far, far behind, is all that they can say.
                                    --ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.


              Under the greenwood tree
              Who loves to lie with me,
              And turn his merry note
              Unto the sweet bird's throat--
          Come hither, come hither, come hither!
                  Here shall he see
                  No enemy
          But winter and rough weather.

              Who doth ambition shun
              And loves to live i' the sun,
              Seeking the food he eats
              And pleased with what he gets--
          Come hither, come hither, come hither!
                  Here shall he see
                  No enemy
          But winter and rough weather.
                             --WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.


          Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
              You haste away so soon:
          As yet the early-rising Sun
              Has not attain'd his noon.
                  Stay, stay,
              Until the hasting day
                  Has run
              But to the even-song;
          And, having pray'd together, we
              Will go with you along.

          We have short time to stay, as you,
              We have as short a Spring;
          As quick a growth to meet decay
              As you, or anything.
                  We die,
              As your hours do, and dry
              Like to the Summer's rain;
          Or as the pearls of Morning's dew
              Ne'er to be found again.
                             --ROBERT HERRICK.


          The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,
          The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying;
                      And the year
          On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,
                      Is lying.
                Come, Months, come away,
                From November to May,
                In your saddest array,--
                Follow the bier
                Of the dead cold year,
          And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.

          The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling,
          The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling,
                      For the year;
          The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone
                      To his dwelling.
                Come, Months, come away;
                Put on white, black, and gray;
                Let your light sisters play;
                Ye, follow the bier
                Of the dead cold year,
          And make her grave green with tear on tear.
                                    --PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.


          From Oberon, in fairy land,
          The king of ghosts and shadows there,
          Mad Robin I, at his command,
          Am sent to view the night-sports here.
                  What revel rout
                  Is kept about,
            In every corner where I go,
                  I will o'ersee,
                  And merry be,
            And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho!

          More swift than lightning can I fly
          About this airy welkin soon,
          And, in a minute's space, descry
          Each thing that's done below the moon.
                  There's not a hag
                  Or ghost shall wag,
            Or cry 'ware goblins, where I go;
                  But, Robin, I
                  Their feast will spy,
            And send them home with ho, ho, ho!

          Whene'er such wanderers I meet,
          As from their night-sports they trudge home,
          With counterfeiting voice I greet,
          And call them on with me to roam;
                  Through woods, through lakes,
                  Through bogs, through brakes,
            Or else, unseen, with them I go,
                  All in the nick
                  To play some trick,
            And frolic it, with ho, ho, ho!

          Sometimes I meet them like a man,
          Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound;
          And to a horse I turn me can,
          To trip and trot about them round.
                  But if to ride,
                  My back they stride,
            More swift than wind away I go,
                  O'er hedge and lands.
                  Through pools and ponds,
            I hurry, laughing, ho, ho, ho!

          By wells and rills, in meadows green,
          We nightly dance our heyday guise;
          And to our fairy King and Queen,
          We chant our moonlight minstrelsies.
                  When larks 'gin sing,
                  Away we fling;
            And babes new born steal as we go;
                  And elf in bed,
                  We leave instead,
            And wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho!

          From hag-bred Merlin's time have I
          Thus nightly revell'd to and fro;
          And for my pranks men call me by
          The name of Robin Good-fellow.
                  Fiends, ghosts, and sprites,
                  Who haunt the nights,
            The hags and goblins do me know;
                  And beldames old
            So _valé_, _valé_! ho, ho, ho!


          Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
          Rescue my castle before the hot day
          Brightens to blue from its silvery gray,
          Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!

          Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;
          Many's the friend there, will listen and pray
          "God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay--
          Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

          Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,
          Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array,
          Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay,
          Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

          Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest, and gay,
          Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay!
          I've better counsellors; what counsel they?
          Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"
                                    --ROBERT BROWNING.


  The heavens declare the glory of God;
  And the firmament showeth his handiwork.
  Day unto day uttereth speech,
  And night unto night sheweth knowledge.
  There is no speech nor language,
  Where their voice is not heard.
  Their line is gone out through all the earth,
  And their words to the end of the world.

  In them hath he set a tabernacle for the sun,
  Which is as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber,
  And rejoiceth as a strong man to run a race.
  His going forth is from the end of the heaven,
  And his circuit unto the ends of it:
  And there is nothing hid from the heat thereof.

  The law of the Lord is perfect, converting the soul:
  The testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the simple.
  The statutes of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart:
  The commandment of the Lord is pure, enlightening the eyes.
  The fear of the Lord is clean, enduring forever:
  The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.
  More to be desired are they than gold, yea, than much fine gold:
  Sweeter also than honey and the honeycomb.

  Moreover by them is thy servant warned:
  And in keeping of them there is great reward.
  Who can understand his errors? cleanse thou me from secret faults.
  Keep back thy servant also from presumptuous sins; let them not have
          dominion over me:
  Then shall I be upright,
  And I shall be innocent from the great transgression.

  Let the words of my mouth, and the meditation of my heart, be
          acceptable in thy sight,
  O Lord, my strength, and my redeemer.
                                                     --KING DAVID.



(A Tynemouth Ship)

              The "Northern Star"
              Sail'd over the bar
          Bound to the Baltic Sea;
              In the morning gray
              She stretch'd away:--
          'Twas a weary day to me!

              For many an hour
              In sleet and shower
          By the lighthouse rock I stray;
              And watch till dark
              For the wingèd bark
          Of him that is far away.

              The castle's bound
              I wander round,
          Amidst the grassy graves:
              But all I hear
              Is the north-wind drear,
          And all I see are the waves.

              The "Northern Star"
              Is set afar!
          Set in the Baltic Sea:
              And the waves have spread
              The sandy bed
          That holds my Love from me.


          The gorse is yellow on the heath;
              The banks of speedwell flowers are gay;
          The oaks are budding, and beneath,
          The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,
              The silver wreath of May.

          The welcome guest of settled spring,
              The swallow, too, is come at last
          Just at sunset, when thrushes sing,
          I saw her dash with rapid wing,
              And hail'd her as she past.

          Come, summer visitant, attach
              To my reed roof your nest of clay,
          And let my ear your music catch,
          Low twittering underneath the thatch,
              At the gray dawn of day.
                             --CHARLOTTE SMITH.


              Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
              Thou art not so unkind
                  As man's ingratitude;
              Thy tooth is not so keen,
              Because thou art not seen,
                  Although thy breath be rude.
          Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:
          Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
                  Then heigh ho, the holly!
                  This life is most jolly.

              Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
              That dost not bite so nigh
                  As benefits forgot:
              Though thou the waters warp,
              Thy sting is not so sharp
                  As friend remember'd not.
          Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:
          Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
                  Then heigh ho, the holly!
                  This life is most jolly.
                                         --WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.


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

  The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long ago,
  And the brier-rose and the orchid died amid the summer glow;
  But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
  And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,
  Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague
          on men,
  And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and

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


          It was the schooner Hesperus,
              That sail'd the wintry sea;
          And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
              To bear him company.

          Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax,
              Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
          And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
              That ope in the month of May.

          The skipper he stood beside the helm,
              His pipe was in his mouth;
          And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
              The smoke now West, now South.

          Then up and spake an old Sailòr,
              Had sailed the Spanish Main:
          "I pray thee, put into yonder port,
              For I fear a hurricane.

          "Last night, the moon had a golden ring,
              And to-night no moon we see!"
          The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
              And a scornful laugh laughed he.

          Colder and louder blew the wind,
              A gale from the North-east;
          The snow fell hissing in the brine,
              And the billows frothed like yeast.

          Down came the storm, and smote amain
              The vessel in its strength;
          She shuddered and paused, like a frightened steed,
              Then leaped her cable's length.

          "Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
              And do not tremble so;
          For I can weather the roughest gale,
              That ever wind did blow."

          He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat,
              Against the stinging blast;
          He cut a rope from a broken spar,
              And bound her to a mast.

          "O father! I hear the church bells ring.
              O say, what may it be?"
          "'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"--
              And he steered for the open sea.

          "O father! I hear the sound of guns,
              O say, what may it be?"
          "Some ship in distress, that cannot live
              In such an angry sea!"

          "O father! I see a gleaming light,
              O say, what may it be?"
          But the father answered never a word,
              A frozen corpse was he.

          Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
              With his face turned to the skies;
          The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
              On his fixed and glassy eyes.

          Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
              That savèd she might be;
          And she thought of Christ, who stilled the waves,
              On the Lake of Galilee.

          And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
              Through the whistling sleet and snow,
          Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
              Towards the reef of Norman's Woe.

          And ever the fitful gusts between
              A sound came from the land;
          It was the sound of the trampling surf,
              On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

          The breakers were right beneath her bows,
              She drifted a weary wreck,
          And a whooping billow swept the crew
              Like icicles from her deck.

          She struck where the white and fleecy waves
              Looked soft as carded wool,
          But the cruel rocks, they gored her side,
              Like the horns of an angry bull.

          Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
              With the masts, went by the board;
          Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
              Ho! ho! the breakers roared!

          At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
              A fisherman stood aghast,
          To see the form of a maiden fair,
              Lashed close to a drifting mast.

          The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
              The salt tears in her eyes;
          And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
              On the billows fall and rise.

          Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
              In the midnight and the snow!
          Christ save us all from a death like this,
              On the reef of Norman's Woe!
                             --HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.


          "O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
              And call the cattle home,
              And call the cattle home,
              Across the sands of Dee."
          The western wind was wild and dark with foam,
              And all alone went she.

          The western tide crept up along the sand,
              And o'er and o'er the sand,
              And round and round the sand,
              As far as eye could see.
          The rolling mist came down and hid the land:
              And never home came she.

          "O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair--
              A tress of golden hair,
              A drownèd maiden's hair,
              Above the nets at sea?"
          Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
              Among the stakes of Dee.

          They row'd her in across the rolling foam
              The cruel crawling foam,
              The cruel hungry foam,
              To her grave beside the sea.
          But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,
              Across the sands of Dee.
                                         --CHARLES KINGSLEY.


          Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
          Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time;
          Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
          We'll sing at St. Anne's our parting hymn.
            Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast;
            The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

          Why should we yet our sail unfurl?
          There is not a breath the blue wave to curl;
          But when the wind blows off the shore,
          Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.
            Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
            The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

          Ottawa's tide! this trembling moon
          Shall see us float over thy surges soon:
          Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers,
          Oh! grant us cool heavens, and favouring airs.
            Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
            The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.
                                           --THOMAS MOORE.


          O wedding-guest! this soul hath been
              Alone on a wide, wide sea:
          So lonely 'twas, that God himself
              Scarce seemed there to be.

          O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
              'Tis sweeter far to me,
          To walk together to the kirk
              With a goodly company!

          To walk together to the kirk,
              And all together pray,
          While each to his great Father bends,
          Old men, and babes, and loving friends,
              And youths and maidens gay!

          Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
              To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
          He prayeth well, who loveth well
              Both man and bird and beast.

          He prayeth best, who loveth best
              All things both great and small;
          For the dear God who loveth us,
              He made and loveth all.
                          --SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.


          Now fades the last long streak of snow,
            Now burgeons every maze of quick
            About the flowering squares, and thick
          By ashen roots the violets blow.

          Now rings the woodland loud and long,
            The distance takes a lovelier hue,
            And drown'd in yonder living blue
          The lark becomes a sightless song.

          Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,
            The flocks are whiter down the vale,
            And milkier every milky sail
          On winding stream or distant sea;

          Where now the seamew pipes, or dives
            In yonder greening gleam, and fly
            The happy birds, that change their sky
          To build and brood; that live their lives,

          From land to land; and in my breast
            Spring wakens too; and my regret
            Becomes an April violet,
          And buds and blossoms like the rest.
                             --ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.


          I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;
          I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
          "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;
          "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through;
          Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
          And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

          Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
          Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
          I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
          Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
          Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,
          Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

          'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
          Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
          At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
          At Düffield, 'twas morning as plain as could be;
          And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,
          So, Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"

          At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
          And against him the cattle stood black every one,
          To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past,
          And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
          With resolute shoulders, each butting away
          The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray;

          And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
          For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
          And one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance
          O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!
          And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
          His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

          By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!
          Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,
          We'll remember at Aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze
          Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,
          And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
          As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

          So, we were left galloping, Joris and I,
          Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
          The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,
          'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;
          Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
          And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"

          "How they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan
          Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
          And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
          Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
          With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
          And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

          Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,
          Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
          Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
          Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;
          Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,
          Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

          And all I remember is--friends flocking round
          As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;
          And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
          As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
          Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
          Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.
                                                --ROBERT BROWNING.


          The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
          And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold,
          And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
          When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

          Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
          That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
          Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
          That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.

          For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
          And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;
          And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
          And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still.

          And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
          But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride:
          And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
          And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

          And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,
          With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
          And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
          The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

          And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
          And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal,
          And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
          Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord.
                                              --LORD BYRON.


  He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High
      Shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.
  I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress:
      My God; in him will I trust.
  Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler,
      And from the noisome pestilence.
  He shall cover thee with his feathers,
  And under his wings shalt thou trust:
      His truth shall be thy shield and buckler.
  Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night;
      Nor for the arrow that flieth by day;
  Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness;
      Nor for the destruction that wasteth by noon-day.
  A thousand shall fall at thy side,
  And ten thousand at thy right hand;
      But it shall not come nigh thee.
  Only with thine eyes shalt thou behold
      And see the reward of the wicked.

  Because thou hast made the Lord, which is my refuge,
      Even the most High, thy habitation;
  There shall no evil befall thee,
      Neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling.
  For he shall give his angels charge over thee,
      To keep thee in all thy ways.
  They shall bear thee up in their hands,
      Lest thou dash thy foot against a stone.
  Thou shalt tread upon the lion and adder:
      The young lion and the dragon shalt thou trample under feet.
  Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him:
      I will set him on high, because he hath known my name.
  He shall call upon me, and I will answer him:
      I will be with him in trouble;
      I will deliver him, and honour him.
  With long life will I satisfy him,
      And show him my salvation.
                              --KING DAVID.



          Who would true valour see
              Let him come hither.
          One here will constant be,
              Come wind, come weather:
          There's no discouragement
          Shall make him once relent
          His first-avow'd intent
              To be a Pilgrim.

          Whoso beset him round
              With dismal stories,
          Do but themselves confound;
              His strength the more is.
          No lion can him fright;
          He'll with a giant fight;
          But he will have a right
              To be a Pilgrim.

          Nor enemy, nor fiend,
              Can daunt his spirit;
          He knows he at the end
              Shall Life inherit:--
          Then, fancies, fly away;
          He'll not fear what men say;
          He'll labour night and day,
              To be a Pilgrim.
                             --JOHN BUNYAN.


          I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
              From the seas and the streams;
          I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
              In their noon-day dreams.
          From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
              The sweet birds every one,
          When rocked to rest on their Mother's breast,
              As she dances in the sun.
          I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
              And whiten the green plains under;
          And then again I dissolve it in rain,
              And laugh as I pass in thunder.

          I sift the snow on the mountains below,
              And their great pines groan aghast;
          And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
              While I sleep in the arms of the Blast.
          Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers,
              Lightning, my pilot, sits;
          In a cavern under is fettered the Thunder--
              It struggles and howls by fits.
          Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
              This pilot is guiding me,
          Lured by the love of the Genii that move
              In the depths of the purple sea;
          Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
              Over the lakes and the plains,
          Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
              The Spirit he loves remains;
          And I, all the while, bask in heaven's blue smile,
              Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
                                    --PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.


          Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
              Pibroch of Donuil,
          Wake thy wild voice anew,
              Summon Clan Conuil.
          Come away, come away,
              Hark to the summons!
          Come in your war-array,
              Gentles and commons.

          Come from deep glen, and
              From mountain so rocky;
          The war-pipe and pennon
              Are at Inverlocky.
          Come every hill-plaid, and
              True heart that wears one,
          Come every steel blade, and
              Strong hand that bears one.

          Leave untended the herd,
              The flock without shelter;
          Leave the corpse uninterr'd,
              The bride at the altar;
          Leave the deer, leave the steer,
              Leave nets and barges:
          Come with your fighting gear,
              Broadswords and targes.

          Come as the winds come, when
              Forests are rended,
          Come as the waves come, when
              Navies are stranded:
          Faster come, faster come,
              Faster and faster,
          Chief, vassal, page and groom,
              Tenant and master.

          Fast they come, fast they come;
              See how they gather!
          Wide waves the eagle plume
              Blended with heather.
          Cast your plaids, draw your blades,
              Forward each man set!
          Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,
              Knell for the onset!
                             --SIR WALTER SCOTT.


                    From gold to gray
                    Our mild, sweet day
          Of Indian summer fades too soon:
                    But tenderly
                    Above the sea
          Hangs, white and calm, the hunter's moon.

                    In its pale fire
                    The village spire
          Shows like the zodiac's spectral lance:
                    The painted walls
                    Whereon it falls
          Transfigured stand in marble trance.
                             --JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.


          Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
          Jest and youthful Jollity,
          Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,
          Nods, and Becks, and wreathèd Smiles,
          Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
          And love to live in dimple sleek;
          Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
          And Laughter holding both his sides.
          Come, and trip it as you go
          On the light fantastic toe;
          And in thy right hand lead with thee
          The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty;
          And if I give thee honour due,
          Mirth, admit me of thy crew,
          To live with her, and live with thee,
          In unreprovèd pleasures free;
          To hear the Lark begin his flight,
          And singing startle the dull night,
          From his watch-tower in the skies,
          Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
          Then to come, in spite of sorrow,
          And at my window bid good morrow,
          Through the sweetbrier, or the vine,
          Or the twisted eglantine:
          While the Cock with lively din,
          Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
          And to the stack, or the barn door,
          Stoutly struts his dames before,
          Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn
          Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn,
          From the side of some hoar hill,
          Through the high wood echoing shrill.
          Sometime walking not unseen
          By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,
          Right against the eastern gate,
          Where the great Sun begins his state,
          Robed in flames and amber light,
          The clouds in thousand liveries dight:
          While the ploughman, near at hand,
          Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,
          And the milkmaid singeth blithe,
          And the mower whets his scythe,
          And every shepherd tells his tale
          Under the hawthorn in the dale.
                             --JOHN MILTON.


          Who is Sylvia? what is she,
              That all our swains commend her?
          Holy, fair, and wise is she;
              The heaven such grace did lend her,
          That she might admirèd be.

          Is she kind as she is fair?
              For beauty lives with kindness:
          Love doth to her eyes repair,
              To help him of his blindness,
          And, being help'd, inhabits there.

          Then to Sylvia let us sing,
              That Sylvia is excelling;
          She excels each mortal thing
              Upon the dull earth dwelling:
          To her let us garlands bring.
                             --WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.


(A Ballad of the Fleet)

  At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay,
  And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away:
  "Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!"
  Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: "'Fore God I am no coward;
  But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear,
  And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick.
  We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?"

  Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward;
  You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.
  But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore.
  I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard,
  To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain."

  So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war that day,
  Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven;
  But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land
  Very carefully and slow,
  Men of Bideford in Devon,
  And we laid them on the ballast down below;
  For we brought them all aboard,
  And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain,
  To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.
  He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight,
  And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight,
  With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow.
  "Shall we fight or shall we fly?
  Good Sir Richard, tell us now,
  For to fight is but to die!
  There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set."
  And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good English men.
  Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil,
  For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet."

  Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so
  The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe,
  With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below;
  For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen,
  And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane between.
  Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks and laugh'd,
  Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft
  Running on and on, till delay'd
  By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred tons,
  And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns,
  Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd.

  And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloud
  Whence the thunderbolt will fall
  Long and loud,
  Four galleons drew away
  From the Spanish fleet that day,
  And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay,
  And the battle-thunder broke from them all.

  But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and went
  Having that within her womb that had left her ill content;
  And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand,
  For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers,
  And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears
  When he leaps from the water to the land.

  And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea,
  But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three.
  Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came,
  Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and
  Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her
  And some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could fight us no
  God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?

  For he said "Fight on! fight on!"
  Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck;
  And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone,
  With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck,
  But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead,
  And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head,
  And he said "Fight on! fight on!"

  And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer
  And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring;
  But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that we still
          could sting,
  So they watch'd what the end would be.
  And we had not fought them in vain,
  But in perilous plight were we,
  Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain,
  And half of the rest of us maim'd for life
  In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife;
  And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold,
  And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it
  And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side;
  But Sir Richard cried in his English pride,
  "We have fought such a fight for a day and a night
  As may never be fought again!
  We have won great glory, my men!
  And a day less or more
  At sea or ashore,
  We die--does it matter when?
  Sink me the ship, Master Gunner--sink her, split her in twain!
  Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!"

  And the gunner said, "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply:
  "We have children, we have wives,
  And the Lord hath spared our lives.
  We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go;
  We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow."
  And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.

  And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then,
  Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last,
  And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace;
  But he rose upon their decks, and he cried:
  "I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true;
  I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do;
  With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die!"
  And he fell upon their decks, and he died.

  And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true,
  And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap
  That he dared her with one little ship and his English few;
  Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew,
  But they sank his body with honour down into the deep,
  And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew,
  And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own;
  When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep,
  And the water began to heave and the weather to moan,
  And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew,
  And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew,
  Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and
          their flags,
  And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of
  And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags
  To be lost evermore in the main.
                                           --ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.


          How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
          By all their country's wishes blest!
          When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
          Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
          She there shall dress a sweeter sod
          Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

          By fairy hands their knell is rung,
          By forms unseen their dirge is sung:
          There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
          To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
          And Freedom shall awhile repair
          To dwell a weeping hermit there!
                                 --WILLIAM COLLINS.


          A life on the ocean wave,
            A home on the rolling deep,
          Where the scattered waters rave,
            And the winds their revels keep!

          Like an eagle caged, I pine
            On this dull, unchanging shore:
          Oh! give me the flashing brine,
            The spray and the tempest's roar!

          Once more on the deck I stand
            Of my own swift-gliding craft:
          Set sail! farewell to the land!
            The gale follows fair abaft.
          We shoot through the sparkling foam
            Like an ocean-bird set free:
          Like the ocean-bird, our home
            We'll find far out on the sea.

          The land is no longer in view,
            The clouds have begun to frown:
          But with a stout vessel and crew,
            We'll say, Let the storm come down!
          And the song of our heart shall be,
            While the winds and waters rave,
          A home on the rolling sea!
            A life on the ocean wave!
                                --EPES SARGENT.


          He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
          Close to the sun in lonely lands,
          Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.
          The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
          He watches from his mountain walls,
          And like a thunderbolt he falls.
                             --ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.


  Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place
  In all generations.

  Before the mountains were brought forth,
  Or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world,
      Even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art God.
  Thou turnest man to destruction;
      And sayest, Return, ye children of men.
  For a thousand years in thy sight
      Are but as yesterday when it is past,
      And as a watch in the night.
  Thou carriest them away as with a flood;
    They are as a sleep:
  In the morning they are like grass which groweth up.
    In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up;
    In the evening it is cut down, and withereth.

  For we are consumed by thine anger,
  And by thy wrath are we troubled.

  Thou hast set our iniquities before thee,
      Our secret sins in the light of thy countenance.
  For all our days are passed away in thy wrath:
      We spend our years as a tale that is told.
  The days of our years are threescore years and ten;
      And if by reason of strength they be fourscore years,
  Yet is their strength labour and sorrow;
      For it is soon cut off, and we fly away.
  Who knoweth the power of thine anger?
      Even according to thy fear, so is thy wrath.

  So teach us to number our days,
  That we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.

  Return, O Lord, how long?
      And let it repent thee concerning thy servants.
  O satisfy us early with thy mercy;
      That we may rejoice and be glad all our days.
  Make us glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted us,
      And the years wherein we have seen evil.
  Let thy work appear unto thy servants,
      And thy glory unto their children.
  And let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us:
      And establish thou the work of our hands upon us;
      Yea, the work of our hands establish thou it.
                                   --KING DAVID.



          By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
            Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
          Here once the embattled farmers stood,
            And fired the shot heard round the world.

          The foe long since in silence slept;
            Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
          And Time the ruined bridge has swept
            Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

          On this green bank, by this soft stream,
            We set to-day a votive stone;
          That memory may their deed redeem,
            When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

          Spirit, that made those heroes dare
            To die, and leave their children free,
          Bid Time and Nature gently spare
            The shaft we raise to them and thee.
                                --RALPH WALDO EMERSON.


          I wandered lonely as a cloud
          That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
          When all at once I saw a crowd,
          A host of golden daffodils;
          Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
          Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

          Continuous as the stars that shine
          And twinkle on the milky way,
          They stretched in never-ending line
          Along the margin of a bay:
          Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
          Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

          The waves beside them danced, but they
          Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:--
          A poet could not but be gay,
          In such a jocund company;
          I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
          What wealth the show to me had brought:

          For oft, when on my couch I lie
          In vacant or in pensive mood,
          They flash upon that inward eye
          Which is the bliss of solitude;
          And then my heart with pleasure fills
          And dances with the daffodils.
                             --WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.


  This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
          Sails the unshadowed main,--
          The venturous bark that flings
  On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
  In Gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,
          And coral reefs lie bare,
  And the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

  Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;
          Wrecked is the ship of pearl!
          And every chambered cell,
  Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
  As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
          Before thee lies revealed,--
  Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

  Year after year beheld the silent toil
          That spread his lustrous coil;
          Still, as the spiral grew,
  He left the past year's dwelling for the new,
  Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
          Built up its idle door,
  Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

  Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
          Child of the wandering sea,
          Cast from her lap, forlorn!
  From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
  Than ever Triton blew from Wreathèd Horn!
          While on mine ear it rings,
  Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:--

  Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
          As the swift seasons roll!
          Leave thy low-vaulted past!
  Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
  Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
          Till thou at length art free,
  Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!
                                  --OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.


  Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
  Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
  Conspiring with him how to load and bless
  With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
  To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
  And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
  To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
  With a sweet kernel; to set budding more
  And still more, later flowers for the bees,
  Until they think warm days will never cease;
  For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.

  Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
  Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
  Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
  Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
  Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
  Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
  Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers;
  And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep
  Steady thy laden head across a brook;
  Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
  Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

  Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
  Think not of them,--thou hast thy music too,
  While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day
  And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
  Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
  Among the river-sallows, borne aloft
  Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
  And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
  Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
  The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
  And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
                                    --JOHN KEATS.


          Whither, 'midst falling dew,
  While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
  Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
          Thy solitary way?

          Vainly the fowler's eye
  Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
  As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
          Thy figure floats along.

          Seek'st thou the plashy brink
  Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
  Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
          On the chafed ocean side?

          There is a power whose care
  Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,--
  The desert and illimitable air,--
          Lone wandering, but not lost.

          All day thy wings have fann'd,
  At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere;
  Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
          Though the dark night is near.

          And soon that toil shall end;
  Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest
  And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend
          Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.

          Thou'rt gone--the abyss of heaven
  Hath swallow'd up thy form--yet on my heart
  Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
          And shall not soon depart.

          He, who from zone to zone
  Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
  In the long way that I must tread alone,
          Will lead my steps aright.
                             --WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.


          Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold
              And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
              Round many western islands have I been
          Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
          Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
              That deep-brow'd Homer rul'd as his demesne;
              Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
          Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
          Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
              When a new planet swims into his ken;
          Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
              He star'd at the Pacific--and all his men
          Look'd at each other with a wild surmise--
              Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
                                        --JOHN KEATS.


          God of our fathers, known of old--
              Lord of our far-flung battle line--
          Beneath whose awful hand we hold
              Dominion over palm and pine--
          Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
          Lest we forget, lest we forget!

          The tumult and the shouting dies--
              The Captains and the Kings depart--
          Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
              An humble and a contrite heart.
          Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
          Lest we forget, lest we forget!

          Far-called, our navies melt away--
              On dune and headland sinks the fire--
          Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
              Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
          Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
          Lest we forget, lest we forget!

          If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
              Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe--
          Such boasting as the Gentiles use,
              Or lesser breeds without the Law--
          Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
          Lest we forget, lest we forget!

          For heathen heart that puts her trust
              In reeking tube and iron shard--
          All valiant dust that builds on dust,
              And guarding calls not Thee to guard--
          For frantic boast and foolish word,
          Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!
                                    --RUDYARD KIPLING.


I. _The Sailing_

  The king sits in Dunfermline town
      Drinking the blude-red wine:
  "O whare will I get a skeely skipper
      To sail this new ship o' mine?"

  O up and spak an eldern knight,
      Sat at the king's right knee:
  "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
      That ever sail'd the sea."

  Our king has written a braid letter,
      And seal'd it with his hand,
  And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
      Was walking on the strand.

  "To Noroway, to Noroway,
      To Noroway o'er the faem;
  The king's daughter o' Noroway,
      'Tis thou must bring her hame."

  The first word that Sir Patrick read
      So loud, loud laugh'd he;
  The neist word that Sir Patrick read
      The tear blinded his e'e.

  "O wha is this has done this deed
      And tauld the king o' me,
  To send us out, at this time o' year,
      To sail upon the sea?

  "Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,
      Our ship must sail the faem;
  The king's daughter o' Noroway,
      'Tis we must fetch her hame."

  They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn
      Wi' a' the speed they may;
  They hae landed in Noroway
      Upon a Wodensday.

II. _The Return_

  "Mak ready, mak ready, my merry men a'!
      Our gude ship sails the morn."
  "Now ever alack, my master dear,
      I fear a deadly storm.

  "I saw the new moon late yestreen
      Wi' the auld moon in her arm;
  And if we gang to sea, master,
      I fear we'll come to harm."

  They hadna sail'd a league, a league,
      A league but barely three,
  When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,
      And gurly grew the sea.

  The ankers brak, and the topmast lap,
      It was sic a deadly storm:
  And the waves cam owre the broken ship
      Till a' her sides were torn.

  "Go fetch a web o' the silken claith,
      Another o' the twine,
  And wap them into our ship's side,
      And let nae the sea come in."

  They fetch'd a web o' the silken claith
      Another o' the twine,
  And they wapp'd them round that gude ship's side,
      But still the sea came in.

  O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords
      To wet their cork-heel'd shoon;
  But lang or a' the play was play'd
      They wat their hats aboon.

  And mony was the feather bed
      That flatter'd on the faem;
  And mony was the gude lord's son
      That never mair cam hame.

  O lang, lang may the ladies sit,
      Wi' their fans into their hand,
  Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
      Come sailing to the strand!

  And lang, lang may the maidens sit
      Wi' their gowd kames in their hair,
  A-waiting for their ain dear loves!
      For them they'll see nae mair.

  Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour,
      'Tis fifty fathoms deep;
  And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
      Wi' the Scots lords at his feet!


  The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
    The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
  The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
    And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

  Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
    And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
  Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
    And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

  Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
    The moping owl does to the moon complain
  Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
    Molest her ancient solitary reign.

  Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
    Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
  Each in his narrow cell forever laid,
    The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

  The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
    The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
  The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
    No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

  For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
    Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
  No children run to lisp their sire's return,
    Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

  Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
    Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
  How jocund did they drive their team afield!
    How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

  Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
    Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
  Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
    The short and simple annals of the poor.

  The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
    And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
  Await alike th' inevitable hour:
    The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

  Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault
    If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
  Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
    The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

  Can storied urn or animated bust
    Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
  Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
    Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?

  Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
    Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
  Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
    Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

  But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
    Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
  Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
    And froze the genial current of the soul.

  Full many a gem of purest ray serene
    The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
  Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
    And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

  Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast
    The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
  Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
    Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

  Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
    The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
  To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
    And read their history in a nation's eyes--

  Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
    Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
  Forbade to wade thro' slaughter to a throne,
    And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

  The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
    To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame
  Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
    With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

  Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife
    Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
  Along the cool, sequester'd vale of life
    They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

  Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect
    Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
  With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
    Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

  Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse,
    The place of fame and elegy supply:
  And many a holy text around she strews,
    That teach the rustic moralist to die.

  For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
    This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
  Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
    Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?

  On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
    Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
  E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
    E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

  For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
    Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
  If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
    Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate--

  Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
    "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
  Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
    To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

  "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
    That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
  His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
    And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

  "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
    Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
  Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,
    Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

  "One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
    Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
  Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
    Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he:

  "The next with dirges due in sad array
    Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne.
  Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
    Graved on the stone beneath yon agèd thorn:"

_The Epitaph_

  Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
      A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
  Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
      And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

  Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
      Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:
  He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,
      He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wished) a friend.

  No farther seek his merits to disclose,
      Or draw his frailties from their dread abode
  (There they alike in trembling hope repose),
      The bosom of his Father and his God.
                                    --THOMAS GRAY.


  Bless the Lord, O my soul:
      And all that is within me, bless his holy name.
  Bless the Lord, O my soul,
      And forget not all his benefits:
  Who forgiveth all thine iniquities;
      Who healeth all thy diseases;
  Who redeemeth thy life from destruction;
      Who crowneth thee with loving kindness and tender mercies;
  Who satisfieth thy mouth with good things;
      So that thy youth is renewed like the eagle's.

  The Lord executeth righteousness
      And judgment for all that are oppressed.
  He made known his ways unto Moses,
    His acts unto the children of Israel.
  The Lord is merciful and gracious,
      Slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy.
  He will not always chide:
    Neither will he keep his anger forever.
  He hath not dealt with us after our sins;
    Nor rewarded us according to our iniquities.

  For as the heaven is high above the earth,
    So great is his mercy toward them that fear him.
  As far as the east is from the west,
    So far hath he removed our transgressions from us.
  Like as a father pitieth his children,
      So the Lord pitieth them that fear him.
  For he knoweth our frame;
      He remembereth that we are dust.

  As for man, his days are as grass:
      As a flower of the field, so he flourisheth.
  For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone;
      And the place thereof shall know it no more.
  But the mercy of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting upon
          them that fear him,
      And his righteousness unto children's children;
  To such as keep his covenant,
      And to those that remember his commandments to do them.

  The Lord hath prepared his throne in the heavens;
      And his kingdom ruleth over all.
  Bless the Lord, ye his angels,
      That excel in strength,
  That do his commandments,
      Hearkening unto the voice of his word.
  Bless ye the Lord, all ye his hosts;
      Ye ministers of his, that do his pleasure.
  Bless the Lord, all his works
      In all places of his dominion:
  Bless the Lord, O my soul.
                                   --KING DAVID.


IN addition to what the student has mastered by heart he needs to own
and keep within arm's reach a good anthology. He should first own "A
Children's Treasury of English Song," and about the time he is ready to
leave the elementary school the greatest of all collections of verse,
"The Golden Treasury of the Best Songs and Lyrical Poems in the English
Language," must fall into his hands. The next best collection is
doubtless "The Oxford Book of English Verse," by A. T. Quiller-Couch.
For ballad literature "The Oxford Book of English Ballads" by the
last-named editor and "The Ballad Book" by Allingham are both good. It
is to be hoped that if he has a taste for verse of the ballad form, the
boy may some day wander back to Percy's "Reliques of Ancient English
Poetry." An occasional boy who cares little for great poetry may have a
bent toward songs of war and daring. Though this tendency is to be
deplored if it comes late in the boy's school life, it is best to
satisfy it. A fairly good but not altogether judiciously selected
anthology for this purpose is Henley's "Lyra Heroica." From this reading
of poetry in anthologies the boy might go to the carefully edited and
selected volumes of the great poets in the Golden Treasury Series. The
step to choice complete editions is then easy.

It may chance that the boy who has once tasted of the honeydew of great
poetry and who has left the elementary school to take up the actual
affairs of life will go back to the authority of his teacher who first
pointed out to him such a pure pleasure for his quiet hours. If this
gratifying condition should come about, the teacher might name to him
the following poems that are still more rare in their appeal--as he will
surely come to know when he has felt the touch of "An Ode on a Grecian
Urn." Here are the titles: "Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day,"
Shakespeare; "The Time of Year Thou May'st in Me Behold," Shakespeare;
"On the Late Massacre in Piedmont," Milton; "The World is too Much with
Us," Wordsworth; "Milton, Thou Should'st Be Living at This Hour,"
Wordsworth; "Tuscan, That Wander'st in the Realms of Gloom," Longfellow;
"Rose Aylmer," Landor; "Out of the Night That Covers Me," Henley; "Go
Fetch to Me a Pint o' Wine," Burns; "Proud Maisie is in the Woods,"
Scott; "She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways," Wordsworth; "Helen, Thy
Beauty is to Me," Poe; "She Walks in Beauty," Byron; "The Lost Leader,"
Browning; "It Was a Lover and His Lass," Shakespeare; "Callicles beneath
Etna," Arnold; "La Belle Dame sans Merci," Keats; "Ode to Evening,"
Collins; "Ode to a Skylark," Shelley; "Ode on a Grecian Urn," Keats;
"Kubla Khan," Coleridge; "Ulysses," Tennyson; "L'Allegro," Milton. From
these the boy may with the coming of manhood be led to heights of such
tunes of the masters as Wordsworth's powerful "Ode on the Intimations of
Immortality from Earliest Childhood," and Tennyson's song that is so
near to the heart of great things, "In Memoriam."





          "In the olde times they were the only revivers of
          drowsy age at midnight: old and young have with
          his tales chim'd mattens till the cocks crow in
          the morning: Batchelors and Maides with his tales
          have compassed the Christmas fire-block till the
          Curfew-bell rings, Candle out: the old Shepherd
          and the young Plow boy after their day's labour
          have carol'd out a Tale of Tom Thumb to make merry
          with: and who but little Tom hath made long nights
          seem short and heavy toyles easie?"
                    --Said in 1611 of the Tales of Tom Thumb.

IN that comforting essay, "An Apology for Idlers," Robert Louis
Stevenson tells us that it is by no means certain that a man's business
is the most important thing that he has to do. And somewhere else he has
remarked on a club of men in Brussels who talked about the commercial
affairs of Belgium during the day, but who at night came together to
discuss the more serious affairs of life. These views are in accord with
the Stevenson temperament that looked on life as made up of two worlds:
a real workaday one to be unflinchingly faced, no matter what the task
that came, and a fanciful one, a play world, that by its appeal to the
ideal nature created an atmosphere of joy that made the duties of the
real one more tolerable. His own life, so well balanced between work and
play, so sane and healthful and inspiring in its influence on all who
knew him or read his books, has shown what a romantic cast of mind can
get out of life, though it suffer the handicap of ill health and worldly
misfortune. The balance-wheel of his life was a playful imagination that
always "hath made long nights seem short and heavy toyles easie."

Stern materialism, cold, calculatingly just, impatient with the dreamer,
with no charity for lovable human frailties, has always mocked at the
notion of a fanciful place where great and glorious things are going on.
She spins no web from the threads of her imagination. The warp and woof
of her fabric are drawn from facts; and it comes from the loom all wool,
a yard wide, and used to cover the nakedness of real men and women. She
has never felt the free abandon of fairy land. Her heart has never
leap'd up at beholding a rainbow in the sky, a rainbow with the fabled
pot of gold--though she has toiled and sweat many a day for nothing more
than a mess of pottage. Whilst pointing the finger of scorn at the magic
lamp, the ogre's hen, or the seven-league boots, she plays the fool and
pays the fiddler in actual life merely because under it all there lurks
a passion for the marvellous, founded on chance. In the business world
this manifests itself in the perennial hope of a "bull market" or a
"bonanza." Of course, pleasures are largely a question of taste, not a
question of right, and it is everybody to his liking,--one may prefer
the counting house to the back-log at the drowsy hour of midnight,--yet
may we all be spared the time when fancy and romance cease to dominate
men. Without them life would become mediocre, stupid, dull.

It has been claimed that a nation without fancy and romance never can
hold a great place. Material prosperity without a corresponding
well-being in the things of the imagination is an unfortunate
prosperity. Its pleasures must necessarily be sensual pleasures that
grow out of luxury. They carry the man or woman too far away from the
land of childhood. Dickens saw this clearly when he said: "What
enchanted us in childhood and is captivating a million young fancies
now, has at the same blessed time of life, enchanted vast hosts of men
and women who have done their long day's work, and laid their gray heads
down to rest. It has greatly helped to keep us in some sense ever young,
by preserving through our worldly ways one slender tract not overgrown
with weeds, where we may walk with children sharing their delights." A
good thing it is to keep that slender tract free from weeds. And the
stronger the man, the more he needs to do it. Only a man who sees things
out of their right proportions and who is without a sense of humour
would scorn to renew his youth occasionally in the land of romance. If
in life the strongest and wisest men are good at a fight, they are still
better at a play. And it is no shame if their "Arabian Nights'
Entertainments" is more thumbed than their Bacon's "Essays." They may be
all the wiser for it. In Howard Pyle's delightful rendering of the Robin
Hood tales he gives this happy admonition in the introduction: "You who
so plod among serious things that you feel it a shame to give yourself
up even for a few short moments to mirth and joyousness in the land of
Fancy; you who think that life hath naught to do with innocent laughter
that can harm no one; these pages are not for you. Clap the leaves and
go no further than this, for I tell you plainly that if you will go
further you will be so scandalized by seeing good, sober folk of real
history so frisk and caper in gay colours and motley that you would not
know them but for the names tagged to them." And then he sees the secret
of making the heart beat young whilst carrying the burdens of grown-up
life, and he says, "The land of Fancy is of that pleasant kind that,
when you tire of it,--whisk,--you clap the leaves of this book together
and 'tis gone, and you are ready for everyday life, with no harm done."

The present age as it gives colouring to educational practices is a
matter-of-fact age. Whilst boasting of freedom of thought, it has fallen
into a despotism of fact. Like the Old Man of the Sea, this reign of
fact has been clutching at the neck of culture and railing at the play
of fancy until there is but precious little of the "merrie" life left to
look to. The men who cleared away the forest can be pardoned if they
lived their lives largely in the light of stern fact, and so might the
sons of these men; but those as many generations removed as the present
should be able to drop back to the even tenor of a domestic and school
life that recognizes the play of fanciful imagination as an essential
part of the business of living at all. No sooner had the founders of our
nation succeeded in giving men their long-coveted political freedom than
science, cock-sure of being able to solve the riddle of existence,
strode upon the scene and smote the favourite creatures of the
imagination hip and thigh. It not only played havoc with the fairies of
our fathers, but it came perilously near doing the same with their
faith. And as a result, a material and utilitarian tone has taken hold
of education in most places, and boys must be practical, scientific, and
wear old heads on young shoulders. This same tendency had begun in the
days of Charles Lamb, for he wrote the following protest to Coleridge:
"Knowledge must now come to the child in the shape of knowledge, and his
empty noddle must be turned with conceit at his own powers when he has
learnt that a horse is an animal and Billy is better than a horse and
such like; instead of that beautiful interest in wild tales which made
the child a man while all the time he suspected himself to be no bigger
than a child. Science has succeeded to poetry no less in the little
walks of children than with men. Is there possibility of averting this
sore evil? Think of what you would have been now if, instead of being
fed with tales and old wives' fables in childhood, you had been crammed
with geography and natural history." And what must be said to
supplanting the subject of fairy life by the anatomy and physiology of
the human body? Is not a boy who knows the happy likeness of Old King
Cole or Allan-a-Dale as well educated as he who recognizes the picture
of an alcoholic liver? All this educational pother about having boys
practical and trained to reason instead of being imaginative and
romantic will die of its own accord some day, and then they may once
more listen to merrie tales told under the greenwood tree.

The boy who has been nurtured on tales of fancy and who trusts to things
to work out for the best of their own accord will generally fall into
ways of cheerfulness and contentment. He will play the game of life out
with more of heart and courage, and less of doubt and fear. He may be
something of an impractical dreamer, but he will be kind and true. He
will not aim to understand all mysteries and all knowledge, but will aim
to make people happy rather than learned. His early experience of the
feelings of pity and terror will refine his emotions as much as it did
in the age of Thespias those of the Greek youth. In other words, his
early familiarity with fairy tales, whether learned by word of mouth
from his father, his nurse, or his teacher, will set his face in the
right direction. And to keep it so turned he will of necessity have to
build up a fairy library. What that library might contain and what he
should know as a perfect lesson must now be considered.

A sense of fitness rather than a feeling of loyalty to the language
points to the English fairy and household tales as the ones with which
to begin. If the teacher has a folk-lore curiosity and interest which
aid him in giving these fairy tales to the children, that is well and
good. But this historic view is by no means so important as it is to
know thoroughly the tales themselves and to enter into an appreciation
of them with a keen and boyish interest. The present concern is with a
limited number of stories that are so wholly good and so very necessary
to the child that he should come to know them completely. Then from this
beginning the boy can wander at his own sweet will and keep friends with
Jacobs, Perrault, Grimm, Andersen, and, last of all and no doubt best of
all, "The Arabian Nights' Entertainments." But from all of these the
rude vigour, the dramatic directness, and above all the playful humour
of the English tales will first captivate him. They have not quite the
grace, simplicity, and elegance of the French tales, nor the more
fanciful and romantic touches of the German tales; yet, as Mr. Jacobs
has told us, "They have the quality of going home to English children.
The English folk-muse wears homespun and plods afoot, albeit with a
cheerful smile and a steady gaze."

"English Fairy Tales" and "More English Fairy Tales" should be in the
hands of every child. The stories are told in a way that preserves all
of their dramatic interest and humour of phrase and situation. This
characteristic humour of English folk-fancy, Mr. Jacobs has skilfully
caught. He has this to say of his way of telling them: "I am inclined to
follow the traditions of my old nurse, who was not bred at Girton and
scorned at times the rules of Lindley Murray and the diction of polite
society. And I have left vulgarisms in the mouths of vulgar people.
Children appreciate the dramatic propriety of this as much as do their
elders. Generally speaking, it has been my ambition to write as a good
old nurse would speak when she tells Fairy Tales. I am doubtful of my
success in catching the colloquial-romantic tone appropriate for such
narratives, but they had to be done or else my object, to give a book of
English Fairy Tales which children would listen to, would have been
unachieved. This book is to be read aloud and not merely to be taken by
the eye." All children should rejoice, that, so long after Puritanism
had suppressed these tales in many parts of England, and after its
decline they had come to be supplanted by the Mother Goose tales of
Perrault, there has come such an excellent retelling of them in the
Jacobs books. If there be anything in fairy literature better than "Tom
Tit Tot," I have not found it. It is altogether fitting to have it stand
first in such a great collection. And with other such very good tales as
"Cap o' Rushes," "The Three Sillies," and "Jack and the Golden Snuff
Box," to say nothing of the dramatic telling of "Hop o' My Thumb," "Jack
the Giant Killer," and "Jack and the Bean Stalk," the pleasure from
reading the book at the right age will mayhap never be surpassed. One
might regret that the curious and helpful information of the notes had
not been reserved for a separate treatise for mature readers, did not
the amusing illustration of the court-crier by John D. Batton give the
warning that the tales are closed and children must not read any
further. After having learned some of the best stories through the ear,
the boy must certainly buy and keep these two books.

After the English tales are familiar, the boy might be given the Mother
Goose tales as first collected by Charles Perrault in 1696. They had
been current orally in France for many years before this, and they
undoubtedly had their origin in the oldest folk-lore of the world. It is
said Perrault wrote them down as he heard them with the intention of
writing them over in verse after the manner of the fables done by La
Fontaine. But his little son, to whom they had been told, rewrote them
from memory as an exercise, and the lad's version, being so simple and
direct, was given to the world in that form by his father. They slowly
found their way into England and for a while supplanted the native
tales. There is surely a universal appeal in such stories as "Little Red
Riding Hood," "Cinderella," "Puss in Boots," and "Sleeping Beauty." The
best rendering of these to-day is a small volume by Charles Welsh,
entitled "The Tales of Mother Goose." It has none of the poetic justice
that refuses to have the wolf eat up Little Red Riding Hood. It would be
well for some publisher to reprint an edition issued in New York in 1795
under the title of "Tales of Passed Times, by Mother Goose." Some good
renderings of particular tales, however, may be found scattered through
collections of fairy stories that have appeared.

The temptation to say something about the famous "Cruikshank Fairy Book"
in which some of these Mother Goose tales appeared cannot be resisted at
this point. It is a very noticeable illustration of the inability of a
man of talent always to keep to his last. No artist has ever drawn such
superior pictures for children as did Cruikshank. Where can anything
better be found than Jack's descent on the harp, the Ogre's flight, or
the presentation of the boots to the King? Why then did not Cruikshank
make a picture book with pictures only? Why did he leave his last to
write the stories anew in order that he might take the opportunity to
give his own views and convictions on what he considered important
social and educational questions; or "to introduce a few temperance
truths with a fervent hope that some good may result therefrom"? The
notion that moralizing makes children good has spoiled many an artistic
horn and has never made a good educational spoon.

In Cruikshank's work in illustrating "Household and Fairy Tales" by the
brothers Grimm, we have a masterful production from the best period of
his genius, and we have it illustrating a superior text, the translation
made by Edward Taylor in 1823 and reprinted in 1868 with an introduction
by John Ruskin. Thackeray said that they had been the first real,
kindly, agreeable, and infinitely amusing and charming illustrations for
a child's book in England, and that they united beauty, fun, and fancy.
And who was a better judge of this than Thackeray? If it was not too
bold to say that "Tom Tit Tot" is the best household fairy story in the
language, it could be said with equal truth that Cruikshank's etching of
the two elves in "The Elves and the Shoemaker" is the best fairy
illustration yet done. These German stories are charming. The contention
that the stories are creepy is but the contention of a moralist. It
should carry no weight with the teacher who would give the boy artistic
notions of beauty, love, and mystery. These notions are always safer
than those of cold realism worked out in artificial conduct. Sir Walter
Scott wrote in this strain to Edward Taylor in 1832: "There is a sort of
wild fairy interest in them which makes me think them fully better
adapted to awaken the imagination and soften the heart of childhood than
the good boy stories which have in late years been composed for them. In
the latter case, their minds are, as it were, put into stocks, like
their feet at the dancing-school, and the moral always consists in good
moral conduct being crowned with temporal success. Truth is, I would not
give one tear shed over Little Red Riding Hood for all the benefit to be
derived from a hundred histories of Johnny Goodchild. In a word, I think
the selfish tendencies will soon enough be acquired in this arithmetical
age; and that, to make the higher class of character, our wild
fictions--like our own simple music--will have more effect in awakening
the fancy and elevating the disposition than the colder and more
elaborate compositions of modern authors and composers." It is hoped the
pictures of Cruikshank and the translation of Taylor will soon appear in
a large and attractive volume.

When the dramatic colloquialism and humour of the English tales, the
superior grace, elegance, and beauty of the French tales, and the light,
airy fancy of the German tales have been presented to the boy, the
Scandinavian tales of Hans Christian Andersen will give him a refinement
in fairy life that he has not found before. They do not have, save in a
few such cases as "Holger the Dane," the quality of appealing to
grown-ups as well as to children--the test of a child's book that is
literature, or rather the test of a man yet on good terms with the
world. They are somewhat dull, wearisome, and overdone in places and do
not stop when the story is ended, as we find in "The Fir Tree"; yet in
some way they temper the English and German tales and meet Ruskin's
requirement that a child's tale should sometimes be both sweet and sad.
In fact, these stories are great favourites with many children, who
actually prefer "The Ugly Duckling" to "The Golden Bird." The boy might
early start with a few of the individual stories so delightfully
illustrated by Helen Stratton, and then when he can afford it buy the
excellent edition illustrated by the Danish artist, Hans Tegner, from
all of which he will get a new and pleasant touch of fairy life.

There yet remains one book, not always called a fairy book, that must be
read before the boy leaves the land of fancy and wonder. It was the
favourite volume of Stevenson, and small surprise is it to any one who
knows the book and knows of the man. Nor is it less surprising to think
that the Oriental scholar, Antoine Galland, who first gave these stories
to Europe two hundred years ago, would be called out of bed at night to
tell them to an eager crowd under his window, the crowd always begging
for just one story more. One might search in vain for a companion
volume to this most capital of all books, "The Arabian Nights'
Entertainments." The tales are on a bigger scale than are the English
and German tales. There is a vastness of desert and starry sky in the
tent life of the Arab that is unknown in the cottage life of the English
peasant. And this is reflected in the tale that is told. Immensity and
Oriental mystery have taken the place of colloquial directness and
humour, and we have almost pure romance. Their richness and splendour
captivate the reader and transport him into a wonderland of powerful
magicians and magnificent palaces. The book is elemental in its appeal
and will always furnish royal entertainment for man or boy. And the man
who is not too completely grown up will keep his Lane's translation
within arm's reach against the hours when the dull cares of the world
are weighing him down.

As fairy tales have a common plot in many languages, so has there been a
common way of preserving and transmitting them. This has been by oral
tradition. They were originally to be given by word of mouth, a method
that is yet best fitted to curious children. The teacher must give them
through the ear, if they are to be learned and retained. Whenever it is
possible in doing this, he must not forget to start with the pleasant
beginning, "once upon a time," nor yet to omit the best of all
conclusions, "and all went well ever afterwards"--neglecting, of
course, to add that truism for grown-ups, "that didn't go ill." In this
practice of giving a few choice tales through the ear is the preparation
for the time when a boy will eagerly thumb a favourite volume of his own
in some quiet nook. But a few of the better tales must first have been
mastered so that they can be told with dramatic directness. Here then
the same practice must hold that is followed in all reading: do not
overread. A few stories are to be well learned and a few books to be
owned, but only a few. If the boy once comes to feel his strength from a
limited number of good stories, the made-to-order story for the fellow
with the curls will never appeal to him. What he knows he will know and
be glad to know.

If it be presumption to select a limited list of stories by grades when
the world is so full of stories, it must be presumption. There are
stories that can have no substitutes until the world has had another
accumulated experience of some hundreds of years of fireside lore. The
list that follows has been found good for a limited list, yet as
complete a one as a child can master. No apology need be offered for the
insertion of Ruskin's great story or the two stories of jungle life by
Kipling. They are modern, but form a good bridge to modern books that
have real merit. A boy who will not read "Red Dog" with an interest on
fire had better grow weak on a Rollo book. His taste is surely to be
lamented. He will early fall in love and later fall into cynicism.

Here is the list for the first four or five grades to be given in about
the order in which they are written: "The Old Woman and Her Pig," "The
Three Little Pigs," and "Henny-Penny," all as told by Jacobs in "English
Fairy Tales"; "The Three Bears" as told by the poet Southey, where the
little old woman continues to play a part; "Little Red Riding Hood" in
which the wolf eats her up, "Cinderella; or, the Glass Slipper," and
"The Master Cat; or, Puss in Boots" from "The Tales of Mother Goose" as
told by Charles Welsh; "Tom Tit Tot," "The History of Tom Thumb," "Jack
the Giant Killer," and "Whittington and His Cat" from "English Fairy
Tales"; "Beauty and the Beast" and "Hop o' My Thumb" from "The
Children's Book"; "Hansel and Grethel," "The Blue Light," and "The
Golden Bird" from Taylor's translation of the Grimm tales; "The Ugly
Duckling" and "The Fir Tree" from Andersen; "The Story of Aladdin; or,
the Wonderful Lamp," "The History of Ali Baba and the Forty Robbers
Killed by One Slave," and "The Story of Sinbad the Sailor" from "The
Arabian Nights' Entertainments"; "The King of the Golden River" by John
Ruskin; "Kaa's Hunting" and "Red Dog" from "The Jungle Books" of Rudyard

When these stories have been well learned through the ear, their
purpose as literature and as groundwork for narrative speech will have
been accomplished. Of course, the teacher must read many stories to his
class besides the ones named above; but he is not to require more than a
mere listening to the reading from a point of interest only. By and by
the boy will fall into the habit of reading aloud to some one else, and
this may now be trusted to carry him along. Wise suggestion on the part
of the teacher will direct him in getting a few good volumes that he can
call his own. A fairy library, not large but well selected, will become
a comfort to him in later years when the lamp is getting dim. For the
man who finds himself unable to read with pleasure a fairy tale that
charmed him in youth proclaims himself a slave either to relentless
materialism or to cold and dignified egotism. And if he be not
obstinately short-sighted, he cannot help seeing that the man who yet
loves a fairy tale is one who also fears God, is clear of head, and is
brave of heart.

In the succession of the seasons, the coming of spring puts young blood
into old veins much as it dresses the gray of winter in a lively green.
The possibilities of the daughter of Ceres while she dwells beneath the
earth are likewise to be found between the covers of a fairy library. A
man might travel many a long way in search of a better fountain of



          "Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
           That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne."--KEATS.

          "They hear like Ocean on a western beach
           The surge and thunder of the Odyssey."--LANG.

THERE is not the slightest necessity for schoolmen's staring at one
another when it is proposed to let boys once more look through magic
casements at the classic myths of Greece and Rome. These masters of
knowledge can depend upon it that their pedagogic systems are wrong if
they set themselves up against the primitive feelings of mystery and
fear. There is yet too strong a trace in the blood to forsake the gods
and heroes that have satisfied instincts, very human and commendable,
for many generations. No goblin nor witch needs to be cast out when the
blood flows red; it is merely an indication of abundant life drawn from
the strength and courage that marked an heroic age. If a boy's talents
be anything but mediocre, they will naturally turn to this age to
satisfy a longing. It is small wonder that the young Keats should stay
up all night reading Chapman's Homer, or should translate the Æneid
into English "just for fun." These glimpses were pure serene to a poet
who afterwards caught in such a rare way their classic beauty; and the
gods surely loved him for it, for they decreed that he should die young.

The charm of the myths of Greek and Roman literature is enduring,
because they embody both truth and beauty--sometimes held to be one and
the same. Nothing but a perverted taste, that is fed on the prosaic
processes of material achievements or the artificial standards of a
moral system, could fail to find pleasure and inspiration in them. Their
appeal is artistic, to the sense of beauty. Their truth is a deification
of the longings of the human heart as it seeks for comfort and
protection in a world whose mysterious events can hardly be fathomed.
And their gods and heroes embody the great virtues that marked a classic
people as much as they did the beauty of their intellectual
achievements--the virtues of courage, patience, honour, loyalty,
contentment. A normal disposition will take satisfaction in this
interpretation of truth and beauty. Not only will its possessor be
satisfied, but he will be ennobled by the very presence of these
qualities before his keen senses. The world will seem to him more than a
place in which he is to toil and spin day after day; his soul will dwell
apart on a mountain where not all mortals can ever climb, a mountain
crowded with culture. He can temporarily leave the common crofts, seek
his solace and confession, and be all the better to ply again his
allotted task. He will learn of one spot where the greed and brutality
of industrial progress cannot set its heel and leave the print of what
is practical and ugly.

This cry for the practical has laid a curse on the culture of many a
boy. He has been educated for the eight or ten hours that he works for
his board and keep, and the rest of his waking day finds him ill at ease
in a field of study or an appreciation of the better things of life. Not
being able to "speak Greek" or to talk with men who do speak Greek, he
naturally turns to the spectacular, the ornate, the frivolous. Nothing
of an order above the broadly burlesque or the melodramatic will hold
his interest and attention. The theatre of Dionysus is too severely
classical in the beauty with which it represents life in action, and he
never learns to sit out a pure tragedy, hear "sweetest Shakespeare
warble his native wood-notes wild," or dilate on the right emotions, if
"Jonson's learnéd sock be on."

The boy's talents are in all probability not at fault. They are merely
dressed in the prevailing fashion. This fashion is set by a standard of
what is useful for material success in life. The subject-matter of
education must be scientific facts, and with these facts the boy must be
taught to reason. The uselessness of imagination and memory as mental
powers is held up to him. It is not for him to enrich his mind by what
an active and retentive memory can give him of classic literature. In
fact, the memory is looked upon, by the "scientific gent" (as Thackeray
labelled him) in his laboratory, as a minor concern and left to work out
its own salvation--if it really needs to be saved. And as for the memory
being used to chronicle the exploits of mythical heroes in an age of
superstition, that would be unthinkable in the day of scientific
research. Let not the boy then be held up to blame if he is no more able
to name the Olympian council than was Tom Sawyer to name the first two
disciples chosen. The fault is with the system, the rational scientific

Greek is well nigh gone from the high school course. Latin is under
indictment. In their stead we are to have such substitutes as biology
and chemistry. The exploits of Achilles and the wanderings of Æneas are
to be supplanted by the dissection of an oyster and the making of soap.
Now oysters and soap are all right in their way, and it is a good thing
we have the one to eat and the other to wash with; but when it comes to
using them to satisfy the instinct for a fight or for the discovery of a
hidden treasure, that is a stupid and brutal forcing of a theory. If
progress must come at the price of selling a boy's birthright for a mess
of pottage, it is a pity some one cannot smite her with the edge of a
sword. The study of the humanities that has been the bone and sinew of
generations past cannot give place to the scientific vogue without
wrecking the hope and desire of many a romantic youth. To leave out the
classics is to proclaim a material age to be bigoted, boastful, and
self-sufficient. Yet that is exactly what the scientific educator, who
calls himself modern and progressive, is proposing, because business
demands it. What claim has a business demand on academic policy, anyhow?
Is not vagabondia as much entitled to the floor?

"The descent to Avernus is easy." Reformed spelling is not so hard as
Greek roots. In fact, the plan is to follow along the line of least
resistance. The memory must not be cumbered with dead matter if the boy
can reason on experiments for practical business demands. And are not
the myths of these Greek and Latin languages too imaginative and
impractical, covered with too much of academic dust, to serve a purpose
in a practical age? This is heralded from educational convention to
educational convention, and whilst the breaking of idols goes merrily
on, a few brave teachers who speak Greek are regularly taking a Spartan
stand to preserve what yet remains of the classic structure. In a
boastful age they are not going to forget. If Homer and Ovid are forced
by business demands from the academic halls, what hope is there left in

The one and only one seems to be the myths in translation. Their claim
to the attention of teachers can be clearly given from the preface to
the best telling of them that has yet appeared, Bulfinch's "Age of
Fable; or, Beauties of Mythology," a happy title to such a valuable
book: "If no other knowledge deserves to be called useful but that which
helps to enlarge our possessions or to raise our station in society,
then Mythology has no claims to the appellation. But if that which tends
to make us happier and better can be called useful, then we claim that
epithet for our subject; for Mythology is the handmaid of literature,
and literature is one of the best allies of virtue and promoters of

"Without a knowledge of mythology much of the elegant literature of our
own language cannot be understood and appreciated. When Byron calls Rome
'the Niobe of nations,' or says of Venice, 'she looks a Sea-Cybele fresh
from ocean,' he calls up to the mind of one familiar with our subject
illustrations more vivid and striking than the pencil could furnish, but
which are lost to the reader ignorant of mythology. Milton abounds in
similar allusions. The short poem 'Comus' contains more than thirty
such, and the ode 'On the Morning of the Nativity' half as many. Through
'Paradise Lost' they are scattered profusely. This is one reason why we
often hear people say that they cannot enjoy Milton. But were these
persons to add to their solid acquirements the easy learning of this
little volume, much of the poetry of Milton which has appeared to them
'harsh and crabbed' would be found 'musical as is Apollo's lute.'"

The truth of this last statement is very evident to the English teacher
in high school work. He must stop to teach myths that should be the
common possession of all children before he can go on with his work in
the "Minor Poems." If boys would enter the high school with some of the
classic myths firmly drilled into them, they would read with pleasure
the most imaginative of all the English poets. Mythology in translation
is a fixed possession of English literature, and it must be grasped more
or less in detail before the boy can ever expect to have the marks of
literary culture and to read figurative composition with ease. With the
beginning of school life must begin the learning of myths by word of
mouth. No classical dictionary can later take the place of this
practice. These myths are to be mastered and reproduced in good English;
and after a few years of such drill the children will read the stories
of gods and heroes with the same ease that they do a colloquial fairy
tale. It is the same old step from the story-teller to the book and a
quiet corner where no one can break the spell.

Fortunately there is not so extensive a field of mythology suitable for
use as there is of fairy literature, and the boy can easily hope to make
it his own. The field must exclude both the modern nature myths that
have been compounded to suit the occasion, and the cruder and more
recent discoveries of savage races. In short, Greek mythology must make
both the beginning and the end of what is to be learned; for there has
been no nation other than Greece that has developed a mythical faith so
intellectual in its scope and so beautiful in its expression. This
beauty has been expressed through both art and literature. It would be
an almost unpardonable neglect on the part of a teacher if a boy were
permitted to go through school and not be familiar with the heroic age.
He should know the stories of the gods and heroes; know the Olympian
council, the labours of Hercules, the adventures of Jason, of Perseus,
of Achilles; he should know the Trojan War in its picturesque greatness
and the wonderful exploits of Odysseus on his homeward journey; and he
should know such stories as those of Apollo, of Oedipus, of Orpheus,
of Admetus, of Proserpine, of Niobe, and of Psyche. This knowledge of
Greek mythology will bring one of the most pleasurable and stimulating
of all feelings to a boy, the consciousness of wandering at ease in a
domain where all mortals have not been privileged to enter.

Almost hand in hand with the Greek myths must be taken their variations
in Roman life and the few that seem to be original there. Although the
Greek and Roman deities had most attributes in common, they were yet
distinct, each having his particular name. It is unfortunate that the
Latin names have come into such extensive use and that we always speak
of Jupiter instead of Zeus, and Venus instead of Aphrodite. But the
Hellenic spirit is hard to keep foremost in this commercial age. If the
glare of the arc light could be screened at times and the starry sky be
read as a book wherein the constellations still hold their Greek names,
some of the heroes that have been made permanent might inspire the
observer with a feeling to read again their story. Yet let us have the
sweetness of the rose, whatever be its name.

It is rather perplexing to know what myths to give the child when he
first enters school and through the first four or five years of his
school life. The taste and culture of the teacher have much to do with
this. But whatever is given, give it as it is written without deforming
it by having it adapted to suit the years of the boy. He can understand
many things of which the teacher is not aware. Take it directly from
"The Age of Fable," and at the start remove all difficulties of telling
by drilling on the pronunciation of proper names. Then let the boy learn
the myth through the ear and tell it fluently and exactly. While doing
this, the art that is so closely woven with Greek myths must become
familiar also. The boy must be able to recognize such works as
"Aphrodite of Melos," "Apollo of the Belvidere," "Diana of Versailles,"
"The Faun of Praxiteles," "The Laocoön Group," and "Niké of
Samothrace." The refining influence that comes through them is not easy
to explain, but it comes. Take it for what it is worth, as you take the
myths themselves. And at no time should the teacher seek for
philosophical arrangement and interpretation, that at best is merely a
confusion of words, or moralize on something that is purely dramatic
instead of didactic. The myths are stories and should be used as

A reasonably good list to use for this kind of drill work in, say the
first four grades, is the following, to be learned in the order written:
"Latona and the Frogs," "Arachne," "Niobe," "Midas and the Golden
Touch," "Apollo and Daphne," "Pandora and her Box." "Narcissus," "Ceres
and Proserpine," "Ulysses and Polyphemus," "Dædalus," "Æolus,"
"Philemon," "Vulcan," "Cyparissus and the Stag," "Arion," "Ulysses and
the Sirens," "Callisto and Areas," "Ariadne's Thread." "Io and the
Gadfly," "Perseus and Medusa," "The Wooden Horse," "Phaeton," "Pygmalion
and Galatea," "Æsculapius and Apollo," "Jason and the Golden Fleece,"
"The Death of Hector," "Cupid and Psyche," "Ulysses and Penelope,"
"Pegasus," "Orpheus and Eurydice," "The Labors of Hercules," "Admetus
and Alcestis." After mastering these stories, the boy will be ready to
read for himself.

Let him first read Hawthorne's "The Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys,"
and then the companion volume, "Tanglewood Tales for Girls and Boys; a
Second Wonder-Book." These are indispensable. Then he must read a good
edition of Kingsley's "Heroes; or, Greek Fairy Tales for My Children."
That is a delightful book, despite its deplorable tendency to preach.
Now he is ready for that charming continuous tale, Lamb's "Adventures of
Ulysses," which of course he must own and keep near at hand. He can now
take up and learn the second most valuable work he can own as a student
of literature, Bulfinch's "Age of Fable." Of course it is understood
that Palgrave's "Golden Treasury" is to be the first most valuable one.

Some dozen years ago there appeared in a magazine a story called "The
Little Brother of the Books." It was the story of a small crippled boy
who each afternoon went his way to a certain book stall and was always
found absorbed in the same book. The book was the "Age of Fable." That
he did this is not strange to any one who owns the book and knows it
well. There are few compilations in which the richness of a literature
is gathered together and retold in a way that will make it endure as a
book. Yet this is true of the "Age of Fable." Every student should own
an illustrated copy of it, and preferably one that has never been
edited. It is told as a story, and a captivating story it is. A
quotation from the preface cannot be resisted here: "Our book is not
for the learned, nor for the theologian, nor for the philosopher, but
for the reader of English literature, of either sex, who wishes to
comprehend the allusions so frequently made by public speakers,
lecturers, essayists, and poets, and those which occur in polite

"We trust our young readers will find it a source of entertainment;
those more advanced, a useful companion in their reading; those who
travel, and visit museums and galleries of art, an interpreter of
paintings and sculptures; those who mingle in cultivated society, a key
to allusions which are occasionally made; and, last of all, those in
advanced life, pleasure in retracing a path of literature which leads
them back to the days of their childhood, and revives at every step the
associations of the morning of life.

"The permanency of these associations is beautifully expressed in the
well-known lines of Coleridge:

          "'The intelligible forms of ancient poets,
           The fair humanities of old religion,
           The Power, the Beauty, and the Majesty
           That had their haunts in dale or piny mountain,
           Or forest, by slow stream, or pebbly spring,
           Or chasms and watery depths; all these have vanished.
           They live no longer in the faith of reason;
           But still the heart doth need a language; still
           Doth the old instinct bring back the old names,
           Spirits or gods that used to share this earth
           With man as with their friend; and at this day
           'Tis Jupiter who brings whate'er is great
           And Venus who brings every thing that's fair.'"



          "The first time I read an excellent book, it is to
          me just as if I had gained a new friend. When I
          read a book I have perused before, it resembles
          the meeting with an old one."--GOLDSMITH.

JUST how far books and reading are questions of taste, or should be
looked on as questions of taste merely, is passing hard to say. That
there are prevailing fashions, local-colour variations, and a few more
or less permanent models is noticeable to such a degree that an observer
might conclude motley to be the only wear. The readers seem to be no
more able to agree in what they like than did the urchins over the
pease-porridge in the nursery rhyme:

          Some like it hot,
          Some like it cold,
          Some like it in the pot
          Nine days old.

So it goes in books with every one to his own liking, though the
particular likings are a very unsubstantial guide to the literary merits
of the books liked. A book may become a fashion based on conventional
acquiescence and appearances rather than on real worth. Let the
judgment of individualism, with courage and restraint, lay bare the
fashion, and where then is its habitation or what is its name? Such
judgment sets up more or less arbitrary lines of taste that run wide,
and it makes a guess at what is enduring literature, a hazardous kind of
guess. Yet the peculiar thing of it all is that in this guess pedantry
is as likely to play false as is the capricious fancy of the reading
public that takes the book of the hour, whatever it be. This makes a
kind of self-constituted division of readers, each satisfied with his
lot and each serving a purpose.

Some readers' tastes, however, are neither prudish nor slovenly. They
are very catholic and succeed in picking out what is good from both the
bookish and the popular kinds of books. They can read any book that is a
book. But you recall that Charles Lamb could not reckon directories,
scientific treatises, the works of Hume and Gibbon, and generally those
"volumes which no gentleman's library should be without" as being books.
If to these were added those books which no gentleman's library should
contain, we come to a field fairly easy of investigation. In other
words, we must get back to that field that includes the literature of
power rather than the literature of knowledge. Of course, if somebody
chooses to read blockheaded encyclopædias, withering economic essays,
proper Sunday school books, sophomoric novels, or privately printed
verse, that is purely his own concern; but such reading is beyond the
pale of real books as they relate to well-regulated courses in the home
or in school life.

How far is a teacher to be influenced in his selection of books for
students by their lines of taste? That depends on how far the tastes of
readers in general indicate that books of their liking are to be classed
as books of power, as real literature. It is rash to say that a book has
real merit because it becomes the best seller of a season; nor is it to
be condemned for the very reason that it is a best seller. However, the
general praise of a hundred thousand readers is not so much an index to
the book's merit as the book is an index to the character of the readers
who praise it. Unqualified laudation of a new book, especially a novel,
is an annoying kind of hysteria that has failed to find any other
outlet. But the very fact that the book is opportune or spectacular
carries it along. It grows up and flourishes in a day, and in a day dies

It is curious to note how times change in the reading world and with
them lines of taste. To-day the line most evident in the American
reading public, and the one most difficult to meet in the development of
a taste for good books, is the passion to be up-to-date, as its
commercial phraseology would have it. It is awakened by that wonderful
agent, the advertising appeal, that deals not with quality but with
quantity. In books it calls for a story, and that story must be the
latest or it is certain to be absolutely neglected. On being asked what
dish he preferred at a dinner, Thoreau said, "The nearest." That was in
keeping with his theory of cutting down the denominator; the theory of
the reader of the latest is one of multiplying the numerator. As the
proper thing, each new book is taken, horns, hide, and tallow. The
reader's reverence for the present grows apace, and he no longer has use
for old wine, old friends, and old books. This is a reflection of a
widespread impression in American life that up to the present time but
little truth of substantial value as to methods of living and thinking
has been found out. A wonderful industrial progress, working through
inventive skill, has given the notion that anything over a generation
old is scarcely worth a passing notice, a notion fatal to all art. Every
one must seize in a hurry the newest thing in the market, lest he be
branded as out of date. And it all looks as if everybody was trying to
do what Alice found them trying to do in Wonderland, running as fast as
they could to keep where they were.

This mad rush for the latest is largely aided and abetted by that
invention of the devil, the literary section of many Sunday newspapers.
Finding research a bit dull, the ambitious or needy doctor of philosophy
launches into literary criticism for the reading public. He at once
discovers that the college sophomore who wrote a particular story is
another Thackeray in style. Then in turn a Dickens or a Balzac is found
out. Finally the news is passed on the Rialto that there is being issued
a story combining the delightful characteristics of the three old
masters. And thus and thus it goes, with the whirligig of Sunday
newspaper criticism spinning out the tastes of the reading public.

Now if these titled critics ever cease discovering great new books as
regularly as the day of rest comes around, or if the paper reading
public cease to take these critics as truthful, then the teacher may
hope to find a more sympathetic field in which to work. Of course the
teacher must shake off his pedantry and quit his foolishness in taking a
classic beyond the years of the boy whose veins are full of red blood,
and putting it on a dissecting table for the study of etymology and
syntax. He must know fairly well the boy's likes and dislikes and
remember that they are very strong. And he must also remember that the
boy is joined to his idols, and these are not to be broken until better
ones are substituted. Iconoclasm for its own sake is sheer waste. The
teacher himself must be wedded to good literature, or his efforts will
avail little. If he knows, from his own quiet reading, a few good books
well, that is enough. Sympathetic appreciation, like good nature, is
contagious. If the teacher does not appreciate the book, the boy will
not--unless he does it out of pardonable perversity.

The teacher has more to do with shaping the boy's reading than he at
first sees. He is apt to hesitate because the public library, ambitious
for a circulation record, gives the boy what he will be likely to read;
the Sunday school library, anxious to inculcate moral principles through
stories false to life, gives him what he does not want; the home, eager
to please him in every way, gives him anything he asks for. Yet in the
face of this threefold condition, the wise and sympathetic teacher can
direct an average course of reading that has in it more good than poor
books. To do this, he must work along two lines: discourage overreading
and encourage ownership in books. The practice of overreading is the
worst reading practice in modern life. Like all extremism, it is hard to
meet. It is as unpopular to oppose unlimited reading as it is to oppose
unlimited charity or unlimited education; yet they all need to be
carried out in moderation. The aim should be the mastery of a few good
books and the discouragement of the passion for constant variety that
indicates a lack of singleness of purpose through a lack of self-control
and the power of sustained attention. The greatest aid to this will be
the encouragement of small savings and the buying of good editions. When
this is done, encourage the boy to read out loud to his family at home
in the evenings the portions of his book he likes best. If he does
this, he and his book are friends as long as he continues reading. Soon
he will have a small, well-chosen, and much-used library. The boy who
will buy a book with his own money, will read aloud from it to his
family, will reread it, is safely started on the way to becoming a
well-read man.

After feeling the need of good books in the home where they can be
turned to as the fancy directs, and after feeling a desire to buy such
books, the boy will next need to know what titles to select. And that is
no easy question. Temperament, home circumstances, occupation, and many
other factors enter into it. But the thing that helps out is the fact
that the range of books of power is universal, embracing so many moods,
that enough good titles may be found for any one, however whimsical his
tastes may be. In fact the boy will find many more good books to his
liking than he will ever find time to read, or than he needs to read.
The problem will become one of exclusion. Two lists for two boys of
different dispositions may vary widely and yet both be good literature.
But in the range of English books there are a few that the common
judgment of readers and the praise of critics have so generally classed
as necessary to the shelves of a cultivated man, that they should be
given first place and in some way or other a reading and a rereading of
them be secured. It is not meant that reading is never to depart from
this seemingly arbitrary standard. That would be at least prudish, to
say nothing of its being impracticable. What is meant is that such
things as comic supplements, at once stupid, silly, and debauching to
both the intellectual and the artistic tastes, should be kept from all
boys. The daily newspaper with its sensational head-lines telling of
crimes is as bad, and the schoolboy has no business with it at all. But
maybe the practice most widespread and fatal to an appreciation of books
of real worth and power is the addiction to "juveniles" in the ever
issuing series. If he has drunk to excess of these, the boy will have
hopelessly weakened his ability ever to appreciate anything great. He
will never be able to warm to the powerful deeds of Odysseus, Hector, or
Joshua--he will be only a tolerable but proper grown-up. In the face of
these and many more hindrances, reading will have to be rigidly
directed, and in that directing, lines of appeal in the field of good
literature can be drawn out. Generally the reason for a boy's revolting
against a good book is the fact that whoever is in control of his
reading presupposes that very thing. The book is often timidly handed
out and with something of an apologetic air. By some peculiar piece of
judgment it is believed that the boy prefers the book that is both
insipid and stupid. This ineffectual effort arises from a lack of
courage on the part of preceptor and parent: the old, old story of
overindulgence. What may be sauce for the father should not always be
sauce for the son. The theory that what is good for the one ought to be
good for the other, even to food and drink, is only another sophism of a
falsely sentimental age that is over-tolerant of what is called personal
rights. The fact that Senator Hoar delighted in an occasional yellow
back, is no reason why a boy should have such a story when he should be
learning his catechism.

Before venturing on a list of books that will serve the boy fairly well
as he passes through the primary and the grammar grades of school, a few
of the superior books that have stood the test of time must be noticed.
They are fundamental in school and in general reading. The arguments of
literary critics as to what constitutes this good literature have no
place in a work of this nature that aims to aid teachers and parents in
selecting books for their children. It is enough to know that the
verdict of time has been rendered in favour of such books as "The
Arabian Nights' Entertainments," "Robinson Crusoe," and "Gulliver's
Travels." A knowledge of such books is fundamental to any one who is
ambitious to master the elements of English literature. And the mere
fact that he knows them well will give him a conscious strength and
pardonable feeling of superiority that the unlettered youth cannot have.
After this he can be trusted to browse pretty much as he chooses. He may
occasionally find the bars down, or maybe later go over the fences; but
he has learned to judge of what is worth while, and will surely return
to the books that gave him happy hours, whatever other tasks were laid
on him.

In selecting this list for schoolboys there is a temptation to take
works too mature for school age. This may come from that lingering
instinct that supposes every one, no matter what the age, to be
interested in the same things in which you are interested. The very best
things for manhood are to be reserved for that time of life. Grammar
school boys cannot appreciate the playful humour of Lamb, the prophetic
scolding of Carlyle, or Thackeray's keen analysis of human weaknesses
and foibles; neither can a high school boy do it, and it is foolish to
insist that it be done. Schoolboys are not men, and they might be told
to reserve the greater part of Carlyle and Thackeray until two or three
years after they have cast their first vote. Neither author is adapted
to a beardless youth. But then we have that wonderful pair of
story-tellers, Scott and Stevenson! What boy can resist them or would
ever think of trying to do so? If Margaret Ogilvy would not lay down a
book of "that Stevenson man" until she had found out how the laddie got
out of the barrel, do you suppose that a boy with adventurous blood in
his veins could do so? Though the best test for a child's book is the
fact that it has charms for the grown-up, he would certainly be foolish
who would insist that the great books for mature men and women be read
in youth. It is after all school days are ended and the boy has become a
man well started in the actual affairs of life that he can read and
appreciate "Vanity Fair," "Adam Bede," "Tess of the D'Urbervilles," or
"Anna Karénina." The tendency to take great books for mature readers,
abridge and overedit them, and then present them to adventurous boys by
a laboratory method of minute dissection, is annoying and foolish. Boys
who still enjoy harnessing a dog to a wagon are neither university
students nor good literary critics. But they do like to find out how
Robinson Crusoe made a canoe, Tom Canty ate his first royal dinner, or
David Balfour helped Alan Breck defend the roundhouse.

Naturally, the first book to put into the hands of the primary school
child to be called his own is a good illustrated edition of the Mother
Goose rhymes. There is nothing to take the place of that accumulated
wisdom of the nursery that is so charming to the ear. He has learned
many of the jingles by word of mouth before his school age; but he now
needs to own the book himself, read the words, and look at the pictures.
The whole thing must be in one volume for him. But what volume? It is
hardly safe to presuppose the possession of these nursery rhyme books
before the school age, though that is exactly where they belong. Maybe
for this reason it is better to start with the edition of Kate Greenaway
that makes up in refinement and delicacy for what it lacks in power and
intensity. It is unfortunate that there is no available reprint of the
original edition of "Mother Goose's Melody" compiled by Oliver Goldsmith
for John Newbery about 1765, which contained the "most celebrated songs
and lullabies of the old British nurses, calculated to amuse children
and incite them to sleep." To own such a quaint edition would surely be
a delight. Nearly as quaint and delightful, especially the
illustrations, is the "Only True Mother Goose Melodies" now reprinted
from the Boston edition of 1839. Of the editions of recent years there
are many good ones, the one appearing under the title of "National
Rhymes of the Nursery" having superior illustrations by Leslie Brooke,
but being marred by an artificial arrangement. If some artist with the
genius of Cruikshank would give a few of the best years of his life to
illustrating a complete collection of these rhymes, he would become a
benefactor of childhood. And if such an edition were well made
mechanically, printed on good unglazed linen paper from large type and
good woodcuts, well sewed, and bound in linen or leather, the boy might
consider himself favoured of the gods if he could call such a book his
own. These "things that are old and pretty" deserve to be well arrayed.
Yet they deserve to be read for their own sake, an enduring charm of
sound. Professor Saintsbury has clearly pointed out that they should
never be twisted into an authentic meaning according to the spirit of
severest "scientism"; but they should be made "to serve as anthems and
doxologies to the goddess whom in this context it is not satirical to
call 'Divine Nonsensia,' who still in all lands and times condescends
now and then to unbind the burden of meaning from the backs and brains
of men, and lets them rejoice once more in pure, natural, senseless

After the nursery rhymes, the next volumes for the boy's book shelf will
be collections of fables and fairy tales. The animal fable is easiest to
start with, and children like it best as a rule. Talking beasts kindle
their imagination and stimulate their awakening powers. Fables are
direct, simple, wise, and have a universal appeal. In the delightful
first chapter of "The Newcomes," Thackeray tells us that long ages
before Æsop, asses under lions' manes roared in Hebrew, sly foxes
flattered in Etruscan, and wolves in sheep's clothing gnashed their
teeth in Sanscrit. They are a common inheritance for childhood. The
English-speaking child has a number of very good collections at his
command, among them being the one recently issued with illustrations by
Arthur Rackham and another in the New Cranford series illustrated by
Richard Heighway, and he should surely own the one or the other. But in
neither is the drawing quite so charming as is that of Boutet de Monvel
for the French fables of La Fontaine.

What a pity that there is no single volume of fairy tales to meet the
child's demands! It should contain the best of the English folk tales,
the best of Perrault, the brothers Grimm, Andersen, and others; should
have illustrations of the merit of Cruikshank's; should be artistically
printed and bound--and it should be a big book. Children love big books.
A child's book on thin paper and bound in limp leather would not be a
child's book. Coloured illustrations are not necessary; children like a
few lines in black and white; but it is necessary to have the book a
kind of "ponderous tome." Then it can be read on the floor while it
rests on the boy's knees as he sits cross-legged before the fire; or,
better still, while he lies on his belly, his chin in his hands and his
feet swaying in the air. While he is small, no real boy was ever
designed to sit upright on a chair and hold a small book ten inches from
his eyes, with the light coming over his left shoulder. Maybe some
philanthropic publisher will some day issue a big book of tales to be
owned by the boy and read at his ease. But the lack of it to-day
necessitates the building up of a fairy library.

The first book to be put into the fairy library might be the charming
"Golden Goose Book" of Leslie Brooke, followed by Cruikshank's "Fairy
Book." The Mother Goose tales as first collected by Perrault should now
be owned in a well-illustrated English translation. On account of their
humour and their common everyday tone, the English household and folk
tales will make a strong appeal. Scudder's "Folk Stories," S.
Baring-Gould's "Old English Fairy Tales," and "Fairy-Gold" by Ernest
Rhys are all good in their way; but "English Fairy Tales" by Joseph
Jacobs, with its amusing illustrations by John Batton, is told in the
simplest and most dramatic way, and it should be owned by every boy.

There is one collection of fairy tales that should come into the boy's
possession about the end of the third school year, and that book is the
excellent work of the brothers Grimm, whatever be the title. The one
superior translation is the one made by Edward Taylor about 1826, and a
reprint of it issued in 1878, with Cruikshank's etchings and Ruskin's
introduction. But there are many good and simple translations that are
well illustrated. After these highly imaginative tales of the German
fireside, there should be owned a good translation of the romantic and
refined tales of the North, the fairy tales of Hans Christian Andersen.
To these stories are many excellent illustrations, including those of
Stratton, Tegner, and Dulac. It may not be possible and maybe not
desirable to own editions of the tales of D'Aulnoy, Laboulaye, Hauff,
and others, for the best of their stories may be found in some
compilations. Among these are "Mother Goose Nursery Tales" issued by
Nister, Andrew Lang's "Blue Fairy Book," "Big Book of Fairy Tales"
collected by Walter Jerrold, "A Child's Book of Stories" illustrated by
Jessie Wilcox Smith and the recently issued attractive edition of "The
Fairy Book" by Dinah Maria Mulock. A distinct service could have been
rendered to children if Andrew Lang had selected the best of the stories
from his voluminous and unequally good colour fairy books and had issued
them in one large, well-made volume with artistic illustrations.

And yet there remains the greatest and most wonderful of all fairy
tales, the "Tales of a Thousand and One Nights," to be begun with the
easier tales now, but only to be enjoyed thoroughly in the upper grammar
grades. No other book is so romantic or so entrancing, nor does anybody
ever get too old to read it. It worked its spell on Coleridge, for he
wrote: "Give me the 'Arabian Nights' Entertainments' which I used to
watch, till the sun shining on the bookcase appeared, and, glowing full
upon it, gave me the courage to take it from the shelf." And was it not
this book that made wonderful little Marjorie Fleming willing to sleep
at the foot of the bed where she could continually read it? The
translation made by Edward William Lane in 1839 and illustrated by
William Harvey under his direction will never be surpassed; but Jonathan
Scott's translation is easier for the boy to read. Many well-illustrated
but not always well-edited editions may be found.

Will a boy read "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland"? Should a boy read
"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland"? Yes and yes! Any boy who cannot
enjoy the most delightful fooling that was ever put into a book deserves
the greatest of sympathy. He is certainly full of unmannerly sadness in
his youth. Where else was there ever such clever and curious nonsense?
What mathematician other than Dodgson ever put before boys and girls
such enduring work? It is a case where two and two does not always make
four, but it does always make the pleasing thing. Much that goes as
serious literature is not half so wise as is the playfulness of this
book, nor is it so worthy of being thoroughly known and appreciated. Of
course there are a few perpendicular people who see not that it has
abiding charms. They cannot double or shake to the mood of its
nonsense--nor do they find it grow "curiouser and curiouser" with each
reading. Yet it is a classic for children, and it is going to endure.

As a general rule, books for children are cast in a rather serious mood.
This is true of the myth and the romantic fairy tale. But the element of
humour creeps into the English and the German household tales, for
humour is necessary to all earnest living. How far this sense of humour
is to be developed is a question hard to answer. This much is true,
however: in mature years and under the full responsibility of life, a
keen sense of humour is about the only thing that will save a man from
himself at times, preserve his balance when he is nearing the borderland
of tragedy. Now what is to be the nature of this humour? Is it to be the
insipid burlesque that finds its pleasure in the medical almanac and the
comic supplement? Or is it to be the kind that wears the sock with
brains and taste, the kind that Touchstone has? The latter is the one
that sparkles and is worth while. It is the kind that the child starts
with in "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" and "The Rose and the Ring."
It is the product of men who possess qualities of mind and heart such as
Thackeray did. How Shakespeare must have doted on his jesters! And what
musical nonsense refrains he wrote.

All this bears out De Quincey's saying that only a man of extraordinary
talent can write nonsense. And nonsense literature is a test of the
ability of a reader. Pitt once exclaimed: "Don't tell me of a man's
being able to talk sense; every one can talk sense. Can he talk
nonsense?" Now a child will talk nonsense and delight in it, even if it
is nothing but a counting-out rhyme. Then he will come to prefer
nonsense of a refined type, innocent and fantastic verse. A book of
this kind that he will take a fancy to is Edward Lear's "Nonsense
Songs"; and if it is the edition illustrated by Leslie Brooke, he will
be grateful when a nonsense mood is on him. Ruskin called it the most
beneficent and innocent of all nonsense books. The boy might start with
this book, go to "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," and then try "The
Rose and the Ring." When he reaches the upper grammar grades, he will
then enjoy the splendid retelling of "The Adventures of Don Quixote," by
Judge Parry, with Walter Crane's illustrations. If he does this, on
reaching man's estate he will keep some favourite translation of this
wonderful book of Cervantes in a convenient pocket edition along with
his "Pickwick Papers."

Before going to the class of books based on myths, one brief work must
be mentioned, not only because it marks an epoch in the making of
children's books, but also because it is a child's classic with real
merit, and about the only one on such a theme. Nearly all others of this
kind are prudish, priggish, and inartistic. This one happens to have a
loftiness of tone. Its style is as charming as this whimsical title:
"The History of Little Goody Two Shoes, otherwise called Mrs. Marjory
Two Shoes, the means by which she acquired her learning and wisdom, and
in consequence thereof her estate; set forth at large for the benefit of

          "Who from a state of Rags and Care,
           And having Shoes but half a Pair;
           Their Fortune and their Fame would fix,
           And gallop in a Coach and Six."

If any one is in doubt as to who wrote this book, the inscription "to
all young gentlemen and ladies who are good, or intend to be good" ought
to convince him. Intend to be good, was not that Goldsmith--and the rest
of us? An edition of this historic story with pictures after the
original woodcuts of 1765 should be in the hands of every child.

Though America's contribution to children's literature of an enduring
type has been limited, it is gratifying to know that America's most
finished artist, Nathaniel Hawthorne, has given to that literature two
books that every boy must know, "Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys" and
"Tanglewood Tales for Girls and Boys; a Second Wonder-Book." That every
boy who is going to become a mature reader of good books needs to know
the myths of Greece and Rome, goes without saying. Now he had better
learn these from a book having a literary touch than from the ordinary
telling of text-books. For this reason he should completely master these
two books by Hawthorne. The illustrated edition of the former by Walter
Crane and George Wharton Edwards' illustrations of the latter are both
fine. Not so good as these two, yet necessary, is Charles Kingsley's
"Heroes; or, Greek Fairy Tales for My Children." And the telling of the
story of the Odyssey by Charles Lamb in his "Adventures of Ulysses" is
good to read, but rather difficult before the last year of the grammar
grades. The wonderful exploits of the heroes in the Iliad should be
familiar to every boy, and he can get them about all in Bulfinch's "Age
of Fable" as well as anywhere else. This book he must surely own, and
whether it is called merely a text-book or not, it is the best work that
has yet appeared on the mythology of the world as it is found in
classical allusions of English books. If he learns the story of the
siege of Troy and the return to Ithaca from this book, he may want to
hear Chapman speak out loud and bold a few years later.

Does any schoolboy from a home other than one in which Puritan notions
yet prevail read "Pilgrim's Progress"? If he does not, the fault is not
in the book. It is as interesting as it is vitally true, and has been
positively helpful. According to Macaulay, it has been loved by those
too simple to admire it. There is really no such thing as an
uninteresting great book. There are uninterested people, though there
should not be an uninterested normal boy. If there is, he is a victim of
the emasculating process of sugar-coated teaching, parental indulgence,
and vaudeville amusement. Or maybe he has the habit of the boy's series,
that cuts all characters to the same fashion, the fashion of prudery. In
either case he will never be a pilgrim. Of course it would be foolish
to insist on a boy's reading many such books, even if there were more
like it written. You might as well insist on seven sermons a week for a
man. One in seven days seems often enough to be effective; and one great
book like this one, if well mastered, is all that the boy needs. In
mature years he can again read it and marvel at its intrinsic greatness
and find it something of a reflection of his own experiences in life.
And by having done this he may chance to read such great poetical
allegories as the "Faerie Queene" and the "Divine Comedy."

As this allegory of Bunyan's represented the spiritual experiences of
life as the Puritan saw it, so does "Robinson Crusoe" represent the
Puritan view of the practical virtues in experience, such as the virtues
of prudence, ingenuity, and patience. But for all this it is one of the
most fascinating and typical of English stories, and one of the really
great ones. Every lad must know this book. Stevenson tells of a Welsh
blacksmith who learned to read that he might add this hero to his
possibilities of experience.

The third book of that great half-century following the Restoration is
one of the few books written to be read by men that has become a child's
classic. No wonder Swift afterwards exclaimed, "What a genius I had when
I wrote that book!" Yet children read it with pleasure without seeing
anything in it but the interesting adventures of Gulliver. Of course,
the voyages to Lilliput and to Brobdingnag are the only ones to be given
to the boy, and it is unfortunate that publishers have not generally
recognized this in issuing "Gulliver's Travels" for children. It is less
necessary to read the other two voyages than it is to read the second
part of "Pilgrim's Progress" and the "Further Adventures of Robinson

There is a field of reading very much akin to the field of mythology in
which there is no single book that the boy can read that is so permanent
in its form as is the "Wonder-Book," yet it is a field in which the boy
should feel at home. That is the field that includes the Arthurian
legends and the Robin Hood stories. Among the many books that have
appeared, the excellent work done by the poet Lanier in his "Boy's King
Arthur" and by the late artist Howard Pyle should surely find a place on
every boy's book shelf. Much of Malory is retained in the former, and
the conventional drawings in the latter make a strong appeal despite the
widespread mania for colour. The boy who has become attached to his "Age
of Fable" might satisfy his curiosity in this romantic field by the
almost equally good "Age of Chivalry" and "The Legends of Charlemagne."

At what age should a boy turn to Shakespeare? That depends on the boy.
If he is an average child, he should have something of the plays read to
him at a fairly young age; but it is doubtful if he can do much on his
own account before the high school age is reached. He might, however, be
urged to attempt "A Midsummer-Night's Dream," "The Tempest," and "King
Henry V." At about the age of twelve or fourteen years he should own a
good illustrated edition in one volume such as the one done by Sir John
Gilbert. But be this as it may, he has a right to get something of a
glimpse of the wonderful things in these plays through that admirable
telling of some of them in Lamb's "Tales from Shakespeare." Though it
may be Lamb instead of Shakespeare, there is no better book of retold
stones in English than this work of Thackeray's "Dear Saint Charles" and
his sister Mary.

This brings up the question of the boy's reading of poetry and the books
that he should own. As suggested in a former chapter, the one good
collection is Palgrave's "Children's Treasury of English Song." There is
no second one in this class; for all others seem to have some fatal
defects of judgment, though they are usually printed in more attractive
form. The publishers of this anthology need to issue a well printed,
well illustrated, and well bound edition, and the book stores need to
put it on their shelves, where it is now almost a total stranger. But
the approach to such a collection should be gradual. It might start in
the second grade with Kate Greenaway's edition of "Dame Wiggins of Lee
and Her Seven Wonderful Cats; a Humorous Tale Written Principally by a
Lady of Ninety," and Caldecott's "John Gilpin's Ride." This could be
followed with Kate Greenaway's or Hope Dunlap's "Pied Piper of Hamelin."
And all children must have Stevenson's "A Child's Garden of Verses" with
illustrations by either Florence Edith Storer or Jessie Wilcox Smith.
Eugene Field's "Poems of Childhood," illustrated by Maxfield Parrish,
deserves a place, as does the dainty volume of Blake's "Songs of
Innocence," illustrated by Geraldine Morris. If on reaching the upper
grammar grades the boy has found pleasure in his "Children's Treasury of
English Song," he might be urged to own complete editions of a few of
the poets. The first volume should be the poems of Longfellow, not
because of his greatness but because he is the best loved of our noted
poets and the easiest one for the boy to read. The next volume should be
one of Tennyson, where he will find things actually great. If he comes
to prefer "The Passing of Arthur" to "Enoch Arden," he is developing
taste and judgment and will later enjoy Milton and Wordsworth.

There are two books of recent years, "The Jungle Book" and "The Second
Jungle Book," that have intrinsic worth and charm and should be owned by
every boy about his fifth school year. The superior tales are the Mowgli
stories, and it is a pity they are not issued in a single volume. Where
was there ever a more intense or dramatic story written than "Red Dog"?
How does it happen that teachers seldom give these stories to children,
but manage to waste plenty of good time on insipid, made-to-order
stories designed to teach mercy to animals? These animal stories for a
purpose are like most verse for an occasion--an offence against literary
art. Let the boy learn of the charms and the tragedies of animal life in
the jungle.

When the boy's reading shifts toward the romance and the novel, he needs
to guard against overreading, indiscriminate reading, and being
bewildered by the multitude of books from which to choose. For a while
he had better keep to such books as "The Prince and the Pauper" and
"Treasure Island." If he is not at once interested in that plot based on
the universal desire to change lots with some one else, or the universal
longing to find a hidden treasure, he either has perverted tastes or is
without any tastes at all. From these it is an easy step to the forest
life of "The Last of the Mohicans" and the life of chivalry presented in
"Ivanhoe." He will then surely like that charming story of romantic home
life, "Lorna Doone."

Some teacher may wonder if books other than stories and verse are not to
be read. Of course they are, and they will be anyhow. Yet they are not
books of power, fundamental to the growth of personality; they are
books of knowledge of one kind or another. Just where the division line
is to be drawn and which is the right class for this book and that, is
hard to say, and matters little when it is determined; but the place of
a few has been definitely fixed by experience, and they happen to be
stories. That great literary field of comfort to men, the personal
essay, is beyond the schoolboy. And so is much of biography and history.
But there can be found for him to read many books, such as "Tales of a
Grandfather," "A Child's History of England," Southey's "Life of
Nelson," "Two Years Before the Mast," "The Oregon Trail," Franklin's
"Autobiography," and some good abridgment of "Plutarch's Lives," that
make an order of books different from "Robinson Crusoe," "Pilgrim's
Progress," and "Arabian Nights' Entertainments"; yet they ought to be
read after a few of the greater ones have been mastered. Many a boy may
be greatly helped and inspired to honest effort by Samuel Smiles'
"Self-Help," yet no one would think of classing it as great literature.
This, together with books on travel and the wonders of science and
invention will take care of themselves, and the average boy will pick up
enough of them of his own accord. What he needs is a book that by its
imaginative power lifts him above the commonplace facts of everyday
life. If the foundation be laid in the enduring work of a few great
books, what is built thereon will abundantly reward the early effort of
mastering them.

There is yet one book of powerful and pure English that must be
mentioned. The boy should have early heard it read aloud, learned
passages from it by heart, and have read parts of it on his own account.
In proportion as he has gathered the richness of this book will he have
a grasp on clear language and clear understanding. That book is the
version of the Bible authorized by King James. It gave to our fathers
not only their faith but also that grip on racy, clear, and vigorous
English that made many an artisan a better talker and writer than the
man trained in the halls of higher learning. It has had a power above
all other books in English to stir the imagination and move the soul,
and this without regard to any particular religious belief. No book has
ever told stories with the ease, directness, and intensity of this one.
Its style expresses the strongest and deepest feelings of
English-speaking men. And this style has been caught by such masters of
prose in their own centuries as Bunyan and Lincoln. Yet it is evident to
teachers that the great stories of the Scriptures are not known by
children. The Bible needs to be dusted and read, even if it is brought
about by the strong hand of authority in the home and in the school.

Taste in books can be directed, or at least modified, and the authority
to direct must be about its business with the urchins at school. The
aphorism that you can lead a horse to the water but you cannot make him
drink, is only half true. If the water is kept under his nose and there
is a good grip on the halter, he will be drinking before he is aware of
it. In fact, he may need to be led away at times to keep him from
drinking too much. The business of the school teacher is to get the boy
to the trough and then see that he does not drink too much. This will be
a thing of effort, for at every turn there are the springs of juvenile
series, Sunday School Pharisees, comic supplements, and penny-dreadfuls
that flow as if they would never cease. The boy needs to develop a sort
of anchorite spirit and seek out a secluded place with an armful of
books that are really worth while.

The armful which he needs to own and be friends with might be something
like the following, if such a list can be ventured without offence to
that strong spirit of individualism that will call it wooden and
lock-step; yet that in its iconoclasm and mental anarchy gets nowhere
and does nothing. This is the list by grades: First grade--"Mother Goose
Rhymes," Brooke's "The Golden Goose Book," "Dame Wiggins of Lee and Her
Seven Wonderful Cats"; second grade--"Æsop's Fables," "The Cruikshank
Fairy Book," Goldsmith's "The History of Little Goody Two Shoes"; third
grade--Carroll's "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," Jacobs' "English
Fairy Tales," Stevenson's "A Child's Garden of Verses," Scudder's "The
Children's Book"; fourth grade--Grimm's "Fairy and Household Tales,"
Andersen's "Fairy Tales," Browne's "Granny's Wonderful Chair,"
Thackeray's "The Rose and the Ring"; fifth grade--Hawthorne's "The
Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys" and "Tanglewood Tales for Girls and
Boys; a Second Wonder-Book," Kingsley's "Heroes; or, Greek Fairy Tales
for My Children," Swift's "Gulliver's Travels into Several Remote
Nations of the World," Kipling's "The Jungle Book" and "The Second
Jungle Book"; sixth grade--"Arabian Nights' Entertainments," Lamb's
"Adventures of Ulysses," Defoe's "The Life and Strange Adventures of
Robinson Crusoe," Pyle's "The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood,"
Palgrave's "The Children's Treasury of English Song"; seventh
grade--Bunyan's "The Pilgrim's Progress," Lanier's "The Boy's King
Arthur," Twain's "The Prince and the Pauper," Cervantes' "The Adventures
of Don Quixote of the Mancha," Stevenson's "Treasure Island"; eighth
grade--Lamb's "Tales from Shakespeare," Cooper's "The Last of the
Mohicans," Scott's "Ivanhoe," Blackmore's "Lorna Doone," Bulfinch's "The
Age of Fable; or, the Beauties of Mythology."

The savings necessary to buy these books, the time spent in reading and
rereading them, the power and taste that will come from both of these
efforts,--these will serve the boy when he comes to man's estate. For no
work in a finishing school or in college English can ever give him what
he will get of his own accord by having good books as his companions
during his public school life. Let him try the list with the hope that
it will meet Ruskin's comment: "Of course you must or will read other
books for amusement, once or twice; but you will find that these have an
element of perpetuity in them."



          "Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd me,
           From my own library, with volumes that
           I prize above my dukedom."--PROSPERO.

THE publishing of books is like the brook in the poem, it goes on
forever. The number and variety found on sale at the end of each year is
truly bewildering. The flesh is becoming wearied with the number and the
spirit perturbed with the variety. The prospective buyer does not know
where or how to begin, and about the only way out of the confusion is to
do as the brothers did in the story, buy them by the yard. For the man
of long purse it is a convenient way to untie the library knot; but
after this has been done the question of where to begin reading is a
harder one than where to begin buying had been. There was much
philosophy in the remark of the quickly made millionaire, who after
having bought many editions de luxe of standard authors, said: "Now give
me something that I can read, a few stories of Old Sleuth and Nick
Carter." Though his taste might be questioned, his remark hit the nail
on the head--a few books that can be read.

That is what the average buyer is after. And these few must be books
that are worth while, must be taken from the multitude, and must be
taken one or two at a time if they are to be properly enjoyed. Each
season brings a few of these in new and attractive editions. By them
must the library be slowly built up. The purchase of many volumes at a
time, even if they are good volumes, is something few readers can stand.
It is like the sudden acquisition of wealth or the sudden coming into
fame: a stumbling block to the greatest of pleasures, the slow but
certain enrichment of life. Many a good student has been spoiled by
being turned loose in a school library that cost him no effort or
inconvenience to acquire. Ease of access and intemperance of use are
things on which he will fall down. And therein is the foolishness of
parents in supplying their children all at once with that great and
varied load that has several times appeared under different names, but
with the general title of libraries for young folk. There is much good
and conveniently arranged material in all of them; but it is this very
thing of coming into the child's possession all at once that makes them
objectionable. Books, like many other luxuries, should not be indulged
in to excess.

Books for the boy should largely be purchased out of his own savings. No
book bought in this way will be left unread. Some persuasion on the
part of teachers and parents will be necessary to bring about this
practice of saving. A month or so before Christmas or the summer
vacation the town boy ought to be told to save the money he is used to
spending on candy and picture shows that he may buy for himself a book.
The country boy can do the same thing by hoeing corn a few more days for
a neighbour or raising a few more chickens on his own account. As they
should, books will also come as gifts, and poor judgment on the part of
the giver is very unfortunate. The giving of a poor book that can hardly
be afforded is kind-hearted as an act; but the boy who feels by courtesy
bound to read it is surely a helpless victim. Yet in his own family he
should be given a book twice each year, on his birthday and at Christmas
time. In fact he needs to be taught always to celebrate the one and hang
up his stocking on the other; for no two practices will be so likely to
keep him from falling into cynicism in mature years--especially if each
anniversary brings with it a helpful book. Highly prized as will be
these good books the boy receives as gifts, they will never mean quite
the same to him as the books bought at a sacrifice to himself. When all
is said and done, about the best indication of practical wisdom in this
age of prodigality is economy of savings. It will surely be followed by
economy of time and energy. The boy who is taught to save money for the
purchase of something of permanent value has a good start in the right
direction. The most reasonable thing to buy with these savings is a few
good books.

What shall the reader buy, and where shall it be bought? To the former
question a partial answer has already been attempted, but to the latter
one the answer is more uncertain. In a general way a book might be
bought as any other article is bought, where the same quality can be
bought cheapest. But that principle is based on the advertising appeal,
an appeal that is strong where extravagance and wastefulness abound. The
making, selling, and buying of books is no exception to this rule of
trade. Books, like other articles, are now bought and sold according to
fashion, and the official pot of fashion must be kept boiling if it
takes the last penny. And like other fashions book fashions change, even
to morals and heroines; so that a body might as well be out of the
reading world as to be out of fashion in it. Just now the fashion seems
to turn out books with morbid morals and mediocre heroines, and yet the
people continue to read them and talk about them. The story is drawn,
printed, bought, read, dramatized, heard, and praised--even from the
pulpit. And before there is time for you to compose yourself in peace, a
new emotion is sprung on which all must dilate alike. This is the hubbub
about the multitude of new books that makes the buying of a few standard
ones something of a problem. The classics, especially for children,
either in old or in new editions, are hidden in the confusion. And
because of the talk the youngsters hear they want to read the book their
parents are reading, as they are curious to read the daily paper, a
thing never designed for any schoolboy to do. For this reason they need
to be urged strongly to buy the book that is old and tried by years of
helpful reading.

The advertising appeal that persuades a buyer of books to invest in what
he does not want and cannot use is active in two ways, through
travelling agents and at the book counters of department stores. Of all
the hindrances to the building up of a small library out of savings for
that purpose, the proverbial book agent is the greatest. This master of
the art of persuasive perseverance, with his oilcloth bag hidden under
the frock of his coat, has filched many a hard-earned dollar from the
farmer. If he had had either the artifice or the charity to get the
money and not deliver the book, the effect of his pernicious activity
would not be so marked. Yet what he sells as a book takes its place on
the centre-table with others of its kind to waste the time of winter
evenings and wet days for a generation. That interesting and rather
convenient character, the pedler with his pack, has passed away; but the
agent and his book continue to flourish. Can no one propose a short way
with book agents?

In the city the confusion is wrought by the woman agent and the girl
clerk. Next to resisting civilly the entreaties of the agent in black is
for a man, after having threaded that modern labyrinth, the department
store, and having halted at the book counter to take his bearings, to be
pounced upon by the clerk in black before he has had time to thumb a
single volume, and asked if he has been waited on. He watches the
cosmopolitan stream of buyers tossing about the cosmopolitan collection
of book bargains on the main aisle counter, and then retreats in
confusion to seek some old-fashioned book store where he can loaf in
ease and think of what he wants to buy. Though scarcely willing to admit
the claim of many buyers and readers of books that it is not good
book-buying etiquette to purchase a book at a department store, he feels
at least that it is not a quiet, convenient, and wise way. And the pity
of it all is, that out of this shuffle and clatter the child is made the
victim of the poor book that is bought because it can be bought cheap.

The fairly well arranged book store is the one place where a book for a
boy may be bought in proper form. Though the second-hand book store is
an interesting place for the man who has not the germ fear, it is no
place to get a boy's book. And the old-fashioned book shop that must
have been a joy to the man of reading tastes has passed, as has the old
apothecary shop. From their modern offspring, the book store and the
drug store, we must get our books and our physic. It is on the shelves
of these book stores that buyers like to explore and make discoveries of
editions. If the particular edition be known, a good way to buy is to
order books directly by mail from the publisher. In fact, this is what
often has to be done in small towns and in country districts where
well-stocked shelves are not within reach. Yet few buyers can adjust
themselves to the practice of buying anything that they have not seen.
They like to feel the response of the book to the touch, see the type
and the illustrations and the binding. This is all good where the store
carries a complete stock; but if every good book wanted has to be
ordered for the buyer, he might as well do it himself directly from the
publisher. From these publishers good descriptive catalogues may be had
for the asking, and by means of them the book not found at the store may
be ordered.

At the usual book store, whether purely secular or connected with the
publishing house of a denominational church, books for men are bought
with greater ease than books for children. A well-selected list of
titles for boys is seldom found. The ubiquitous juveniles are lined up
as usual, but good reprints of children's classics are absent. The
uninformed buyer is at the mercy of the more uninformed clerk. Out of
the indecision of the one and the advice of the other something wholly
unfit for the boy is bought. The poor book received as a gift is beyond
the boy's control and a delicate matter to handle; but the buying of a
poor book with good money is a serious blunder. About the only safe way
is to know what you want before you go into the store, dig it out from
the shelves yourself, and have the clerk do nothing but wrap it up and
give you your change. If you are not settled on what you want, get into
the habit of reading the book numbers of some journal like _The Nation_,
or consult with the well-informed heads of the children's departments of
public libraries.

The particular edition of a book to be bought is largely a question of
taste and of the money at the command of the buyer. Many a boy sees
little in fine, well-illustrated editions. What he wants is the story
without regard to its dress. He may become wedded to the poorly made,
unattractive book that has opened up new lands to him, just as many a
child has formed a greater attachment for a small rag doll than for an
expensive one of wax. Again, circumstances may necessitate the buying of
a twenty-five or fifty-cent edition of a book instead of a two or three
dollar one. Yet this is true: if the book is bought at a sacrifice and
is to serve for a lifetime (and no old book that has served its owner
well ought ever to be replaced by a new one), the best edition available
should be bought, even if it is expensive. Of course, this largely
depends on the book. Mother Goose, some treasury of poetry, Æsop,
stories from Shakespeare, a favourite collection of fairy tales, and
all such books often used need to be in the best of editions; but the
ones less often read may be in cheaper form.

In selecting an edition the first thing to look to is the type and
paper. Even a standard edition may be printed from worn plates giving an
indistinct impression. A clear-cut, large type on unglazed paper is
certainly the best. The detailed colour illustration on a special sized
plate-paper does not appeal to the average child any more than do the
simpler black and white drawings done in a few lines and put on the
ordinary reading page. But the best illustrations that are being done
to-day are very often done in colour, and at first glance they catch the
fancy of the child--then, too, they are the fashion. Whatever kind they
may be, illustrations are almost necessary to a child's book. The next
consideration is the binding. What may have been gained in
attractiveness of page has surely been lost in mechanical execution on
binding. Books, even high-priced books, are now cased instead of bound.
The machine-made back is hung to the book in an insecure way. There is
no hand shaping or building of the back to the book. A child's book
costing three dollars will in a short time become loose, hollow-backed,
and the plate illustrations will fall out. Hand-craft at a reasonable
price has gone by the way here as it has in many other fields of
workmanship. What the publisher has failed to do in the binding of the
book, the boy must be urged to make up in the handling of it.

This brings up the question of the care of books. Vandalism may do its
work among books as well as anywhere else. A good book deserves the best
of care and needs to be secure from the hand that would soil or deface
it. It is a friend to be kept in comfortable quarters, and its rights
are to be respected. It is never to be used as a flower press nor as a
window stick; neither is it to have its back carelessly broken nor its
leaves turned down. It was made to be read and to be enjoyed, and this
without regard to the fact that it came as a gift or was bought with
hard-earned money. The boy should early be taught how to take care of it
as he would any other product of art.

The best-made book may be broken by opening it carelessly the first
time. Glue is flexible under slow pressure, but will break under sudden
strain. If the book is taken in the middle and the halves suddenly
jerked open, it will be broken beyond repair; but if the back of the
book is placed on a table and the leaves turned down slowly from both
covers to the centre, the glue will give and the book will not be
damaged. By going over the whole book carefully in this way once or
twice, it will be ready for use. At no time, however, while reading,
should the covers or leaves be turned farther back than they would be in
lying flat open on a table. The next thing for the boy to learn is how
to take care of the leaves of the book. The leaves should be carefully
turned with the dry tips of the fingers from the top of the page and
pressed down gently but firmly. And under no circumstances should the
corner of a leaf be turned down to mark the place where the reader left
off--an interested memory and a book mark are designed for that purpose.
To keep his books, every boy should have a book shelf or two of his own
that he can easily reach. Any kind of home-made shelf will do; and in it
the books are to be set on end, never on the front of the book, each in
its particular place so that it might be found in the dark. He ought to
learn all of his books by touch. After each reading the book is to be
carefully put in its stall and left there until the owner chooses to
take it out again.

When a book has been bought or received as a gift, the boy should,
according to the old style, write therein his name, the date it came
into his possession, and the warning that it is his book. Book plates
are really unnecessary to a small library, unless the owner can well
afford them. But it is necessary that the owner's name be written in
each one. Now, should the boy lend his book? It is a question whether
the refusal to lend it is a selfish act or not. Like umbrellas, books
are often looked on as stray blessings to be taken in by any one who
chances to come across them or who needs them. The well-conceived
chaining idea has long since disappeared, but the purloining habit still
lingers. It and its handmaiden, borrowing, have wrought much confusion
and inconvenience in private libraries. Few people ever think to return
a book, or at least to return it in good condition. If the truth were
always told, the couplet of the satirist would fit the possessor of many
a repleted library:

"Next, o'er his books his eyes began to roll, In pleasant memory of all
he stole."

Selfish or not selfish, the wise thing for the boy to do is to refuse to
lend his books. It is too much like lending a meal or a friend; but they
can all be shared in the presence of the owner. If the boy's chum has a
hungry mind and clean hands, he may be asked to drop in and read the
book where it belongs, but not to carry it off elsewhere. Or better
still: the owner of the book who knows its riches may fall into the
habit of reading his favourite portions aloud to his boy friends who
have gathered in for that purpose. No single thing will awaken such a
love for good literature as the gathering of choice bits of it through
the ear. That is the good lesson that has come from the tent of the
Arab. And it is a lesson that readers must learn to-day. By no means let
the book of the boy fail to entertain his chums, but let it entertain
them at his own home.

Does any one who has laboured hard to build a house move out of it as
soon as it is completed? Does any one who has cultivated a friendship
give it up as soon as it is secure? Should any one who has learned to
thoroughly enjoy a good book throw it aside as soon as this is done?
Like the house or the friend, that book should continue to be a comfort
to him who has learned to appreciate it. In short, the boy must make
friends with a few books and then keep them without capitulation. If he
does, he may some day feel the truth of these verses:

                      "Books, we know,
          Are a substantial world, both pure and good;
          Round these with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
          Our pastimes and our happiness will grow."



          "A precious treasure had I long possessed,
           A little yellow canvas-covered book,
           A slender abstract of the Arabian Tales;
           And for companions in a new abode,
           When first I learnt, that this dear prize of mine
           Was but a block hewn from a mighty quarry--
           That there were four more volumes, laden all
           With kindred matter, 'twas to me, in truth,
           A promise scarcely earthly."          --WORDSWORTH.

WHAT edition of a book to buy is determined in about the same way as is
the pattern of our clothes--by a compromise between our means and our
likings. But in the case of our children it is a pretty well-known fact
that their likings must be directed and the means at their disposal
regulated--even in the purchase and reading of books. A boy left to
himself will about as often fall into extravagant habits of taste as he
will into extravagant habits in the use of his pocket money. He is no
more able to judge of the good investment of knowledge than of the good
investment of money. In the desire to appear as a good fellow among his
companions he disregards either economy of time or economy of means. He
needs to be shown the wisdom of saving along both lines. This can be
done in no better way than by indicating to him an edition of a book
that will require some sacrifice on his part to buy, and maybe to find
time to read. This may all have to be done without regard to his tastes.

To let the mere notions of a boy determine the edition of a book to be
bought and to estimate the merits of different editions by these same
notions is foolish. This is neither directing nor cultivating tastes.
The old plan of fencing in the pasture and of not letting the boy wander
too far afield was many times a very good plan. Tastes need to be
directed and boundaries fixed. Instead of permitting the boy to
determine the merits of the illustrations and the binding, he should
have pointed out to him repeatedly what good illustrations and good
binding are, and whether they can both be afforded.

Both tastes and circumstances may lead to the buying of a cheap,
modest-looking book. This may serve its owner well, and he may never
miss what might be called the charm of a well-illustrated, well-printed,
and well-bound edition--one pleasant to look into and to touch. He may
be as little able to judge of the artistic make-up of a book as of the
cut of his clothes or the quality of his food; what he wants is
something to satisfy hunger and to cover nakedness, in whatever form it
may be given. Because of this the boy can bury himself in the pages of
an ill-made book if the words tell an enchanting story. But it is safe
to say that most boys do like well-made books with good illustrations.

The pencil of the artist seems almost necessary to give the right touch
to a child's book that is great literature. Not in that they enable the
boy to get the story more easily are illustrations valuable, but in the
fact that they lend an artistic touch to a thing that is of itself a
work of art. A guess, however, at the kind of illustrations needed for
children's books would be very arbitrary. No one could hold that the
present-day coloured illustrations, with what is termed life in action
instead of decoration and convention, are the only right ones for
children. Nor are the old line-drawings in black and white to be
discarded. We need woodcuts as well as the engraved colour-plate; we
need Cruikshank, Tenniel, Greenaway, and Crane, as well as Brooke,
Rackham, Parrish, and Smith, for each has added a charm to some of the
great literature of childhood. May children's books continue to fare
well at the hands of talented artists. No more enduring work can be
wrought than that in which a keen and sympathetic imagination gives
expression to a picture that was first put into words.

The work in hand for the teacher is to secure the buying of as good an
edition of a book as the boy can afford. The fact should be kept before
him at all times that he can usually get the good edition if he is
willing to do so. If it should happen that in any particular year the
boy cannot afford all of the books that might be bought in that year,
the teacher should see that the one or two most valuable ones are
secured. For example, if he is a sixth-grade boy, he must by some means
manage to get "Robinson Crusoe" and "The Arabian Nights'
Entertainments." The teacher's own interest, enthusiasm, and good taste
will successfully solve what is to be done. As an aid in this direction
it is to be hoped that book stores will display a number of good
editions of each title of the standard books for children in order that
a more satisfactory choice may be made of any one title. And the stores
could do a good turn by having well-informed and painstaking clerks to
aid in the selection of the right edition.

In the list that follows, a few low-priced editions without
illustrations are given as well as the more artistic and expensive ones.
The teacher may not care to own the large illustrated edition that
appeals to the boy. Nor does he want an abridged edition. He may have to
depart from the list in order to get a complete copy of such great books
as "Don Quixote." For this particular title the teacher may range from
the single volume of Motteaux's translation in "Everyman's Library" (one
of the best issues of standard books for the teacher to select from at a
low price) to that of the excellent translation by Shelton issued in the
expensive "Tudor Translations." So does he need some complete edition of
Lane's translation of "A Thousand and One Nights" with Harvey's
illustrations if possible, such as the three-volume edition imported by
Scribner, the four-volume edition in "Bohn's Standard Library," or the
six-volume edition in the "Ariel Classics." Then again, it may happen
that an edition such as the two-shilling edition of Grimm translated by
Taylor and illustrated by Cruikshank, issued by the Oxford Press, is as
good for the teacher as for the boy. But the appended list will not
include and designate editions suitable for teachers only. The working
out of such a list by the teacher for himself will indicate his interest
in the task that is before him.

The list is not intended as a guide in building up an extensive library
for the use of children. Its chief merit, no doubt, is in the fact that
it is a limited list. And its first good result must be in the practice
of the boy's buying a few books that are good and that will be read and
reread. But little comment will be offered here and there on the
preference of one edition over another. All editions designated by a
star are well worth owning. A guess at the age for reading a book has
been made, but with considerable latitude because of the unequal reading
ability among children. The age from six to ten years, the primary
grades of public school, will be indicated by the letter "P" placed
before the title; the age from ten to fifteen years, the grammar grades
of school, will be indicated by the letter "G" placed before the title.
Any suggestions on included editions found unsatisfactory by
experience, or on good editions omitted, will be gladly received. The
sole aim herein is to present a list that will be of help to the teacher
and the boys under him in finding the best that publishers have to give
of the enduring literature for children.



P--but must be learned even if done in the college class in English.

*"Randolph Caldecott's Picture Books." Any or all of the following are
merrily done: "The House That Jack Built"; "Sing a Song of Sixpence";
"The Queen of Hearts"; "Hey Diddle Diddle, and Baby Bunting"; "Ride a
Cock Horse"; "The Frog That Would a-Wooing Go." 4to. Picture wrappers,
25 cents each. Warne.

"The Baby's Opera: Old Rhymes with New Dresses, Set to Music." Walter
Crane. Small 4to. Varnished boards, $1.50. Warne. A second volume is
"The Baby's Bouquet."

*"Our Old Nursery Rhymes." The original tunes harmonized by Alfred
Moffat. Illustrated in colour by H. Willebeek LeMair. 11 × 9. Cloth,
$1.50. McKay. Thirty well-known rhymes with dainty and aristocratic
illustrations of unusual beauty. A second volume is called "Little Songs
of Long Ago."

"Thirty Old-time Nursery Songs." Arranged by Joseph Moorat and pictured
by Paul Woodroffe. Large 4to. Boards, $2.00. Schirmer.

"Old Songs and Rounds." Decorated in full colour by Boutet de Monvel.
Arranged to music by Wider. Cloth, $2.25. Duffield. Both English and
French texts are given. There is nothing more charming in all the realm
of picture books, according to The Nation.

*"Mother Goose; or, The Old Nursery Rhymes." Illustrated in colour by
Kate Greenaway. 16mo. Decorated boards, 60 cents. Warne. Forty-four
rhymes done with this artist's usual charm and nursery propriety.

"The Only True Mother Goose Melodies." An exact reproduction of the text
and illustrations of the original edition printed in Boston in 1834 by
Munroe and Francis. An introduction by Edward Everett Hale. 16mo. Cloth,
60 cents. Houghton.

*"The Nursery Rhyme Book." Collected by Andrew Lang and illustrated by
Leslie Brooke. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Warne. Well illustrated.

"National Rhymes of the Nursery." Collected by George Saintsbury and
illustrated by Gordon Browne. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Stokes. A splendid
introduction for a teacher to read.

"Big Book of Nursery Rhymes." Edited by Walter Jerrold and illustrated
by Charles Robinson. 8vo. Cloth, $3.00. Dutton.

"A Book of Nursery Songs and Rhymes." Edited by S. Baring-Gould.
Illustrated and decorated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. McClurg.

"Mother Goose's Melodies for Children; or, Songs for the Nursery."
Edited by William A. Wheeler. Illustrated by numerous woodcuts. 4to.
Cloth, $1.50. Houghton.

*"Mother Goose." Illustrated in colour and black-and-white by Arthur
Rackham. 4to. Cloth, $2.50. Century. Fine for a child.

"Mother Goose." Illustrated in colour by Fanny Y. Cory. 4to. Cloth,
$1.50. Bobbs-Merrill.

"Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes." Illustrated in colour and black-and-white
by Tenniel, Hardy, and others. 4to. Cloth, $2.50. Dutton. A Nister

"Mother Goose." Edited by Clifton Johnson. Illustrated in duo-tone with
line cuts by Will Bradley and others. Square 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Baker.

"Nursery Rhymes." Chosen by Louey Chisholm. Illustrated in colour and
black-and-white by F. M. B. Blaikie. 4to. Cloth, $2.00. Stokes.

"Nursery Rhymes from Mother Goose." Illustrated in colour and
black-and-white by Grace E. Wiederseim. Large square 8vo. Cloth, $1.50.

"The Complete Mother Goose." Illustrated in colour and black-and-white
by Ethel Franklin Betts. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Stokes.

"Mother Goose's Nursery Rhymes." Collected by Walter Jerrold.
Illustrated by John Hassall. 6-1/2×9. Cloth, $1.50. Dodge.

"Our Nursery Rhyme Book." Edited by Letty and Frank Littlewood.
Illustrated by Honor C. Appleton. Small 4to. Cloth, $1.50. Dana.

"Favourite Rhymes of Mother Goose." Illustrated in colour by Maria L.
Kirk. Large 4to. Cloth, $1.25. Cupples.

*"Old Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes." Illustrated by E. Stewart Hardy.
Decorated cloth, 12mo, $1.25. Dutton.

"Mother Goose in Silhouettes." Cut by Katharine G. Buffum. 6×6. Cloth,
75 cents. Lathrop. Forty-one clever pictures to twenty-three old rhymes.

"Mother Goose Book of Nursery Rhymes and Songs." From Everyman's
Library. 12mo. Cloth, 35 cents; leather, 70 cents. Dutton.

*"Mother Goose: A Book of Nursery Rhymes." Collected by Charles Welsh.
Illustrated by Clara E. Atwood. 12mo. Cloth, 30 cents. Heath. A good
cheap edition.

"Heart of Oak Books: Book I." Edited by Charles Eliot Norton.
Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill. 12mo. Cloth, 25 cents. Heath.

*"This Little Pig's Picture Book." Illustrated by Walter Crane. 4to.
Cloth, $1.25. Lane. Contains also "The Fairy Ship and King Luckieboy's

"Mother Hubbard's Picture Book." Illustrated by Walter Crane. 4to.
Paper, $.25. Lane.

"April Baby's Book of Tunes, The." By the author of "Elizabeth and her
German Garden." Col. Ill. by Kate Greenaway. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

"Jingle Book." By Carolyn Wells. (Standard School Library.) Ill. 12mo.
Cloth, $.50. Macmillan.


*"The Children's Treasury of English Song." Selected by Francis Turner
Palgrave. 16mo. Cloth, $1.00. Macmillan. This is the best collection
that has yet been made for children. The publishers of this collection
could do a great service by issuing a large, attractive,
well-illustrated edition, adding to it a judicious selection from the
great volume of verse covering the last quarter of the nineteenth

"The Children's Garland from the Best Poets." Selected by Coventry
Patmore. 16mo. Cloth, $1.00. Macmillan.

"The Blue Book of Poetry." Selected by Andrew Lang. Illustrated by H. J.
Ford and Lancelot Speed. Large crown 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. Longmans.

"A Book of Famous Verse." Selected by Agnes Repplier. 16mo. Cloth, 75
cents. Houghton. A good selection, especially for boys.

"One Thousand Poems for Children: A Choice of the Best Verse Old and
New." Selected by Roger Ingpen. 8vo. Cloth, $1.25. Jacobs.

"Lyra Heroica: A Book of Verse for Boys." Selected and arranged by
William Ernest Henley. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25. Scribner.

"Our Children's Songs." Illustrated. 8vo. Cloth, $1.25. Harper.

*"The Listening Child: A Selection from the Songs of English Verse, Made
for the Youngest Readers and Hearers." Selected by Lucy W. Thatcher.
12mo. Cloth, $1.00. Macmillan. An edition at $.50.

"A Book of Verse for Children." Compiled by E. V. Lucas. 8vo. Cloth,
$2.00. Holt.

"The Posy Ring: A Book of Verse for Children." Selected by Kate Douglas
Wiggin and Nora Archibald Smith. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25. Doubleday.

"Poems Children Love." Edited by Peurhyn W. Coussens. 12mo. Cloth,
$1.25. Dodge.

"Little Folks' Book of Verse." Edited by Clifton Johnson. Illustrated.
12mo. Cloth, $1.00. Baker.

"A Treasury of Verse for Little Children." Selected by M. G. Edgar.
Illustrated in colour and black-and-white by W. Pogány. 8vo. Cloth,
$2.50. Crowell.

"The Golden Staircase." Selected by Louey Chisholm Illustrated in colour
by M. Dibdin Spooner. Large 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Putnam.

"A Child's Book of Old Verse." Selected and illustrated by Jessie Wilcox
Smith. Large 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Duffield.

"The Treasure Book of Children's Verse." Edited by Mabel and Lillian
Quiller-Couch. Illustrated in colour by M. Ethelred Gray. 4to. Cloth,
$5.00. Hodder. Popular edition, $2.00.

*"The Golden Treasury of the Best Songs and Lyric Poems in the English
Language." By Francis Turner Palgrave. 16mo. Cloth, $1.00. Macmillan.
Before entering high school, the boy should own some edition of this
great collection of verse.

"The Golden Treasury of Songs and Lyrics." Illustrated by Hugh Thompson,
W. Heath Robinson, and A. C. Michael. Small 4to. Cloth, $1.50. Hodder. A
good edition.

"The Golden Treasury of Songs and Lyrics." Illustrated in colour by
Maxfield Parrish. 4to. Cloth, $2.50. Duffield.

"Golden Treasury of Songs and Lyrics." Illustrated in colour by Anning
Bell. Square 8vo. Cloth, $3.00. Dutton.

"The Oxford Book of English Verse." By Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch. Crown
8vo. Cloth, $1.90; leather and India paper, $3.50. Oxford Press. A good
substitute for "The Golden Treasury."

"The Boy's Percy." Being old ballads of war, adventure, and love, from
Bishop Thomas Percy's "Reliques of Ancient Poetry." Edited for boys by
Sidney Lanier. Illustrated from original designs by E. B. Bonsell. 8vo.
Cloth, $2.00. Scribner. A capital book for any boy who is a real reader.

*"A Book of English Ballads." Collected by Hamilton Wright Mabie.
Decorative illustrations by George Wharton Edwards. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25.

"The Ballad Book." Katharine Lee Bates. 12mo. Cloth, $.50. Sibley. A
very good selection deserving a more attractive make-up.

"The Ballad Book." William Allingham. 16mo. Cloth, $1.00. Macmillan.

*"Robin Hood: His Deeds and Adventures." The original ballads
illustrated in colour by Lucy Fitch Perkins. 4to. Cloth, $1.00. Stokes.

"Ballads of Famous Fights." Illustrated in colour by W. H. C. Groome,
Archibald Webb, and Dudley Fennant. Large 4to. Decorated boards, $1.25.

"The Oxford Book of Ballads." Chosen and edited by Sir Arthur
Quiller-Couch. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $2.00; leather and India paper, $3.50.
Oxford Press. Very complete and good for the high school age.

"English Narrative Poems." Selected and edited by Claude M. Fuers and
Henry N. Sanborn. 24mo. (Pocket Classics.) Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.

"Story Telling Poems." Edited by Frances J. Olcott. Narrow 12mo. Cloth,
$1.25. Houghton.

"Old English Ballads and Folk Songs." (Pocket Classics.) Edited by W. D.
Armes. 24mo. Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.

"Collection of Poetry for School Reading." By M. White. 12mo. Cloth,
$.40. Macmillan.

"Another Book of Verses for Children." By E. V. Lucas. Col. Ill. 8vo.
$1.50. Macmillan.

"Nature Pictures by American Poets." By Annie R. Marble. 12mo. Cloth,
$1.25. Macmillan.

"The Sunday Book of Poetry for the Young." Selected by C. F. Alexander.
(Golden Treasury Series.) 16mo. Cloth, $1.00. Macmillan.

"English Poets, The. Selections." 4 vols. By T. Humphry Ward. Each,
12mo. Cloth, $1.00. Macmillan. For reference and for the use of the

"Treasury of Irish Poetry, A." (Globe.) By S. A. Brooke and T. W.
Rolleston. 12mo. Cloth, $1.75. Macmillan.


*P--"Dame Wiggins of Lee and Her Seven Wonderful Cats." Written
principally by a lady of ninety (Mrs. Sharp) and edited by John Ruskin.
Illustrated by Kate Greenaway. 16mo. Cloth, 1_s._ Allen.

*P--"John Gilpin's Ride." By William Cowper. Illustrated by Randolph
Caldecott. 4to. Paper, 25 cents. Warne.

*P--"Nonsense Songs." By Edward Lear. Illustrated in colour by Leslie
Brooke. Small 4to. Cloth, $2.00. Warne.

*P--"The Pied Piper of Hamelin." By Robert Browning. Illustrated in
colour by Kate Greenaway. Post 4to. Varnished boards, $1.50. Warne.

"The Pied Piper of Hamelin." Illustrated in colour by Hope Dunlap. 4to.
Cloth, $1.25. Rand.

"The Pied Piper of Hamelin." Illustrated in colour and black-and-white
by Margaret Terrant. 8vo. Decorated cloth, $1.25. Dutton.

*P--"A Child's Garden of Verses." By Robert Louis Stevenson. Illustrated
in colour and black-and-white by Florence Storer. Square 8vo. Cloth,
$1.50. Scribner.

"A Child's Garden of Verses." Illustrated by Charles Robinson. 12mo.
Cloth, $1.50. Scribner.

"A Child's Garden of Verses." Illustrated in colour by Jessie Wilcox
Smith. Royal 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Scribner.

"A Child's Garden of Verses." Illustrated by Bessie Collins Pease. 12mo.
Cloth, $1.50; leather, $2.00. Dodge.

"A Child's Garden of Verses." Illustrated in colour. 4to. Cloth, $2.00.

"A Child's Garden of Verses." Illustrated by Millicent Sowerby. 12mo.
Cloth, 75 cents. McKay.

"A Child's Garden of Verses." Illustrated. In the Ariel Classics. 16mo.
Limp leather, 75 cents. Putnam. Good for a teacher.

*P--"Songs of Innocence." By William Blake. Illustrated by Geraldine
Morris. 16mo. Cloth, 50 cents; leather, 75 cents. Lane.

"Songs of Innocence." Illustrated in colour by Honor C. Appleton. 4to.
Cloth, $1.50. Dana.

"Songs of Innocence." In Ariel Classics. 16mo. Leather, $.75. Putnam.

*P--"Sing Song: A Nursery Rhyme Book." By Christina Rossetti.
Illustrated by Arthur Hughes. 16mo. Cloth, $.80. Macmillan.

*P--"Lullaby Land." By Eugene Field. Selected by Kenneth Graham and
illustrated by Charles Robinson. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. Scribner.

*P--"Poems of Childhood." By Eugene Field. Illustrated in colour by
Maxfield Parrish. Royal 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Scribner.

*G--"The Rime of the Ancient Mariner." By Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
Illustrated in colour by W. Pogány. 4to. Cloth, $5.00. Crowell.

G--"Tales of a Wayside Inn." By Henry W. Longfellow. Edited by J. H.
Castleman. 24mo. Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.

*G--"The Song of Hiawatha." By Henry W. Longfellow. Cover in colour by
Maxfield Parrish, frontispiece in colour by N. C. Wyeth, and 400 text
illustrations by Frederic Remington. Square 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Houghton.
A good edition.

G--"Hiawatha." By Henry W. Longfellow. Illustrated by Harrison Fisher.
Large 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Bobbs-Merrill.

G--"The Children's Longfellow." Illustrated in colour. 8vo. Cloth,
$3.00. Houghton.

G--"Poetical Works." Sir Walter Scott. With a memoir by Palgrave. 12mo.
Cloth, $1.75. (New Globe Poets.) Macmillan.

G--"Lyrical Poems." Alfred Lord Tennyson. Edited by Palgrave. 16mo.
Cloth, $1.00. (Golden Treasury Series.) Macmillan.



*"Puss in Boots" and "Jack and the Beanstalk." Illustrated by H. M.
Brock. 10-1/2×9. Art boards, $1.00. Warne. Delightful!

*"Beauty and the Beast Picture Book." Done by Walter Crane. Large 4to.
Cloth, $1.25. Lane. Contains also "The Frog Prince" and "The Hind in the

*"The Golden Goose Book." Illustrated by Leslie Brooke. Square 8vo.
Cloth, $2.00. Warne. Contains also "The Three Bears," "The Three Pigs,"
and "The History of Tom Thumb." A delightful volume.

*"The Cruikshank Fairy Book." Illustrated by George Cruikshank. Crown
8vo. Cloth, $2.00; a cheaper edition at $1.00. Putnam. Contains the
famous stories of "Puss in Boots," "Jack and the Beanstalk," "Hop o' My
Thumb," and "Cinderella." Every child should own this book.

*"English Fairy Tales." Edited by Joseph Jacobs. Illustrated by John D.
Batton. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.25. Putnam. Too entertaining to miss. The
editor and illustrator have done almost as good work in "More English
Fairy Tales," "Celtic Fairy Tales," and "More Celtic Fairy Tales."

"English Fairy Tales." Edited by Ernest and Grace Rhys. Illustrated by
Anning Bell and Herbert Cole. 12mo. Cloth, $.50. Dutton. A few of the
more common tales.

"Mother Goose Nursery Tales." Illustrated in colour and black-and-white
by E. Stewart Hardy and others. 4to. Cloth, $2.50. Dutton. A Nister

"Tales of Past Times." As written down by Perrault. Illustrated by
Charles Robinson. 16mo. Cloth, $.40; leather, $.60. Dutton.

"Perrault's Fairy Tales." Illustrated with colour plates by Honor C.
Appleton. 4to. Cloth, $1.50. Dana.

"Perrault's Tales of Mother Goose." Edited by Charles Welsh and
illustrated after Doré. 12mo. Cloth, $.20. Heath.

"Mother Goose Nursery Tales." Edited by Walter Jerrold and illustrated
by A. E. Jackson. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25. Dutton.

"The English Fairy Book." Edited by Ernest Rhys. Illustrated in colours.
12mo. Cloth, $1.35. Stokes. Uniform with this may be had well-selected,
well-illustrated, and well-made volumes of Scottish and Italian fairy

"Fairy Gold: A Book of Old English Fairy Tales." Chosen by Ernest Rhys
and illustrated by Herbert Cole. 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Dutton. A cheap
edition in Everyman's Library.

"A Child's Book of Stories." Edited by Peurhyn Wingfield Coussens.
Illustrated in colour by Jessie Wilcox Smith. Quarto. Cloth, $2.25.
Duffield. Eighty-seven well-known tales.

"The Big Book of Fairy Tales." Selected and edited by Walter Jerrold.
Illustrated by Charles Robinson. Large 4to. Cloth, $2.50. Caldwell.
Thirty well-known tales.

*"The Fairy Book." Edited by Dinah Maria Mulock. Illustrated with 36
plates in colour by Walter Goble. Large 8vo. Cloth, $5.00. Macmillan. An
excellent edition of one of the best collections of fairy tales ever
made. Dainty and artistic coloured plates.

"The Blue Fairy Book." Edited by Andrew Lang. Illustrated by H. J. Ford
and G. P. Jacont Hood. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. Longmans. The dozen
colour fairy books are not all equally good, this being the best one.

"The Fairy Book." Collected by Dinah Maria Mulock. Illustrated. 12mo.
Cloth, $1.25. Harper. Thirty-six familiar tales.

"The Oak Tree Fairy Book." Edited by Clifton Johnson. Illustrated from
pictures by Willard Bonte. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Little. A
half-hundred stories with all of the terrible taken out. There are more
tree books.

"The Fairy Ring." Edited by Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora Archibald
Smith. Illustrated by E. M. Mackinstry. 8vo. Cloth, $1.35. Doubleday.
Other titles by the same editors are "Magic Casements," "Tales of
Wonder," and "Tales of Laughter."

"Fairy Tales Old and New." With colour plates and text illustrations by
Arthur Rackham and other artists. 8vo. Cloth, $1.25. Cassell.

"In Fairy Land: Tales Told Again." Edited by Louey Chisholm. Illustrated
in colour by Katharine Cameron. 8vo. Cloth, $3.00. Putnam. Twenty-six
familiar tales. A second volume is "The Enchanted Land."

"The Reign of King Oberon." Edited by Walter Jerrold and illustrated by
Charles Robinson. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. Dutton. A cheap edition in
Everyman's Library. In uniform editions are "The Reign of King Cole" and
"The Reign of King Herla."

"Household Tales and Fairy Stories." Illustrated by Sir John Gilbert and
others. 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. Dutton.

"Forty Famous Fairy Tales." From Jacobs, Grimm, Perrault, and Andersen.
Fully illustrated. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.00. Putnam.

"Fairy Tales Children Love." Edited by Charles Welsh. 12mo. Cloth,
$1.35. Dodge.

"The Sleeping Beauty and Other Fairy Tales from the Old French." Retold
by Sir Arthur T. Quiller-Couch. Illustrated in colour by Edmund Dulac.
4to. Cloth, $5.00. Hodder. Contains "Beauty and the Beast,"
"Cinderella," and "Bluebeard," as well as a good introduction and
artistic plates. Popular edition at $2.00.

"Old, Old Fairy Tales." Selected by Mrs. Valentine. Fully illustrated.
Square crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.75. Warne. Also in the Chandos Classics at
$.75. Thirteen good tales.

"The Fairy Book." (Everychild's Series.) By Kate Forrest Oswell. 16mo.
Ill. Cloth, $.40. Macmillan.

"The Twenty Best Fairy Tales." Illustrated in colour and
black-and-white by Lucy Fitch Perkins. 4to. Cloth, $1.00. Stokes.

"Favourite Fairy Tales." Illustrated by Peter Newell. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50.
Harper. Seventeen familiar stories.

"The Rose Fairy Book." Edited by Mrs. Herbert Strang. Illustrated by
Lillian A. Govey. Large 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. Doran.

"Where the Wind Blows: Being Ten Fairy Tales from Ten Nations."
Collected by Katharine Pyle and illustrated by Bertha Corson Day, in
colour. 12mo. Cloth, $2.00. Dutton.

"The Wild Flower Fairy Book." Compiled by Esther Singleton. Illustrated
by Charles Buckles Falls. 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. Dodd. Twenty-five tales
from all countries.

"Fairy Tales." Comtesse d'Aulnoy. Translated by J. R, Planché.
Illustrated by Gordon Browne and Lydia F. Emmet. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25.

"Fairy Tales." By Edward Laboulaye. Fully illustrated by Arthur A.
Dixon. 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Dutton. A Nister book.

"Fairy Tales." By William Hauff. Translated by L. L. Weedon. Fully
illustrated by Arthur A. Dixon. 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Dutton. A Nister

"The Hungarian Fairy Book." Collected by Nander Pogány and illustrated
in black and red by Willy Pogány. 12mo. Cloth, $1.35. Stokes. With all
of the terrible left in.

"Folk Tales From Many Lands." Collected by Lillian Gask and illustrated
by Willy Pogány. Large 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Crowell.

"Outlook Fairy Book for Little People." By Laura Winnington. Ill. 8vo.
Cloth, $1.00. Macmillan.

"Folk Tales of East and West." Collected by John Harrington Cox. 12mo.
Cloth, $1.00. Little.

"The Book of Folk Stories." Rewritten by Horace E. Scudder. 16mo. Cloth,
$.50. Houghton. Good for a teacher.

"Fairy Tales." Selected and adapted by W. J. Rolf. 12mo. Cloth, $.50.

"Fairy Tales." Illustrated by Charles Copeland. 16mo. Cloth, 2 vols.,
$.35 each. Ginn.

"Six Nursery Classics." Edited by M. V. O'Shea. Illustrated by Ernest
Fosbery. 12mo. Cloth, $.20. Heath. Contains "Dame Wiggins of Lee" with
the Greenaway pictures.

"Old World Wonder Stories." Edited by M. V. O'Shea. Illustrated by J. V.
Hollis. 12mo. Cloth, $.20. Heath.

*"The Children's Book." A collection of the best and most famous poems
and stories in the English language, chosen by Horace E. Scudder.
Illustrated in fifteen full-page plates and many text illustrations by
Doré, Chruikshank, and others. Cover design by Maxfield Parrish. Small
4to. Cloth, $2.50. Houghton. In this book are ballads, fables, fairy
stories from Grimm, Perrault, Andersen, "Arabian Nights'
Entertainments," and other sources, as well as "Goody Two Shoes,"
selections from "Gulliver's Travels," classic myths, and other
well-known stories. The best single book for a child to own. Big and


          P and G--or any age. Lovers of a good tale, both
          young and old, should be thankful for this work of
          Queen Scheherazade, done as it was to prevent her
          husband from cutting off her head. While kings are
          yet in fashion could not some other one succeed as

*"Fairy Tales from the Arabian Nights." Retold by Gladys Davidson and
illustrated by Helen Stratton. Large 4to. Cloth, 5_s._ Blackie. Eight
tales for young children.

"The Arabian Nights." Selected and retold by Gladys Davidson.
Illustrated by Helen Stratton. Large crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Caldwell.

*"Fairy Tales from the Arabian Nights." Edited by E. Dixon. Illustrated
by John D. Batton. Large 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Dent. Sixteen of the
better-known tales told for boys and girls. An attractive edition.

"The Arabian Nights." Edited by Andrew Lang and illustrated by H. J.
Ford. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. Longmans.

"The Arabian Nights." Edited by W. H. D. Rouse. Illustrated in colour
and black-and-white by Walter Paget. 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Dutton. A Nister
book. Eight tales that are well known.

"The Arabian Nights: Their Best Known Tales." Edited by Kate Douglas
Wiggin and Nora Archibald Smith. Illustrated in colour by Maxfield
Parrish. Square 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Scribner. Eleven tales.

"The Arabian Nights." Illustrated in colour and black-and-white by Rene
Bull. Large 8vo. Cloth, $3.50. Dodd.

"Stories from the Arabian Nights." Retold by Laurence Houseman.
Illustrated by Edmund Dulac, with 50 colour plates. Large square 8vo.
Cloth, $5.00. Hodder. Six tales. Issued in an edition at $1.50.

"Arabian Nights." A six-volume edition from the Lane text with additions
by Stanley Lane-Poole. 16mo. Leather, $.75 a volume. Putnam. In the
Ariel Classics. Good for the teacher.

"The Arabian Nights' Entertainments." Translated by E. W. Lane. Edited
by S. Lane-Poole. 4 vols. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00 each. Macmillan.

"Arabian Nights' Entertainments." Translated by Edward William Lane.
Illustrated from the original Lane designs by eminent artists. Royal
8vo. Cloth, $1.50. McKay. Good for the teacher.

*"Fairy Tales from the Arabian Nights." 12mo. Cloth, $.35; leather,
$.75. Dutton. Everyman's Library.

"The Arabian Nights' Entertainments." Edited by George Tyler Townsend.
Fully illustrated. Square crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.75. Warne. Issued also in
the Chandos Classics at $.75.

"The Arabian Nights." Illustrated by W. Heath Robinson, Helen Stratton,
and others. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Dodge.

*"The Arabian Nights." Edited by Frances J. Olcott, from the Lane
translation. Illustrated by Munro Orr. 12mo. Cloth, $2.50. Heath. A
judicious selection of stories.

"The Arabian Nights." Edited by Clifton Johnson. Illustrated by Casper
Emerson and Leon D'Elmo. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00. Baker.

"Stories from the Arabian Nights." Illustrated. 16mo. Half leather,
$.60. Houghton. In the Riverside School Library.

"Arabian Nights." Illustrated. 16mo. Cloth, $.50. Crowell.

"The Arabian Nights." Selected and edited by Edward Everett Hale. 12mo.
Cloth, $.45. Ginn.

"Stories from the Arabian Nights." 12mo. Cloth, $.60. American.



*"Grimm's Fairy Tales: Selected and Edited for Little Folks."
Illustrated by Helen Stratton. Large 4to. Cloth, 6_s._ Blackie. Fifteen
tales well done.

"Grimm's Fairy Tales." Translated by L. L. Weeden. Illustrated in colour
by Ada Dennis and black-and-white by E. Stewart Hardy. 4to. Cloth,
$2.50. Dutton. A Nister book. Thirty-two tales illustrated for young

*"Household Stories." Translated from the German of the Brothers Grimm
by Lucy Crane and done into pictures by Walter Crane. 12mo. Cloth,
$1.50. Macmillan. In the New Cranford Series. "A lasting joy."

"Grimm's Household Tales." Translated by Marion Edwards. Illustrated by
R. Anning Bell. 12mo. Cloth, $2.50. Dutton. Forty-nine tales.

"Grimm's Household Stories." Edited and illustrated by J. R. Monsell, in
colour and black-and-white. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25. Cassell.

*"Grimm's Fairy Tales." From the Taylor translation with an introduction
by John Ruskin. Illustrated in colour by Charles Folkard. 8vo. Cloth,
6_s._ Black. Fifty-six tales.

"Fairy Tales from Grimm." With an introduction by S. Barring-Gould and
illustrations by Gordon Browne. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Stokes. Forty-four

"Grimm's Fairy Tales." All of the best-known stories edited by Walter
Jerrold. Illustrated in colour and black-and-white by Charles Robinson.
12mo. Cloth, $1.25. Dutton.

"Grimm's Fairy Tales." Illustrated in colour by Hope Dunlap. Large 8vo.
Cloth, $1.20. Rand.

"Grimm's Fairy Tales." Translated by Mrs. Edgar Lucas and illustrated by
Arthur Rackham. Large 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. Lippincott. Sixty-three tales.

"Grimm's Fairy Tales and Stories." A complete translation by Mrs. H. B.
Paull. Fully illustrated in colour and black-and-white. Square 8vo.
Cloth, $1.75. Warne. Also in the Chandos Classics at $.75.

"Grimm's Fairy Tales." Illustrated with colour plates by Noel Pocock.
Large 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. Doran. Fifty-five tales.

"The House in the Woods and Other Fairy Stories." Illustrated in colour
and pen-and-ink drawings by Leslie Brooke. Large 8vo. Boards, $1.35.

"Grimm's Animal Stories." Decorations and pictures in colour by John
Rae. Small 4to. Cloth, $1.50. Duffield.

*"Gammer Grethel; or, Fairy Tales and Stories." The original stories as
taken down from a peasant woman by Jacob Grimm. Illustrated with
woodcuts after George Cruikshank. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00. In Bohn's
Illustrated Library. Macmillan.

"The Popular Stories Collected by the Brothers Grimm." A reprint of the
first English edition, with notes and illustrations by George
Cruikshank. 12mo. Cloth, $.50. Oxford Press.

"Grimm's Fairy Tales." 12mo. Cloth, $.35; leather, $.70. In Everyman's
Library. Dutton. Any one of the last three would be good for the

"Grimm's Household Tales." Illustrated. 16mo. Half leather, $.60.
Houghton. In the Riverside School Library.

"Grimm's Tales." Translated by Lucy Crane. Illustrated. 16mo. Cloth,
$.50. Crowell.

"Grimm's Fairy Tales." Edited by J. H. Fassett. (Pocket Classics
Series.) 24mo. Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.

*"Grimm's Fairy Tales." Illustrated with 50 colour plates and
black-and-white drawings by Arthur Rackham. 7-1/2×10. Cloth, $6.00.
Doubleday. An elegant edition. In cheaper form at $1.50.



*"Andersen's Fairy Stories for Youngest Children." Translated by Mrs. E.
Lucas and illustrated by Helen Stratton. Large 4to. Cloth, 5_s._

*"Wonder Stories Told for Children." Illustrated. Crown 8vo. Cloth,
$1.00. Houghton.

"Andersen's Fairy Tales." Illustrated in colour by A. Duncan Carse. 8vo.
Cloth, 6_s._ Black.

"Andersen's Fairy Tales." Translated by Mrs. E. Lucas. Illustrated by
Thomas, Charles, and William Robinson. 12mo. Cloth, $2.50. Dutton.
Thirty-eight of the best-known tales.

*"Fairy Tales from Hans Andersen." Translated by Mrs. E. Lucas.
Illustrated with colour plates and line drawings by Maxwell Armfield.
Large 8vo. Cloth, $3.00. Dutton. Forty-one tales.

"Fairy Tales from Hans Andersen." Edited by Walter Jerrold. Illustrated
in colour and black-and-white by F. Papé. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25. Dutton.

"Fairy Tales from Hans Andersen." Translated by W. Angledorff.
Illustrated by E. Stewart Hardy, in colour and black-and-white. 4to.
Cloth, $2.50. Dutton. A Nister book. Twenty-nine tales.

"Andersen's Fairy Tales." Introduction by Edward Everett Hale.
Illustrated by Helen Stratton. Large square 8vo. Cloth, $1.50.

"Fairy Tales from Hans Andersen." With an introduction by Edward Clodd
and illustrations by Gordon Browne. Large 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Stokes.
Twenty-five tales.

"Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales." Illustrated by J. J. Mora. 4to. Cloth,
$1.00. Dana.

"Danish Legends and Fairy Tales." Fully illustrated by wood engravings.
12mo. Cloth, $1.50. In Bohn's Illustrated Library. Macmillan.

"Andersen's Fairy Tales." 12mo. Cloth, $.35; leather, $.70. In
Everyman's Library. Dutton. Either of the last two is convenient for the

"Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales." Fully illustrated. Square crown 8vo.
Cloth, $1.75. Warne. Also in the Chandos Classics at $.75.

"Andersen's Fairy Tales." Illustrated. 16mo. Cloth, $.50. Crowell.

"Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales." Translated by H. Oscar Sommer.
Illustrated in colour by Cecile Walton. Large 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Stokes.

*"Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales and Stories." Translated by H. L.
Breakstead, with an introduction by Edmund Gosse and illustrations by
Hans Tegner. Imperial 4to. Cloth, $5.00. Century. Forty-two stories.

"Stories from Hans Andersen." Illustrated with 28 colour-plates by
Edmund Dulac. 4to. Cloth, $5.00. Doran. Six tales, including "The Snow

"Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales." Illustrated in colour by W. Heath
Robinson. 4to. Cloth, $3.50. Heath.

"The Snow Queen and Other Stories from Hans Andersen." Illustrated in
colour-plates by Edmund Dulac. Small 4to. Cloth, $2.00. Doran.

"Danish Fairy Legends and Tales." By Hans Andersen. Trans, by Caroline
Peachey and H. W. Dulcken. Introd. by Sarah C. Brooks. (Pocket Classics
Series.) 24mo. Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.



*"Little Goody Two Shoes." Illustrated by Marion L. Peabody after the
woodcuts of the original edition of 1765. 12mo. Cloth, $.20. Heath.

"Little Goody Two Shoes." Illustrated by Jessie M. King. 16mo. Leather,
$.75. Dutton.

"Little Goody Two Shoes." Found in the second book of the "Heart of Oak
Books." Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill. 12mo. Cloth, $.35. Heath.



*"Granny's Wonderful Chair and the Tales That It Told." Edited by M. V.
O'Shea. Illustrated by Clara E. Atwood after Mrs. Seymour Lucas. 12mo.
Cloth, $.30. Heath. Fairy tales of great merit.

"Granny's Wonderful Chair and Its Tales of Fairy Times." Illustrated in
colour by W. H. Margetson. Square 12mo. Cloth, $.50. Doran.

"Granny's Wonderful Chair." 12mo. Cloth, $.35; leather, $.70. In
Everyman's Library. Dutton.




*"The Rose and the Ring." With an introduction by Edward Everett Hale
and woodcuts after the originals by Thackeray. 12mo. Cloth, $.20. Heath.

"The Rose and the Ring." Illustrated. 16mo. Cloth, $.50. Macmillan.

"The Rose and the Ring." 16mo. Leather, $.75. In Ariel Classics. Putnam.

"The Rose and the Ring." Illustrated. 16mo. Cloth, $1.25. Dutton.

*"The Rose and the Ring." The original illustrations with others in
colour by J. R. Monsell. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Crowell.



*"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland." Illustrated by Sir John Tenniel.
12mo. Cloth, $1.00. Macmillan. It is hard to prefer any other edition to
this one.

"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland." Illustrated by Sir John Tenniel.
Crown 8vo. Cloth, $.75. Putnam.

"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland." Illustrated by John Tenniel with
colour plates by Maria L. Kirk. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25. Stokes.

"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland." Illustrated by John Tenniel. 16mo.
Leather, $.75. Putnam. In the Ariel Classics. Good for the teacher.

"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland." Illustrated. 16mo. Cloth, $.50.

*"Alice in Wonderland." Illustrated in colour by Arthur Rackham. 8vo.
Cloth, $1.40. Doubleday. A fine edition.

"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland." Illustrated in colour and
black-and-white by Bessie Collins Pease. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Dodge.

"Alice in Wonderland." Illustrated in colour and line by George Soper.
Square 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Baker.

"Alice in Wonderland." Illustrated in colour and black-and-white by
Charles Robinson. 8vo. Cloth, $1.10. Cassell.

"Alice in Wonderland." Pictures in colour by Millicent Sowerby. 8vo.
Cloth, $1.25. Duffield.

"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland." (Standard School Library.) Ill.
12mo. Cloth, $.50. Macmillan.

"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland." Illustrated in colour and line by W.
H. Walker. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00. Lane.

"Alice in Wonderland." With an introduction by E. S. Martin and
illustrations by Peter Newell. 8vo. Cloth, $3.00. Harper.

"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland." Illustrated with 90 coloured plates
by Henry Rosentree. Large 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Nelson.



*"Through the Looking Glass." Illustrated by Sir John Tenniel. 12mo.
Cloth, $1.00. Macmillan.

"Through the Looking Glass." Illustrated by Sir John Tenniel. Crown 8vo.
Cloth, $.75. Putnam.

"Through the Looking Glass." Illustrated by Sir John Tenniel. 16mo.
Leather, $.75. In the Ariel Classics. Putnam.

"Through the Looking Glass." Illustrated in colour and pen-and-ink
sketches by Bessie Collins Pease. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Dodge.

"Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There." (Standard School
Library.) 12mo. Cloth, $.50. Macmillan.

"Through the Looking Glass." Illustrated by Peter Newell. 8vo. Cloth,
$.60. Harper.

"Through the Looking Glass." Illustrated. 16mo. Cloth, $.50. Crowell.

"Through the Looking Glass." Bound with "Alice in Wonderland."
Illustrated in colour by Eleanore Plaisted Abbot. Original illustrations
by Tenniel. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. Jacobs.



"Water Babies." Illustrated in colour by Katherine Cameron. 8vo. Cloth,
$2.50. Stokes.

*"Water-Babies." With an introduction by Rose G. Kingsley and
illustrations in colour by Margaret W. Tarrant. 8vo. Cloth, $2.50.

"The Water-Babies." Illustrated in colour and black-and-white by Arthur
Dixon. 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Dutton. A Nister book.

"The Water-Babies." Illustrated in colour and black-and-white by George
Soper. Square 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Baker.

"The Water-Babies." Illustrated in colour by Ethel Everett. 12mo.
Decorated cloth, $1.25. Little.

*"The Water-Babies." Illustrated by Linley Sanbourne. 12 mo. Cloth,
$1.25. Macmillan.

*"The Water-Babies." Illustrated by C. E. Brock. 12mo. Cloth, $.80.

"Water-Babies." Illustrated in colour by Agnes Foringe. Square 12mo.
Cloth, $.50. Doran.

"The Water-Babies." Illustrated. 16mo. Cloth, $.50. Crowell.

"Water-Babies, The." (Standard School Library.) Ill. 12mo. Cloth, $.50.



"At the Back of the North Wind." Illustrated in colour by Frank C. Papé
and in black-and-white by Arthur Hughes. Large crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.50.

"At the Back of the North Wind." Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

*"At the Back of the North Wind." With the original illustrations by
Arthur Hughes and plates in colour by Maria L. Kirk. Large 8vo. Cloth,
$1.50. Lippincott.

"At the Back of the North Wind." Illustrated in colour. 8vo. Cloth,
3_s._ 6_d._ Blackie.



          P--This enduring form of literature may be read in
          almost any grade. The edition is to be determined
          largely by the grade for which it is designed. In
          point of effectiveness in showing human
          experiences and weaknesses by means of animal
          action, the classic fable has never been equalled
          by any other form of literature. He would be a
          rash man who would claim that Lincoln owed to
          Euclid more of his power to think out a question
          and carry his point than he did to Æsop. Fables
          are imaginative literature, and in that lies their
          power rather than in their didactic assertion that
          later became attached as a moral to be pointed.
          They need but one moral, as G. K. Chesterton so
          aptly observes; for nothing in this world has more
          than one moral.

*"The Fables of Æsop." Selected and told anew by Joseph Jacobs.
Illustrated by Richard Heighway. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. In the New Cranford
Series. Macmillan. Good for younger children, but should be printed
without notes and advertisements.

*"Æsop's Fables." Illustrated by Arthur Rackham, in colour-plates. 12mo.
Cloth, $1.50. Doubleday. An attractive edition, except the poor binding,
for older children. The introduction by G. K. Chesterton is very
readable for grown-ups.

*"A Hundred Fables of Æsop." From the English version of Sir Roger
L'Estrange with an introduction by Kenneth Grahame and illustrations by
Percy J. Billinghurst. Square 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Lane. Good in its
quaint English.

"Æsop's Fables." Illustrated by Boyd Smith. 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. Century.

"The Fables of Æsop." Illustrated with colour-plates by Edward Detmond.
Large 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. Doran.

"Æsop's Fables." Illustrated in colour and black-and-white by Harrison
Weir. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Harper.

"Æsop's Fables." Edited by Gordon Holmes and illustrated by Charles
Folkard. 8vo. Cloth, 6_s._ Black.

"Big Book of Fables." Edited by Walter Jerrold and illustrated in
colour and black-and-white by Charles Robinson. Royal 8vo. Cloth, $3.00.

"Æsop's Fables." Illustrated in colour and black-and-white by J. M.
Condé. 8vo. Cloth, $1.25. Moffat.

"Æsop's Fables." Illustrated in colour and line by Lucy Fitch Perkins.
4to. Cloth, $1.00. Stokes.

"The Book of Fables." Chosen and phrased by Horace E. Scudder. 16mo.
Cloth, $.50. Houghton. Good.

"Æsop's Fables." Translated from the original sources by the Reverend
Thomas James. Illustrated by Sir John Tenniel. In the Ariel Classics.
16mo. Leather, $.75. Putnam. A useful old edition for the teacher and
for the older boy who will read a dainty book done in red binding.

"Æsop's Fables." Illustrated. In the Chandos Classics. 12mo. Cloth,
$.75. Warne. Good for the teacher.

"Æsop's Fables." Edited by J. H. Stickney. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth,
$.35. Ginn.

"The Talking Beasts: A Book of Fable Wisdom." Edited by Kate Douglas
Wiggin and Nora Archibald Smith. Illustrated by Harold Nelson. 12mo.
Cloth, $1.25. Doubleday. From Æsop, La Fontaine, Bidpai, and other

*"Select Fables from La Fontaine adapted from the Translation of Elizier
Wright for the Use of the Young." Illustrated in colour by Boutet de
Monvel. 11 x 9. Cloth, $2.25. Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge.
No better illustrations have yet appeared to any child's book.



          Though abridged texts are generally a presumption
          and a blunder, there is little warrant for school
          children's having more than the first two voyages,
          to Lilliput and to Brobdingnag, of this remarkable
          book. An expurgated edition is probably necessary
          in an age accustomed to a cloak of conventional
          insinuation in a story rather than to the blunt
          frankness that obtained in the times of Swift.

*"Gulliver's Voyages to Lilliput and Brobdingnag." Illustrated in colour
by P. A. Stozios. 8vo. Cloth, $2.25. Holt.

"Gulliver's Travels into Several Remote Nations of the World."
Illustrated in colour and black-and-white by Arthur Rackham. 8vo. Cloth,
$2.50. Dutton.

"Gulliver's Travels." Adapted for the young by W. B. Scott. Illustrated
in colour and black-and-white by A. E. Jackson. 4to. Cloth, $2.50.
Dutton. A Nister book.

"Gulliver's Travels." (Pocket Classics Series.) Edited by C. Johnson.
24mo. Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.

"Gulliver's Travels." Illustrated by Stephen de la Bere. 12mo. Cloth,
$2.00. Macmillan.

*"Gulliver's Travels." With an introduction by Sir Henry Craik and
illustrations by C. E. Brock. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. In the New Cranford
Series. Macmillan. All of the voyages with old-fashioned spelling and
capitalization that make it an attractive edition to the student.

*"Gulliver's Travels." The voyages to Lilliput and Brobdingnag,
illustrated by Arthur Rackham. 12mo. Cloth, $.50. Dutton. Good edition.

"Gulliver's Travels." Illustrated in imitation of woodcuts by Louis
Rhead. Introduction by William Dean Howells. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Harper.

"Gulliver's Travels." Reprinted from the first edition, expurgated and
revised. Illustrated by Herbert Cole. Square 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. Lane.

"Gulliver's Travels." Illustrated by Gordon Browne. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00.

*"Gulliver's Travels." The separate voyages each in a single volume. In
the Ariel Classics. 16mo. Leather, $.75. Putnam.

"Gulliver's Travels." Illustrated. 16mo. Half-leather, $.60. In the
Riverside School Library. Houghton.

"Gulliver's Travels." In Everyman's Library. 12mo. Cloth, $.35; leather,
$.75. Dutton.

"Gulliver's Travels." Illustrated. 16mo. Cloth, $.50. Crowell.

*"Gulliver's Travels." The voyages to Lilliput and Brobdingnag only.
Edited by T. M. Balliet. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $.30. Heath.

"Gulliver's Travels." Illustrated in colour by Leo Winter. Large 8vo.
Cloth, $1.20. Rand.



*"The Pilgrim's Progress." Illustrated in colour and black-and-white by
Frank C. Papé. 8vo. Cloth, $3.00. Dutton. A stately edition of both

"The Pilgrim's Progress." Fourteen etchings by William Strang. A new and
cheaper reissue of the original plates. Large 8vo. Cloth, $3.00. Dutton.
A good edition.

"The Pilgrim's Progress." With an introduction by the Bishop of Durham.
Illustrated in colour and black-and-white by Walter Paget. 8vo. Cloth,
$2.50. A Nister book. Dutton.

"The Pilgrim's Progress." Illustrated in colour by Byam Shaw. Square
8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Scribner importation. A fine edition.

"The Pilgrim's Progress." With a life of the author by the Reverend John
Brown. Illustrated in colour by James Clark. Super royal 8vo. Cloth,
$3.40. Cassell.

"The Pilgrim's Progress." Illustrated in colour by Gertrude Hammond.
8vo. Cloth, $2.00. Macmillan.

*"The Pilgrim's Progress." Introduction by the Reverend H. R. Haweis.
Illuminated pages and 120 designs by the Brothers Rhead. Large 4to.
Cloth, $1.50. Century. This attractive edition contains the first part

"The Pilgrim's Progress." Illustrated by Harold Copping. Large 12mo.
Cloth, $1.00. Revel. Has the authentic text with illustrations in
Puritan dress.

*"The Pilgrim's Progress." Illustrated. 16mo. Half-leather, $.60.
Houghton. In the Riverside School Library.

"The Pilgrim's Progress." Illustrated. 16mo. Cloth, $.50. Crowell.

*"The Pilgrim's Progress." Edited by Canon Venable and Mabel Peacock.
With illustrations by George Cruikshank. 12mo. Cloth, $.50. Oxford

"The Pilgrim's Progress." 12mo. Linen boards, $.75. In the Chandos
Classics. Warne.

*"The Pilgrim's Progress." Edited by Ernest C. Noyes. 16mo. Cloth, $.40.
The first part only. Merrill.

"The Pilgrim's Progress." In Everyman's Library. 12mo. Cloth, $.35;
leather, $.70. Dutton.

"The Pilgrim's Progress." Edited by D. H. Montgomery. 12mo. Cloth, $.30.



*"Robinson Crusoe." Illustrated with 24 separately mounted colour plates
by Noel Pocock. Large 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. Hodder. A fine edition,
including the first part only. The cover page, illustrated with nothing
but a human footprint in the sand, could not have been more happily

*"Robinson Crusoe." Illustrated with over a hundred pen-and-ink
drawings, head-and-tail pieces, and decorations done in old woodcut
style by the Brothers Rhead. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Harper. The first part
only. A good edition.

*"Robinson Crusoe." Illustrated in colour and with chapter headings by
E. Boyd Smith. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Houghton. The first part only.

"Robinson Crusoe." Illustrated in colour by W. B. Robinson. Large 12mo.
Cloth, $1.50. Stokes.

"Robinson Crusoe." Edited by Walter Jerrold and illustrated in colour
and black-and-white by Archibald Webb. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25. Dutton.

"Robinson Crusoe." Edited by H. Kingsley. Illustrated in colour. 12mo.
Cloth, $1.25. Macmillan.

"Robinson Crusoe." Illustrated by Gordon Browne. Crown 8vo. Cloth,
$1.25. Scribner importation.

"Robinson Crusoe." Illustrated in colour by Eleanore P. Abbott. 12mo.
Cloth, $1.00. Jacobs.

"Robinson Crusoe." Edited with introduction and notes by Charles R.
Gaston. (Pocket Classics Series.) 24mo. Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.

*"Robinson Crusoe." Edited by Ernest C. Noyes. 16mo. Cloth, $.50. The
first part only. Merrill.

"Robinson Crusoe." Illustrated in colour and black-and-white by Walter
Paget. 8vo. Cloth, $1.40. Cassell. Both parts.

"Robinson Crusoe." Illustrated in colour and line by J. A. Symington.
12mo. Cloth, $2.50. A Nister book. Dutton. Both parts.

"Robinson Crusoe." Reprinted from the original edition of 1718 with an
introduction by William Lee, Esq. Illustrated by Ernest Griset. Square
crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.75. Warne. Also in the Chandos Classics at $.75.

"Robinson Crusoe." Illustrated. 16mo. Half-leather, $.60. In the
Riverside School Library. Houghton.

*"Robinson Crusoe." Reprinted from the edition of 1719. With an
introduction by Edward Everett Hale and illustrations by C. E. Brock and
D. L. Munro. 12mo. Cloth, $.60. Heath. The first part only.

"Robinson Crusoe." In Everyman's Library. 12mo. Cloth, $.35; leather,
$.70. Dutton.

"Robinson Crusoe." 16mo. Cloth, $.50. Crowell.

"Robinson Crusoe." 12mo. Cloth, $.25. Cassell.




*"Tales from Shakespeare." Illustrated in colour and black-and-white by
Arthur Rackham. 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Dutton.

"Tales from Shakespeare." Illustrated in colour and black-and-white by
George Soper. Square 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Baker. An attractive edition.

*"Tales from Shakespeare." Illustrated by Byam Shaw. 8vo. Cloth, $1.00.
Macmillan. An 8vo. edition at $2.50.

"Tales from Shakespeare." Illustrated in colour by N. M. Price. 8vo.
Cloth, $2.50. Scribner importation.

"Tales from Shakespeare." Illustrated by twelve plates from the Boydell
Gallery. 8vo. Cloth, $3.00. Scribner importation.

"Tales from Shakespeare." Illustrated in colour and black-and-white by
Walter Paget. 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. A Nister book. Dutton. With the
original preface and with "Pericles" omitted.

"Tales from Shakespeare." Introduction by Andrew Lang. Illustrated.
Crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Lippincott.

*"Tales from Shakespeare." Illustrated by Romney, Hamilton, Kauffman,
and others, selected from the Boydell engravings. 12mo. Cloth, $.50.
Oxford Press.

"Tales from Shakespeare." Illustrated. 16mo. Half-leather, $.60. In the
Riverside School Library. Houghton.

"Tales from Shakespeare." Illustrated by Homer W. Colby after Pillé.
12mo. Cloth, $.40. Heath.

"Tales from Shakespeare." Illustrated. 12mo. Linen boards, $.75. In the
Chandos Classics. Warne.

"Tales from Shakespeare." 12mo. Cloth, $.35; leather, $.70. In
Everyman's Library. Dutton.

"Tales from Shakespeare." 16mo. Cloth, $.50. Crowell.

"Tales from Shakespeare." 12mo. Cloth, $.25. Cassell.

"Lamb's Tragedies and Comedies." Edited by W. J. Rolfe. 12mo. Cloth,
$.60. American.

"Lamb: Tales from Shakespeare." Edited by A. Ainger. (Pocket Classics
Series.) 24mo. Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.

          It might not be amiss to insert several other
          volumes of tales from Shakespeare's plays at this
          point. Among these the following have proved
          themselves good:

"Shakespeare in Tale and Verse." By G. Louis Hufford. 12mo. Cloth,
$1.00. Macmillan.

"The Shakespeare Story-Book." Told by Mary Macleod. With an introduction
by Sidney Lee and illustrations by Gordon Browne. 8vo. Cloth, 6_s._
Gardner. Sixteen tragedies and comedies.

"Stories from Shakespeare." Told by Thomas Carter. Illustrated in colour
by Gertrude Hammond. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Crowell.

*"Shakespeare's Stories of the English Kings." Illustrated in colour by
Gertrude Hammond. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Crowell. This and the preceding
volume are rich in excerpts from the plays. After Lamb has been
appreciated, the reading of these stories will help the boy along toward
the plays in the original text.

"Historic Tales from Shakespeare." Told by Sir Arthur T. Quiller-Couch.
12mo. Cloth, $1.50. Scribner.

"A Midsummer Night's Dream." Edited by Ernest C. Noyes. 24mo. Cloth,
$.25. (Pocket Classics.) Macmillan.

"The Tempest." Edited by S. C. Newson. 24mo. Cloth, $.25. (Pocket
Classics.) Macmillan.

"The Merchant of Venice." Edited by Charlotte Underwood. 24mo. Cloth,
$.25. (Pocket Classics.) Macmillan.



"Hawthorne's Wonder-Book." (Pocket Classics Series.) Edited by L. E.
Wolfe. 24mo. Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.

"Hawthorne's Tanglewood Tales." (Pocket Classics Series.) Edited by R.
H. Beggs. 24mo. Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.

*"A Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys." Illustrated in colour and
decorated by Walter Crane. Square 8vo. Cloth, $3.00. Houghton. A fine

*"Tanglewood Tales." Illustrated and decorated by George Wharton
Edwards. 4to. Cloth, $2.50. Houghton.

*"The Wonder-Book and Tanglewood Tales." Illustrated in colour by
Maxfield Parrish. Large 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Duffield. A very good

*"A Wonder-Book and Tanglewood Tales." Illustrated in colour by H.
Granville Fell. 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Dutton. The pictures have a classic

"A Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys." Illustrated by F. S. Church. 4to.
Cloth, $2.50. Houghton.

"A Wonder-Book." Illustrated in colour by Lucy Fitch Perkins. 4to.
Cloth, $1.00. Stokes.

"The Wonder-Book and Tanglewood Tales." Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00.

"A Wonder-Book." Illustrated in colour by Leo Winter. Large 8vo. Cloth,
$1.20. Rand.

"Tanglewood Tales." Illustrated in colour by Leo Winter. Large 8vo.
Cloth, $1.20. Rand.

"Tanglewood Tales." Illustrated in colour by George Soper. 12mo. Cloth,
$1.50. Crowell.

*"A Wonder-Book and Tanglewood Tales." Illustrated 8vo. Half-leather,
$.75. In the Riverside School Library. Houghton.

"Wonder-Book and Tanglewood Tales." In Everyman's Library. 12mo. Cloth,
$.35; leather, $.75. Dutton.

"Wonder-Book." Illustrated. 16mo. Cloth, $.50. Crowell.

"Tanglewood Tales." Illustrated. 16mo. Cloth, $.50. Crowell.



          It is strange that educators and publishers have
          not recognized the merits of this work and that it
          has not been issued in a well-illustrated form.
          Lamb's own estimate of it in a letter to a friend
          is right: "Chapman is divine and my abridgement
          has not quite emptied him of his divinity."

*"The Adventures of Ulysses." Edited by W. P. Trent and illustrated
after Flaxman. 12mo. Cloth, $.25. Heath.

"The Adventures of Ulysses." 12mo. Cloth, $.30. Ginn.

*"The Adventures of Ulysses." With an introduction by Andrew Lang.
Square 8vo. Cloth, $.50. Longmans.

"The Heart of Oak Books." Book IV. Illustrations after Flaxman, Turner,
and Burne-Jones. 12mo. Cloth, $.45. Heath.



"Heroes; or, Greek Fairy Tales for My Children." Illustrated in colour
by T. H. Robinson. 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Dutton. A Nister book.

*"The Heroes; or, Greek Fairy Tales for My Children." Illustrated in
colour and line by George Soper. Square 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Baker.

*"The Heroes; or, Greek Fairy Tales for My Children." Illustrated. 12mo.
Cloth, $1.25. Macmillan.

"Greek Heroes." Illustrated. 16mo. Limp leather, $.75. In the Ariel
Classics. Putnam.

"Greek Heroes." In Everyman's Library. 12mo. Cloth, $.35; leather, $.70.

*"Greek Heroes." Illustrated. 16mo. Cloth, $.50. Crowell.

"Greek Heroes." Edited by John Tetlow. 16mo. Cloth, $.30. Ginn.

"Kingsley's Heroes: Greek Fairy Tales." Edited by C. A. McMurry. (Pocket
Classics Series.) 24mo. Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.

"Kingsley's Heroes." American edition. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00. Macmillan.



*"Don Quixote of the Mancha." Retold for children by Judge Parry from
Shelton's translation. Illustrated in colour and black-and-white by
Walter Crane. Square 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Lane. A delightful volume that
will entertain royally any boy who has a sense of humour. The right one
to own.

"Don Quixote." Adapted for the young from Motteaux's translation.
Illustrated in colour and black-and-white by Paul Hardy. 8vo. Cloth,
$2.00. Dutton.

"The Adventures of Don Quixote." Translated and abridged by Dominick
Daly. Illustrated in colour by Stephen de la Bere. Square 8vo. Cloth,
6_s._ Black.

*"Don Quixote." Edited by Clifton Johnson. 12mo. Cloth, $.75. Macmillan.

"Don Quixote de la Mancha." Abridged from the translation of Duffield
and Shelton by Mary E. Burt and Lucy Leffingwell Cable. 12mo. Cloth,
$.50. Scribner.

"Don Quixote of La Mancha." Abridged and edited by Mabel E. Wharton.
12mo. Cloth, $.50. Ginn.

"Don Quixote for Young People." Rewritten by James Baldwin. 12mo. Cloth,
$.50. American.

"Adventures of Don Quixote." Translated by D. Daly and illustrated in
colour by S. B. de la Bere. 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. Macmillan. For the



*"The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood of Great Renown in
Nottinghamshire." Written and illustrated by Howard Pyle. Royal 8vo.
Cloth, $3.00. Scribner. A capital book for any boy.

"Robin Hood and His Adventures." Written by Paul Cheswick and
illustrated by T. H. Robinson. 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. A Nister book. Dutton.

*"Robin Hood." Written by Henry Gilbert. Illustrated in colour by Walter
Crane. Large 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Stokes.

*"The Story of Robin Hood and His Merry Men." Told by John Finnemore and
illustrated in colour by Allen Stewart. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. Macmillan.

"Bold Robin Hood and His Outlaw Band." Penned and pictured by Louis
Rhead. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Harper.

"Robin Hood." Told by Clifton Johnson. Illustrated by Bonté. 12mo.
Cloth, $1.00. Baker.

*"Life in the Greenwood." Edited by Marion Florence Lancing and
illustrated by Charles Copeland. 16mo. Cloth, $.35. Ginn. For very young

"Robin Hood: His Book." Told by Eva March Tappan. Illustrated. 12mo.
Cloth, $1.50. Little.


*"The Boy's King Arthur." Edited by Sidney Lanier. Illustrated by Alfred
Kepper, Alfred Fredericks, and E. B. Bonsell. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $2.00.
Scribner. The boy should also read the author's "Knightly Legends of

"The Story of King Arthur and His Knights." Written and illustrated by
Howard Pyle. Royal 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. Scribner. The author has these
volumes to his credit. "The Story of the Champions of the Round Table,"
"The Story of Sir Lancelot," "The Story of the Grail and the Passing of

"King Arthur's Knights." Told by Henry Gilbert and illustrated in colour
by Walter Crane. 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Stokes.

*"The Book of King Arthur and His Noble Knights: Stories from Sir Thomas
Malory's Morte D'Arthur." Told by Mary Macleod and illustrated by A. G.
Walker. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Stokes.

"Tales of King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table." Told by
Margaret Vere Farrington. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.25. Putnam.

"The King Who Never Died." By Dorothy Senior. Illustrated in colour
plates. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Macmillan.

"The Legends of King Arthur and His Knights." Compiled from Malory by
Sir James Knowles. Illustrated in colour and black-and-white by Lancelot
Speed. Large 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. Warne.

"Malory's King Arthur and His Knights." Version by B. H. Lathrop.
Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. Baker.

*"Page, Esquire, and Knight." Told by Marion Lancing and illustrated by
Charles Copeland. 16mo. Cloth, $.35. Ginn. For young children.

*"The Age of Chivalry; or, Legends of King Arthur." By Thomas Bulfinch.
Edited by J. Loughran Scott. Fully illustrated. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.50.
McKay. This is about as good a telling as the studious boy can find. But
if he has a taste for pure literary form, he will surely come to know
Tennyson's "Idylls of the King" and prefer it to any prose version.

"Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur. Text of Caxton." (Globe.) 12mo. Cloth,
$1.75. Macmillan.

"Malory's Morte d'Arthur Selections." (Pocket Classics Series.) Edited
by D. W. Swiggett. 24mo. Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.


*"The Age of Fable; or, the Beauties of Mythology." Told by Thomas
Bulfinch. Edited by J. Loughran Scott. Fully illustrated. Crown 8vo.
Cloth, $1.25. McKay. Every boy should own this or some other edition of
this great work.

"The Age of Fable; or, the Beauties of Mythology." Edited by W. H.
Knapp. Fully illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25. Altemus.

"The Age of Fable; or, the Beauties of Mythology." Edited by Edward
Everett Hale. Fully illustrated. 8vo. Cloth, $1.25. Lathrop.

"The Æneid for Boys and Girls." By Alfred J. Church. Illustrated in
colour. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. Macmillan.

*"A Story of the Golden Age." Told by James Baldwin and illustrated by
Howard Pyle. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. Scribner. Ends where the Iliad begins.

"The Greek Heroes: Stories Translated from Niebuhr." Illustrated in
colour and black-and-white by Arthur Rackham. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00.

"The Boy's Iliad." Told by Walter C. Perry. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth,
$1.50. Macmillan.

"The Boy's Odyssey." Told by Walter C. Perry. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth,
$1.50. Macmillan.

*"Story of the Iliad." Told by Alfred John Church. With illustrations
after Flaxman. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00. Macmillan. An edition in colour
plates at $1.50.

"Story of the Odyssey." Told by Alfred John Church. With illustrations
after Flaxman. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00. Macmillan. An edition in colour
plates at $1.50.

"Heroes of Chivalry and Romance." By A. J. Church. Ill. in colour plates
by G. Morrow. 12mo. Cloth, $1.75. Macmillan.

"Heroes of the Olden Time." By Pamela M. Cole. Ill. 12mo. Cloth, $.40.

"Story of the Golden Apple." By Pamela M. Cole. Ill. 12mo. Cloth, $.40.

*"Adventures of Odysseus." By F. S. Marvin and others. Illustrated by
Charles Robinson. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. Dutton. An easy telling done with
attractive pictures.

"The Odyssey Translated into English Prose." By George H. Palmer. Crown
8vo. Cloth, $1.00. Houghton. A complete story that will be a little
difficult for the child to read, but well worth his while.

"Half-a-Hundred Hero Tales of Ulysses and the Men of Old." Edited by
Francis Storr and illustrated by Frank C. Papé. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Holt.

"Gods and Heroes; or, the Kingdom of Jupiter." By Robert Edward
Francillion. The authorized American edition. 12mo. Cloth, $.40. Ginn.

*"Stories of Old Greece and Rome." By Emilie Kip Baker. 12mo. Cloth,
$1.50. Macmillan. A very good combination of literature and mythology.
An edition with pronouncing index at $1.00.


*"Norse Stories Told from the Eddas." By Hamilton Wright Mabie.
Illustrated in colour and decorated by George Wright. 8vo. Cloth, $1.80.

"In the Days of Giants: A Book of Norse Tales." By Abbie F. Brown.
Illustrated by E. Boyd Smith. Square 8vo. Cloth, $1.10. Houghton. Easier
to read than the one above.

"Stories of the Norse Heroes." Retold from the Eddas and Sagas by E. M.
Wilmot-Buxton. Illustrated by J. C. Donaldson. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50.

"One for Wod and One for Lok." Told by Thomas Cartwright. Illustrated in
colour. 16mo. Cloth, $.50. Dutton.

*"Heroes of Asgard." By A. and E. Keary. 12mo. Cloth, $.50. Macmillan.

"Brave Beowulf." Told by Thomas Cartwright. Illustrated in colour by
Patten Wilson. 16mo. Cloth, $.50. Dutton.

"Beowulf." Told by John Harrington Cox. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $.50.

"Popular Tales from the Norse." By Sir George Webb Dasent. Illustrated.
8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Putnam. A collection of folk-tales.

"Out of the Northland." By E. K. Baker. (Pocket Classics Series.) 24mo.
Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.

*"Stories from Northern Myths." By E. K. Baker. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.


*"Tales of the Canterbury Pilgrims." Told by F. J. H. Darton. With an
introduction by F. J. Furnival and illustrations by Hugh Thompson. 8vo.
Cloth, $1.50. Stokes.

"The Chaucer Story Book." By Eva March Tappan. Illustrated. 8vo. Cloth,
$1.50. Houghton.

"Canterbury Chimes; or, Chaucer Tales Retold to Children." By Francis
Storr and Hawes Turner. 12mo. Cloth, 3_s._ 6_d._ Kegan Paul.

"The Canterbury Tales of Geoffrey Chaucer: A Modern Version in Prose of
the Prologue and Ten Tales." By Percy MacKaye. Illustrated in colour by
Walter Appleton Clark. 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Duffield.

"Stories from Chaucer." By J. W. McSpaden. Illustrated. 16mo. Cloth,
$.50. Crowell.

"Chaucer's Prologue to the Book of the Tales of Canterbury." (Pocket
Classics Series.) Edited by A. Ingraham. 24mo. Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.

G--"_The Faerie Queene_"

*"Stories from the Faerie Queene." Told by Mary Macleod. Illustrated by
A. G. Walker. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Stokes. Well done.

"Fairy Queen and Her Knights, The." By Alfred J. Church. Col. Ill. 12mo.
Cloth, $1.50. Macmillan.

"Stories from the Faerie Queene." Told by Lawrence Dawson. Illustrated
by Gertrude D. Hammond. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Crowell.

"Una and the Red Cross Knight and Other Tales from Spenser's Faerie
Queene." By N. G. Royde-Smith. Illustrated in colour and decorated by T.
H. Robinson. 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Dutton.


*"Book of Legends." Gathered and rewritten by Horace E. Scudder.
Illustrated. 16mo. Cloth, $.50. Houghton. Such tales as "St. George and
the Dragon," "The Wandering Jew," and "The Flying Dutchman."

"Heroic Legends." By Agnes Grazier Herbertson. Illustrated in colour by
Helen Stratton. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Caldwell. Stories of "Valentine
and Orsen," "St. George and the Dragon," "Christopher," and others.

*"Wonder-Book of Old Romance." Told by F. J. H. Darton and illustrated
by A. G. Walker. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Stokes. Stories such as "Guy of
Warwick," "King Horn," and "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight."

"Stories from Old French Romance." Told by E. M. Wilmot-Buxton. 12mo.
Cloth, $.75. Stokes. Stories such as "Ogier the Dane" and "Aucassin and

"Heroes of Chivalry and Romance." By A. J. Church. Illustrated in colour
by Grace Morrow. 12mo. Cloth, $1.75. Macmillan.

"The Story of Roland." Told by James Baldwin and illustrated by Reginald
B. Birch. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. Scribner.

*"A Chevalier of Old France." The Song of Roland translated and adapted
from Old French texts by John Harrington Cox. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth,
$1.25. Little.

"Book of Romance." By Andrew Lang. Illustrated in colour and
black-and-white by H. J. Ford. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.60. Longmans. The
stories of King Arthur, Robin Hood, Roland, and others.

"Stories of Persian Heroes." Told by E. M. Wilmot-Buxton. Illustrated
and decorated. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Crowell.

"Children's Tales from Scottish Ballads." Told by E. W. Grievson and
illustrated in colour by A. Stewart. 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. Macmillan.

"Book of Ballad Stories." Told by Mary Macleod. With an introduction by
Edward Dowden and illustrations by A. G. Walker. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50.
Stokes. "Robin Hood," "Patient Griselda," "Sir Cauline," and many other
romantic tales.

"Almost True Stories." Fully illustrated. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.00.
Putnam. Among others are found "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," "The
Paradise of Children," "The Lady of Shalot," and "Cupid and Psyche."

"Great Opera Stories." By M. S. Bender. (Everychild's Series.) Ill.
16mo. Cloth, $.40. Macmillan.

"Thirty Indian Legends." By Margaret Bemister. Ill. 12mo. Cloth, $.40.

"Stories from the Classic Literature of Many Nations." Edited by Bertha
Palmer. (Standard School Library.) 12mo. Cloth, $.50. Macmillan.

*"Children's Book of Celtic Stories." By E. W. Grievson. Illustrated in
colour by A. Stewart. 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. Macmillan.




*"Treasure Island." Illustrated in colour by N. C. Wyeth. Royal 8vo.
Cloth, $2.50. Scribner. An excellent edition.

*"Treasure Island." Illustrated in colour by John C. Cameron. 8vo.
Cloth, $2.00. Cassell.

"Treasure Island." Illustrated by Walter Paget. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25.

"Treasure Island." Small 12mo. Cloth, $1.25; limp leather, $1.50. Small.

"Treasure Island." Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00. Jacobs.

"Treasure Island." In Everyman's Library. 12mo. Cloth, $.35; leather,
$.70. Dutton.

*"Treasure Island." Illustrated. 16mo. Cloth, $.50. Crowell.

"Treasure Island." 12mo. Cloth, $.25. Scribner.

"Stevenson's Treasure Island." (Pocket Classics Series.) Edited by H. A.
Vance. 24mo. Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.

          The boy who has read this capital story of
          adventure must of necessity have more of Stevenson
          and had better try "Kidnapped" next. He may
          sometime become absorbed in the wonderful tales of
          a favourite of Stevenson himself, Dumas. Listen to
          the testimony of Thackeray about the great French
          story-teller as it was written in the essay, "On a
          Lazy, Idle Boy": "What was the book in the hands
          of my lad as he stood by the river shore? Do you
          suppose that it was Livy, or the Greek grammar?
          No: it was D'Artagnan locking up General Monk in a
          box, or the prisoner of the Château d'If cutting
          himself out of the sack fifty feet under water and
          swimming to the island of Monte Cristo. Be assured
          the lazy boy was reading Dumas; and as for the
          tender pleadings of his mother that he should not
          let his supper grow cold--I don't believe the
          scapegrace cared one fig. No! Figs are sweet, but
          fictions are sweeter."



*"Last of the Mohicans." Illustrated by E. Boyd Smith. 12mo. Cloth,
$1.35. Holt.

"Last of the Mohicans." Fully illustrated. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.25.

"The Last of the Mohicans." Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill. 8vo. Cloth,
$1.50. Crowell.

"The Last of the Mohicans." Illustrated. 2 vols. 16mo. Cloth, $3.00.

*"The Last of the Mohicans." Illustrated by H. M. Brock. 12mo. Cloth,
$.80. Macmillan.

"The Last of the Mohicans." Illustrated. Crown 8vo. Half-leather, $.70.
In the Riverside School Library. Houghton.

"Last of the Mohicans." In Everyman's Library. 12mo. Cloth, $.35;
leather, $.70. Dutton.

*"Last of the Mohicans." 12mo. Cloth, $.50. Heath.

"Last of the Mohicans." 24mo. Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.

          If the boy does not own, he should at least read,
          the other four volumes of the Leather Stocking
          Tales as well as one or two of Cooper's sea tales,
          such as "The Pilot," and "The Red Rover."



"Ivanhoe." Illustrated in colour. 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Lippincott.

"Ivanhoe." Illustrated by H. M. Eaton. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Crowell.

"Ivanhoe." Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. Appleton.

"Ivanhoe." Fully illustrated. Post 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. In the Andrew Lang
edition. Dana.

*"Ivanhoe." Fully illustrated. Post 8vo. Cloth, $1.00. In the Heather
edition. Harper.

"Ivanhoe." Illustrated. Crown 8vo. Half-leather, $.70. Houghton. In the
Riverside School Library.

"Ivanhoe." 12mo. Cloth, $.35; leather, $.70. Dutton. Everyman's Library.

*"Ivanhoe." Illustrated by C. E. Brock. 12mo. Cloth, $.50. Heath.

*"Ivanhoe." Illustrated in colour by E. Boyd Smith. 8vo. Cloth, $2.50.

"Ivanhoe." 12mo. Cloth, $.60. Ginn.

"Ivanhoe." 12mo. Cloth, $.40. American.

"Ivanhoe." 24mo. Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.

*"Ivanhoe." (Dryburgh Edition.) 12mo. Cloth, $1.25. Macmillan.

          This introduction to Scott should certainly be
          followed by a reading of "Quentin Durward," "Rob
          Roy," "The Talisman," and "Guy Mannering."



*"Lorna Doone." Illustrated in colour by Christopher Clarke. 8vo. Cloth,
$2.50. Crowell. A very good edition.

*"Lorna Doone." Illustrated in colour and black-and-white by Gordon
Browne. 4to. Cloth, $4.20. Stokes.

"Lorna Doone." Illustrated with photogravures. 2 vols. 16mo. Cloth,
$2.50; limp leather, $3.00. Putnam.

"Lorna Doone." Illustrated by plates printed in sepia. 2 vols. 12mo.
Cloth, $3.00; leather, $5.00. Rand.

*"Lorna Doone." Illustrated by Mrs. Catharine Weed Ward. Crown 8vo.
Cloth, $2.50. Harper.

"Lorna Doone." Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50.

*"Lorna Doone." Illustrated. Large 12mo. Cloth, $1.25. Putnam.

"Lorna Doone." Illustrated. Large 12mo. Cloth, $1.25. Rand.

"Lorna Doone." Illustrated. Post 8vo. Cloth, $1.00. Scribner.

*"Lorna Doone." 24mo. Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.

          The great field of realistic fiction will later
          open up to the boy, but he must be in no hurry to
          enter it. When he does enter it, however, see that
          he selects well, and urge him to read in
          moderation. He might well start with such books as
          "David Copperfield" and "The Mill on the Floss,"
          leaving Thackeray untouched for a few years until
          he can better appreciate him. With a taste once
          formed for any one of these great novelists, he
          will stand in little danger from the almost
          countless current stories that are always getting
          in his way.


*"Two Years Before the Mast." By Richard H. Dana, Jr. Illustrated in
colour by E. Boyd Smith. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Houghton.

"Two Years before the Mast." By Richard H. Dana, Jr. Illustrated. Crown
8vo. Half-leather, $.70. Houghton.

"Two Years before the Mast." By Richard H. Dana, Jr. 12mo. Cloth, $.60.

*"Two Years before the Mast." By Richard H. Dana, Jr. 24mo. Cloth, $.25.

*"The Oregon Trail." By Francis Parkman. Fully illustrated by Frederic
Remington. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. Little. A fine edition to own.

"The Oregon Trail." By Francis Parkman. Four illustrations by Remington.
12mo. Cloth, $1.00. Little.

*"Parkman's Oregon Trail." Edited by C. H. J. Douglas. (Pocket Classics
Series.) 24mo. Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.

"The Oregon Trail." By Francis Parkman. 18mo. Cloth, $.35. Crowell.

"Boys of Other Countries." By Bayard Taylor. Illustrated in colour by
Frederick Simpson Coburn. 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. Putnam.

"The Cruise of the Catchelot around the World after Sperm Whales." By
Frank T. Bullen. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. Appleton.

*"Plutarch for Boys and Girls." Edited by John S. White. Illustrated.
8vo. Cloth, $1.75. Putnam.

*"The Children's Plutarch: Tales of the Greeks." Edited by F. J. Gould
with an introduction by William Dean Howells. Illustrated by Walter
Crane. 12mo. Cloth, $.75. Harper. "Tales of the Romans" uniform with the
above at the same price.

"Plutarch's Lives." Retold by W. H. Weston and illustrated in colour by
W. Ramey. Large 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Stokes.

"Plutarch's Lives." Edited by Edward Ginn. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth,
$.45. Ginn.

"Plutarch. Lives of Cæsar, Brutus, and Anthony." Edited by Martha Brier.
(Pocket Classics Series.) 24mo. Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.

"Hawthorne's Grandfather's Chair." Edited by H. H. Kingsley. (Pocket
Classics Series.) 24mo. Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.

*"Grandfather's Chair and Biographical Stories." By Nathaniel Hawthorne.
Illustrated. Crown 8vo. Cloth. $.70. Houghton.

"Tales of a Grandfather." By Sir Walter Scott. 12mo. Cloth, $2.50.

"Tales of a Grandfather." By Sir Walter Scott. Selected by Edward Ginn.
12mo. Cloth, $.40. Ginn.

*"Life of Lord Nelson." By Robert Southey. Illustrated by engravings.
12mo. Cloth, $1.50. Macmillan. In Bohn's Illustrated Library.

"Life of Lord Nelson." By Robert Southey. 12mo. Boards, $.75. Warne. In
the Chandos Classics.

*"The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin." The unmutilated and correct
version by John Bigelow. 8vo. Cloth, $1.25. Putnam. In the Ariel
Classics at $.75.

"Franklin's Autobiography." Edited by D. H. Montgomery. Illustrated.
12mo. Cloth, $.40. Ginn.

"Benjamin Franklin's Autobiography." With a chapter completing the story
of his life. Illustrated. 16mo. Cloth, $.75. Houghton.

"Franklin's Autobiography." 24mo. (Pocket Classics.) Cloth, $.25.

"A Child's History of England." By Charles Dickens. Illustrated by
Patten Wilson. 12mo. Cloth, $2.50. Dutton.

"A Child's History of England." Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00.

*"The Boy's Parkman." Compiled by Louise C. Hasbrouck. Illustrated by
Howard Pyle and others. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.00. Little. The passages in
Parkman's words have to do with the manners, customs, and
characteristics of the Indians.

*"Stories from Froissart." By Henry Newbolt. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth,
$1.50. Macmillan. Also in a $.50 edition.

"The Boy's Froissart." By Sidney Lanier. Illustrated by Alfred Kappes.
8vo. Cloth, $2.00. Scribner.


"Mrs. Leicester's School." By Charles and Mary Lamb. Illustrated in
colour and pen-and-ink by Winifred Green. Small 4to. Decorated cloth,
$1.50. Dutton. "One of the loveliest things in the language."--_The

"Mrs. Lester's School." By Charles and Mary Lamb. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

"Tales from Maria Edgeworth." With an introduction by Austin Dodson and
illustrations by Hugh Thompson. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Stokes.

"Parent's Assistant." By Maria Edgeworth. Illustrated by Chris Hammond.
12mo. Cloth, $.80; leather, $1.25. Macmillan.

"Old-Fashioned Tales." Collected by E. V. Lucas and illustrated by F. D.
Bedford. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Stokes. Stories from Thomas Day, Mary Lamb,
Peter Parley, and others.

"Stories Grandmother Knew." Fully illustrated. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.00.
Putnam. From Goldsmith, Edgeworth, Sinclair, and others.

"Old Time Tales." By Kate Forrest Oswell. (Everychild's Series.) Ill.
16mo. Cloth, $.40. Macmillan.

"Stories Grandmother Told." By Kate Forrest Oswell. (Everychild's
Series.) Ill. 16mo. Cloth, $.40. Macmillan.

"The Swiss Family Robinson." By J. R. Wyss. Illustrated in colour and
black-and-white by Charles Folkard. 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Dutton.

*"The Swiss Family Robinson." By J. R. Wyss. With an introduction by
William Dean Howells. Illustrated from drawings made by Louis Rhead.
8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Harper.

"Swiss Family Robinson." By J. R. Wyss. Illustrated in colour. 8vo.
Cloth, $1.50. Lippincott.

"The Swiss Family Robinson." By J. R. Wyss. Illustrated by E. Prater.
12mo. Cloth, $1.25. Dutton.

"The Swiss Family Robinson." By J. R. Wyss. Illustrated. 16mo. Cloth,
$.50. Crowell.

"The Swiss Family Robinson." By J. R. Wyss. Illustrated by T. H.
Robinson with 25 colour-plates. Large 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. Doran.

"Little Lame Prince." By Mrs. Dinah Mulock Craik. (Boy's and Girl's
Series.) Ill. 12mo. Cloth, $.75. Macmillan.

"The Child's Rip Van Winkle." Illustrated in colour by Maria L. Kirk.
4to. Cloth, $1.50. Stokes.

"Rip Van Winkle and the Legend of Sleepy Hollow." By Washington Irving.
Photogravures and text cuts. 2 vols. 8vo. Cloth, $3.50. Putnam. Also in
the Ariel Classics at $1.50.

*"Rip Van Winkle and the Legend of Sleepy Hollow." By Washington Irving.
Illustrated by George Boughton. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. Macmillan. In the
New Cranford Series. Some day the child should own an edition of Irving.

"Rip Van Winkle." By Washington Irving. Illustrated with 50
colour-plates by Arthur Rackham. 7×10. Cloth, $5.00. Doubleday.

*"Old Christmas." By Washington Irving. Illustrated by R. Caldecott.
12mo. Cloth, $1.50. (Cranford Series.) Also in an $.80 edition.

"The Alhambra." By Washington Irving. Illustrated by J. Pennell. 12mo.
Cloth, $1.50. (Cranford Series.) Macmillan. Also in an $.80 edition.

"Irving's Alhambra." Edited by A. M. Hitchcock. (Pocket Classics
Series.) 24mo. Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.

"Irving's Sketch Book." (Pocket Classics Series.) 24mo. Cloth, $.25.

"A Christmas Carol." By Charles Dickens. Illustrated in colour by A. C.
Michael. 4to. Cloth, $2.00. Doran.

"Dickens' Christmas Carol." Edited by J. M. Sawin and Ida N. Thomas.
(Pocket Classics Series.) 24mo. Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.

"A Christmas Carol." By Charles Dickens. Illustrated in colour and line
by George Alfred Williams. Square 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. Baker.

"A Christmas Carol." By Charles Dickens. Illustrated with photogravures
by F. S. Coburn. 12mo. Cloth, $1.75. Putnam.

"A Christmas Carol." By Charles Dickens. Illustrated in colour by Ethel
Everett. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Crowell.

*"A Christmas Carol." Illustrated in colour by C. E. Brock. 12mo. Cloth,
$1.00. Dutton.

"A Christmas Carol." By Charles Dickens. Illustrated. 16mo.
Half-leather, $.60. Houghton.

"Westward Ho!" By Charles Kingsley. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25.
Also in an $.80 edition illustrated by C. E. Brock. Macmillan.

"Tom Brown's School Days." By Thomas Hughes. Edited by F. Sedgwick.
Illustrated in colour. 8vo. Cloth, $3.25. Putnam.

"Tom Brown's School Days." By Thomas Hughes. Illustrated by Louis Rhead.
8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Harper.

*"Tom Brown's School Days." By Thomas Hughes. Illustrated by E. J.
Sullivan. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. In the New Cranford Series. Macmillan.

"Tom Brown's School Days." By Thomas Hughes. Illustrated. 16mo.
Half-leather, $.60. Houghton.

"Quentin Durward." By Sir Walter Scott. Edited by A. L. Eno. 24mo.
(Pocket Classics.) Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.

"Little Women." By Louisa May Alcott. Fully illustrated. Crown 8vo.
Cloth, $2.00. Little.

"Madam How and Lady Why." By Charles Kingsley. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth,
$.50. (Standard School Library.) Macmillan.

*"The Sundering Flood: A Romance." By William Morris. Royal 8vo. Cloth,
$2.25. Longmans.

*"Tales from the Travels of Baron Munchausen." Edited by Edward Everett
Hale. Illustrated by H. P. Barnes after Doré. 12mo. Cloth, $.20. Heath.
For a boy with a sense of humour this will afford a rare treat.

"The Adventures of Baron Munchausen." Illustrated. 16mo. Limp leather,
$.75. In the Ariel Classics. Putnam.

"Girls and Boys." By Anatole France. Illustrated in charming
colour-plates by Boutet de Monvel. 4to. Boards, $2.25. Duffield.


*P--"The Prince and the Pauper." By Mark Twain. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.75.
Harper. A capital story.

P--"Uncle Remus and Bre'r Rabbit." By Joel Chandler Harris. Illustrated
in colour by J. A. Condé. Oblong 4to. Cloth, $1.00. Stokes.

"Uncle Remus and the Little Boy." Illustrated by J. M. Condé, in colour.
4to. Cloth, $1.25. Small.

*"Uncle Remus: His Songs and His Sayings." By Joel Chandler Harris.
Fully illustrated by A. B. Frost. 12mo. Cloth, $2.00. Appleton. Charming
folk-lore to read aloud to children.

"The Jungle Book." By Rudyard Kipling. Illustrated by W. A. Drake and
others. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. Century.

*"The Jungle Book." Illustrated in 16 full-page coloured plates by
Maurice and Edward Detmold. 12mo. Cloth, $2.50. Century. A fine book for
a child to own.

*"The Second Jungle Book." By Rudyard Kipling. Decorated by J. Lockwood
Kipling. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. Century.

*P--"Just-So Stories." By Rudyard Kipling. Illustrated in full colour by
J. M. Gleason. Royal 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Doubleday. There is a cheaper
edition illustrated by the author at $1.25.

"Red Cap Tales." By S. R. Crockett. Illustrated in colour plates by S.
H. Vedder. 12mo. Cloth, $2.00. Macmillan. An edition at $.50.

*"Men of Iron." Written and illustrated by Howard Pyle. Post 8vo. Cloth,
$2.00. Harper. A romantic story of the England of Henry IV. As popular
with girls as with boys.

"The Wonder Clock." Written and illustrated by Howard Pyle. 4to. Cloth,
$2.00. Harper. Twenty-four good tales. Equally as good are "Twilight
Land" and "Pepper and Salt," delightful fairy tales.

"Stevenson's Kidnapped." Edited by John Thompson Brown. (Pocket Classics
Series.) 24mo. Cloth, $.25. Macmillan.

"Pinocchio Under the Sea." Translated from the Italian by Carolyn Della
Chiesa. Edited by John W. Davis. With numerous illustrations and
decorations in colours and black-and-white, by Florence Rutledge Abel
Wilde. 12mo. Dec. cloth, $1.25. Macmillan.

"Peter Pan Picture Book, The." By Alice B. Woodward and Daniel O'Connor.
Fourth Edition. Col. Ill. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Macmillan.

"Peter Pan: The Story Of." By Daniel O'Connor. Ill. 12mo. Cloth, $.30.

"Voyage of the Hoppergrass." By Edmund Lester Pearson. Ill. 12mo. Cloth,
$1.35. Macmillan.

"Children of the Wild." By Charles G. D. Roberts. Ill. 12mo. Dec. cloth,
$1.35. Macmillan.

"Christmas Tales and Christmas Verse." By Eugene Field. Illustrated by
Florence Storer. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Scribner.

"Christmas Every Day." By William Dean Howells. Illustrated and
decorated in colour. Small 4to. Cloth, $1.75. Harper.

"Fairies--Of Sorts." By Mrs. Molesworth. Illus. by Gertrude Hammond.
12mo. Cloth, $1.50. Macmillan.

"Magic Nuts, The." By Mrs. Molesworth. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25. Macmillan.

"The Queen's Museum and Other Fanciful Tales." By Frank R. Stockton.
Illustrated in colour and black-and-white by Frederick Richardson. Royal
8vo. Cloth, $2.50. Scribner.

"Tales of the Enchanted Islands of the Atlantic." By Thomas Wentworth
Higginson. Ill. by Albert Herter. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. Macmillan.

"Captains Courageous." By Rudyard Kipling. Illustrated by Taber. 12mo.
Cloth, $1.50. Century.


"The Child's Bible." Arranged from the Authorized Version with an
introduction by Bishop Doane. Illustrated with 100 full-page plates by
modern artists. 4to. Cloth, $3.50. Cassell.

*"The Bible for Young People." Arranged from the Authorized Version by
Mrs. Joseph B. Gilder. Illustrated with engravings from paintings by the
old masters. 4to. Cloth, $1.50. Century. For children under twelve

"The Old, Old Story-Book." Arranged from the Authorized Version by Eva
Marsh Tappan. Illustrated. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. Houghton.

"Bible Story Retold for Young People." By W. H. Bennett and W. F.
Adeney. 2 parts: I. Old Testament Story. II. New Testament Story. Maps.
Ill. 12mo. Each $.60; in one vol., $1.00. Macmillan.

"Bible Stories." (Children's Series of the Modern Reader's Bible.) By R.
G. Moulton. 2 vols.: I. Old Testament; II. New Testament. 16mo. Cloth,
each, $.50. Macmillan.

*"Select Masterpieces of Biblical Literature." (Modern Reader's Bible.)
Edited by R. G. Moulton. 24mo. Cloth, $.50; leather, $.60. Macmillan.

          It is doubtful if Bible stories in simple language
          form are of much value to the boy. If he is too
          young to read the language on his own account, the
          stories had better be read aloud to him from the
          Authorized Version. Then as early as possible let
          him cultivate the habit of learning this wonderful
          book first hand. Nothing in the field of
          literature will serve him better than will this
          reading habit.

*"Holy Bible, Containing the Old and New Testaments; Translated out of
the Original Tongues, and with Former Translation Diligently Compared
and Revised, by His Majesty's Special Command." 8vo. Cloth, $1.30.
Self-pronouncing in long primer type. Oxford Press.


  A great while ago the world began                            58
  A life on the ocean wave                                    130
  As I in hoary winter's night stood shivering in the snow     85
  At Flores in the Azores, Sir Richard Grenville lay          122
  A wet sheet and a flowing sea                                86
  Bless the Lord, O my soul                                   152
  Blow, blow, thou winter wind                                 98
  Boats sail on the rivers                                     38
  Boot, saddle, to horse and away                              93
  By the rude bridge that arched the flood                    134
  Call for the robin redbreast and the wren                    70
  Come, dear children, let us away                             73
  Come follow, follow me                                       64
  Come unto these yellow sands                                 57
  Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander               49
  Do you ask what the birds say? the sparrow, the dove         59
  Entreat me not to leave thee                                 55
  Faintly as tolls the evening chime                          105
  Fair Daffodils, we weep to see                               89
  From gold to gray                                           119
  From Oberon, in fairy land                                   91
  Full fathom five thy father lies                             67
  God of our fathers, known of old                            141
  Good-bye, good-bye to Summer                                 60
  Hark, hark, the dogs do bark                                 33
  Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings                  68
  Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee                      120
  He clasps the crag with crooked hands                       131
  He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most high       113
  How sleep the brave who sink to rest                        130
  Hush thee, my babby                                          35
  Hush! the waves are rolling in                               49
  I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers             116
  I come from haunts of coot and hern                          82
  I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me          46
  In winter I get up at night                                  40
  I saw a ship a-sailing                                       36
  I saw you toss the kites on high                             56
  I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he                  108
  It was the schooner Hesperus                                100
  I wandered lonely as a cloud                                135
  Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way                            58
  Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving                   54
  Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep                            35
  Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn                         34
  Little Lamb, who made thee                                   51
  Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place                     132
  Minnie and Winnie lived in a shell                           50
  Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold                 140
  My heart leaps up when I behold                              70
  Now fades the last long streak of snow                      107
  Of speckled eggs the birdie sings                            37
  Oh, hush thee, my babie! thy sire was a knight               63
  Oh, who is so merry, so merry, heigh-ho                      44
  O Lord, our Lord                                             79
  O Mary, go and call the cattle home                         104
  Over hill, over dale                                         69
  O wedding-guest! this soul hath been                        106
  Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day                          71
  Pease porridge hot                                           33
  Pibroch of Donuil Dhu                                       117
  Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been                    33
  Queen and huntress, chaste and fair                          84
  Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky                        65
  Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness                     137
  Sleep, baby, sleep, our cottage vale is deep                 34
  Sleep, baby, sleep, thy father is tending the sheep          41
  Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king        53
  Sweet and low, sweet and low                                 47
  The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold              111
  The cock is crowing                                          72
  The curfew tolls the knell of parting day                   146
  The friendly cow, all red and white                          39
  The gorse is yellow on the heath                             97
  The heavens declare the glory of God                         94
  The king sits in Dunfermline town                           142
  The Lord is my shepherd                                      42
  The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year        99
  The Northern Star sailed over the bar                        96
  The rain is raining all around                               37
  The splendour falls on castle walls                          81
  The voice of my beloved! behold, he cometh                   65
  The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing           90
  The world is so full of a number of things                   37
  The year's at the spring                                     67
  This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign               136
  Three mice went into a hole to spin                          34
  Under the greenwood tree                                     88
  Up the airy mountain                                         52
  Up, up, ye dames, ye lasses gay                              73
  Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town                      35
  What does little birdie say                                  41
  When cats run home and light is come                         58
  When children are playing alone on the green                 61
  When daffodils begin to peer                                 58
  Whenever the moon and stars are set                          39
  When icicles hang by the wall                                68
  When I was sick and lay a-bed                                45
  When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy             62
  Where lies the land to which the ship would go               87
  Where the bee sucks, there suck I                            57
  Whither, 'midst falling dew                                 139
  Who has seen the wind                                        38
  Who is Sylvia? what is she                                  121
  Who would true valour see                                   115
  You spotted snakes with double tongue                        47

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's Notes:

Page 219, "millionnaire" changed to "millionaire" (quickly made

Page 247, "Wyth" changed to "Wyeth" (N. C. Wyeth, and)

Page 256, "Abrabian" changed to "Arabian" (from the Arabian)

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