Standard Catholic Readers by Grades: Fifth Year

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Title: Standard Catholic Readers by Grades: Fifth Year
Author: Various
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Standard Catholic Readers by Grades: Fifth Year" ***

[Illustration: THE MADONNA OF THE CHAIR

_Painting by Raphael_]

_EIGHT BOOK SERIES_

STANDARD
CATHOLIC READERS
BY GRADES

FIFTH YEAR

BY
MARY E. DOYLE

FORMERLY PRINCIPAL OF HOLY NAMES NORMAL SCHOOL,
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, AND SUPERVISOR OF TEACHING,
STATE NORMAL SCHOOL, SUPERIOR, WISCONSIN

[Illustration]

NEW YORK ⁘ CINCINNATI ⁘ CHICAGO
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY

STAND. CATH. READERS BY GRADES.
5TH YEAR.

E. P. 6

PREFACE

The selections in this reader for the Fifth Year were chosen with
reference both to their intrinsic literary quality and to the varying
capabilities of the pupils who will read them. It is confidently hoped
that they will reach some interest of each child, and, at the same time,
help to form a correct literary standard and encourage a taste for the
best reading.

In the preparation of this series of readers, valuable counsel and
assistance have been given me by many friendly educators and those in
authority. I am especially grateful to the Rt. Rev. John Lancaster
Spalding of Peoria for helpful advice and encouragement in the planning
and inception of the work; also, to the Rt. Rev. James McGolrick of
Duluth, Minnesota, to the Rt. Rev. A. F. Schinner of Superior, Wisconsin,
and to other prelates and clergy who have graciously given me assistance
in various ways. Many thanks, too, for kindly suggestions and criticisms
are hereby proffered to numerous friends among those patient and inspiring
educators--the Sisters.

MARY E. DOYLE.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The selections from Whittier, Longfellow. Lowell, Miriam Coles Harris, and
John Burroughs are used by special permission of, and arrangement with,
Houghton Mifflin Company, the publishers of the works of these authors.
The selections from Helen Hunt Jackson are used by special arrangement
with Little, Brown, & Company. Acknowledgments for the use of copyright
material are also made: to Small, Maynard & Company for the poems by
Father Tabb; to the editor and publisher of _The Ave Maria_ for “Lucy’s
Rosary,” by J. R. Marre, and other poems from that magazine; to Mary F.
Nixon-Roulet for the selections of which she is the author; to Longmans,
Green, & Company, for “The Reindeer,” by Andrew Lang; to Henry Coyle
for the poems of which he is the author; and to the Congregation of the
Mission of St Vincent de Paul, Springfield, Mass., for the extract from
Mother Mary Loyola’s “Jesus of Nazareth,” of which book they are the
publishers.

CONTENTS

PAGE

Little Wolff and his Wooden Shoe _François Coppée_ 7

The Eagle and the Swan _J. J. Audubon_ 14

Lucy’s Rosary _J. R. Marre_ 16

The Taxgatherer _Rev. John B. Tabb_ 17

The Wisdom of Alexander _Horace Binney Wallace_ 18

Thanksgiving _Henry Coyle_ 23

The Enchanted Bark _Cervantes_ 24

A Legend of St. Nicholas _Author Unknown_ 30

Raphael of Urbino 36

Lead, Kindly Light _Cardinal Newman_ 43

Parable of the Good Samaritan _The Bible_ 44

Connor Mac-Nessa--An Irish Legend _M. F. Nixon-Roulet_ 46

The Martyrdom of Blessed John Fisher _Rev. T. E. Bridgett_ 50

The Nightingale and the Glowworm _William Cowper_ 56

If thou couldst be a Bird _Rev. F. W. Faber_ 58

The First Crusade 60

How the Robin Came _John G. Whittier_ 75

How St. Francis preached to the Birds _From “Little Flowers of
St. Francis”_ 78

The Petrified Fern _Mary L. Bolles Branch_ 82

Bird Enemies _John Burroughs_ 84

St. Joseph’s Month _H. W._ 95

A Song of Spring _Aubrey de Vere_ 96

Robert Bruce _Sir Walter Scott_ 97

“When Evening Shades are Falling” _Thomas Moore_ 106

The Reindeer _A. Lang_ 107

A Story of Ancient Ireland _Lady Gregory_ 114

San Gabriel _Helen Hunt Jackson_ 118

Imitation of Mary _St. Ambrose_ 120

Scene from “William Tell” _Sheridan Knowles_ 121

The Schoolmaster of Sleepy Hollow _Washington Irving_ 132

The Bluebird _Rev. John B. Tabb_ 151

The Brook _Alfred Tennyson_ 152

The Story of a Happy Child 154

May Carol _Sister Mary Antonia_ 158

The Precious Blood of Jesus _Henry Coyle_ 160

The Spanish Cook _Miriam Coles Harris_ 161

The Planting of the Apple Tree _William Cullen Bryant_ 166

The Conversion of King Ratbodo _Conrad von Bolanden_ 170

The Blessed Virgin Mary _H. W. Longfellow_ 174

Come to Jesus _Rev. F. W. Faber_ 175

Father Marquette _John G. Shea_ 178

The Shepherd of King Admetus _J. R. Lowell_ 186

The Sermon on the Mount _Mother Mary Loyola_ 188

The Star-spangled Banner _Francis Scott Key_ 196

How America was Discovered 198

The Power of God _Thomas Moore_ 213

Our Country and our Home _James Montgomery_ 214

Notes 215

FIFTH YEAR

LITTLE WOLFF AND HIS WOODEN SHOE

Once upon a time, so long ago that everybody has forgotten the date, there
was a little boy whose name was Wolff. He lived with his aunt in a tall
old house in a city whose name is so hard to pronounce that nobody can
speak it. He was seven years old, and he could not remember that he had
ever seen his father or his mother.

The old aunt who had the care of little Wolff was very selfish and cross.
She gave him dry bread to eat, of which there was never enough; and not
more than once in the year did she speak kindly to him.

But the poor boy loved this woman, because he had no one else to love; and
there was never a day so dark that he did not think of the sunlight.

Everybody knew that Wolff’s aunt owned a house and had a stocking full of
gold under her bed, and so she did not dare to send the little boy to the
school for the poor as she would have liked to do. But a schoolmaster on
the next street agreed to teach him for almost nothing; and whenever there
was work he could do, he was kept at home.

The schoolmaster had an unkind feeling for Wolff because he brought him so
little money and was dressed so poorly. And so the boy was punished very
often, and had to bear the blame for all the wrong that was done in the
school.

The little fellow was often very sad; and more than once he hid himself
where he could not be seen and cried as though his heart would break. But
at last Christmas came.

The night before Christmas there was to be singing in the church, and the
schoolmaster was to be there with all his boys; and everybody was to have
a very happy time looking at the Christmas candles and listening to the
sweet music.

The winter had set in very cold and rough, and there was much snow on the
ground; and so the boys came to the schoolhouse with fur caps drawn down
over their ears, and heavy coats, and warm gloves, and thick high-topped
boots. But little Wolff had no warm clothes. He came shivering in the thin
coat which he wore on Sundays in summer; and there was nothing on his feet
but coarse stockings very full of holes, and a pair of heavy wooden shoes.

The other boys made many jokes about his sad looks and his worn-out
clothes. But the poor child was so busy blowing his fingers and thumping
his toes to keep them warm that he did not hear what was said. And when
the hour came, the whole company of boys, with the schoolmaster at the
front, started to the church.

It was very fine in the church. Hundreds of wax candles were burning in
their places, and the air was so warm that Wolff soon forgot his aching
fingers. The boys sat still for a little while; and then while the singing
was going on and the organ was making loud music, they began in low voices
to talk to one another; and each told about the fine things that were
going to be done at his home on the morrow.

The mayor’s son told of a monstrous goose that he had seen in the kitchen
before he came away; it was stuffed, and stuck all over with cloves till
it was as spotted as a leopard. Another boy whispered of a little fir tree
in a wooden box in his mother’s parlor; its branches were full of fruits
and nuts and candy and beautiful toys. And he said that he was sure of a
fine dinner, for the cook had pinned the two strings of her cap behind her
back, us she always did when something wonderfully good was coming.

Then the children talked of what the Christ Child would bring them, and of
what He would put in their shoes, which, of course, they would leave by
the fireplace when they went to bed. And the eyes of the little fellows
danced with joy as they thought of the bags of candy and the lead soldiers
and the grand jumping jacks which they would draw out in the morning.

But little Wolff said nothing. He knew that his selfish old aunt would
send him to bed without any supper, as she always did. But he felt in his
heart that he had been all the year as good and kind as he could be; and
so he hoped that the blessed Christ Child would not forget him nor fail to
see his wooden shoes which he would put in the ashes in the corner of the
fireplace.

III

At last the singing stopped, the organ was silent, and the Christmas music
was ended. The boys arose in order and left the church, two by two, as
they had entered it; and the teacher walked in front.

Now, as he passed through the door of the church, little Wolff saw a child
sitting on one of the stone steps and fast asleep in the midst of the
snow. The child was thinly clad, and his feet, cold as it was, were bare.

In the pale light of the moon, the face of the child, with its closed
eyes, was full of a sweetness which is not of this earth, and his long
locks of yellow hair seemed like a golden crown upon his head. But his
poor bare feet, blue in the cold of that winter night, were sad to look
upon.

The scholars, so warmly clad, passed before the strange child, and did not
so much as glance that way. But little Wolff, who was the last to come out
of the church, stopped, full of pity, before him.

“Ah, the poor child!” he said to himself. “How sad it is that he must go
barefoot in such weather as this! And what is still worse, he has not a
stocking nor even a wooden shoe to lay before him while he sleeps, so that
the Christ Child can put something in it to make him glad when he wakens.”

Little Wolff did not stand long to think about it; but in the goodness of
his heart he took off the wooden shoe from his right foot and laid it by
the side of the sleeping child. Then, limping along through the snow, and
shivering with cold, he went down the street till he came to his cheerless
home.

“You worthless fellow!” cried his aunt. “Where have you been? What have
you done with your other shoe?”

Little Wolff trembled now with fear as well as with the cold; but he had
no thought of deceiving his angry aunt. He told her how he had given the
shoe to a child that was poorer than himself. The woman laughed an ugly,
wicked laugh.

“And so,” she said, “our fine young gentleman takes off his shoes for
beggars! He gives his wooden shoe to a barefoot! Well, we shall see.
You may put the shoe that is left in the chimney, and, mind what I say!
If anything is left in it, it will be a switch to whip you with in the
morning. To-morrow, for your Christmas dinner, you shall have nothing but
a hard crust of bread to eat and cold water to drink. I will show you how
to give away your shoes to the first beggar that comes along!”

The wicked woman struck the boy upon the cheek with her hand, and then
made him climb up to his bed in the loft. Sobbing with grief and pain,
little Wolff lay on his hard, cold bed, and did not go to sleep till the
moon had gone down and the Christmas bells had rung in the glad day of
peace and good will.

In the morning when the old woman arose grumbling and went downstairs, a
wonderful sight met her eyes. The great chimney was full of beautiful toys
and bags of candy and all kinds of pretty things; and right in the midst
of these was the wooden shoe which Wolff had given to the child, and near
it was its mate in which the wicked aunt had meant to put a strong switch.

The woman was so amazed that she cried out and stood still as if in a
fright. Little Wolff heard the cry and ran downstairs as quickly as he
could to see what was the matter. He, too, stopped short when he saw all
the beautiful things that were in the chimney. But as he stood and looked,
he heard people laughing in the street. What did it all mean?

By the side of the town pump many of the neighbors were standing. Each
was telling what had happened at his home that morning. The boys who had
rich parents and had been looking for beautiful gifts had found only long
switches in their shoes.

But, in the meanwhile, Wolff and his aunt stood still and looked at the
wonderful gifts around the two wooden shoes. Who had placed them there?
And where now was the kind, good giver?

Then, as they still wondered, they heard the voice of some one reading
in the little chapel over the way: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the
least of these--” And then, in some strange way, they understood how it
had all come about; and even the heart of the wicked aunt was softened.
And their eyes were filled with tears and their faces with smiles, as
they knelt down together and thanked the good God for what He had done to
reward the kindness and love of a little child.

--_Adapted from the French of François Coppée._

THE EAGLE AND THE SWAN

Imagine yourself, on a day early in November, floating slowly down
the Mississippi River. The near approach of winter brings millions of
waterfowl on whistling wings from the countries of the North to seek a
milder climate in which to sojourn for a season.

The eagle is seen perched on the highest branch of the tallest tree by the
margin of the broad stream. His glistening but pitiless eye looks over
water and land and sees objects afar off. He listens to every sound that
comes to his quick ear, glancing now and then to the earth beneath, lest
the light tread of the rabbit may pass unheard.

His mate is perched on the other side of the river, and now and then warns
him by a cry to continue patient. At this well-known call he partly opens
his broad wings and answers to her voice in tones not unlike the laugh
of a madman. Ducks and many smaller waterfowl are seen passing rapidly
towards the South; but the eagle heeds them not--they are for the time
beneath his attention.

The next moment, however, the wild, trumpet-like sound of a distant swan
is heard. The eagle suddenly shakes his body, raises his wings, and makes
ready for flight. A shriek from his mate comes across the stream, for she
is fully as watchful as he.

The snow-white bird is now in sight; her long neck is stretched forward;
her eyes are as watchful as those of her enemy; her large wings seem with
difficulty to support the weight of her body. Nearer and nearer she comes.
The eagle has marked her for his prey.

As the swan is about to pass the dreaded pair, the eagle starts from his
perch with an awful scream. He glides through the air like a falling star,
and, like a flash of lightning, comes upon the timid bird, which now, in
agony and despair, seeks to escape the grasp of his cruel talons. She
would plunge into the stream, did not the eagle force her to remain in the
air by striking at her from beneath.

The hope of escape is soon given up by the swan. She has already become
much weakened. She is about to gasp her last breath, when the eagle
strikes with his talons the under side of her wing and forces the dying
bird to fall in a slanting direction upon the nearest shore.

The eagle’s mate has watched every movement that he has made, and if she
did not assist him in capturing the swan, it was because she felt sure
that his power and courage were quite enough for the deed. She now sails
to the spot where he is waiting for her, and both together turn the breast
of the luckless swan upward and gorge themselves with gore.

--J. J. AUDUBON.

LUCY’S ROSARY

I love to see her well-worn beads
Slip through her tender hand;
They fall like rich enchanted seeds
Cast in a fruitful land.

From each small bead full silently
A floweret fair doth grow--
A winsome thing with soft bright eye,
Yet strong in grace, I know.

Wild winds may rave and storms may shout,
Her blossoms will not fall;
The angels gird them round about
With hedgerows thick and tall.

The Blessed Mary smiles on them,
Just as, in days of yore,
She smiled when in old Bethlehem
Her little Babe she bore.

And saints adown the golden stair
With noiseless steps oft creep,
To tend these shining flowers of prayer,
When Lucy is asleep.

When autumn dies, these radiant flowers
Shall safe transplanted be,
To bloom in Eden’s greenest bowers
For all eternity.

Before the Godhead they shall raise
Their perfumes pure and sweet,
And bloom in silent hymns of praise
At Lady Mary’s feet.

--J. R. MARRE.

From _The Ave Maria_.

THE TAXGATHERER

“And pray, who are you?”
Said the violet blue
To the Bee, with surprise
At his wonderful size,
In her eyeglass of dew.

“I, madam,” quoth he,
“Am a publican Bee,
Collecting the tax
Of honey and wax.
Have you nothing for me?”

--REV. JOHN B. TABB.

THE WISDOM OF ALEXANDER

Macedon melancholy philosopher countenance
cypress messenger perplexity recognize
vigor humiliation solitude poverty
oracles alleviation company behest

The bannered hosts of Macedon stood arrayed in splendid might. Crowning
the hills and filling the valleys, far and wide extended the millions in
arms who waited on the word of the young Alexander--the most superb array
of human power which sceptered ambition ever evoked to do its bidding.

That army was to sweep nations off the earth and make a continent its
camp, following the voice of one whose sword was the index to glory, whose
command was the synonym of triumph. It now stood expectant, for the king
yet lingered.

While his war horse fretted at the gate, and myriads thus in silence
waited his appearance, Alexander took his way to the apartment of his
mother. The sole ligament which bound him to virtue and to feeling was the
love of that mother, and the tie was as strong as it was tender.

In mute dejection they embraced; and Alexander, as he gazed upon that
affectionate face, which had never been turned to him but in tenderness
and yearning love, seemed to ask, “Shall I ever again behold that sweet
smile?” The anxiety of his mother’s countenance denoted the same sad
curiosity; and without a word, but with the selfsame feeling in their
hearts, they went out together to seek the oracles in the temple of
Philip, to learn their fate.

Alone, in unuttered sympathy, the two ascended the steps of the sacred
temple and approached the shrine. A priest stood behind the altar. The
blue smoke of the incense curled upward in front, and the book of oracles
was before him.

“Where shall my grave be digged?” said the king; and the priest opened
the book and read, “Where the soil is of iron, and the sky of gold, there
shall the grave of the monarch of men be digged.”

To the utmost limit Asia had become the possession of the Macedonian.
Fatigued with conquest, and anxious to seek a country where the difficulty
of victory should enhance its value, the hero was returning to Europe. A
few days would have brought him to the capital of his kingdom, when he
fell suddenly ill. He was lifted from his horse, and one of his generals,
unlacing his armor, spread it out for him to lie upon, and held his golden
shield to screen him from the mid-day sun.

When the king raised his eyes and beheld the glittering canopy, he was
conscious of the omen. “The oracle has said that where the ground should
be of iron, and the sky of gold, there should my grave be made! Behold the
fulfillment! It is a mournful thing! The young cypress is cut down in the
vigor of its strength, in the first fullness of its beauty. The thread
of life is snapped suddenly, and with it a thousand prospects vanish, a
thousand hopes are crushed! But let the will of fate be done! She has long
obeyed my behest! I yield myself now to hers! Yet, my mother!”

And the monarch mused in melancholy silence. At length he turned to his
attendants and ordered his tablets to be brought; and he took them, and
wrote, “Let the customary alms, which my mother shall distribute at my
death, be given to those who have never felt the miseries of the world,
and have never lost those who were dear to them;” and sinking back upon
his iron couch, he yielded up his breath. They buried him where he died,
and an army wept over his grave!

When the intelligence of the death of Alexander was brought to his mother,
as she sat among her ladies, she was overwhelmed by anguish.

“Ah! why,” she exclaimed, “was I exalted so high, only to be plunged into
such depth of misery? Why was I not made of lower condition, so, haply, I
had escaped such grief? The joy of my youth is plucked up, the comfort of
my age is withered! Who is more wretched than I?” And she refused to be
comforted.

The last wish of her son was read to her, and she resolved to perform that
one remaining duty and then retire to solitude, to indulge her grief for
the remainder of her life. She ordered her servants to go into the city
and bring to the palace such as the will of Alexander directed--selecting
those who were the poorest. But the messengers, ere long, returned, and
said that there were none of that description to be found among the poor.
“Go then,” said the queen, “and apply to all classes, and return not
without bringing some who have never lost any who were dear to them.” And
the order was proclaimed through all the city, and all heard it and passed
on.

The neighboring villages gave no better success; and the search was
extended through all the country; and they went over all Macedonia, and
throughout Greece, and at every house they stood and cried, “If there are
any here who have never known misery, and never lost those that were dear
to them, let them come out, and receive the bounty of the queen;” but none
came forth. And they went to the haunts of the gay, and into the libraries
of the philosophers; to the seats of public office, and to the caves of
hermits; they searched among the rich, and among the poor--among the high
and among the low; but not one person was found who had not tasted misery;
and they reported the result to the queen.

“It is strange!” said she, as if struck with sudden astonishment. “Are
there none who have not lost their friend? And is my condition the
condition of all? It is not credible. Are there none here, in this room,
in this palace, who have always been happy?” But there was no reply to the
inquiry.

“You, young page, whose countenance is gay, what sorrow have you ever
known?”

“Alas! madam, my father was killed in the wars of Alexander, and my
mother, through grief, has followed him!”

The question was put to others; but every one had lost a brother, a
father, or a mother. “Can it be,” said the queen, “can it be that all are
as I am?”

“All are as you are, madam,” said an old man that was present, “excepting
in these splendors and these consolations. By poverty and humility you
might have lost the alleviations, but, you could not have escaped the
blow. There are nights without a star; but there are no days without a
cloud. To suffer is the lot of all; to bear, the glory of a few.”

“I recognize,” said the queen, “the wisdom of Alexander!” and she bowed in
resignation, and wept no more.

--HORACE BINNEY WALLACE.

THANKSGIVING

With gratitude, O God, we praise
Thy holy name to-day, and raise
Our hearts to thee;
For all Thy gifts sent from above,
For life and strength and trust and love,
For liberty.

For summer days, for smiles and tears,
For all our joys and hopes and fears,
For storm and fair;
For toil and weariness and rest;
For sleep; for strength to bear the test
Of pain and care;

For food and raiment, and increase
Of harvest plenty, and for peace,
On earth good will.
O God, our Father, we this day
Give thanks for all, and now we pray
Be with us still!

--HENRY COYLE.

* * * * *

Beautiful Mother, we deck thy shrine;
All that is brightest and best of ours
Found in our gardens, we reckon thine,--
God thought of thee when He made the flowers.

--REV. K. D. BESTE.

THE ENCHANTED BARK

humor scene donkey Sancho
relief leagues armor Dulcinea
patience moored purpose Don Quixote

Fair and softly, and step by step, did Don Quixote and his squire wend
their way through field and wood and village and farmland. Many and
strange were their adventures--so many and strange, indeed, that I shall
not try to relate the half of them.

At length, on a sunny day, they came to the banks of the river Ebro. As
the knight sat on Rozinante’s back and gazed at the flowing water and at
the grass and trees which bordered the banks with living green, he felt
very happy. His squire, however, was in no pleasant humor, for the last
few days had been days of weary toil.

Presently Don Quixote observed a little boat which was lying in the water
near by, being moored by a rope to the trunk of a small tree. It had
neither oars nor sail, and for that reason it seemed all the more inviting.

The knight dismounted from his steed, calling at the same time to his
squire to do the same.

“Alight, Sancho,” he said. “Let us tie our beasts to the branches of this
willow.”

Sancho obeyed, asking, “Why do we alight here, master?”

“You are to know,” answered Don Quixote, “that this boat lies here for us.
It invites me to embark in it and hasten to the relief of some knight, or
other person of high degree, who is in distress.”

“I wonder if that is so,” said Sancho.

“Certainly,” answered his master. “In all the books that I have read,
enchanters are forever doing such things. If a knight happens to be in
danger, there is sometimes only one other knight that can rescue him. So a
boat is provided for that other knight, and, in the twinkling of an eye,
he is whisked away to the scene of trouble, even though it be two or three
thousand leagues.”

“That is wonderful,” said Sancho.

“Most assuredly,” answered Don Quixote; “and it is for just such a purpose
that this enchanted bark lies here. Therefore let us leave our steeds here
in the shade and embark in it.”

“Well, well,” said Sancho, “since you are the master, I must obey. But I
tell you this is no enchanted bark. It is some fisherman’s boat.”

“They are usually fishermen’s boats,” said Don Quixote. “So, let us begin
our voyage without delay.”

He leaped into the little vessel. Sancho followed, and untied the rope.
The boat drifted slowly out into the stream.

When Sancho saw that they were out of reach of the shore and had no means
of pushing back, he began to quake with fear.

“We shall never see our noble steeds again,” he cried. “Hear how the poor
donkey brays and moans because we are leaving him. See how Rozinante tugs
at his bridle. Oh, my poor, dear friends, good-by!”

Then he began such a moaning and howling that Don Quixote lost all
patience with him.

“Coward!” he cried. “What are you afraid of? Who is after you? Who hurts
you? Why, we have already floated some seven or eight hundred leagues. If
I’m not mistaken, we shall soon pass the equinoctial line which divides
the earth into two equal parts.”

“And when we come to that line, how far have we gone then?” asked Sancho.

“A mighty way,” answered the knight.

They were now floating down the river with some speed. Below them were two
great water mills near the middle of the stream.

“Look! look, my Sancho!” cried Don Quixote. “Do you see yon city or
castle? That is where some knight lies in prison, or some princess is
detained against her will.”

“What do you mean?” asked Sancho. “Don’t you see that those are no
castles? They are only water mills for grinding corn.”

“Peace, Sancho! I know they look like water mills, but that is a trick of
the enchanters. Why, those vile fellows can change and overturn everything
from its natural form. You know how they transformed my Dulcinea.”

The boat was now moving quite rapidly with the current. The people in the
mills saw it and came out with long poles to keep it clear of the great
water wheels. They were powdered with flour dust, as millers commonly are,
and therefore looked quite uncanny.

“Hello, there!” they cried. “Are you mad, in that boat? Push off, or
you’ll be cut to pieces by the mill wheels.”

“Didn’t I tell you, Sancho, that this is the place where I must show my
strength?” said Don Quixote. “See how those hobgoblins come out against
us! But I’ll show them what sort of person I am.”

Then he stood up in the boat and began to call the millers all sorts of
bad names.

“You paltry cowards!” he cried. “Release at once the captive whom you
are detaining within your castle. For I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, the
Knight of the Lions, whom heaven has sent to set your prisoner free.”

He drew his sword and began to thrust the air with it, as though fighting
with an invisible enemy. But the millers gave little heed to his actions,
and stood ready with their poles to stop the boat.

Sancho threw himself on his knees in the bottom of the boat and began to
pray for deliverance. And, indeed, it seemed as though their time had
come, for they were drifting straight into the wheel. Quickly the millers
bestirred themselves, and thrusting out their poles they overturned the
boat.

Don Quixote and Sancho were, of course, spilled out into the stream. It
was lucky that both could swim. The weight of the knight’s armor dragged
him twice to the bottom; and both he and his squire would have been
drowned had not two of the millers jumped in and pulled them out by main
force.

Hardly had our exhausted heroes recovered their senses when the fisherman
who owned the boat came running down to the shore. When he saw that the
little craft had been broken to pieces in the millwheel, he fell upon
Sancho and began to beat him unmercifully.

“You shall pay me for that boat,” he cried.

“I am ready to pay for it,” said Don Quixote, “provided these people will
fairly and immediately surrender the prisoners whom they have unjustly
detained in their castle.”

“What castle do you mean? and what prisoners?” asked the millers. “Explain
yourself, sir. We don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I might as well talk to a stump as try to persuade you to do a good
act,” answered Don Quixote. “Now I see that two rival enchanters have
clashed in this adventure. One sent me a boat, the other overwhelmed it
in the river. It is very plain that I can do nothing where there is such
plotting and counter-plotting.”

Then he turned his face toward the mill and raised his eyes to the window
above the wheel.

“My friends!” he cried at the top of his voice, “my friends, whoever you
are who lie immured in that prison, hear me! Pardon my ill luck, for I
cannot set you free. You must needs wait for some other knight to perform
that adventure.”

Having said this, he ordered Sancho to pay the fisherman fifty reals for
the boat. Sancho obeyed sullenly, for he was reluctant to part with the
money.

“Two voyages like that will sink all our stock,” he muttered.

The fisherman and the millers stood with their mouths open, wondering what
sort of men these were who had come so strangely into their midst. Then,
concluding that they were madmen, they left them, the millers going to
their mill, and the fisherman to his hut.

As for Don Quixote and Sancho, they trudged sorrowfully back to their
beasts; and thus ended the adventure of the enchanted bark.

--_Retold from CERVANTES._

A LEGEND OF ST. NICHOLAS

Nicholas heathen apparel aching
jeweled suddenly sniveling kindred
banquet anguish vanished giant

[Illustration]

The tales of good St. Nicholas
Are known in every clime;
Told in painting, and in statues,
And in the poet’s rhyme.
In England’s Isle, alone, to-day,
Four hundred churches stand
Which bear his name, and keep it well
Remembered through the land.

And all the little children
In England know full well
This tale of good St. Nicholas,
Which I am now to tell.
The sweetest tale, I think, of all
The tales they tell of him;
I never read it but my eyes
With tears begin to swim.

There was a heathen king who roved
About with cruel bands,
And waged a fierce and wicked war
On all the Christian lands.
And once he took as captive
A little fair-haired boy,
A Christian merchant’s only son,
His mother’s pride and joy.

He decked him in apparel gay,
And said, “You’re just the age
To serve behind my chair at meat,
A dainty Christian page.”

Oh, with a sore and aching heart
The lonely captive child
Roamed through the palace, big and grand,
And wept and never smiled.
And all the heathen jeered at him,
And called him Christian dog,
And when the king was angry
He kicked him like a log.

One day, just as the cruel king
Had sat him down to dine,
And in his jeweled cup of gold
The page was pouring wine,
The little fellow’s heart ran o’er
In tears he could not stay,
For he remembered suddenly,
It was the very day
On which the yearly feast was kept
Of good St. Nicholas,
And at his home that very hour
Were dancing on the grass,
With music, and with feasting, all
The children of the town.

The king looked up, and saw his tears;
His face began to frown:
“How now, thou dog! thy sniveling tears
Are running in my cup;
’Twas not with these, but with good wine,
I bade thee fill it up.

“Why weeps the hound?” The child replied,
“I weep, because to-day,
In name of good St. Nicholas,
All Christian children play;
And all my kindred gather home,
From greatest unto least,
And keep to good St. Nicholas,
A merry banquet feast.”

The heathen king laughed scornfully:
“If he be saint indeed,
Thy famous great St. Nicholas,
Why does he not take heed
To thee to-day, and bear thee back
To thy own native land?
Ha! well I wot, he cannot take
One slave from out my hand!”

Scarce left the boastful words his tongue
When, with astonished eyes,
The cruel king a giant form
Saw swooping from the skies.
A whirlwind shook the palace walls,
The doors flew open wide,
And lo! the good St. Nicholas
Came in with mighty stride.

Right past the guards, as they were not,
Close to the king’s gold chair,
With striding steps the good Saint came,
And seizing by the hair
The frightened little page, he bore
Him, in a twinkling, high
Above the palace topmost roof,
And vanished in the sky.

Now at that very hour was spread
A banquet rich and dear,
Within the little page’s home
To which, from far and near,
The page’s mourning parents called
All poor to come and pray
With them, to good St. Nicholas,
Upon his sacred day.
Thinking, perhaps, that he would heal
Their anguish and their pain,
And at poor people’s prayers might give
Their child to them again.

Now what a sight was there to see,
When flying through the air,
The Saint came carrying the boy,
Still by his curly hair!
And set him on his mother’s knee,
Too frightened yet to stand,
And holding still the king’s gold cup
Fast in his little hand.

And what glad sounds were these to hear,
What sobs and joyful cries,
And calls for good St. Nicholas,
To come back from the skies!
But swift he soared, and only smiled,
And vanished in the blue;
Most likely he was hurrying
Some other good to do.

RAPHAEL OF URBINO

physical admiration torrent Urbino
brilliancy inferior fresco Apennines

Raphael of Urbino is called the prince of painters. And a true prince he
was in physical beauty, in graciousness of manner, in kindness of soul,
and in power to command the love and admiration of all people with whom he
came in contact.

It would almost seem that the gentleness of St. Francis himself had fallen
upon him, for Raphael, too, was born among the Apennines near the old town
of Assisi. The rugged mountains still rise hill upon hill to the distant
blue sky. Assisi, almost deserted, may still be visited, and you may stand
in the very house where Raphael was born. You will find it on a steep
hillside in the little town of Urbino.

Urbino is built upon a jutting mountain cliff beneath which is a rushing
torrent. In the far distance one may see on a clear day the blue
Mediterranean. Urbino was once a prosperous town over which a powerful
duke ruled, but now it is a quaint village whose one treasure is the house
on the steep hillside.

Raphael’s father was Giovanni Santi, a painter of some ability. His mother
was the daughter of a rich merchant. Raphael was born April 6, 1483.

No shadow fell across the path of the child until he was eight years
of age. Then a great sorrow befell him. His mother died. His father,
anxious that the child should not miss a mother’s care, married again. His
stepmother treated him with all tenderness, and thus the child grew strong
and beautiful in the bright Italian sunshine and the loving atmosphere of
home.

He had few companions besides his father and mother. He played much in his
father’s studio, and like Angelo learned in babyhood to use the tools of
art which later would bring him renown.

In 1494, while the boy was still young, his second misfortune came. His
father died. Raphael was left under the guardianship of his stepmother and
his father’s brother, a priest.

For a time nothing was done toward his further education. But an uncle who
seemed to realize that the lad had unusual genius for painting at last
gained permission to send him away to a master. He was placed under the
instruction of Perugino, who, it is said, remarked, “Let him be my pupil;
he will soon be my master.”

Raphael remained in the studio of Perugino at Perugia nearly nine years.
Other students were with him who afterwards became great artists.

A master like Perugino would often receive many orders for pictures or
frescoes which he could not execute alone. So the less important work
would be left to students. This not only aided the artist, but it made
it possible for students to show their power. If a young man had unusual
talent, he was sure to seize this opportunity to show his ability and
attract the master’s attention. Raphael’s earliest work was done to assist
Perugino.

After the death of Perugino, Raphael returned for a time to Urbino. Here
he painted for the reigning duke St. George slaying the Dragon and St.
Michael attacking Satan. Both of these pictures are now in the Louvre
gallery at Paris.

But Raphael wanted especially to see the pictures of Angelo and Leonardo,
whose fame had spread to the most remote valleys of the rugged Apennines.
So with a letter of introduction to the ruler of Florence, Raphael in 1504
started upon his travels. His letter, he knew, would insure him a welcome
in Florence at least.

As he walked through the streets of this beautiful city he felt like
a fairy prince in a land of magic. Now he stood beneath the bell tower
which Giotto had designed, now he passed the wonderful bronze gates which
Ghiberti had cast, and now he studied the pictures of Leonardo or Angelo
which were in all the brilliancy of fresh color.

New ideas crowded upon him, new inspiration roused him. He was sure he
could do more, much more, than he had ever dreamed of doing before.
Eagerly he began to paint, and within a few months three Madonnas were
marked with his name. A fresco painting of the Last Supper, which was
probably executed by him this same year, was discovered on the wall of a
convent dining room in 1845.

He had been gone not quite a year when he returned to Urbino to complete
some work which he had before undertaken. The influence of Florence was
seen at once in both color and form. He was a finer artist.

All that northern Italy could offer, Raphael had now seen. But the art of
Rome excelled the art of Florence. Angelo was at that very time hard at
work upon the ceiling frescoes of the Sistine Chapel. Leonardo in Milan
had amazed Italy and the world by his Last Supper. He, too, was soon to be
in Rome. Hither, in 1506, Raphael went.

A young man of handsome, courtly appearance and gracious manners, with
many friends and no enemies, fortune truly favored him! The Pope received
him gladly and soon commissioned him to decorate the hall of the Vatican.

Two of the greatest artists of any age were now working almost side by
side, Michael Angelo and Raphael of Urbino. Often one or the other would
stand by his rival and watch his brush. Yet neither ever spoke. Each
admired the other and each was known to defend the other under the attacks
of inferior artists.

steadily influence devout favorite
probably festival sleeves conception

Raphael worked steadily in the Vatican hall. Perhaps the most pleasing of
these frescoes is the one which shows the Church in heaven and the Church
on earth.

The fresco is divided into two sections. The upper one shows the Almighty
Father in the midst of angels. Below Him is Christ enthroned, with the
Virgin and St. John the Baptist. Beneath the throne is the Dove of the
Holy Spirit. In the lower fresco appear St. John, St. Ambrose, St.
Augustine, and St. Gregory.

At No. 124 Via Coronari, near the St. Angelo bridge, is the four-story
house where Raphael lived during his first four years in Rome.

Raphael was admitted in 1514 into the Fraternity of the Body of Christ,
and his many Madonnas of rare beauty were doubtless inspired by his devout
spirit.

During his stay in Rome Raphael set up a studio to which many students
flocked. They loved him both as friend and master, and he was untiring in
his efforts to instruct and inspire them.

He was commissioned by the Pope with the task of making certain
decorations for the Sistine Chapel. They were to take the form of
tapestries with which the chapel would be adorned on great festival
occasions. There were ten of these, all telling some Bible story in the
life of Christ or one of His immediate followers.

The last of the series is the Coronation of the Virgin. It shows Christ on
his throne crowning the Madonna. The Father and the Holy Spirit are seen
above and St. Jerome and St. John the Baptist below.

As yet nothing has been said of the painting by which the name of Raphael
is best known, the Sistine Madonna. It was painted in 1518 for the
Benedictine Monastery of San Sisto at Piacenza. In 1754 it was purchased
by Augustus III, Elector of Saxony, for forty thousand dollars. It was
received in Dresden with great rejoicing, and the throne of Saxony was
moved to give it a suitable place. It is now in the Dresden gallery.

Another favorite is the Madonna of the Chair. This shows the Madonna,
seated, holding the child. “The dress of the mother is light blue; the
mantle about her shoulder is green with red and willow-green stripes and
a gold-embroidered border; her sleeves are red faced with gold at the
wrists. A grayish-brown veil with reddish-brown stripes is wound around
her head. The child’s dress is orange colored; the back of the chair is
red.” Such is the description given by Grimm.

At the time of his death Raphael was putting forth every effort to finish
his noble conception of the Transfiguration. It is now, as he left it, in
the Vatican.

On the night of Good Friday, April 6, 1520, at the age of thirty-seven,
Raphael died. In his beautiful home, where the people of Rome might do him
honor, the unfinished Transfiguration beside him, in the midst of lighted
tapers, he lay in state until the body was carried to the Pantheon. In the
procession also was carried the great picture.

LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT

Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom
Lead Thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home--
Lead Thou me on!
Keep Thou my feet, I do not ask to see
The distant scene--one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor pray’d that Thou
Shouldst lead me on.
I loved to choose and see my path, but now
Lead Thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on,
O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone;
And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.

--CARDINAL NEWMAN.

PARABLE OF THE GOOD SAMARITAN

A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among robbers,
who also stripped him: and having wounded him went away leaving him half
dead.

And it chanced that a certain priest went down the same way: and seeing
him, passed by.

In like manner also a Levite, when he was near the place and saw him,
passed by.

But a certain Samaritan being on his journey, came near him: and seeing
him was moved with compassion.

And going up to him, bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine: and
setting him upon his own beast brought him to an inn, and took care of him.

And the next day he took out two pence, and gave to the host, and said:
Take care of him: and whatsoever thou shalt spend over and above, I at my
return will repay thee.

Which of these three in thy opinion was neighbor to him that fell among
the robbers?

--_Luke_ x. 30-36.

[Illustration: _Painting by Plockhorst_

THE GOOD SAMARITAN]

CONNOR MAC-NESSA--AN IRISH LEGEND

siege tourney falconry anxious
relief anguish tranquil crucify
chieftain emerald generous vigorous

Loud roared the din of battle, fierce,
Bloody and wild,
With Ulster men and Connaught men
The field was piled.
Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s King,
In the mad fray
Wounded to death and well-nigh spent
And dying lay.

A Druid came with healing balm
Of herb and leaf,
He poured it in the gaping wound,
To give relief;
The wound was healed, “Yet,” said the leech,
“Beware, my Liege!
Of war’s alarm or battle fray,
Sally or siege;

“No more o’er mere and fen with thee,
Oh! noble king,
Brave Knight and Lady fair will strive
For bittern’s wing;
No more thou’lt ride thy prancing steed
After the doe,
No more thou’lt tilt at tourney brave
’Gainst gallant foe;

“For thee the fireside’s tranquil calm,
Lest sudden rift
Of wound break forth and cause thy death
In anguish swift!”
Quiet and calm, in war or peace,
No more to roam,
Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s King,
Abode at home.

One day, when woods were green and fair,
And hearts were light,
Swiftly the gleaming mid-day sun
Grew dark as night;
Black portents unto Erin fair
It seemed to bring.
“What means this, mighty Druid?” asked
The anxious king.

“Far, far away, across the sea,”
The Druid said,
“Jesu, the Christ, upon a cross
Bends low His head.
Their King upon the shameful tree,
With mocking cry,
And scornful gibe, the cruel Jews
Now crucify.”

King Connor cried, “What crime had this
Man done, I pray?”
“But to be good were crime enough
For such as they,
My King,” the answer came. “He was
To death enticed,
Then broke His tender, loving heart,
This fair, white Christ!”

A generous flush o’erspread his cheek,
Mac-Nessa sprang
Quick to his feet; his quivering voice
In anger rang.
“Ah! wicked deed! Ah! poor, white Christ!
They murder Thee!
Why didst thou not unto the King
Of Erin flee?

“Thy battles he would fight to death,
Poor, guiltless One,
Ulster’s great chieftain ne’er could see
Injustice done!”
Then dashed he from the hall and seized
With vigorous hand
His keen and sharp-edged clevy--
A wondrous brand!

Under the turquoise sky, upon
The emerald turf,
His anger raged like foaming crest
Of frothy surf.
He hacked and hewed the giant trees
With his keen sword.
“Thus would I slay Thy foes, poor Christ,
With blood out-poured!”

Then quickly his forgotten wound
Sprung gaping wide.
He reeled and fell: “I go to Thee,
Oh! Christ!” he sighed,
For the King Christ he loved unseen,
With flowers bespread,
Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s King
Lay cold and dead!

--M. F. N.-R.

THE MARTYRDOM OF BLESSED JOHN FISHER

message persuasion signify lieutenant
apparel infirmity scaffold occasion
forehead infinite tyrant solemnity

It was very late in the night when the sentence was pronounced, and the
prisoner was asleep. The lieutenant was unwilling to disturb his rest for
that time, and so did not awaken him, but in the morning before five of
the clock he came to him in his chamber in the Bell Tower, and found him
yet asleep in his bed.

He awakened the good father, and explained that he was come to him on a
message from the king. Then, with some persuasion, he said that he should
remember himself to be an old man, and that he could not expect by course
of nature to live much longer. Finally he informed him that he was come to
signify unto him that the king’s pleasure was he should suffer death that
forenoon.

“Well,” answered this blessed father, “if this be your errand, you bring
me no great news. I have long expected this message. And I most humbly
thank the king’s majesty that it has pleased him to rid me from all this
worldly business, and I thank you also for your tidings. But I pray you,
Mr. Lieutenant, when is mine hour that I must go hence?”

“Your hour,” said the lieutenant, “must be nine of the clock.”

“And what hour is it now?” said he.

“It is now about five,” said the lieutenant.

“Well, then,” said he, “let me by your patience sleep an hour or two,
for I have slept very little this night. My rest has been very much
broken, not for any fear of death, I thank God, but by reason of my great
infirmity and weakness.”

“The king’s further pleasure is,” said the lieutenant, “that you should
not talk much. Especially you must not say anything touching his majesty,
whereby the people should have any cause to think ill of him or of his
proceedings.”

“For that,” said the father, “you shall see me order myself well. For, by
God’s grace, neither the king, nor any man else, shall have occasion to
mislike my words.”

The lieutenant then departed from him, and so the prisoner, falling again
to rest, slept soundly two hours and more.

After he was waked again he called to his man to help him up. Then he
commanded him to take away the shirt of hair (which he was accustomed to
wear on his back) and to convey it secretly out of the house. Then he bade
him bring a clean white shirt, and all the best apparel he had, as cleanly
bright as possible.

While he was dressing himself, he appeared to have more curiosity and care
for the fine and cleanly wearing of his apparel that day than had ever
been his wont before. His man asked him what this sudden change meant,
since he must know well enough that he must put off all again within two
hours and lose it.

“What of that?” said the father. “Dost thou not mark that this is our
wedding day, and that it is necessary for us to use more cleanliness for
solemnity of the marriage?”

About nine of the clock the lieutenant came again to his prison. Finding
him almost ready, he said that he was now come for him.

“I will wait upon you straight,” said the father, “as fast as this thin
body of mine will give me leave.” Then he turned to his man and said,
“Reach me my fur cape to put about my neck.”

“Oh, my lord,” said the lieutenant, “why need you be so careful for your
health for this little while? Your lordship knoweth that it is not much
above an hour.”

“I think no otherwise,” said this blessed father. “But in the meantime I
will keep myself as well as I can, till the very time of my execution.
I have, I thank our Lord, a very good desire and willing mind to die at
this present time, and so trust of His infinite mercy and goodness He will
continue this desire. Nevertheless, I will not willingly hinder my health
for one minute of an hour. Indeed, I will prolong the same as long as I
can by such reasonable ways and means as Almighty God hath provided for
me.”

Then, taking a little book in his hand, which was a New Testament lying
by him, he made a cross on his forehead and went out of his prison door
with the lieutenant. He was so weak that he was scarce able to go down the
stairs, and at the stairs-foot he was taken up in a chair between two of
the lieutenant’s men. These carried him to the Tower gate to be delivered
to the sheriffs of London for execution.

When they were come to the farthest wall of the Tower, they rested there
with him a space; and an officer was sent on before to know in what
readiness the sheriffs were to receive him. As they were resting here, the
father rose out of his chair, and stood on his feet, leaning his shoulder
to the wall. Then, lifting his eyes towards heaven, he opened his little
book in his hand, and said, “O Lord, this is the last time that ever
I shall open this book; let some comfortable place now chance unto me
whereby I thy poor servant may glorify Thee in this my last hour.”

Then he opened the book, and the first thing that came to his sight were
these words: “This is life everlasting, that they may know Thee the only
true God, and Jesus Christ whom Thou hast sent. I have glorified Thee upon
earth, I have finished the work Thou gavest me to do.” Having read these
words, he shut the book together and said, “Here is even learning enough
for me to my life’s end.”

The sheriff was now ready for him. So he was taken up again by certain of
the sheriff’s men, and, guarded by many armed men, he was carried to the
scaffold on Tower Hill, otherwise called East Smithfield. He was seen to
be praying all the way, and pondering upon the words that he had read.

When he was come to the foot of the scaffold, they that carried him
offered to help him up the stairs; but he said, “Nay, masters, since I
have come so far let me alone, and you shall see me shift for myself well
enough.” So he went up the stairs without any help, so lively that it was
a marvel to them that knew before of his weakness. As he was mounting up
the stairs, the southeast sun shined very bright in his face. Observing
this, he said to himself these words, lifting up his hands, “Come ye to
Him and be enlightened; and your faces shall not be confounded.”

By the time he was on the scaffold, it was about ten of the clock. The
executioner, being ready to do his office, kneeled down to him (as the
fashion is) and asked his forgiveness.

“I forgive thee,” said the father, “with all my heart, and I trust thou
shalt see me overcome this storm lustily.”

Then was his gown and fur cape taken from him, and he stood in his doublet
and hose, in sight of all the people. There was to be seen a long, lean,
and slender body, having on it little other substance besides the skin
and bones. Indeed, so thin and emaciated was he that those who beheld him
marveled much to see a living man so far consumed. Therefore, it appeared
monstrous that the king could be so cruel as to put such a man to death as
he was, even though he had been a real offender against the law.

If he had been in the Turk’s dominion, and there found guilty of some
great offense, yet methinks the Turk would never have put him to death
being already so near death. For it is an horrible and exceeding cruelty
to kill that thing which is presently dying, except it be for pity’s sake
to rid it from longer pain. Therefore, it may be thought that the cruelty
and hard heart of King Henry in this point passed all the Turks and
tyrants that ever have been heard or read of.

After speaking a few words the father kneeled down on his knees and said
certain prayers. Then came the executioner and bound a handkerchief about
his eyes. This holy father, lifting up his hands and heart to heaven, said
a few other prayers, which were not long but fervent and devout, which
being ended, he laid his holy head down over the midst of a little block.…
And so his immortal soul mounted to the blissful joys of Heaven.

--THE REV. T. E. BRIDGETT, C. SS. R.

THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE GLOWWORM

appetite eagerly harangued minstrelsy
eloquent abhor oration approbation

A nightingale, that all day long
Had cheered the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When, looking eagerly around,
He spied far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glowworm by his spark;
So, stooping from the hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.

The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, right eloquent:
“Did you admire my lamp,” quoth he,
“As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong
As much as I to spoil your song;
For ’twas the selfsame Power divine
Taught you to sing and me to shine;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night.”

The songster heard this short oration,
And, warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.

--WILLIAM COWPER.

IF THOU COULDST BE A BIRD

If thou couldst be a bird, what bird wouldst thou be?
A frolicsome gull on the billowy sea,
Screaming and wailing when stormy winds rave,
Or anchored, white thing! on the merry green wave?

Or an eagle aloft in the blue ether dwelling,
Free of the caves of the lofty Helvellyn,
Who is up in the sunshine when we are in shower,
And could reach our loved ocean in less than an hour?

Or a stork on a mosque’s broken pillar in peace,
By some famous old stream in the bright land of Greece;
A sweet-mannered householder! waiving his state
Now and then, in some kind little toil for his mate?

Or a heath bird, that lies on the Cheviot moor,
Where the wet, shining earth is as bare as the floor;
Who mutters glad sounds, though his joys are but few--
Yellow moon, windy sunshine, and skies cold and blue?

Or, if thy man’s heart worketh in thee at all,
Perchance thou wouldst dwell by some bold baron’s hall;
A black, glossy rook, working early and late,
Like a laboring man on the baron’s estate?

Or a linnet, who builds in the close hawthorn bough,
Where her small, frightened eyes may be seen looking through;
Who heeds not, fond mother! the oxlips that shine
On the hedge banks beneath, or the glazed celandine?

Or a swallow that flieth the sunny world over,
The true home of spring and spring flowers to discover;
Who, go where he will, takes away on his wings
Good words from mankind for the bright thoughts he brings?

But what! can these pictures of strange winged mirth
Make the child to forget that she walks on the earth?
Dost thou feel at thy sides as though wings were to start
From some place where they lie folded up in thy heart?

Then love the green things in thy first simple youth,
The beasts, birds, and fishes, with heart and in truth,
And fancy shall pay thee thy love back in skill;
Thou shalt be all the birds of the air at thy will.

--F. W. FABER.

THE FIRST CRUSADE

I. CAUSES OF THE CRUSADES

Mecca inhabitants shrewd apostles
Medina increased conquered crusades
Mohammed idolatry zealous hermit

About six hundred years after the birth of Christ, a child named Mohammed
was born in the city of Mecca in Arabia. The father of Mohammed died when
the child was still a babe, and his mother was very poor. During his
boyhood he earned a scanty living by tending the flocks of his neighbors,
and much of his time was spent in the desert.

Even when young, Mohammed seemed to be religious. He often went to a cave
a few miles from Mecca, and stayed there alone for days at a time. He
claimed that he had visions in which the angel Gabriel came down to him,
and told him many things which he should tell the people of Arabia. When
he was forty years old, he went forth to preach, saying that he was the
prophet of God.

At the end of three years he had forty followers. The people of Mecca,
however, did not believe him to be a prophet. They were for the most part
idolaters, and as Mohammed preached against idolatry, they finally drove
him from the city.

He and his followers then went to the city of Medina. The inhabitants of
that city received them kindly, and Mohammed was able to raise an army
with which to overcome his enemies.

Mohammed was a very shrewd man, and among other things he was careful to
teach his followers that the hour of each man’s death was fixed. Hence
one was as safe in battle as at home. This belief, of course, helped his
soldiers to fight bravely.

The number of Mohammed’s followers now increased very fast; and ten
years after his flight to Medina, he returned to Mecca at the head of
forty thousand pilgrims. Soon all Arabia was converted to his faith, and
idolatry was no longer known in Mecca.

After Mohammed’s death, his followers formed the plan of converting the
whole world by means of the sword. In course of time their armies overran
Persia, Egypt, and northern Africa. They also entered Spain, and having
established themselves there, they hoped to conquer the whole of Europe.

Soon the Moslems, as the followers of Mohammed were called, took
possession of Palestine and of Jerusalem, where was the sacred tomb of our
Saviour.

After the earliest churches had been established by the apostles of
Christ, it had been the custom of Christians to make pilgrimages to
Jerusalem to see the tomb of our Saviour. Each pilgrim carried a palm
branch and wore a cockleshell in his hat. The branch was the token of
victory; the shell a sign that the sea had been crossed. After the Moslems
had gained possession of the Holy Land, as Palestine is often called,
the pilgrims often suffered much from persecution. Then, too, they were
required to pay a large sum for permission to visit the tomb and other
sacred places.

[Illustration: CHURCH OF THE HOLY SEPULCHER

(Present Day)]

It was to free the pilgrims, who came from Europe, from this persecution
that the crusades, or holy wars, were undertaken. These crusades were
begun through the efforts of one zealous man, a priest commonly known as
“Peter the Hermit.”

II. PETER THE HERMIT

pilgrimage exposure admittance enthusiasm
resurrection sanction earnestly separated
cardinals council military Constantinople

Peter the Hermit was born in France. He was in turn a soldier, a priest,
and a hermit. At length he made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. On reaching
Jerusalem, he saw with such sadness the wrongs suffered by the Christians
that he said in his heart, “I will rescue the tomb of our Lord from the
heathen.”

During his stay in the Holy City, he went often to the Church of the
Resurrection. One day he beheld in a vision the Lord, who directed him to
go forth and do his work. He at once returned to Europe. His plan was to
raise a great army and with it drive the Moslems from the Holy Land. But
he must first obtain the consent and aid of Pope Urban II.

So he traveled to Rome and was permitted to tell the Pope his plan. What
a picture they made! The Pope sat in state clothed in rich robes. His
cardinals and attendants were around him. Before him stood the pilgrim,
his face tanned with exposure and his clothes all travel-stained, telling
of the grievous wrongs suffered by the Christians in Jerusalem. No wonder
Pope Urban wept. The Pope gave his sanction to Peter to preach throughout
Europe, urging the people to go and rescue the blessed tomb.

[Illustration: PETER THE HERMIT PREACHING THE CRUSADE]

Peter, light of heart but strong of purpose, started forth in the year
1094. He was clad in a woolen garment over which he wore a coarse brown
mantle. His feet and head he left bare. He was a small man, and if you had
seen him, you would not have called him fine looking. Still, he was never
refused admittance into the presence of prince or king.

The poor loved him for his gentleness, and the rich loaded him with gifts.
These, however, he never kept for himself, but gave to those who were in
need.

At Clermont, in November, 1095, the Pope held a council of all the
cardinals, bishops, and priests who stood high in the Church. He told them
what Peter meant to do, asking them to render him aid. So earnestly did he
speak, that when he had finished, they all shouted together, “God wills
it! God wills it!”

“Then,” said Pope Urban, “let the army of the Lord when it rushes upon its
enemies shout that cry, ‘God wills it.’”

He commanded all who should take up arms in the cause to wear on the
shoulder a cross, reminding them that Christ had said, “He that does not
take up his cross and follow me is not worthy of me.” This is why the wars
were called the Crusades, for the word “crusade” means literally “the
taking of the cross.”

A great army was soon assembled and ready to march. All the men were eager
and wild with enthusiasm, but most of them had never had any military
training. How would they succeed in that long and toilsome journey across
sea and land to Palestine?

They soon began to meet with trouble. In their haste, they had not
provided nearly enough food for themselves. When that gave out, they began
to take whatever they needed from the people along the way. In Hungary
they did much harm to towns and farms. This made the inhabitants very
angry, and they came out to fight the crusaders. Many of the crusaders
were killed and the rest were scattered in flight.

At length Peter was separated from his followers, and wandered for some
time alone in the forest. Then, in order to make his whereabouts known to
any who might be in the same forest or near, he blew his horn. In answer
to his call several companies of his friends soon appeared. So with only
a small number of those who at first started out, Peter at length reached
Constantinople.

At that time Constantinople was the capital of the Roman Empire in the
East and its ruler was the Emperor Alexis. The emperor received the
crusaders kindly. Here Peter the Hermit was rejoined by a large force of
his followers who had been separated from him during the march.

After leaving Constantinople, the crusaders entered the land of the Turks,
through which they must march before reaching the Holy Land. A terrible
battle was soon fought with the Moslems, and most of the crusaders
perished. Peter now saw that with the few men who were left he could
do nothing; he therefore decided to find a place of security among the
mountains and wait there until aid should come. There we shall leave him
for a time.

III. KNIGHTHOOD IN THE CRUSADES

chivalry tournaments modesty archery
jousts avenge obedience sponsors

When Pope Urban II called the council of Clermont, and so many men of
all ranks stitched upon their shoulders the cross of red silk, the Age
of Chivalry in Europe had already begun. The word “chivalry” is from a
French word which means rider of a horse. So, when we speak of the Age of
Chivalry, we picture to ourselves knights riding their horses and engaging
in real or mock battles.

The mock battles were called jousts or tournaments, and they were the
chief amusement of the time. Noble lords and beautiful ladies were present
and watched the contest from raised seats as we now watch ball games. The
real battles had many causes. Sometimes one prince would quarrel with a
neighboring prince and settle the dispute by war. Sometimes a body of
knights would go forth to avenge a wrong.

[Illustration: A KNIGHT OF THE CRUSADES]

Sometimes a king would call upon his knights to go with him to conquer
some neighboring country. The knights were therefore always ready for war.

Every boy, if he were the son of a noble, at about the age of seven was
sent to the castle or court of some prince or king, as a page.

Here he was taught modesty and obedience, hunting, riding, archery, and
the hurling of the lance.

When he had become skillful in these he might bear the shield of his
master. He was then a squire. He must know no fear, and must not boast of
his own deeds. He must defend the weak and be ever courteous to ladies. At
feasts he must carve the meats and wait upon the guests.

When he reached the age of twenty-one, the squire might be made a knight.
This was often a very pretty ceremony. The squire would come before his
lord and a great party of nobles, dressed in armor, except the helmet,
sword, and spurs.

Several nobles would offer themselves as sponsors, declaring that they
were sure he would prove himself noble and brave. Then the squire was
struck lightly on the shoulders with the sword of his master. At the same
time his master repeated these words, “I dub thee knight in the name of
God and St. Michael; be faithful, bold, and fortunate.” The knight then
went forth to do some deed by which to “win his spurs.”

Sometimes, before being knighted, the young squire was left in the chapel
of the castle all night. Here he guarded his armor, and by devout and
continuous prayer invoked the blessing of God upon himself and whatever
cause he should undertake.

Urged by the preaching of Peter the Hermit and the encouragement of Pope
Urban, the knights of Western Europe took up the cause of the crusades.
Soon after the departure of Peter with his untrained host of followers, a
gallant army, led by two famous knights, Godfrey of Bouillon and Tancred,
an Italian knight, began its march to the Holy Land.

Peter at last succeeded in joining them with the few men who were left
with him, and together they advanced to Jerusalem.

IV. GODFREY OF BOUILLON

material scarcity missiles recognized
exhaust devices signals Saracens

Many are the tales that are told of the knightly leaders in this first
crusade, and many were their adventures. It was on the 29th of May, 1099,
that the Christian army first came into full view of the Holy City. Filled
with new zeal at the sight, every man shouted, “It is the will of God.”

The city, however, had been fortified in every possible way, and Godfrey,
who was in command, knew it would be a hard task to mount the high walls.
He was certain that battering-rams would be necessary to break down the
walls, but how were they to obtain the material to make them? The barren
country around afforded nothing of which they could make use. To transport
the timber from a distance would exhaust both men and horses which were
already suffering from scarcity of water and food.

At last news came that a fleet had arrived from Genoa with siege machines
and supplies. The crusaders hastened to the nearest seaport, but found
that their enemies had been before them and destroyed the fleet. Still
they were able to pick up much of the material and many of the instruments
used in the making of the machines. Some of the Genoese who were skilled
in handicraft put together a few wooden towers and other devices which
were of great use in surmounting and breaking down the walls. Bridges were
also thrown out, over the walls, by which the soldiers could pass into the
city.

On Thursday morning, July 14, 1099, the crusaders made the first attack
with their wooden towers. The Saracens, as the Mohammedans were called by
the crusaders, met them with missiles of all sorts, which they threw upon
them. The crusaders soon made a breach in the wall, but still could not
enter the city.

Early the next morning the attack was renewed. A procession of priests
was formed and moved about through the throng, encouraging the knights.
A pigeon was captured, and under its wing a note was found telling the
Saracen commander that help was at hand. This stirred the Christians to
still fiercer attack.

Suddenly there appeared to the host a horseman clothed in white. The
crusaders at once recognized the vision of St. George. “St. George has
come to our assistance,” Godfrey exclaimed. “He signals to enter the Holy
City.”

[Illustration: JERUSALEM TAKEN BY THE CRUSADERS]

Again arose the cry, “God wills it! God wills it!” Godfrey commanded the
attack to be renewed. The hay which the Saracens had heaped up against
the walls to deaden the shock of the battering-rams was set on fire. The
Saracens, stifled by the smoke, leaped from the walls. Then the tower
bridges were let fall, and soon Godfrey and other knights forced their way
into the city.

After the capture of the Holy City, Godfrey was chosen king of Jerusalem,
or Defender of the Faith. But he lived only about a year to enjoy that
high distinction.

V. TANCRED

patrolled cautiously finally renowned
endurance Antioch endeared approached

Tancred was known among his followers for his unselfishness. He seemed
never to become weary. If a comrade complained of a duty, he himself would
perform it. He patrolled walls at night, fought by day, and by his own
endurance of labor and hard fare sought to set an example for his men.

One night, when he was standing guard with only his squire as companion,
he was attacked by three armed Saracens on horseback. They came upon him
quickly, thinking, of course, that they could easily overcome him. They
did not know that the blade of this renowned warrior could cleave their
heavy armor as if it were cloth.

On came the first horseman and down came Tancred’s sword. The Saracen
fell. The next, who had seen the first one fall, waited for the third.
Very cautiously they approached side by side, but they soon fared the
same as their companion.

It was Tancred who took possession of Bethlehem. He was made ruler over
that part of the Holy Land, but hearing that Antioch was threatened by the
Saracens, he went to its relief. For three years he held it against the
unbelievers.

Tancred’s cousin, Bohemond, who was the rightful ruler of Antioch, was
held as prisoner by the Saracen commander; but finally Tancred succeeded
in setting his cousin free. He at once gave up to his cousin the entire
rule, although he had so endeared himself to the people that they besought
him to remain.

A battle wound was the cause of Tancred’s death. He met his fate bravely,
and died with the purpose of saving the Holy Land still uppermost in his
heart.

* * * * *

Between the years 1095 and 1270 there were eight crusades, all undertaken
for the purpose of delivering the Holy Land from the Saracens. While they
failed to accomplish that object, they were still of great benefit to the
Church and civilization. They made the people better acquainted with the
geography and history of other lands, and led to an increase of trade and
industry throughout the known world.

HOW THE ROBIN CAME

tortures genesis hovering myth
chieftain human wampum pity

Happy young friends, sit by me,
Under May’s blown apple tree,
While these home birds in and out
Through the blossoms flit about.
Hear a story strange and old,
By the wild red Indians told.
How the robin came to be:
Once a great chief left his son,--
Well-beloved, his only one,--
When the boy was well-nigh grown,
In the trial lodge alone.
Left for tortures long and slow
Youths like him must undergo,
Who their pride of manhood test,
Lacking water, food, and rest.

Seven days the fast he kept,
Seven nights he never slept.
Then the young boy, wrung with pain,
Weak from nature’s overstrain,
Faltering, moaned a low complaint,
“Spare me, father, for I faint!”
But the chieftain, haughty-eyed,
Hid his pity in his pride.
“You shall be a hunter good,
Knowing never lack of food;
You shall be a warrior great,
Wise as fox and strong as bear;
Many scalps your belt shall wear,
If with patient heart you wait
Bravely till your task is done.
Better you should starving die
Than that boy and squaw should cry
Shame upon your father’s son!”

When next morn the sun’s first rays
Glistened on the hemlock sprays,
Straight that lodge the old chief sought,
And boiled samp and moose meat brought.
“Rise and eat, my son!” he said.
Lo, he found the poor boy dead!
As with grief his grave they made,
And his bow beside him laid,
Pipe, and knife, and wampum braid,
On the lodge top overhead,
Preening smooth its breast of red
And the brown coat that it wore,
Sat a bird, unknown before.
And as if with human tongue,
“Mourn me not,” it said, or sung;
“I, a bird, am still your son,
Happier than if hunter fleet,
Or a brave, before your feet
Laying scalps in battle won.
Friend of man, my song shall cheer
Lodge and corn land; hovering near,
To each wigwam I shall bring
Tidings of the coming spring;
Every child my voice shall know
In the moon of melting snow,
When the maple’s red bud swells,
And the windflower lifts its bells.
As their fond companion
Men shall henceforth own your son,
And my song shall testify
That of human kin am I.”

Thus the Indian legend saith
How, at first, the robin came
With a sweeter life than death,
Bird for boy, and still the same.
If my young friends doubt that this
Is the robin’s genesis,
Not in vain is still the myth
If a truth be found therewith:
Unto gentleness belong
Gifts unknown to pride and wrong;
Happier far than hate is praise,--
He who sings than he who slays.

--JOHN G. WHITTIER.

HOW ST. FRANCIS PREACHED TO THE BIRDS

fervor abandon salvation penance
triple multitude substance raiment
refuge creator preserved element
marveled benefits ingratitude providence

One day when St. Francis was in a village of Italy, he began to preach;
and first of all he commanded the swallows who were singing that they
should keep silence until he had done preaching, and the swallows obeyed
him. And he preached with so much fervor that all the men and women in
that village were minded to go forth and abandon the village.

But St. Francis suffered them not, and said to them: “Do not be in haste,
and do not go hence, and I will order that which you must do for the
salvation of your souls;” and then he thought of his third order for the
salvation of the whole world. And he left them much comforted and well
disposed to penance; and he departed thence.

And passing along, in fervor of soul, he lifted up his eyes and saw many
trees standing by the way, and filled with a countless multitude of little
birds; at which St. Francis wondered, and said to his companions, “Wait
a little for me in the road, and I will go and preach to my sisters the
birds.”

And he entered into the field, and began to preach to the birds that were
on the ground. And suddenly, those that were in the trees came around him,
and together they all remained silent, so long as it pleased St. Francis
to speak; and even after he had finished they would not depart until he
had given them his blessing. And according as it was afterwards related,
St. Francis went among them and touched them with his cloak, and none of
them moved.

The substance of the sermon was this: “My little sisters, the birds, you
are much beholden to God your creator, and in all places you ought to
praise Him, because He has given you liberty to fly about in all places,
and has given you double and triple raiment. Know also that He preserved
your race in the ark of Noe that your species might not perish.

“And again you are beholden to Him for the element of air, which He has
appointed for you; and for this also that you never sow nor reap, but
God feeds you and gives you the brooks and fountains for your drink, the
mountains and valleys also for your refuge, and the tall trees wherein to
make your nests. And since you know neither how to sew nor how to spin,
God clothes you, you and your young ones. Wherefore your creator loves you
much, since He has bestowed on you so many benefits. And therefore beware,
my little sisters, of the sin of ingratitude, and study always to please
God.”

As St. Francis spoke thus to them, all the multitude of these birds opened
their beaks, and stretched out their necks, and opened their wings; and
reverently bowing their heads to the earth, by their acts and by their
songs they showed that the words of the holy father gave them the greatest
delight. And St. Francis rejoiced, and was glad with them, and marveled
much at such a multitude of birds, and at their beautiful variety, and
their attention and familiarity; for all which he devoutly praised their
creator in them.

Finally, having finished his sermon, St. Francis made the sign of the
cross over them, and gave them leave to depart. Thereupon, all those
birds arose in the air, with wonderful singing; and after the fashion of
the sign of the cross which St. Francis had made over them, they divided
themselves into four parts; and one part flew toward the east, and another
to the west, another to the south, and another to the north.

Then, all departing, they went their way singing wonderful songs,
signifying by this that as St. Francis, standard bearer of the cross of
Christ, had preached to them, made on them the sign of the cross, after
which they had divided themselves, going to the four parts of the world,
so the preaching of the cross of Christ, renewed by St. Francis, should
be carried by him and by his brothers to the whole world, and that these
brothers, after the fashion of the birds, should possess nothing of their
own in this world, but commit their lives solely to the providence of God.

--From “LITTLE FLOWERS OF ST. FRANCIS.”

* * * * *

Teach me, O lark! with thee to gently rise,
To exalt my soul and lift it to the skies.

--EDMUND BURKE.

THE PETRIFIED FERN

petrified holiday avalanches design
delicate reveled mysteries haughty
mammoth veinings fissure holiday

In a valley, centuries ago,
Grew a little fern leaf, green and slender,
Veining delicate and fibers tender;
Waving when the wind crept down so low;
Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it,
Playful sunbeams darted in and found it,
Drops of dew stole in by night and crowned it,
But no foot of man e’er trod that way;
Earth was young and keeping holiday.

Monster fishes swam the silent main,
Stately forests waved their giant branches,
Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches,
Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain;
Nature reveled in grand mysteries;
But the little fern was not of these,
Did not number with the hills and trees,
Only grew and waved its wild sweet way,--
No one came to note it day by day.

Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood,
Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion
Of the deep, strong currents of the ocean;
Moved the plain and shook the haughty wood,
Crushed the little fern in soft moist clay,
Covered it, and hid it safe away.
Oh, the long, long centuries since that day!
Oh, the agony, oh, life’s bitter cost,
Since that useless little fern was lost!

Useless! Lost! There came a thoughtful man
Searching Nature’s secrets, far and deep;
From a fissure in a rocky steep
He withdrew a stone, o’er which there ran
Fairy pencilings, a quaint design,
Veinings, leafage, fibers clear and fine,
And the fern’s life lay in every line!
So, I think, God hides some souls away,
Sweetly to surprise us the last day.

--MARY L. BOLLES BRANCH.

* * * * *

The purest treasure mortal times afford
Is spotless reputation: that away,
Men are but gilded loam or painted clay.

--SHAKESPEARE.

BIRD ENEMIES

recognize honor innocent complimentary
assassin retorts bugaboo apparently
suspect thrush social intolerable

How surely the birds know their enemies! See how the wrens and robins and
bluebirds pursue and scold the cat, while they take little or no notice of
the dog! Even the swallow will fight the cat, and, relying too confidently
upon its powers of flight, sometimes swoops down so near to its enemy that
it is caught by a sudden stroke of the cat’s paw. The only case I know of
in which our small birds fail to recognize their enemy is furnished by the
shrike; apparently the little birds do not know that this modest-colored
bird is an assassin. At least, I have never seen them scold or molest him,
or utter any outcries at his presence, as they usually do at birds of prey.

But the birds have nearly all found out the trick of the jay, and when he
comes sneaking through the trees in May and June in quest of eggs, he is
quickly exposed and roundly abused. It is amusing to see the robins hustle
him out of the tree which holds their nest. They cry, “Thief! thief!” to
the top of their voices as they charge upon him, and the jay retorts in a
voice scarcely less complimentary as he makes off.

The jays have their enemies also, and need to keep an eye on their own
eggs. It would be interesting to know if jays ever rob jays, or crows
plunder crows; or is there honor among thieves even in the feathered
tribes? I suspect the jay is often punished by birds which are otherwise
innocent of nest robbing.

[Illustration]

One season I found a jay’s nest in a cedar on the side of a wooded ridge.
It held five eggs, every one of which had been punctured. Apparently
some bird had driven its sharp beak through their shells, with the sole
intention of destroying them, for no part of the contents of the eggs had
been removed. It looked like a case of revenge--as if some thrush or
warbler, whose nest had suffered at the hands of the jays, had watched its
opportunity, and had in this way retaliated upon its enemies. An egg for
an egg. The jays were lingering near, very demure and silent, and probably
ready to join a crusade against nest robbers.

The great bugaboo of the birds is the owl. The owl snatches them from
off their roosts at night, and gobbles up their eggs and young in their
nests. He is a veritable ogre to them, and his presence fills them with
consternation and alarm.

One season, to protect my early cherries, I placed a large stuffed owl
amid the branches of the tree. Such a racket as there instantly began
about my grounds is not pleasant to think upon. The orioles and robins
fairly “shrieked out their affright.” The news instantly spread in every
direction, and apparently every bird in town came to see that owl in the
cherry tree, and every bird took a cherry, so that I lost more fruit than
if I had left the owl indoors. With craning necks and horrified looks the
birds alighted upon the branches, and between their screams would snatch
off a cherry, as if the act was some relief to their feelings.

The chirp and chatter of the young of birds which build in concealed or
inclosed places, like the woodpeckers, the house wren, the high-hoe, the
oriole, etc., is in marked contrast to the silence of the fledgelings of
most birds that build open and exposed nests. The young of the sparrows,
warblers, flycatchers, thrushes, etc., never allow a sound to escape them;
and on the alarm note of their parents being heard, sit especially close
and motionless, while the young of chimney swallows, woodpeckers, and
orioles are very noisy.

The owl, I suspect, thrusts its leg into the cavities of woodpeckers and
into the pocket-like nest of the oriole, and clutches and brings forth the
birds in its talons. In one case, a screech owl had thrust its claw into a
cavity in a tree, and grasped the head of a red-headed woodpecker; being
apparently unable to draw its prey forth, it had thrust its own round head
into the hole, and in some way became fixed there, and had thus died with
the woodpecker in its talons.

mishap tragedies desiccated vicinity
tragic vermin intolerable purgatory
comic couple cavity explosion

The life of birds is beset with dangers and mishaps of which we know
little. One day, in my walk, I came upon a goldfinch with the tip of one
wing securely fastened to the feathers of its back, by what appeared to be
the silk of some caterpillar. The bird, though uninjured, was completely
crippled, and could not fly a stroke. Its little body was hot and panting
in my hands as I carefully broke the fetter. Then it darted swiftly away
with a happy cry.

A record of all the accidents and tragedies of bird life for a single
season would show many curious incidents. A friend of mine opened his
box stove one fall to kindle a fire in it, when he beheld in the black
interior the desiccated forms of two bluebirds. The birds had probably
taken refuge in the chimney during some cold spring storm, and had come
down the pipe to the stove, from whence they were unable to ascend.

A peculiarly touching little incident of bird life occurred to a caged
canary. It laid some eggs, and was so carried away by its feelings that
it would offer food to the eggs, and chatter and twitter, trying, as it
seemed, to encourage them to eat. The incident is hardly tragic, neither
is it comic.

Certain birds nest in the vicinity of our houses and outbuildings, or even
in and upon them, for protection from their enemies, but they often thus
expose themselves to plague of the most deadly character.

I refer to the vermin with which their nests often swarm, and which kill
the young before they are fledged. In a state of nature this probably
never happens; at least I have never seen or heard of it happening to
nests placed in trees or under rocks. It is the curse of civilization
falling upon the birds which come too near man. The vermin is probably
conveyed to the nest in hen’s feathers, or in straws and hairs picked up
about the barn or henhouse. A robin’s nest will occasionally become an
intolerable nuisance from the swarms upon swarms of minute vermin with
which it is filled. The parent birds stem the tide as long as they can,
but are often compelled to leave the young to their terrible fate.

One season a phœbe bird built on a projecting stone under the eaves of the
house, and all appeared to go well till the young were nearly fledged,
when the nest suddenly became a bit of purgatory. The birds kept their
places till they could hold out no longer, when they leaped forth and fell
dead upon the ground.

After a delay of a week or more, during which I imagine the parent birds
purified themselves by every means known to them, the couple built another
nest a few yards from the first, and proceeded to rear a second brood;
but the new nest developed into the same bed of torment that the first
did, and the three young birds, nearly ready to fly, perished as they sat
within it. The parent birds then left the place.

I imagine the smaller birds have an enemy in our native white-footed
mouse, though I have not proof enough to convict him. But one season the
nest of a chickadee which I was observing was broken up in a position
where nothing but a mouse could have reached it. The bird had chosen a
cavity in the limb of an apple tree which stood but a few yards from the
house. The cavity was deep, and the entrance to it, which was ten feet
from the ground, was small.

Barely light enough was admitted to enable one to make out the number of
eggs, which was six, at the bottom of the dim interior. While one was
peering in and trying to get his head out of his own light, the bird would
startle him by a queer kind of puffing sound. She would not leave her nest
like most birds, but really tried to blow, or scare, the intruder away;
and after repeated experiments I could hardly refrain from jerking my head
back when that little explosion of sound came up from the dark interior.

One night the nest was harried. A slight trace of hair or fur at the
entrance led me to infer that some small animal was the robber.

A weasel might have done it, as they sometimes climb trees, but I doubt if
either a squirrel or a rat could have passed the entrance.

A pair of the least flycatchers, the bird which is a small edition of the
pewee, one season built their nest where I had them for many hours each
day under my observation. The nest was a very snug and compact structure
placed in the forks of a small maple about twelve feet from the ground.
The season before a red squirrel had harried the nest of a wood thrush in
this same tree, and I was apprehensive that he would serve the flycatchers
the same trick; so, as I sat with my book in a summerhouse near by, I kept
my loaded gun within easy reach.

One egg was laid, and the next morning, as I made my daily inspection
of the nest, only a fragment of its empty shell was to be found. This I
removed, mentally imprecating the rogue of a red squirrel. The birds were
much disturbed by the event, but after much inspection of it and many
consultations together, concluded, it seems, to try again.

Two more eggs were laid, when one day I heard the birds utter a sharp
cry, and on looking up I saw a cat-bird perched upon the rim of the nest,
hastily devouring the eggs. I soon regretted my precipitation in killing
her, because such interference is generally unwise. It turned out that she
had a nest of her own with five eggs in a spruce tree near my window.

Then this pair of little flycatchers did what I had never seen birds do
before: they pulled the nest to pieces and rebuilt it in a peach tree not
many rods away, where a brood was successfully reared. The nest was here
exposed to the direct rays of the noonday sun, and to shield her young
when the heat was greatest, the mother-bird would stand above them with
wings slightly spread, as other birds have been known to do under like
circumstances.

III

peculiar species expressive courage
curious dismay desperate assault
subtle rescue deranged enemy

Probably the darkest tragedy of the nest is enacted when a snake plunders
it. All birds and animals, so far as I have observed, behave in a peculiar
manner toward a snake. They seem to feel something of the same loathing
toward it that the human species experience. The bark of a dog when he
encounters a snake is different from that which he gives out on any other
occasion; it is a mingled note of alarm, inquiry, and disgust.

One day a tragedy was enacted a few yards from where I was sitting with a
book: two song sparrows were trying to defend their nest against a black
snake. The curious, interrogating note of a chicken who had suddenly come
upon the scene in his walk first caused me to look up from my reading.
There were the sparrows, with wings raised in a way peculiarly expressive
of horror and dismay, rushing about a low clump of grass and bushes.

Then, looking more closely, I saw the glistening form of the black snake,
and the quick movement of his head as he tried to seize the birds. The
sparrows darted about and through the grass and weeds, trying to beat the
snake off. Their tails and wings were spread, and, panting with the heat
and desperate struggle, they presented a most singular spectacle. They
uttered no cry, not a sound escaped them; they were plainly speechless
with horror and dismay. Not once did they drop their wings, and the
peculiar expression of those uplifted palms, as it were, I shall never
forget.

It occurred to me that perhaps here was a case of attempted bird charming
on the part of the snake, so I looked on from behind the fence. The birds
charged the snake and harassed him from every side, but were evidently
under no spell save that of courage in defending their nest.

Every moment or two I could see the head and neck of the serpent make a
sweep at the birds, when the one struck at would fall back, and the other
would renew the assault. There appeared to be little danger that the snake
could strike and hold one of the birds, though I trembled for them, they
were so bold and approached so near to the snake’s head. Time and again he
sprang at them but without success. How the poor things panted, and held
up their wings appealingly!

Then the snake glided off, barely escaping the stone which I hurled at
him. I found the nest rifled and deranged; whether it had contained eggs
or young I know not. The male sparrow had cheered me many a day with his
song, and I blamed myself for not having rushed at once to the rescue,
when the arch enemy was upon him.

There is probably little truth in the popular notion that snakes charm
birds. The black snake is the most subtle of our snakes, and I have never
seen him have any but young, helpless birds in his mouth.

--JOHN BURROUGHS.

ST. JOSEPH’S MONTH

O, holy St. Joseph! in thee we confide,
Be thou our protector, our father, our guide;
The flowers of our innocent childhood we twine
In a fragrant white garland of love at thy shrine.
St. Joseph, who guided the Child on His way,
O, guide us and guard us and bless us, we pray!

Long ago didst thou teach the Lord Jesus to speak,
And thine arms were His strength when His footsteps, were weak;
So lend us thy help in the days of our youth
So teach us to walk in the pathway of truth!
St. Joseph, Christ’s early protector and stay,
Protect us and save us from evil, we pray!

When the years glowing o’er us shall smolder away,
When their ashes down-drifting, shall crown us with gray,
Still loyal and true may we keep to our vow
To honor our saint as we honor him now!
St. Joseph, who guided the Child on His way,
O, guide us at last to His presence, we pray!

--H. W.

A SONG OF SPRING

Hark, the spring! She calls
With a thousand voices
’Mid the echoing forest halls
One great heart rejoices.

Hills, where young lambs bound,
Whiten o’er with daisies;
Flag flowers light the lower ground,
Where the old steer grazes.

Meadows laugh, flower-gay;
Every breeze that passes
Waves the seed-cloud’s gleaming gray
O’er the greener grasses.

O thou spring! be strong,
Exquisite newcomer!
And the onset baffle long
Of advancing summer!

--AUBREY DE VERE.

ROBERT BRUCE

I. CHASED BY A BLOODHOUND

entertaining revenge assemble pursuit
dispersed attendant prisoner fugitives
resolved oppressed relation retreat

I will now tell you a story of King Robert Bruce during his wanderings.
His adventures are as entertaining as those which men invent for story
books, with this advantage, that they are all true.

About the time when the Bruce was yet at the head of but few men, Sir
Aymer de Valence, who was Earl of Pembroke, together with John of Lorn,
came into Galloway, each of them being at the head of a large body of men.

John of Lorn had a bloodhound with him, which it was said had formerly
belonged to Robert Bruce himself; and having been fed by the king with
his own hands, it became attached to him and would follow his footsteps
anywhere, as dogs are well known to trace their masters’ steps, whether
they be bloodhounds or not. By means of this hound, John of Lorn thought
he should certainly find out Bruce, and take revenge on him for the death
of his relation Comyn.

When these two armies advanced upon King Robert, he at first thought of
fighting the English earl; but becoming aware that John of Lorn was moving
round with another large body to attack him in the rear, he resolved to
avoid fighting at that time, lest he should be oppressed by numbers. For
this purpose, the king divided the men he had with him into three bodies,
and commanded them to retreat by three different ways, thinking the enemy
would not know which party to pursue. He also appointed a place at which
they were to assemble again.

When John of Lorn came to the place where the army of Bruce had been thus
divided, the bloodhound took his course after one of these divisions,
neglecting the other two, and then John of Lorn knew that the king must be
in that party; so he also made no pursuit after the two other divisions,
but, with all his men, followed that which the dog pointed out.

The king again saw that he was followed by a large body, and being
determined to escape from them if possible, he made all the people who
were with him disperse themselves different ways, thinking thus that the
enemy must needs lose trace of him. He kept only one man along with him,
and that was his own foster brother, or the son of his nurse.

When John of Lorn came to the place where Bruce’s companions had dispersed
themselves, the bloodhound, after it had snuffed up and down for a little,
quitted the footsteps of all the other fugitives, and ran barking upon the
track of two men out of the whole number. Then John of Lorn knew that one
of these two must be King Robert. Accordingly, he commanded five of his
men to chase after him, and either make him prisoner or slay him.

The Highlanders started off accordingly, and ran so fast that they gained
sight of Robert and his foster brother. The king asked his companion what
help he could give him, and his foster brother answered he was ready to do
his best. So these two turned on the five men of John of Lorn and killed
them all.

By this time Bruce was very much fatigued, and yet they dared not sit down
to take any rest; for whenever they stopped for an instant, they heard the
cry of the bloodhound behind them, and knew by that that their enemies
were coming up fast after them. At length they came to a wood through
which ran a small river. Then Bruce said to his foster brother, “Let us
wade down this stream for a great way, instead of going straight across,
and so this unhappy hound will lose the scent; for if we were once clear
of him, I should not be afraid of getting away from the pursuers.”

Accordingly, the king and his attendant walked a great way down the
stream, taking care to keep their feet in the water, which could not
retain any scent where they had stepped. Then they came ashore on the
farther side from the enemy, and went deep into the wood.

In the meanwhile, the hound led John of Lorn straight to the place where
the king went into the water, but there the dog began to be puzzled, not
knowing where to go next; for running water cannot retain the scent of a
man’s foot, like that which remains on turf. So John of Lorn, seeing the
dog was at fault, as it is called, that is, had lost the track of that
which he pursued, he gave up the chase and returned to join with Aymer de
Valence.

II. IN THE FOREST

habitation ruffians civilly salutations
amazing villains insisted acquainted

King Robert’s adventures were not yet ended. His foster brother and
he walked on in hopes of coming to some habitation. At length, in the
midst of the forest, they met with three men who looked like thieves or
ruffians. They were well armed, and one of them bore a sheep on his back,
which it seemed as if they had just stolen.

They saluted the king civilly; and he, replying to their salutations,
asked them where they were going. The men answered they were seeking for
Robert Bruce, for that they intended to join with him.

The king answered that he would conduct them where they would find the
Scottish king. Then the man who had spoken changed countenance, and Bruce,
who looked sharply at him, began to suspect that the ruffian guessed who
he was, and that he and his companions had some design against his person,
in order to gain the reward which had been offered for his life.

So he said to them, “My good friends, as we are not well acquainted with
each other, you must go before us, and we will follow near to you.”

“You have no occasion to suspect any harm from us,” answered the man.

“Neither do I suspect any,” said Bruce; “but this is the way in which I
choose to travel.”

The men did as he commanded, and thus they traveled till they came
together to a waste and ruinous cottage, where the men proposed to dress
some part of the sheep, which their companion was carrying. The king was
glad to hear of food; but he insisted that there should be two fires
kindled,--one for himself and his foster brother at one end of the house,
the other at the other end for their three companions.

The men did as he desired. They broiled a quarter of mutton for
themselves, and gave another to the king and his attendant. They were
obliged to eat it without bread or salt; but as they were very hungry,
they were glad to get food in any shape, and partook of it very heartily.

Then so heavy a drowsiness fell on King Robert, that, for all the danger
he was in, he could not resist an inclination to sleep. But first he
desired his foster brother to watch while he slept, for he had great
suspicion of their new acquaintances. His foster brother promised to keep
awake, and did his best to keep his word. But the king had not been long
asleep ere his foster brother fell into a deep slumber also, for he had
undergone as much fatigue as the king.

When the three villains saw the king and his attendant asleep they made
signs to each other, and, rising up at once, drew their swords with the
purpose to kill them both. But the king slept lightly, and for as little
noise as the traitors made, he was awakened by it, and starting up, drew
his sword and went to meet them. At the same moment he pushed his foster
brother with his foot to awaken him, and he got on his feet; but ere he
had got his eyes cleared to see what was about to happen, one of the
ruffians slew him.

The king was now alone, one man against three, and in the greatest danger
of his life; but his amazing strength, and the good armor which he wore,
freed him from this great peril, and he killed the three men, one after
another. He then left the cottage, very sorrowful for the death of his
faithful foster brother, and took his direction toward the place where he
had appointed his men to assemble.

III. AT THE FARMHOUSE

gallant fidelity weariness mischief
trusty faithful sentinels mentioned

It was now near night, and the place of meeting being a farmhouse, Bruce
went boldly into it, where he found the mistress, an old, true-hearted
Scotswoman, sitting alone. Upon seeing a stranger enter, she asked him
who he was. The king answered that he was a traveler, who was journeying
through the country.

“All travelers,” answered the good woman, “are welcome here for the sake
of one.”

“And who is that one,” said the king, “for whose sake you make all
travelers welcome?”

“It is our rightful king, Robert the Bruce,” answered the mistress, “who
is the lawful lord of this country; and although he is now pursued with
hounds and horns, I hope to live to see him king over all Scotland.”

“Since you love him so well, dame,” said the king, “know that you see him
before you. I am Robert the Bruce.”

“You!” said the good woman, “and wherefore are you thus alone?--where are
all your men?”

“I have none with me at this moment,” answered Bruce, “and therefore I
must travel alone.”

“But that shall not be,” said the brave old dame; “for I have two sons,
gallant and trusty men, who shall be your servants for life and death.”

So she brought her two sons, and though she well knew the dangers to which
she exposed them, she made them swear fidelity to the king; and they
afterward became high officers in his service.

Now the loyal old woman was getting everything ready for the king’s
supper, when suddenly there was a great trampling of horses heard round
the house. They thought it must be some of the English, or John of Lorn’s
men, and the good wife called upon her sons to fight to the last for King
Robert. But shortly after they heard the voice of the good Lord James of
Douglas, and of Edward Bruce, the king’s brother, who had come with a
hundred and fifty horsemen to this farmhouse.

Robert the Bruce, forgetting hunger and weariness, began to inquire where
the enemy who had pursued them so long had taken up their abode for the
night; “for,” said he, “as they must suppose us totally scattered and
fled, it is likely that they will think themselves quite secure, and keep
careless watch.”

“That is very true,” answered James of Douglas, “for I passed a village
where there are two hundred of them quartered, who had placed no
sentinels; and if you have a mind, we may surprise them, and do them more
mischief than they have done us.”

Then there was nothing but mount and ride; and as the Scots came by
surprise on the body of English whom Douglas had mentioned, and rushed
suddenly into the village where they were quartered, they easily dispersed
and cut them to pieces.

--SIR WALTER SCOTT.

“WHEN EVENING SHADES ARE FALLING”

When evening shades are falling
O’er ocean’s sunny sleep,
To pilgrims’ hearts recalling
Their home beyond the deep;
When rest, o’er all descending,
The shores with gladness smile,
And lutes, their echoes blending,
Are heard from isle to isle:
Then, Mary, Star of the Sea,
We pray, we pray, to thee.

The noonday tempest over
Now ocean toils no more,
And wings of halcyons hover,
Where all was strife before;
Oh, thus may life, in closing
Its short tempestuous day,
Beneath heaven’s smile reposing,
Shine all its storms away:
Thus, Mary, Star of the Sea,
We pray, we pray, to thee.

--THOMAS MOORE.

THE REINDEER

Adapted from “The Red Book of Animal Stories.” Copyright, 1899, by
Longmans, Green, & Company. Used by permission.

nourishing excellent sinews immense
delicacy especially crevices sociable

[Illustration]

There is perhaps no other animal in the world so useful as the reindeer,
at least none that can be put to so many uses. The flesh of a sheep is
eaten, and its wool is woven into cloth; but then we should never think
of harnessing a sheep even to a baby carriage. A camel serves, in the
desert, the purpose of a van and of a riding horse in one, and his hair
makes warm garments; but he would give us a very ill-tasting dinner, and
the same may be said of some other useful creatures. A reindeer, however,
is good to eat, and makes an excellent steed; its milk is nourishing;
the softer parts of its horns, when properly prepared, are considered
a delicacy; the bones are turned to account as tools; the sinews are
twisted into thread, and, all the long winter, the skin and hair keep the
dwellers in the far North snug and warm. Take away the reindeer, and the
inhabitants of every country north of latitude 60° would feel as helpless
as we should in England if there were no more sheep or cows!

Reindeer live, by choice, on the slopes of mountains, and require no
better food than the moss, or little alpine plants, which they find
growing in the crevices of the rock. Sometimes, in very cold places, or
when the winter is particularly severe, they take shelter in the forest;
but when spring is in the air once more, out they come in great herds,
thin and sore from the bites of newly awakened insects, and wander away in
search of fresher pasture. In August and September, when the sun has grown
too strong for them, they seek the shade of the woods again.

In their wild state reindeer are great travelers, and as they are very
strong, and excellent swimmers, they go immense distances, especially the
reindeer of North America, who will cross the ice to Greenland in the
early part of the year, and stay there till the end of October, when they
come back to their old quarters. They are most sociable creatures, and are
never happy unless they have three or four hundred companions, while herds
of a thousand have sometimes been counted. The females and calves are
always placed in front, and the big bucks bring up the rear, to see that
nobody falls out of the ranks from weakness.

Like many animals that live in the North, the color of the reindeer is
different in winter from what it is in summer. Twice a year he changes his
coat, and the immense thick covering which has been so comfortable all
through the fierce cold, begins to fall in early spring and a short hair
to take its place, so that by the time summer comes, he is nice and cool,
and looks quite another creature from what he did in the winter. As the
days shorten and grow frosty, the coat becomes longer and closer, and by
the time the first snow falls the deer is quite prepared to meet it.

Though reindeer prefer mountain sides when they can get them, their broad
and wide-cleft hoofs are well adapted for the lowlands of the North of
Europe and of America, which are a morass in summer and a snow-field in
winter. Here are to be seen whole herds of them, either walking with a
regular rapid step, or else going at a quick trot; but in either case
always making a peculiar crackling noise with their feet.

They have an acute sense of smell, and will detect a man at a distance of
five or six hundred paces, and as their eyes are as good as their ears,
the huntsman has much ado to get up to them. They are dainty in their
food, choosing out only the most delicate of the alpine plants, and their
skins cannot be as tough as they look, for they are very sensitive to the
bites of mosquitoes, gnats, and particularly of midges.

Reindeer are very cautious, as many hunters have found to their cost;
but they are ready to be friendly with any cows or horses they may come
across, and this must make the task of taming them a great deal easier.
They have their regular hours for meals, too, and early in the mornings
and late in the evenings may be seen going out for their breakfasts and
suppers, which, in summer, consist, in the highlands, of the leaves and
flowers of the snow ranunculus, reindeer sorrel, a favorite kind of
grass, and, better than all, the young shoots of the dwarf birch. In the
afternoons they lie down and rest, and choose for their place of repose a
patch of snow, or a glacier if one is at hand.

In Norway and Lapland great herds of reindeer may be seen, during the
summer, wandering along the banks of rivers, or making for the mountains,
returning with the approach of winter to their old quarters. With the
first snow fall they are safe under shelter, for this is the time when
wolves are most to be feared. In the spring they are let loose again, and
are driven carefully to some spot which is freer from midges than the
rest. And so life goes on from year to year.

Reindeer herding is by no means so easy as it looks, and it would be quite
impossible, even to a Lapp, if it were not for the help of dogs, who are
part of the family. They are small creatures, hardly as big as a Spitz,
and very thin, with close compact hair all over their bodies. These dogs
are very obedient, and understand every movement of their master’s eyelid.
They will not only keep the herd together on land, but follow them into a
river, or across an arm of the sea. It is they who rescue the weaklings
in danger of drowning, after their winter’s fast, and in the autumn, when
the reindeer have grown strong from good living, drive the herd back again
through the bay.

A herd of reindeer on the march is a beautiful sight to see. They go
quickly along, faster than any other domestic animal, and are kept
together by the herdsman and his dogs, who are untiring in their efforts
to bring up stragglers.

When a good stretch of pasture is found, the Lapps build a fold, into
which the reindeer are driven every evening, so that the work of the
milkers may be lightened. These folds are made of the stems of birches
placed close together and strengthened with cross-pieces and strong props.
They are about seven feet high, and have two wide doors. At milking time,
which the dogs know as well as the men, the animals are driven inside by
their faithful guardians, and milking begins busily. The young ones are
generally left outside under the watchful eyes of the dogs, who see that
they do not wander too far away.

Inside the fold the noise is really deafening. The reindeer run to and
fro, giving loud cries and throwing their heads about; which, as their
horns are very big, is not pleasant for the milkers. Any one walking
that way would be struck, first, with the sound of the commotion in the
inclosure, and this would most likely be followed by a crackling noise, as
if a hundred electric batteries were at work at once.

In the middle of the fold are thick tree trunks to which the reindeer
which have to be milked are fastened, for without these they would not
stand still one single instant.

The milkers have a thong which is thrown round the neck of the animal, and
drawn closer till it is tied by a slip noose over the creature’s mouth, so
as to prevent it from biting. Then the ends are made secure to the milking
block, and the milking begins--the animal all the while struggling hard to
get free. But the Lapps know how to manage them, and only draw the cord
tighter over the nose, so that the creatures are bound in self-defense to
remain quiet.

The milk flows into a sort of large bowl with handles, but the Lapps are
both careless and dirty in their ways, and not only waste a great deal of
the milk, but leave so many hairs in it that it is necessary to strain it
through a cloth before it can be drunk. However, the milk itself is very
good. The milking once over, the doors are opened, and the animals scamper
out joyously.

All together, the life of the owner of a herd of reindeer cannot be said
to be an idle one. Yet he is in general well satisfied with his lot, and
thinks himself the most fortunate man in the world.

--A. LANG.

A STORY OF ANCIENT IRELAND

chariots weapon barriers protector
whelp award district savage

There was a great smith in Ulster of the name of Culain, who made a feast
for Conchubar and his people. When Conchubar was setting out to the feast,
he passed by the lawn where the boy troop were at their games, and he
watched them awhile, and saw how young Setanta, his sister’s son, was
winning the goal from them all.

“That little lad will serve Ulster yet,” said Conchubar; “and call him to
me now,” he said, “and let him come with me to the smith’s feast.”

“I cannot go with you now,” said Setanta, when they had called to him,
“for these boys have not had enough of play yet.”

“It would be too long for me to wait for you,” said the king.

“There is no need for you to wait; I will follow the track of the
chariots,” said Setanta.

So Conchubar went on to the smith’s house, and there was a welcome before
him, and the feast was brought in, and they began to be merry. And then
Culain said to the king, “Will there be any one else of your people
coming after you to-night?”

“There will not,” said Conchubar, for he forgot that he had told the
little lad to follow him. “But why do you ask me that?” he said.

“I have a fierce hound,” said the smith, “and when I take the chain off
him, he lets no one come into the district with himself, and he will obey
no one but myself, and he has in him the strength of a hundred.”

“Loose him out,” said Conchubar, “and let him keep a watch on the place.”

So Culain loosed him out, and the dog made a course round the whole
district, and then he came back to the place where he was used to watch
the house.

Now, as to the boys at Emain, when they were done playing, every one went
to his father’s house, or to whoever was in charge of him. But Setanta set
out on the track of the chariots, shortening the way for himself with his
hurling stick and his ball.

When he came to the lawn before the smith’s house, the hound heard him
coming, and began such a fierce yelling that he might have been heard
through all Ulster, and he sprang at him as if he had a mind not to stop
and tear him up at all, but to swallow him at the one mouthful. The little
fellow had no weapon but his stick and his ball, but when he saw the
hound coming at him, he struck the ball with such force that it went down
his throat, and through his body. Then he seized him by the hind legs and
dashed him against a rock until there was no life left in him.

When the men feasting within heard the outcry of the hound, Conchubar
started up and said, “It is no good luck brought us on this journey, for
that is surely my sister’s son that was coming after me, and that has got
his death by the hound.”

On that all the men rushed out, not waiting to go through the door, but
over walls and barriers as they could. But Fergus was the first to get to
where the boy was, and he took him up and lifted him on his shoulder, and
brought him in safe and sound to Conchubar, and there was great joy in
them all.

But Culain the smith went out with them, and when he saw his great hound
lying dead and broken, there was great grief in his heart, and he came in
and said to Setanta, “There is no good welcome for you here.”

“What have you against the little lad?” said Conchubar.

“It was no good luck that brought him here, or that made me prepare this
feast for yourself,” said the smith, “for now, my hound being gone, my
substance will be wasted, and my way of living will be gone astray. And,
little boy,” he said, “that was a good member of my family you took from
me, for he was the protector of my flocks and of all that I have.”

“Do not be vexed on account of that,” said the boy, “and I myself will
makeup to you for what I have done.”

“How will you do that?” said Conchubar.

“This is how I will do it: if there is a whelp of the same breed to be had
in Ireland, I will rear him and train him until he is as good a hound as
the one killed; and until that time, Culain,” he said, “I myself will be
your watchdog, to guard your goods and your cattle and your house.”

“You have made a fair offer,” said Conchubar.

“I could have given no better award myself,” said Cathbad the Druid.
“And from this out,” he said, “your name will be Cuchulain, the Hound of
Culain.”

“I am better pleased with my own name of Setanta,” said the boy.

“Do not say that,” said Cathbad, “for all the men in the whole world will
some day have the name of Cuchulain in their mouths.”

“If that is so, I am content to keep it,” said the boy. And this is how he
came by the name Cuchulain.

--LADY GREGORY.

SAN GABRIEL

uncivil specimens behavior celebrations
dozens wreaths garlands especially

There are a great many interesting stories about the first settlement of
San Gabriel, and the habits and customs of the Indians there. They were a
very polite people to each other, and used to train their children in some
respects very carefully.

If a child were sent to bring water to an older person, and he tasted it
on the way, he was made to throw the water out and go and bring fresh
water; when two grown-up persons were talking together, if a child ran
between them, he was told that he had done an uncivil thing. These are
only specimens of their rules for polite behavior. They seem to me as good
as ours.

These Indians were very fond of flowers, of which the whole country is
full. They used to make long garlands and wreaths, not only to wear on
their heads, but to reach way down to their feet. These they wore at
festivals and celebrations; and sometimes at these festivals they used to
have what they called “song contests.”

Two of the best singers, or poets, would be matched together to see which
could sing the better, or make the better verses. That seems to me a
more interesting kind of match than the spelling matches we have in our
villages.

But there is nothing of this sort to be seen in San Gabriel now, or indeed
anywhere in California. The Indians have been driven away by the white
people who wanted their lands; year by year more and more white people
have come, and the Indians have been robbed of more and more of their
lands, and have died off by hundreds, until there are not many left.

Mr. Connor was much interested in collecting all he could of the curious
stone bowls and pestles they used to make, and of their baskets and lace
work. He spent much of his time riding about the country; and whenever he
came to an Indian hut he would stop and ask if they had any stone bowls
they would like to sell.

The bowls especially were a great curiosity. Nobody knew how long ago
they had been made. When the missionaries first came to the country they
found the Indians using them; they had them of all sizes, from those so
large that they are almost more than a man can lift down to the tiny ones
no bigger than a tea-cup. But big and little, they were all made in the
same way out of solid stone, scooped out in the middle, by rubbing another
stone round and round on them.

Even yet people who are searching for such curiosities sometimes find
big grave mounds in which dozens of them are buried--buried side by side
with the people who used to eat out of them. There is nothing left of the
people but their skulls and a few bones; but the bowls will last as long
as the world stands.

--HELEN HUNT JACKSON.

IMITATION OF MARY

Let the life of the Blessed Mary be ever present to you.…

She was humble of heart, serious in her conversation, fonder of reading
than of speaking.

She placed her confidence rather in the prayer of the poor than in the
uncertain riches of the world.

She was ever intent on her occupations, and accustomed to make God rather
than man the witness of her thoughts.

She injured no one, wished well to all, reverenced age, yielded not to
envy, avoided all boasting, followed the dictates of reason, and loved
virtue.

--ST. AMBROSE.

A SCENE FROM “WILLIAM TELL”

(Switzerland had been conquered by Austria, and Gesler, a cruel tyrant,
was her governor. William Tell had refused to bow before Gesler’s hat,
which had been elevated on a pole; he was therefore arrested and taken
before the governor. His son Albert was also taken, and both were
threatened with death.)

[Illustration]

SCENE I

(_WILLIAM TELL, ALBERT, his son, and GESLER with officers. TELL in
chains._)

GESLER. What is thy name?

TELL. My name?
It matters not to keep it from thee now--
My name is Tell.

GES. Tell!--William Tell?

TELL. The same.

GES. What! he so famed ’bove all his countrymen
For guiding o’er the stormy lake the boat?
And such a master of his bow, ’tis said
His arrows never miss! Indeed, I’ll take
Exquisite vengeance! Mark! I’ll spare thy life--
Thy boy’s, too!--both of you are free--on one
Condition.

TELL. Name it.

GES. I would see you make
A trial of your skill with that same bow
You shoot so well with.

TELL. Name the trial you
Would have me make.

GES. You look upon your boy
As though instinctively you guessed it.

TELL. Look upon my boy! What mean you?
Look upon
My boy as though I guessed it! Guessed the trial
You’d have me make! Guessed it
Instinctively! you do not mean--no--no--
You would not have me make a trial of
My skill upon my child! Impossible!
I do not guess your meaning.

GES. I would see
Thee hit an apple at the distance of
A hundred paces.

TELL. Is my boy to hold it?

GES. No.

TELL. No! I’ll send the arrow through the core.

GES. It is to rest upon his head.

TELL. Great Heaven, you hear him!

GES. Thou dost hear the choice I give--
Such trial of the skill thou art master of,
Or death to both of you; not otherwise
To be escaped.

TELL. O monster!

GES. Wilt thou do it?

ALBERT. He will! he will!

TELL. Ferocious monster! Make
A father murder his own child--

GES. Take off
His chains, if he consent.

TELL. With his own hand!

GES. Does he consent?

ALB. He does.

(_GESLER signs to his officers, who proceed to take off TELL’S
chains. TELL all the time unconscious what they do._)

TELL. With his own hand!
Murder his child with his own hand--this hand!
The hand I’ve led him, when an infant, by!
’Tis beyond horror--’tis most horrible.
Amazement! (_His chains fall off._) What’s that you’ve done to me?
Villains! put on my chains again. My hands
Are free from blood, and have no gust for it,
That they should drink my child’s! Here! here! I’ll not
Murder my boy for Gesler.

ALB. Father--father!
You will not hit me, father!

TELL. Hit thee! Send
The arrow through thy brain; or, missing that,
Shoot out an eye; or, if thine eye escape,
Mangle the cheek I’ve seen thy mother’s lips
Cover with kisses. Hit thee--hit a hair
Of thee, and cleave thy mother’s heart.

GES. Dost thou consent?

TELL. Give me my bow and quiver.

GES. For what?

TELL. To shoot my boy!

ALB. No, father--no!
To save me! You’ll be sure to hit the apple--
Will you not save me, father?

TELL. Lead me forth;
I’ll make the trial.

ALB. Thank you!

TELL. Thank me! Do
You know for what? I will not make the trial,
To take him to his mother in my arms
And lay him down a corpse before her!

GES. Then he dies this moment--and you certainly
Do murder him whose life you have a chance
To save, and will not use it.

TELL. Well, I’ll do it. I’ll make the trial.

ALB. Father--

TELL. Speak not to me;
Let me not hear thy voice. Thou must be dumb;
And so should all things be. Earth should be dumb,
And heaven--unless its thunders muttered at
The deed, and sent a bolt to stop it. Give me
My bow and quiver!

GES. When all’s ready.

TELL. Well, lead on!

SCENE II

_Enter, slowly, people in evident distress. Officers, SARNEM,
GESLER, TELL, ALBERT, and soldiers, one bearing TELL’S bow and
quiver, another with a basket of apples._

GES. That is your ground. Now shall they measure thence
A hundred paces. Take the distance.

TELL. Is the line a true one?

GES. True or not, what is’t to thee?

TELL. What is’t to me? A little thing,
A very little thing--a yard or two
Is nothing here or there--were it a wolf
I shot at. Never mind.

GES. Be thankful, slave,
Our grace accords thee life on any terms.

TELL. I will be thankful, Gesler. Villain, stop!
You measure to the sun!

GES. And what of that?
What matter whether to or from the sun?

TELL. I’d have it at my back--the sun should shine
Upon the mark, and not on him that shoots.
I cannot see to shoot against the sun;
I will not shoot against the sun!

GES. Give him his way. Thou hast cause to bless my mercy.

TELL. I shall remember it. I’d like to see
The apple I’m to shoot at.

GES. Stay! show me the basket--there--

TELL. You’ve picked the smallest one.

GES. I know I have.

TELL. Oh! do you? But you see
The color on’t is dark.--I’d have it light,
To see it better.

GES. Take it as it is;
Thy skill will be the greater if thou hit’st it.

TELL. True--true! I did not think of that--I wonder
I did not think of that. Give me some chance
To save my boy! (_Throws away the apple._)
I will not murder him,
If I can help it--for the honor of
The form thou wearest, if all the heart is gone.

GES. Well, choose thyself.

TELL. Have I a friend among the lookers-on?

VERNER. (_Rushing forward._) Here, Tell!

TELL. I thank thee, Verner!
He is a friend runs out into a storm
To shake a hand with us. I must be brief:
When once the bow is bent, we cannot take
The shot too soon. Verner, whatever be
The issue of this hour, the common cause
Must not stand still. Let not to-morrow’s sun
Set on the tyrant’s banner! Verner! Verner!
The boy! the boy! Thinkest thou he hath the courage
To stand it?

VER. Yes.

TELL. How looks he?

VER. Clear and smilingly;
If you doubt it, look yourself.

TELL. No--no--my friend;
To hear it is enough.

VER. He bears himself so much above his years.

TELL. I know! I know!

VER. With constancy so modest--

TELL. I was sure he would.

VER. And looks with such relying love
And reverence upon you.

TELL. Man! man! man!
No more. Already I’m too much the father
To act the man. Verner, no more, my friend.
I would be flint--flint--flint. Don’t make me feel
I’m not. Do not mind me. Take the boy
And set him, Verner, with his back to me.
Set him upon his knees--and place this apple
Upon his head, so that the stem may front me,--
Thus, Verner; charge him to keep steady--tell him
I’ll hit the apple. Verner, do all this
More briefly than I tell it thee.

VER. Come, Albert. (_Leading him out._)

ALB. May I not speak with him before I go?

VER. You must not.

ALB. I must! I cannot go from him without.

VER. It is his will you should.

ALB. His will, is it?
I am content, then--come.

TELL. My boy! (_Holding out his arms to him._)

ALB. My father! (_Rushing into TELL’S arms._)

TELL. If thou canst bear it, should not I? Go, now,
My son--and keep in mind that I can shoot--
Go, boy--be thou but steady, I will hit
The apple. Go! God bless thee--go. My bow!--
(_The bow is handed to him._)
Thou wilt not fail thy master, wilt thou? Thou
Hast never failed him yet, old servant. No,
I’m sure of thee. I know thy honesty.
Thou art stanch--stanch. Let me see my quiver.

GES. Give him a single arrow.

TELL. Do you shoot?

SOL. I do.

TELL. Is it so you pick an arrow, friend?
The point, you see, is bent; the feather jagged.
(_Breaks it._) That’s all the use ’tis fit for.

GES. Let him have another.

TELL. Why, ’tis better than the first,
But yet not good enough for such an aim
As I’m to take--’tis heavy in the shaft;
I’ll not shoot with it! (_Throws it away._) Let me see my quiver.
Bring it! ’Tis not one arrow in a dozen
I’d take to shoot with at a dove, much less
A dove like that.

GES. It matters not.
Show him the quiver.

TELL. See if the boy is ready.
(_TELL here hides an arrow under his vest_.)

VER. He is.

TELL. I’m ready, too! Keep silent for
Heaven’s sake and do not stir--and let me have
Your prayers--your prayers--and be my witnesses
That if his life’s in peril from my hand,
’Tis only for the chance of saving it. (_To the people._)

GES. Go on.

TELL. I will.
O friends, for mercy’s sake, keep motionless
And silent.

(_TELL shoots; a shout of exultation bursts from the crowd. TELL’S
head drops on his bosom; he with difficulty supports himself upon
his bow._)

VER. (_Rushing in with ALBERT._) Thy boy is safe, no
hair of him is touched.

ALB. Father, I’m safe! Your Albert’s safe, dear father,--
Speak to me! Speak to me!

VER. He cannot, boy.

ALB. You grant him life?

GES. I do.

ALB. And we are free?

GES. You are. (Crossing angrily behind.)

VER. Open his vest
And give him air.

(_ALBERT opens his father’s vest, and the arrow drops. TELL starts,
fixes his eye upon ALBERT, and clasps him to his breast._)

TELL. My boy! my boy!

GES. For what
Hid you that arrow in your breast? Speak, slave!

TELL. To kill thee, tyrant, had I slain my boy!

--SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

THE SCHOOLMASTER OF SLEEPY HOLLOW

I. HIS SCHOOL AND HIS FRIENDS

custom vicinity scarecrow murmur
uncouth adjacent appalling personage

In a remote period of American history there lived in Sleepy Hollow a
worthy man whose name was Ichabod Crane. He sojourned, or, as he expressed
it, “tarried” in that quiet little valley for the purpose of instructing
the children of the vicinity.

He was tall, but very lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs,
hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, and feet that might have
served as shovels. His head was small, with huge ears, large glassy eyes,
and a long snipe nose. To see him striding along the crest of a hill on a
windy day, with his ill-fitting clothes fluttering about him, one might
have mistaken him for some scarecrow escaped from a cornfield.

His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, rudely built of
logs. It stood in a rather lonely but pleasant place, just at the foot of
a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a birch tree growing near
one end of it. From this place of learning the low murmur of children’s
voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard on a drowsy summer day
like the hum of a beehive. Now and then this was interrupted by the stern
voice of the master, or perhaps by the appalling sound of a birch twig, as
some loiterer was urged along the flowery path of knowledge.

When school hours were over, the teacher forgot that he was the master,
and was even the companion and playmate of the older boys; and on holiday
afternoons he liked to go home with some of the smaller ones who happened
to have pretty sisters, or mothers noted for their skill in cooking.

Indeed, it was a wise thing for him to keep on good terms with his pupils.
He earned so little by teaching school that he could scarcely have had
enough to eat had he not, according to country custom, boarded at the
houses of the children whom he instructed. With these he lived, by turns,
a week at a time, thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, with all his
worldly goods tied up in a cotton handkerchief.

He had many ways of making himself both useful and agreeable. He helped
the farmers in the lighter labors of their farms, raked the hay at harvest
time, mended the fences, took the horses to water, drove the cows from
pasture, and cut wood for the winter fire. He found favor in the eyes of
the mothers by petting the children, particularly the youngest; and he
would often sit with a child on one knee and rock a cradle with his foot
for whole hours together.

He was looked upon as a kind of idle, gentlemanlike personage of finer
tastes and better manners than the rough young men who had been brought
up in the country. He was always welcome at the tea table of a farmhouse;
and his presence was almost sure to bring out an extra dish of cakes or
sweetmeats, or the parade of a silver teapot. He would walk with the young
ladies in the churchyard between services on Sundays, gathering grapes for
them from the wild vines that overran the surrounding trees, or sauntering
with a whole bevy of them along the banks of the adjacent mill pond; while
the bashful country youngsters hung sheepishly back and hated him for his
fine manners.

One of his sources of pleasure was to pass long winter evenings with the
Dutch farmers, as they sat by the fire with a long row of apples roasting
and sputtering along the hearth. He listened to their wondrous tales of
ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted
bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or
“Galloping Hessian of the Hollow,” as they sometimes called him. And then
he would entertain them with stories of witchcraft, and would frighten
them with woeful speculations about comets and shooting stars, and by
telling them that the world did really turn round, and that they were half
the time topsy-turvy.

There was pleasure in all this while snugly cuddling in the chimney corner
of a room that was lighted by the ruddy glow from a crackling wood fire,
and where no ghost dared show its face; but it was a pleasure dearly
bought by the terrors which would beset him during his walk homeward. How
fearful were the shapes and shadows that fell across his way in the dim
and ghastly glare of a snowy night! How often did he shrink with curdling
awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet,
and dread to look over his shoulder lest he should behold some uncouth
being tramping close behind him!

II. THE INVITATION

autumnal urchins application cavalier
pensive pommel apparition genuine
horizon plumage luxurious gradually

On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on
the lofty stool from whence he watched the doings of his little school. In
his hand he held a ferule, that scepter of despotic power; the birch of
justice reposed on three nails behind the stool, a constant terror to evil
doers; while on the desk were sundry contraband articles taken from idle
urchins, such as half-eaten apples, popguns, whirligigs, and fly cages.
His scholars were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly whispering
behind them with one eye kept upon the master, and a kind of buzzing
stillness reigned throughout the schoolroom.

This stillness was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro, in
tow-cloth jacket and trousers, who, mounted on the back of a ragged, wild,
half-broken colt, came clattering up to the schoolhouse door. He brought
an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merrymaking, or “quilting frolic,” to
be held that evening at the house of Herr Van Tassel; and having delivered
his message, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering away up the
hollow, full of the importance and hurry of his mission.

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet schoolroom. The scholars
were hurried through their lessons. Those who were nimble skipped over
half without being noticed; and those who were slow were hurried along by
a smart application of the rod. Then books were flung aside without being
put away on the shelves; inkstands were overturned, benches thrown down,
and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual time, the
children yelping and racketing about the green, in joy at their early
freedom.

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his toilet,
brushing and furbishing his best and only suit of rusty black, and
arranging his looks by a bit of broken looking-glass that hung up in the
schoolhouse. That he might make his appearance at the party in the true
style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was
boarding, and, thus gallantly mounted, rode forth, like a knight-errant in
quest of adventures.

The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plow horse. He was gaunt and
shagged, with a slender neck, and a head like a hammer. His mane and tail
were tangled and knotted with burs. One eye had lost its pupil, and was
glaring and spectral, but the other still gleamed with genuine wickedness.
He must have had plenty of fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge
from his name, which was Gunpowder.

Ichabod was a rider suited for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups,
which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle; his elbows
stuck out like a grasshopper’s; and as the horse jogged on, the motion of
his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat
rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might
be called; and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the
horse’s tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed as they
shambled along the highway; and it was altogether such an apparition as is
seldom to be met with in broad daylight.

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day. The sky was clear and serene.
The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of
the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frost into brilliant dyes of
orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make
their appearance high in the air. The bark of the squirrel might be heard
from the groves of beech and hickory, and the pensive whistle of the quail
at intervals from the neighboring stubble fields.

The small birds fluttered, chirping and frolicking, from bush to bush, and
tree to tree, gay and happy because of the plenty and variety around them.
There were the twittering blackbirds, flying in sable clouds; and the
golden-winged woodpecker, with his crimson crest and splendid plumage; and
the cedar bird, with its red-tipped wings and yellow-tipped tail; and the
blue jay, in his gay, light-blue coat and white underclothes, screaming
and chattering, nodding and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms
with every songster of the grove.

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye ranged with delight over
the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of
apples,--some still hanging on the trees, some gathered into baskets and
barrels for the market, others heaped up in rich piles for the cider
press. Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its golden
ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of
cakes and hasty pudding. There, too, were multitudes of yellow pumpkins
turning up their yellow sides to the sun, and giving ample prospects of
the most luxurious of pies. And anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat
fields, breathing the odor of the beehive; and as he beheld them, he
dreamed of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey.

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts, he journeyed along the
sides of a range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest scenes
of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down
into the west. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath
of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine, golden tint, changing
gradually into a pure apple-green, and from that into the deep blue of the
midheaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices
that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depth to the dark
gray and purple of their rocky sides.

III. AT THE PARTY

adjacent innovations sumptuous piazza
antiquated animated skeleton specter

It was toward evening when Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Herr Van
Tassel. He found it thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent
country,--old farmers, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings,
huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles; their brisk little dames, in
close-crimped caps and long-waisted gowns, with scissors and pincushions,
and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside; young girls, almost as
antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon,
or perhaps a white frock showed signs of city innovations; the sons, in
short, square-skirted coats with rows of huge brass buttons, and their
hair generally queued in the fashion of the times.

What a world of charms burst upon the gaze of my hero as he entered the
state parlor of Van Tassel’s mansion--the ample charms of a Dutch country
tea table, in the sumptuous time of autumn! Such heaped-up platters of
cakes, of various and indescribable kinds, known only to experienced Dutch
housewives!

There were doughnuts and crisp, crumbling crullers; sweet cakes and short
cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes; and
then there were apple pies, and peach pies, and pumpkin pies; and slices
of ham and smoked beef; and dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and
pears, and quinces; not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens,
together with bowls of milk and cream; all mingled, higgledy-piggledy,
with the motherly teapot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst!
I want breath and time to describe this banquet as I ought, and am too
eager to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great
a hurry, but did ample justice to every dainty.

And now, supper being ended, the sound of music from the common room
summoned to the dance. The musician was an old, gray-headed negro, who
had been the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a
century. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greater
part of the time he scraped away on two or three strings, moving his head
with every movement of the bow, and stamping his foot whenever a fresh
couple were to start.

Ichabod prided himself on his dancing. Not a limb, not a fiber about him
was idle. How could the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and
joyous? When the dance was over, Ichabod joined a circle of the older
folks, who, with Herr Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza,
and told stories of the war and wild and wonderful legends of ghosts and
other supernatural beings.

Some mention was made of a woman in white that haunted the dark glen at
Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on wintry nights before a storm.
The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite specter
of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who had been heard several times
of late patrolling the country. One man told how he had once met the
horseman and was obliged to get up behind him; how they galloped over
bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge by the
church, when the horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw him into
the brook, and sprang away over the tree tops with a clap of thunder.

A wild, roistering young man, who was called Brom Bones, declared that the
headless horseman was, after all, no rider compared with himself. He said
that returning one night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had
been overtaken by this midnight trooper; that he had offered to race with
him for a bowl of punch, and would have won it, too, but just as they came
to the church bridge, the specter bolted and vanished in a flash of fire.

IV. THE MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE

idea gnarled sensitive sociability
dismal covert gigantic desperation
inquiry violence opposite evidently

The party now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered together their
families in their wagons, and were heard for some time rattling along the
hollow roads and over the distant hills. Their light-hearted laughter,
mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands,
growing fainter and fainter till they gradually died away, and the late
scene of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted.

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod pursued his travel
homeward. In the dead hush of midnight he could hear the barking of a dog
on the opposite shore of the Hudson, but it was so vague and faint as only
to give an idea of the distance between them. No signs of life occurred
near, but now and then the chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural
twang of a bullfrog from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably
and turning suddenly in his bed.

All the stories that Ichabod had heard about ghosts and goblins now came
crowding into his mind. The night grew darker and darker. The stars seemed
to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from
his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover,
approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories
had been laid. In the center of the road stood an enormous tulip tree,
which towered like a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood
and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large
as the trunks of ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the ground, and
rising again into the air.

As Ichabod approached this tree, he began to whistle. He thought his
whistle was answered: it was but a blast sweeping sharply through the
dry branches. Coming a little nearer, he thought he saw something white
hanging in the midst of the tree. He paused, and ceased whistling, but, on
looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the tree had
been struck by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard
a groan. His teeth chattered, and his knees smote against the saddle. It
was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed
about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay
before him.

About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook crossed the road, and
ran into a marshy and thickly wooded glen. A few rough logs laid side
by side served for a bridge over this stream. To pass this bridge was
the severest trial; for it was here that the unfortunate André had been
captured, and under covert of the thicket of chestnuts and vines by the
side of the road had the sturdy yeomen, who surprised him, lain concealed.
The stream has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful
are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark.

As Ichabod approached the stream his heart began to thump. He gave his
horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and tried to dash briskly across
the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old animal made
a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod jerked
the rein on the other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot. It
was all in vain. His steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge
to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles.

The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon the ribs of old
Gunpowder, who dashed forward, but came to a stand just by the bridge
with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head.
Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the
sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the trees he beheld
something huge, black, and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered
up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the
traveler.

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror.
What was to be done? Summoning up a show of courage, he called out in
stammering accents, “Who are you?” He received no reply. He repeated his
demand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once
more he cudgeled the sides of Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke
forth into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself
in motion, and, with a scramble and a bound, stood at once in the middle
of the road.

Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might
now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large
dimensions, and mounted on a horse of powerful frame. He made no offer
of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road,
jogging along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his
fright and waywardness.

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion, and
bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones and the headless
horseman, now quickened his steed, in hopes of leaving him behind. The
stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod drew up,
and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind; the other did the same.
His heart began to sink within him. There was something in the moody and
dogged silence of his companion that was mysterious and appalling. It was
soon fearfully accounted for.

On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his
fellow-traveler in relief against the sky, Ichabod was horror-struck on
perceiving that he was headless; but his horror was still more increased
on observing that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders,
was carried before him on the pommel of his saddle. His terror rose to
desperation. He rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping,
by sudden movement, to give his companion the slip; but the specter
started full jump with him.

Away, then, they dashed, through thick and thin, stones flying and sparks
flashing at every bound. Ichabod’s flimsy garments fluttered in the air
as he stretched his long, lank body away over his horse’s head, in the
eagerness of his flight.

They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow; but
Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it,
made an opposite turn, and plunged headlong down hill to the left. This
road leads through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about a quarter
of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story; and just
beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church.

Just as he had got halfway through the hollow, the girths of the saddle
gave way, and Ichabod felt it slipping from under him. He seized it by the
pommel, and tried to hold it firm, but in vain. He had just time to save
himself by clasping Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the
earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment
the terror of its owner’s wrath passed across his mind, for it was his
Sunday saddle; but this was no time for petty fears. He had much ado to
keep his seat, sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and
sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse’s backbone with a violence
that was far from pleasant.

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hope that the church
bridge was at hand. “If I can but reach that bridge,” thought Ichabod, “I
am safe.” Just then he heard the black steed panting and blowing close
behind him. He even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another kick in
the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he thundered over the
resounding planks; he gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a
look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish in a flash of fire and
brimstone.

Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act
of hurling his head at him. Ichabod tried to dodge the horrible missile,
but too late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash. He was
tumbled headlong into the dust; and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the
goblin rider passed by like a whirlwind.

The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and with the
bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master’s gate.
Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast. Dinner hour came, but no
Ichabod. The boys assembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about
the banks of the brook; but no schoolmaster.

An inquiry was set on foot, and after much investigation they came upon
his traces. In one part of the road by the church was found the saddle
trampled in the dirt. The tracks of horses’ hoofs deeply dented in the
road, and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond
which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook, where the water ran
deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close
beside it a shattered pumpkin. The brook was searched, but the body of the
schoolmaster was not to be discovered.

As Ichabod was a bachelor, and in nobody’s debt, nobody troubled his head
any more about him. It is true, an old farmer, who went down to New York
on a visit several years after, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod
Crane was still alive; that he had left the neighborhood, partly through
fear of the goblin and the farmer whose horse he had ridden, and partly
for other reasons; that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of
the country, had kept school and studied law, and finally had been made a
justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, was observed to look very
knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a
hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin, which led some to suppose that
he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell.

--WASHINGTON IRVING.

THE BLUEBIRD

When God had made a host of them,
One little flower still lacked a stem
To hold its blossom blue;
So into it He breathed a song,
And suddenly, with petals strong
As wings, away it flew.

--FATHER TABB.

* * * * *

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.

--PHILIP JAMES BAILEY.

THE BROOK

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 slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeams 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 TENNYSON.

THE STORY OF A HAPPY CHILD

chevalier poem education opera
conservatory poetry poverty accord
applause talent composer theater

The Chevalier had found a lad who would be worthy of his care. To be sure
he was but a peasant boy full of fun and laughter. The Chevalier himself
had once been young and remembered how tempting the sunshine used to be
and the fields and the ripe nuts of autumn. He had marked with pleasure
this handsome lad, and watched with interest his changing face and dancing
eye as he went on his merry way.

“I shall ask him to my house,” thought the Chevalier, “and see what he
will say to my books.”

So Giochino went to the Chevalier’s house and listened eagerly while the
Chevalier told him of the beautiful verses and stories which many of the
books contained. Now and then the Chevalier would read a few lines from a
poem.

The boy loved poetry. It was sweet in sound and had a movement like the
gliding of boats on still water. It made him forget everything else,--even
how he had teased his old music teacher, and that his mother was sometimes
sad.

Perhaps he was a little lonesome, for his mother, whom he loved dearly,
was often far off. She was working for her boy, saving every cent possible
to give him the musical education for which she had longed. Here and there
throughout Italy she went singing in one of the traveling opera companies
so common in those days. In her younger years her voice had been full
and strong, but now it was failing and she wondered what would happen to
Giochino.

But the boy’s heart was too joyous to be cast down by poverty or trouble.
The days were bright and sunny, why should he not be gay? His voice was
clear, true, pure in tone, and almost of its own accord broke into song.
Occasionally he, too, would earn a little money by singing at the theater.

After a time he was able to study music with a master and finally entered
the conservatory at Bologna. Here he was taught some of the more difficult
things about music.

It was not long before he discovered that he already knew enough to write
operas. He was delighted. He would go to seek his fortune.

His teacher, realizing that he had extraordinary talent, wished him to
continue his study further and even offered to instruct him in the stately
music of the Church, if he would remain. But the youth did not heed his
offer and started forth.

In his happy, aimless way he went from place to place. He sang, he
accompanied, he directed and composed. He was always good-natured, always
generous, and never without friends.

It was evening in Venice. The opera was just over. People were thronging
from the door of the opera house. They were talking excitedly. Evidently
they were much pleased. Giochino Rossini’s opera, “Tancred,” had been
presented for the first time. It had been received with wild applause.

Rossini was surprised at this. “I fancied,” he said, “that, after hearing
my opera, they would put me into the madhouse. But they are madder than
I.”

popular finally composition indignation
spirit composer message mentioned

When he was but twenty-four Rossini produced what has been, perhaps, the
most popular of his operas, “The Barber of Seville.” But fame alone could
not make him content. Beyond Italy the world was wide. The spirit of the
man was as restless as that of the boy. He went to Vienna, and finally to
Paris.

In Paris he felt he could work at his best. Here he composed his great
masterpiece in opera, “William Tell.” It was the story in music and song
of the great Swiss hero, of whom you have doubtless heard many tales. For
years the hero had seen his country bound under the hand of a tyrant. His
soul was on fire with indignation. His country must be freed. He would
make it free.

Nothing but grand and noble music could tell such a story. Yet Rossini
has told it wonderfully. The opera was brought out in Paris and has been
played many times since.

Although as yet you may not have listened to any of the music which has
been mentioned thus far, the most of you have probably heard many times
Rossini’s finest composition. When he wrote it, he was forty-five; and
when it was done, he wrote no longer. This was his last message to the
world. This was the “Stabat Mater,” sung for the first time on Good Friday.

In his house in Paris Rossini gathered about him many friends, among them
young men who desired to become musicians, poets, or writers. His generous
heart was full to the last of merriment and song, though as a composer he
was silent. He was born at Pesaro, Italy, February 29, 1792, and died in
Paris, November 13, 1868.

MAY CAROL

See the robins swinging
’Mid the orchards’ snow;
Feel the perfumed breezes
Wafted to and fro;
Listen to the music
Heard from bird and spray;
Lift your hearts, ye sad ones,
’Tis the lovely May.

Ah, our hearts were weary
Waiting for the light,
For the frosts to vanish
With their bitter blight:
See, the earth’s brown bosom
Heaves, where zephyrs play;
See, she thrills and answers
To the touch of May.

May, all fresh and smiling,
Sweet--from heaven above;
May, our souls beguiling
With her dreams of love:
Violet-eyed and fragrant--
How our pulses play
’Neath the virgin beauty
Of the radiant May.

Lift your hearts up: floating
Through the gold and blue
Where the liquid sunlight
Streams and filters through,
There a Lady, smiling,
Stands ’mid cloudless day--
Snow-white Virgin-Mother,
Dazzling Queen of May.

--MARY ANTONIA, SISTER OF MERCY.

THE PRECIOUS BLOOD OF JESUS

O Precious Blood of Jesus,
Shed for me,
Upon the cruel cross of
Calvary:

Each drop of blood so precious,
And the pain,
A sacrifice was offered
Not in vain.

O Precious Blood of Jesus,
May I feel
The fire of love for Christ, and
Holy zeal!

O Precious Blood of Jesus,
Cleansing, pure!
Inflame my soul with ardor
To endure.

--HENRY COYLE.

THE SPANISH COOK

peasant zealous summit intervals
chef caprice recovery porridge
plaza vespers procession accident

Pilar was a young peasant woman. I do not know from what village she came,
somewhere in the neighborhood of Malaga. She was paid three dollars a
month, and she “found” herself. A man cook in that happy land gets five
dollars a month, but times were bad, and my friends had for three years
to content themselves with a woman cook. She cooked well, though, and
cheerfully, and she prepared more meals in the twenty-four hours than any
other cook I ever heard of.

She seemed to have identified herself thoroughly with the family, and
to work with a zealous love for them all. There was, however, one of
the many children for whom she had a special affection, a very delicate
little maiden of two and a half. During the autumn this child had been
desperately ill. The doctors gave no hope. Pilar in anguish prayed for her
recovery, and promised the Bestower of life that if He would spare little
Anita, she would, before the end of Holy Week, carry to the shrine on the
top of the “Calvary” outside the town, one pound of olive oil to be burned
in His honor. She promised a great many prayers besides, which she managed
to get said, in the intervals of her frying and stewing and boiling.

Well, the little girl, contrary to the doctors, began to mend, and finally
was entirely restored to health. Pilar was most grateful, and said many
_Aves_ in thanksgiving. The winter was a busy one, and then Lent came and
seemed not less busy in that big household. Pilar did not forget the pound
of oil, but there never seemed a moment when she could ask a half day to
go and carry it to the shrine. Holy Week came, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday,
Thursday,--what should she do! She could scarcely get away from her work
even to go out to her parish church on Holy Thursday to say a little
prayer before the Repository, where, throned in flowers and lighted with
myriad candles, the Blessed Sacrament is kept till the morning of Good
Friday.

As to going to seven churches and saying her prayers before each
Repository as other people did, that, alas! was not “for the likes of
her.” She had a dumb, deep-down feeling, however, that the good God knew,
and that it would be all right. On her way back from her hurried prayer at
the church, a procession passed which she watched for a moment. But this
only proved painful, for it had begun to rain, and her pious Southern soul
was aflame with wrath that the image of the Blessed Redeemer should be
exposed to the storm.

“They don’t care about wetting his dear curls,” she cried, “as long as
they can have a good procession.”

She shook her fist at the crowd, and came away in tears. Her mistress, a
devout Catholic, tried to console her by reminding her that, after all, it
was only an image and not the dear Lord she loved. Oh, she knew _that_;
but “it was cruel, but it was shameful!”

She felt as a mother would feel if the dress of her dead baby, or its
little half-worn shoe, were spoiled by the caprice or cold-heartedness of
some one who had no feeling for it. All together Holy Thursday was not
very consoling to Pilar, and the pound of oil grew heavier every hour.

The next day, Good Friday, she had only time to go to church through the
silent streets, where no wheels were heard, and say her prayers and look
at the black, black altars and the veiled statues. That night, after her
work was done, and the last baby had been served with its last porridge,
she put her kitchen in hurried order, and stole out silently. She had
bought the pound of oil at a little shop in the next street and, hiding
it under her shawl, turned her steps towards Barcenillas.

The night was black and tempestuous. A hot, dry wind blew; occasionally a
gust brought a few drops of rain, but more often it was a gale which made
the street lamps blink, and whirled the dust around her. It was a long way
to the suburb; it was late; there were few abroad, but no matter, the good
Lord knew why she was out, and He would take care of her.

There are no street cars running in the days of Holy Week. From Holy
Thursday till after the cathedral bells ring for first vespers on Holy
Saturday, no wheels move in the streets of Malaga.

It was nearly midnight when she got to Barcenillas. She crossed the silent
plaza, passed through the gate, and began the ascent of the steep hill.
There is a great broad road that winds up it, and at every “station” there
is a lamp burning. She knelt at each as she reached it. But the place was
very lonely; the eucalyptus trees shook and whispered to each other, and
the lamps were dim and flickered in the rough wind.

The night before there had been processions all through the night, crowds
upon crowds going up the hill; she would not have been lonely then. But
she could not get away, because of little Josef’s being ill and needing
the water heated for his bath every hour. Yes, it would have been nicer
last night, with all the priests, and all the chanting, and all the
flaming torches. But the good God knew all about it,--why she did not come
then, when she wanted to. She would not worry, but she said her prayers
with chattering teeth, and many furtive looks behind her.

At last she reached the summit, where in a little chapel burned the light
that could be seen for miles around Malaga. There a solitary brother
knelt, saying his beads, and keeping watch. She said her last prayers at
the altar, and left the votive oil with the friar, who commended her piety
and was very kind. As she came out, the clouds broke and the Paschal moon
shone through them, and the broad road led down with smooth ease towards
the sleeping, silent city. Her steps made just as lonely echoes on the
stones of the deserted streets, but she felt herself favored of heaven, as
no doubt she was, and all her fears were gone.

It was after three o’clock when she let herself in at the kitchen door;
and it was several weeks before her mistress learned, by accident, of the
dolorous little pilgrimage.

--MIRIAM COLES HARRIS.

THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE TREE

cleave lea roseate tenderly
mold fruitage verdurous crimson
haunt sojourners fraud rhymes

Come, let us plant the apple tree.
Cleave the tough greensward with the spade;
Wide let its hollow bed be made;
There gently lay the roots, and there
Sift the dark mold with kindly care,
And press it o’er them tenderly,
As round the sleeping infant’s feet
We softly fold the cradle sheet;
So plant we the apple tree.

What plant we in this apple tree?
Buds which the breath of summer days
Shall lengthen into leafy sprays;
Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast,
Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest;
We plant, upon the sunny lea,
A shadow for the noontide hour,
A shelter from the summer shower,
When we plant the apple tree.

What plant we in this apple tree?
Sweets for a hundred flowery springs,
To load the May wind’s restless wings,
When, from the orchard row, he pours
Its fragrance through our open doors;
A world of blossoms for the bee,
Flowers for the sick girl’s silent room,
For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,
We plant with the apple tree.

What plant we in this apple tree?
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,
And redden in the August noon,
And drop, when gentle airs come by,
That fan the blue September sky;
While children come, with cries of glee,
And seek them where the fragrant grass
Betrays their bed to those who pass,
At the foot of the apple tree.

And when, above this apple tree,
The winter stars are quivering bright,
And winds go howling through the night,
Girls, whose young eyes o’erflow with mirth,
Shall peel its fruits by cottage hearth,
And guests in prouder homes shall see,
Heaped with the grape of Cintra’s vine,
And golden orange of the line,
The fruit of the apple tree.

The fruitage of this apple tree,
Winds and our flag of stripe and star
Shall bear to coasts that lie afar,
Where men shall wonder at the view,
And ask in what fair groves they grew;
And sojourners beyond the sea
Shall think of childhood’s careless day,
And long, long hours of summer play,
In the shade of the apple tree.

Each year shall give this apple tree
A broader flush of roseate bloom,
A deeper maze of verdurous gloom,
And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower,
The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower.
The years shall come and pass, but we
Shall hear no longer, where we lie,
The summer’s songs, the autumn’s sigh,
In the boughs of the apple tree.

And time shall waste this apple tree.
Oh, when its aged branches throw
Thin shadows on the ground below,
Shall fraud and force and iron will
Oppress the weak and helpless still?
What shall the tasks of mercy be,
Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears
Of those who live when length of years
Is wasting this apple tree?

“Who planted this old apple tree?”
The children of that distant day
Thus to some aged man shall say;
And, gazing on its mossy stem,
The gray-haired man shall answer them:
“A poet of the land was he,
Born in the rude but good old times;
’Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes
On planting the apple tree.”

--WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE CONVERSION OF KING RATBODO

dunes miracle indignation devastating
righteous policy obstinate development
terror pagan chieftain abomination

St. Wulfram and his monks had much work for a time. The Frisians came in
crowds for Christian instructions and baptism. It was a great and hard
task to teach human beings in the lowest stage of development. Moreover,
the teachings of the missionaries were opposed in all things to the
traditional customs of the people. Many wrongs, such as slavery, for
instance, could not be set aside at once. Moreover, if the people were to
be made peaceful and weaned from their wildness, they had to be taught
other ways of support than plundering and hunting.

So the Benedictines taught the converts not only Christian doctrine, but
how to plow and to plant. They built dunes to hold out the devastating
sea, and sent to their abbey home for seeds and implements. In a few years
the face of Frisia was greatly changed.

Ratbodo had given Wulfram land and a dwelling near his own residence.
In this way he could best keep track of everything that happened at the
mission.

The king himself remained obdurate in his paganism. Once he said,
tauntingly, to the entreating Wulfram, that if the Christian God would
work a miracle for him especially, he would be converted. Wulfram reminded
him of the miracles he had seen and had not been converted. Then Ratbodo
said that if the table in front of him were changed into gold, he would
yield; but Wulfram, in righteous indignation, told him how childish was
such a request.

All the while the chieftains were urging the king to send away the bishop.
But he laughed at them, saying that what Wulfram had built up he himself
would destroy in ten days when the time came, just as had been done in the
case of many others. Even the king’s little son, Clodio, was baptized and
died a Christian, but the king only smiled. His day was coming, he held.

Then Wulfram went back to Fontinella to get more monks, laborers, and lay
brothers for his work in Frisia. The converted Frisians were beginning to
realize the blessings of regular and well-ordered work. There were more
and more laborers and fewer sea robbers and warriors. Nevertheless, the
great mass of the Frisian people remained obstinate, following the example
of the king and the great chiefs.

Among the gods whose wrath the Frisians most feared was the god of
the sea. The lowness of the land made frequent inundations inevitable.
Besides, Frisians, when not robbing, were fishing, or living on the water
in some way. Thus they were always anxious to pacify the mighty god of the
floods.

On this day, too, a great multitude, together with the king and the
chieftains, were gathered at the sea-coast, waiting to soothe the water
deity by human sacrifice. The lot had fallen on two little boys this time,
the only children of a widow. At the time of low tide the little ones were
laid on a projecting point of land, so that the rising waters would cover
them. Their feet were tied so cunningly that the childish hands could not
undo the knots. Thus they sat on the beach, waiting the waters that were
to be their death.

Several hundred feet back, the crowds were gathered to watch the unhappy
spectacle. In the foreground sat a young woman, the mother of the
children, weeping and moaning in her grief, without, however, waking the
faintest sympathy in the hearts of the by-standers.

The waters were even then advancing on the point of land, and a strong
wind was driving up the flood in great waves. The little ones began to
scream in terror as the spray struck them, and the mother sprang to her
feet. If she had not been held fast, she would have flung herself into the
water with her children. Gradually the land disappeared; nothing was left
but the raised point to which the children clung. One could see how the
older boy was trying to hold up his little brother.

“King!” said a voice, ringing with a holy anger, “why this abomination
before the eyes of almighty God?”

Ratbodo started and the chieftains stared in silent astonishment.

“We are offering sacrifice to the god of the waters,” said the king, after
a moment. “Go take the victims away from him if you can; they may be your
slaves and the slaves of your God for the rest of time,” he added with a
sneer.

“So be it,” answered Wulfram. Turning, he made the sign of the cross
over the rising tide and walked out as if on solid land. The Christians
present in the crowd cried aloud for joy, but the pagans stood in wonder
bordering on fear. The king himself was most moved by the miraculous
sight. His eyes were fixed, his face pale as death. He was convinced that
in the saint walking thus unharmed over the waters he saw an unmistakable
manifestation of the power of the Christian God.

“That is even more than a golden table,” he whispered tremblingly.

Wulfram lifted the children out of the water and carried them to the land.
At once the Frisians crowded about him, asking to be made Christians.
Ratbodo himself said:--

“It is but right that a man should keep his word. I said to you years ago
that if your God would make a golden table before my eyes, I would become
a Christian. But He did more. He made a solid floor of the moving sea.
Come to me every day and instruct me.”

--CONRAD VON BOLANDEN.

THE BLESSED VIRGIN MARY

If our faith had given us nothing more
Than this example of all womanhood,
So mild, so merciful, so strong, so good,
So patient, peaceful, loyal, loving, pure,
This were enough to prove it higher and truer
Than all creeds the world had known before.

--H. W. LONGFELLOW.

From _The Golden Legend_.

COME TO JESUS

[Illustration]

Souls of men! why will ye scatter
Like a crowd of frightened sheep?
Foolish hearts! why will ye wander
From a love so true and deep?

Was there ever kindest shepherd
Half so gentle, half so sweet
As the Saviour who would have us
Come and gather round His feet?

It is God: His love looks mighty,
But is mightier than it seems:
’Tis our Father: and His fondness
Goes far out beyond our dreams.

There’s a wideness in God’s mercy,
Like the wideness of the sea:
There’s a kindness in His justice,
Which is more than liberty.

There is no place where earthly sorrows
Are more felt than up in heaven;
There is no place where earthly failings
Have such kindly judgment given.

There is welcome for the sinner,
And more graces for the good;
There is mercy with the Saviour;
There is healing in His Blood.

There is grace enough for thousands
Of new worlds as great as this;
There is room for fresh creations
In that upper home of bliss.

For the love of God is broader
Than the treasures of man’s mind;
And the heart of the Eternal
Is most wonderfully kind.

There is plentiful redemption
In the Blood that has been shed;
There is joy for all the members
In the sorrows of the Head.

If our love were but more simple,
We should take Him at His word;
And our lives would be all sunshine
In the sweetness of our Lord.

--FATHER FABER.

* * * * *

Be comforted; and blessèd be
The meek, the merciful, the pure
Of heart; for they shall see, shall hear
God’s mercy. So shall peace endure.

--JOAQUIN MILLER.

FATHER MARQUETTE

expedition martyrdom humility adieu
investigation utterance fathoms erect
deputed banquet domestic cubit

In 1672, letters from Quebec informed Marquette that the government had
taken up the project of exploring the Mississippi, and that he was the
missionary selected to accompany the expedition. His heart exulted at the
prospect. The hope of a glorious martyrdom while opening the way to future
heralds of the Cross buoyed him up, though in his humility he never spoke
of martyrdom. To him it was but a death, “to cease to offend God.”

The winter was spent by the two explorers in studying all that had yet
been learned of the great river, in gathering around them every Indian
wanderer, and amid the tawny group drawing their first rude map of the
Mississippi, and the water courses that led to it. And on this first map,
traced doubtless kneeling on the ground, they set down the name of each
tribe they were to pass, each important point to be met. The undertaking
was dangerous, but it was not to be rash: all was the result of calm, cool
investigation. In the spring they embarked at Mackinaw in two frail bark
canoes; each with his paddle in hand, and full of hope, they soon plied
them merrily over the crystal waters of the lake.

[Illustration: “THEY HAPPILY GLIDED INTO THE GREAT RIVER.”]

All was new to Marquette. He had now attained the limit of former
discoveries, the new world was before them; they looked back a last
adieu to the waters, which, great as the distance was, connected them
with Quebec and their countrymen; they knelt on the shore to offer, by a
new devotion, their lives, their honor, and their undertaking to their
beloved mother the Virgin Mary Immaculate; then, launching on the broad
Wisconsin, they sailed slowly down its current, amid its vine-clad isles
and its countless sand bars.

No sound broke the stillness, no human form appeared, and at last, after
sailing seven days, on the 17th of June they happily glided into the great
river. Joy that could find no utterance in words filled the grateful heart
of Marquette. The broad river of the Conception, as he named it, now lay
before them, stretching away hundreds of miles to an unknown sea.

“The Mississippi River,” he writes, “has its source in several lakes in
the country of the nations at the north; it is narrow at the mouth of
the Wisconsin; its current, which runs south, is slow and gentle. On the
right is a considerable chain of very high mountains, and on the left fine
lands; it is in many places studded with islands. On sounding we found
ten fathoms of water. Its breadth varies greatly; sometimes it is three
quarters of a league broad, and then narrows in to less than two hundred
yards. We followed its course quietly, as it bears south and southeast to
the forty-second degree.

“Then we perceive that the whole face of the country changes. Scarcely
a forest or mountain is now in sight. The islands increase in beauty
and are covered with finer trees; we see nothing but deer and elk, wild
geese and swans unable to fly, as they are here moulting. From time to
time we encounter monstrous fish, one of which struck our canoe with such
violence that I took it for a large tree that would knock our frail craft
to pieces. Another time we perceived on the water a bearded monster with
a tiger’s head, a pointed muzzle like a wild cat; ears erect, a gray head
but a jet-black neck. It was the only one we beheld.

“When we cast our nets we took sturgeon, and a very strange fish
resembling a trout, but with larger mouth and smaller eyes and snout. From
the last projects a large bone, three fingers wide, and a cubit long; the
end is round and as wide as a hand. When the fish leaps out of water, the
weight of this bone often throws it back.

“Having descended the river to 41° 2´, still keeping the same direction,
we found that turkeys took the place of other wild birds, and wild cattle
replaced other animals. We call them wild cattle, because they resemble
our domestic ones. They are not longer, but almost as bulky again, and
more corpulent. Our man killed one, and the three of us could move it only
with great difficulty. The head is very large, the forehead flat and a
half yard broad between the horns, which resemble exactly those of our
oxen, but are black and longer. A large crop hangs down from the neck,
and there is a high hump on the back. The whole head, neck, and part of
the shoulders are covered with a great mane like a horse’s; it is a foot
long and gives them a hideous appearance, and as it falls over the eyes
prevents their seeing straight ahead.

“The rest of the body is covered with a coarse curly hair like the wool of
our sheep, but much stronger and thicker. This is shed every summer, and
then the skin is as soft as velvet. At this time the Indians employ the
skins to make beautiful robes, which they paint with various colors. The
flesh and fat are excellent, and furnish the best dish at banquets. They
are very fierce, and not a year passes without their killing some Indian.
When attacked, they take a man with their horns, if they can, lift him up,
and then dash him on the ground, and trample him to death.

“When you fire at them from a distance with gun or bow, you must throw
yourself on the ground as soon as you fire, and hide in the grass, for if
they perceive the person who fired, they rush on him and attack him. As
their feet are large and rather short, they do not generally move fast,
unless they are provoked. They are scattered over the prairies like herds
of cattle. I have seen four hundred of them in a band.”

At last, on the 25th of June, they descried footprints on the shore. They
now took heart again, and Joliet and the missionary, leaving their five
men in the canoes, followed a little beaten path to discover who the tribe
might be. They traveled on in silence almost to the cabin doors, when they
halted, and with a loud halloo proclaimed their coming. Three villages lay
before them; the first, roused by the cry, poured forth its motley group,
which halted at the sight of the newcomers and the well-known dress of the
missionary.

“They deputed four old men to come and speak with us,” says Marquette.
“Two carried tobacco pipes richly adorned and trimmed with feathers of
many kinds. They walked slowly, lifting their pipes toward the sun, as
if offering them to him to smoke, but yet without uttering a single
word. They were a long time coming the short distance between us and the
village. Having at last reached us, they stopped to examine us carefully.

“On seeing these ceremonies which are used only with friends, I took
courage, more especially as I saw they wore European goods, which made me
judge them to be allies of the French. I therefore spoke to them first,
and asked them who they were. They answered: ‘We are Illinois,’ and in
token of peace they offered us their pipes to smoke. They then invited us
to their village, where the whole tribe impatiently awaited us.

“At the door of the cabin in which we were to be received was an old man
awaiting us in a very remarkable attitude. It is their usual ceremony
in receiving strangers. This man stood perfectly naked, with his hands
stretched out and raised toward the sun, as if he wished to screen himself
from its rays, which nevertheless passed through his fingers to his face.
When we came near him, he addressed this compliment to us: ‘How beautiful
is the sun, O Frenchman, when thou comest to visit us! All our town awaits
thee, and thou shalt enter all our cabins in peace,’ He then took us
into his, where there was a crowd of people, who devoured us with their
eyes, but maintained the deepest silence. We heard, however, these words
occasionally addressed to us: ‘Well done, brothers, to visit us!’”

Then the great peace calumet was brought and solemnly smoked, and the two
Frenchmen were conducted to the village of the great sachem. Here, too,
they were received with pomp, and the calumet was again smoked. Marquette
explained the object of their voyage to visit the nations living on the
great river, and announce to them the word of God their Creator. They told
the Illinois that they were sent by the great chief of the French, and
asked information as to the nations between them and the sea.

The sachem presented them an Indian slave, saying: “I thank thee,
Blackgown, and thee, Frenchman, for taking so much pains to come and
visit us; never has the earth been so beautiful, nor the sun so bright as
to-day; never has our river been so calm, nor so free from rocks, which
your canoes have removed as they passed; never has our tobacco had so fine
a flavor, nor our corn appeared so beautiful as we behold it to-day. Here
is my son, whom I give thee, that thou mayst know my heart. I pray thee to
take pity on me and all my nation. Thou knowest the Great Spirit who has
made us all; thou speakest to Him and hearest His word. Ask Him to give me
life and health, and come and dwell with us that we may know Him.”

They feasted the two Frenchmen, and gave them a calumet of peace as a
safeguard against hostile tribes, but tried to persuade them to go no
farther.

--JOHN GILMARY SHEA.

THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS

There came a youth upon the earth,
Some thousand years ago,
Whose slender hands were nothing worth,
Whether to plow, or reap, or sow.

Upon an empty tortoise shell
He stretched some chords, and drew
Music that made men’s bosoms swell
Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.

Then King Admetus, one who had
Pure taste by right divine,
Decreed his singing not too bad
To hear between the cups of wine.

And so, well pleased with being soothed
Into a sweet half-sleep,
Three times his kingly beard he smoothed,
And made him viceroy o’er his sheep.

His words were simple words enough,
And yet he used them so,
That what in other mouths was rough
In his seemed musical and low.

Men called him but a shiftless youth
In whom no good they saw;
And yet, unwittingly, in truth,
They made his careless words their law.

They knew not how he learned at all,
For idly, hour by hour,
He sat and watched the dead leaves fall,
Or mused upon a common flower.

It seemed the loveliness of things
Did teach him all their use,
For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs,
He found a healing power profuse.

Men granted that his speech was wise,
But, when a glance they caught
Of his slim grace and woman’s eyes,
They laughed, and called him good-for-naught.

Yet after he was dead and gone,
And e’en his memory dim,
Earth seemed more sweet to live upon,
More full of love, because of him.

--JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

THE SERMON ON THE MOUNT

consent reckoning solemnly honors
possess justice merciful persecution
thirst really content satisfy

One day a vast multitude follows our Blessed Lord up a mountain side. They
come trooping after Him, men, women, and children; their homes, their
business, all the cares of this life, by common consent left behind. Now
He has stopped and turned round, facing them. He waits long and patiently
as they come toiling up, guiding them with His hand to go here and there
where they may hear Him best.

It is His first great Sermon that He is going to preach, this Sermon
on the Mount, and it is not only for the numbers beyond all reckoning
gathered together here, but for all that shall come into this world and
have to be taught what they must do to save their souls. Therefore He
would speak so solemnly and from such a lofty place. He sits down, and the
Twelve come and stand around Him, or sit on the ground at His feet. The
people press round as close as they can, and when all are seated and quiet
He begins to speak.

What will the text of this great Preacher be? What is the thought
uppermost in His mind and heart? This--to teach us what we must do to be
happy. He knows that we are made for happiness, and that we long to be
happy. But He knows, too, that very many try to find happiness in things
that will not satisfy them, in the riches, pleasures, and honors of this
world which can never content our hearts. And so He tells us in the
beginning of His Sermon on the Mount who are really blessed or happy.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.

“Blessed are the meek, for they shall possess the land.

“Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.

“Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after justice, for they shall
have their fill.

“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.

“Blessed are the clean of heart, for they shall see God.

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of
God.

“Blessed are they that suffer persecution for justice’ sake, for theirs is
the kingdom of Heaven.”

Blessed the sufferers for whom Heaven is waiting! this is the text of the
Sermon on the Mount.

envy abundance sufficiency conquerors
society invitation spiritual victors
raiment contrition special deserve

_The poor in spirit_ are those who, having little of the good things of
this life, are content with what God has given them, and do not envy those
who are better off. Those, too, who having a sufficiency or an abundance
of the pleasant things of this world, do not let their hearts get too fond
of them, are ready to give them up if God should take them away, and are
generous in sharing them with those in need. To poor, such as these, our
Lord promises all the riches of Heaven by and by.

_The meek_ are those who have gained a mastery over anger and revengeful
thoughts. They possess as conquerors three lands--the land of their own
soul, which they control as lords and masters, the Land of Heaven, where
nothing will trouble them any more, and, strange to say, that very land
in which they seemed to be overcome. For in the little difficulties and
differences of daily life, it is those that yield who are really victors.
How many conquests has meekness made!

_The mourners_ are those who all their lives long have a quiet, loving
sorrow for their sins--not as though they were unforgiven, but just
because they are forgiven, because they have offended Him who forgives so
readily and so often. Those, too, are blessed mourners who remember when
sorrow comes that He who loves them only permits it for their good, and
that in a very little while He will wipe away all tears from their eyes,
and they shall be comforted, “nor mourning, nor crying, nor sorrow shall
be any more.”

_Who hunger and thirst after justice._ The soul, like the body, has its
hunger and thirst. Our Lord says those are blessed who take care to
feed it with those things which keep it alive in the grace of God, with
prayer, and instruction, and the Sacraments. Blessed are those who hunger
after this spiritual food, who are always trying to get more and more of
God’s grace, who go hungry to prayer, hungry to Confession and Communion.
Almighty God says, “Open thy mouth and I will fill it.” And our Blessed
Lady sings in her canticle, “He hath fed the hungry with good things.” It
was because all the saints hungered like this that so much was given them.

_The merciful._ There is nothing our Lord tells us so often and so plainly
as this--that to obtain mercy from God we must ourselves be merciful. If
we wish Him to judge us kindly and to forgive our many faults, we must be
forgiving and kind. “Be merciful,” He says, “as your Heavenly Father is
merciful.” He tells us that at the Last Day He will say “Come” to those
who have been merciful to others for His sake, and “Depart from Me” to
those who have been unmerciful to the poor and needy, and therefore to
Him. For what we do to His least brethren He counts as done to Himself.
If, then, we want to hear His sweet invitation on that dreadful Day, we
know how to secure it--“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain
mercy.”

_The clean of heart._ The reward and the joy of the next life is to see
God. There are many joys in Heaven--freedom from pain and care, the
delights of the glorified body, the society of the Angels and Saints,
reunion with those we loved on earth. But all these are as nothing
compared with the Vision of God. It is this that makes Heaven what it is.
Without this all the rest would not satisfy us. But to see the All Holy
God we must be holy. In Heaven all are clothed with white robes, and the
nearer the approach to the Great White Throne, the more dazzlingly white
is the raiment. We must be getting ready to join that spotless throng.
How? By taking as much pains to keep our soul free from stain as we do to
prevent soiling our dress when we go along a miry road; by shunning with
care all mortal sin and deliberate venial sin; by being careful in our
examination of conscience, and often cleansing our soul in the Sacrament
of Penance, and by frequent acts of contrition. If we do this we shall be
among the clean of heart, and one day we shall see God.

_The peacemakers._ “Some there are who are neither at peace with
themselves nor suffer others to be at peace. And some there are who keep
themselves in peace and study to restore peace to others.” Gladness goes
with these peacemakers; they turn aside little words and jokes that would
give pain, and come among us like our Blessed Lord, whose favorite word of
greeting was, “Peace be to you.” They are so like their Father who is in
Heaven that they deserve to be called in a special way His children.

_The persecuted._ If our Lord had not told us these are blessed, should we
ever have guessed it? To be persecuted seems such a terrible thing, and so
indeed it is unless we can bring ourselves to think more of Him for whose
sake we suffer than of the suffering itself. Perhaps we may have known
the quiet happiness of being by the side of one we loved who was in pain.
The thought that our presence and our sympathy soothed that dear one was
greater joy than any pleasure to be found elsewhere. Something like this
is the gladness those have even now who for our Lord’s sake are hated and
persecuted. They know that if they are like Him in His suffering they will
be like Him one day in His glory. Are they not blessed then?

III

reverent amazement revenge deceive
riveted congregation poverty beatitudes

And now let us stop awhile to look at our dear Master and His hearers. The
Twelve are listening with reverent and fixed attention, their eyes riveted
on His blessed face. The people gaze at Him in amazement and delight. They
have been taught to hate their enemies, to seek revenge, to think that
poverty and suffering are the signs of God’s anger, that an abundance of
corn and wine and cattle are the rewards for which a good man must hope.

Their beatitudes would have been, “Blessed are the rich and the
successful, those that laugh and are held in honor by men.” How unlike
these to the blessed ones of Jesus of Nazareth! His way to happiness was
a hard way, but they knew as they looked up into His face that it was the
right way. And they felt that He could not only teach but help them. Had
they known the story of His life as we do they would have seen that He had
first practised all He taught. He was so poor that He had not where to lay
His head. He was meek and humble of heart, the Man of sorrows, the great
Peacemaker.

After the Sermon our Lord comes down from the Mount, conversing familiarly
with His disciples, His simple congregation flocking after Him, trying to
get near Him, all so refreshed by His company and His words. Hear them
talking of Him among themselves, saying, “We never heard the like.”

Oh, if we had seen our Blessed Lord as these happy people saw Him, if we
had followed Him about with the crowd, had sat at His feet as He taught,
and watched Him as He laid His hands on the eyes of the blind and the
sores of the poor lepers--how we should have loved Him!

--MOTHER MARY LOYOLA.

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER

perilous ramparts haughty conceals
conquer desolation hireling confusion
motto triumph reposes pollution

Oh say, can you see by the dawn’s early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming--
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,
O’er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?

And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
Oh say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?

On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?

Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream;
’Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave
O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
’Mid the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion,
A home and a country shall leave us no more?
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps’ pollution.

No refuge could save the hireling and slave,
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave.
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Oh, thus be it ever when freemen shall stand
Between their loved homes and the war’s desolation;
Blest with victr’y and peace, may the heaven-rescued land,
Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation.

Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: “In God is our trust!”
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

HOW AMERICA WAS DISCOVERED

THE ITALIAN SAILOR

Italian belief finally dangerous
Indies ocean theory persuade
Europe imagine journey furnish

About four hundred years ago there came to Spain an Italian sailor who
believed that the earth is round. Such a belief may not seem at all
strange to us, but to the people of that time it appeared to be very
foolish and unreasonable. Almost everybody laughed at the Italian, and
called him a silly fellow.

“Have you eyes?” they asked. “If so, you need only to open them and look
about you to see that the earth is as flat as the top of a table.”

“You may think it is flat,” he answered, “and indeed it does appear to be
so. But I know it is round; and if I had only a good ship or two, and some
trusty sailors, I would prove it to you. I would sail westward across the
great ocean, and in the end would reach the Indies and China, which must
be on the other side of the great round world.”

“Who ever heard of such nonsense!” cried his learned critics. “Everybody
knows that China and the Indies are in the far East, and that they can
be reached only by a dangerous voyage through the Mediterranean Sea,
and long journeys with camels across the great desert. Yet, here is Mr.
Crack-brain, an Italian sailor, who says he can go to the East by sailing
west. One might as well try to reach the moon by going down into a deep
well.”

“But you don’t understand me,” answered the man whom they had called Mr.
Crack-brain. “Here is an apple. Let us suppose that it is the earth. I
stick a pin on this side, and call it Spain. On the other side I stick
another pin, and call it the Indies. Now suppose a fly lights upon the
apple at the point which I have called Spain. By turning to the right, or
eastward, he can travel round to the Indies with but little trouble; or by
turning to the left, or westward, he can reach the same place with just as
much ease, and in really a shorter time. Do you see?”

“Do we see?” said his hearers. “Most certainly we see the apple, and we
can imagine that we see the fly. It is very hard, however, to imagine that
the earth is an apple, or anything like it. For, suppose that it were so:
what would become of all the water in the seas and the great ocean? Why,
it would run off at the blossom end of the apple, which you call the South
Pole; and all the rocks and trees and men would follow it. Or, suppose
that men could stick to the lower part of the earth as the fly does to
the lower part of the apple--how very silly it would be to think of them
walking about with their heads hanging down!”

“And suppose,” said one of the doubters, who thought himself very
wise,--“suppose that the earth is round, and suppose that the water should
not spill off, and suppose you should sail to the other side, as you want
to do, how are you to get back? Did anybody ever hear of a ship sailing
uphill?”

And so, with sneering remarks, the wise men dismissed the whole subject.
They said it was not worth while for them to spend their time in talking
about such things. But the man whom they had called Mr. Crack-brain would
not give up his theory. He was not the first man to believe that the
earth is round--this he knew; but he hoped to be the first to prove it
by sailing westward, and thus finally reaching the Indies, and the rich
countries of the far East. And yet he had no ship, he was very poor, and
the few friends whom he had were not able to give him any help.

“My only hope,” he said, “is to persuade the king and queen to furnish me
with a ship.”

But how should an unknown Italian sailor make himself heard by the king
and queen of the most powerful country in Europe?

The great men at the king’s court ridiculed him. “You had better buy a
fisherman’s boat,” they said, “and try to make an honest living with your
nets. Men of your kind have no business with kings. As to your crazy
theory about the shape of the earth, only think of it! How dare you, the
son of an Italian wool-comber, imagine that you know more about it than
the wisest men in the world?”

But he did not despair. For years he followed the king’s court from place
to place. Most people looked upon him as a kind of harmless lunatic who
had gotten a single idea in his head and was unable to think of anything
else. But there were a few good and wise men who listened to his theories,
and after studying them carefully began to believe that there was some
truth in them.

One of these men was Father Perez, the prior of the convent of La Rabida,
and, to please this good prior, the queen at last sent for the sailor and
asked him to tell her all about his strange theories and his plans for
sailing west and reaching the East.

“You say that, if you had the vessels and the men, you would sail westward
and discover new lands on the farther side of the great ocean,” said the
queen. “What reasons have you for supposing that there are any such lands?”

“My first reason is that, since the earth is round like a ball, the
countries of China and the Indies must lie in a westward direction and
can, sooner or later, be reached by sailing across the sea,” was the
answer. “You, yourself, have heard the story of St. Brandon, the Scottish
priest, who, eight hundred years ago, was driven by a storm far across the
ocean, and how at last he landed upon a strange and unknown shore. I doubt
not but that this country was one of the outlying islands of the Indies,
or perhaps the eastern shore of China.

“Not very long ago, Martin Vincent, a sea captain of Lisbon, ventured to
go a distance of four hundred miles from land. There he picked up a piece
of wood, with strange marks and carvings upon it, which had been drifted
from the west by strong winds. Other seafaring men have found, far out
in the ocean, reeds and light wood, such as travelers say are found in
some parts of the Indies, but nowhere in Europe. And if any one should
want more proofs than these, it would not be hard to find them. There is
a story among the people of the far north which relates that, about five
hundred years ago, some bold sea rovers from Iceland discovered a wild,
wooded country many days’ sail to the westward. Indeed, it is said that
these men tried to form a settlement there, and that they sent more than
one shipload of grapes and timber back to Iceland. Now, it is very plain
to me that this country of Vinland, as they called it, was no other than a
part of the northern coast of China or Japan.”

It is not to be supposed that the queen cared whether the earth was round
or flat; nor is it likely that her mind was ever troubled with questions
of that kind. But she thought that if this man’s theories were true, and
there were lands rich in gold and spices on the other side of the ocean,
it would be a fine thing for the queen and king of Spain to possess them.
The Italian sailor had studied his subject well, and he certainly knew
what he was talking about. He had told his story so well that the queen
was almost ready to believe that he was right. But she was very busy just
then, in a war with the Moors, and she had little time to think about
anything else. If the Italian would wait till everything else could be
settled, she would see whether a ship or two might not be fitted out for
his use.

For seven years this man with a new idea kept on trying to find some one
who was able and willing to help him carry out the plans which he had so
much at heart. At last, broken in health and almost penniless, he gave up
hope, and was about to leave Spain forever. It was then that one of his
friends, Luis St. Angel, pleaded his case before the queen.

“It will cost but little to fit out two or three ships for him. If the
undertaking should prove to be a failure you would not lose much. But if
it should succeed, only think what vast riches and how great honor will be
won for Spain!”

“I will take the risk!” cried the queen, at last. “If the money cannot be
had otherwise, I will sell my jewels to get it. Find him, and bring him
before me; and let us lose no more time about this business.”

St. Angel hastened to obey.

“Do you know whether Christopher Columbus has passed out through this gate
to-day?” he asked of the soldier who was standing guard at one of the
gates of the old city of Granada.

“Christopher Columbus? Who is he?” asked the soldier.

“He is a gray-bearded man, rather tall, with a stoop in his shoulders.
When last seen he was riding on a small, brown mule, and coming this way.”

“Oh? Do you mean the fellow who has been trying to make people believe
that the earth is round?”

“Yes, that is the man.”

“He passed through here not half an hour ago. His mule is a very slow
traveler, and if you follow, you can easily overtake him before he has
gone far.”

St. Angel gave the rein to his swift horse, and galloped onward in pursuit
of Columbus. It was not long until the slow-paced mule, with its sad
rider, was seen plodding along the dusty highway. The man was too busy
with his own thoughts to heed the sound of the ringing hoofs behind him.

“Christopher Columbus!” cried his friend, “turn about, and come back with
me. I have good news for you. Queen Isabella bids me say that she will
help you, and that you shall have the ships and the men for which you
ask. And she hopes that you may find a new way to the East, and perhaps
discover unknown lands on the farther side of the great ocean. Turn about,
and come back with me!”

THE VOYAGE

Palos Canary precious monsters
Niña Santa Maria anxious venture
Pinta Perez mysterious expanse

One morning in August, 1492, there was a great stir in the little seaport
town of Palos in Spain. At break of day the streets were full of people.
Long before sunrise the shore was lined with anxious men, women, and
children. All were talking about the same thing; some were weeping; some
appeared to be angry; some were in despair.

“Only think of it,” said one. “Think of sailing into seas where the water
is always boiling hot.”

“And if you escape being scalded,” said another, “then there are those
terrible sea beasts that are large enough to swallow ships and sailors at
a mouthful.”

“It is all on account of that Italian sailor who says that the world is
round,” said a third. “He has persuaded several persons, who ought to
know better, that he can reach the East by sailing west.”

Moored near the shore were three small ships. They were but little larger
than fishing boats; and in these frail vessels Columbus was going to
venture into the vast unknown sea, in search of strange lands and of a new
and better way to distant India.

Two of the ships, the “Niña” and the “Pinta,” had no decks and were
covered only at the ends where the sailors slept. The third, called the
“Santa Maria,” was larger and had a deck, and from its masthead floated
the flag of Columbus. It was toward these three ships that the eyes of the
people on shore were directed; it was about these ships and the men on
board of them that all were talking.

On the deck of the largest ship stood Columbus, and by his side was good
Father Perez, praying that the voyagers might be blessed with fair winds
and a smooth sea, and that the brave captain might be successful in his
quest. Then the last good-bys were spoken, the moorings were cast loose,
the sails were spread; and, a little before sunrise, the vessels glided
slowly out of the harbor and into the vast western ocean. The people stood
on the shore and watched, while the sails grew smaller and smaller and at
last were lost to sight below the line of sea and sky.

“Alas! We shall never see them again,” said some, returning to their
homes. But others remained all day by the shore talking about the strange
idea that there were unknown lands in the distant West.

Two hundred miles southwest of Palos there is a group of islands called
the Canary Islands. These were well known to the people of that time,
and belonged to Spain. But sailors seldom ventured beyond them, and no
one knew of any land farther to the west. It was to these islands that
Columbus first directed his course. In six days the three little vessels
reached the Canary Islands. The sailing had been very slow. The rudder of
one of the ships had not been well made and had soon been broken. And so,
now, much time was wasted while having a new rudder made and put in place.

It was not until the 6th of September that Columbus again set sail,
pushing westward into unknown waters. Soon the sailors began to give way
to their fears. The thought that they were on seas where no man had before
ventured filled them with alarm. They remembered all the strange stories
that they had heard of dreadful monsters and of mysterious dangers, and
their minds were filled with distress.

But Columbus showed them how unreasonable these stories were; and he
aroused their curiosity by telling them wonderful things about India--that
land of gold and precious stones, which they would surely reach if they
would bravely persevere.

And so, day after day, they sailed onward. The sea was calm, and the wind
blowing from the east drove the ships steadily forward. By the first of
October they had sailed more than two thousand miles. Birds came from the
west, and flew about the ships. The water was full of floating seaweed.
But still no land could be seen.

Then the sailors began to fear that they would never be able to return
against the east wind that was blowing. “Why should we obey this man,
Columbus?” they said. “He is surely mad. Let us throw him into the sea,
and then turn the ships about while we can.”

But Columbus was so firm and brave that they dared not lay hands on him;
they dared not disobey him. Soon they began to see signs of the nearness
of land. Weeds, such as grow only in rivers, were seen floating near the
ships. A branch of a tree, with berries on it, was picked up. Columbus
offered a reward to the man who should first see land.

“We must be very near it now,” he said.

That night no one could sleep. At about two o’clock the man who was on the
lookout on one of the smaller vessels cried: “Land! land! land!” Columbus
himself had seen a distant light moving, some hours before. There was now
a great stir on board the ships.

“Where is the land?” cried every one.

“There--there! Straight before us.”

III

THE DISCOVERY

San Salvador anchor bananas messenger
Cuba scarlet palms brilliant

Yes, there was a low, dark mass far in front of them, which might be land.
In the dim starlight, it was hard to make out what it was. But one thing
was certain, it was not a mere expanse of water, such as lay in every
other direction. And so the sailors brought out a little old-fashioned
cannon and fired it off as a signal to the crews of the other vessels.
Then the sails of the three ships were furled, and they waited for the
light of day.

When morning dawned, Columbus and his companions saw that they were quite
near to a green and sunny island. It was a beautiful spot. There were
pleasant groves where the songs of birds were heard. Thousands of flowers
were seen on every hand, and the trees were laden with fruit. The island
was inhabited, too; for strange men could be seen running toward the shore
and looking with wonder at the ships.

The sailors, who had lately been ready to give up all hope, were now
filled with joy. They crowded around Columbus, and kissed his hands, and
begged him to forgive them for thinking of disobeying him. The ships cast
anchor, the boats were lowered, and Columbus, with most of the men, went
on shore. Columbus was dressed in a grand robe of scarlet, and the banner
of Spain was borne above him.

[Illustration: THE LANDING OF COLUMBUS.]

As soon as the boats reached the shore, Columbus stepped out and knelt
down upon the beach and gave thanks to God; then he took possession of
the island in the name of the king and queen of Spain, and called it San
Salvador. It was thus that the first land in America was discovered on the
12th of October, 1492.

The natives were filled with wonder at what they saw. At first they were
awed and frightened at sight of the ships and the strange men; but they
soon overcame their fears and seemed delighted and very friendly. They
brought to Columbus gifts of all they had,--bananas, yams, oranges, and
beautiful birds.

“Surely,” they said, “these wonderful beings who have come to us from the
sea are not mere men like ourselves. They must be messengers from heaven.”

Columbus believed that this island was near the coast of Asia, and that
it was one of the islands of India; and so he called the people Indians.
He did not remain here long, but sailed away to discover other lands. In
a short time the ships came to a large island where there were rivers of
fresh water flowing into the sea. The air was sweet with the breath of
blossoms; the sky was blue and clear; the sea was calm; the world seemed
full of joy and peace. This island was Cuba.

“Let us live here always!” cried the sailors; “for surely this is
paradise.”

And so, for three months and more, Columbus and his companions sailed
among scenes of delight, such as they had never before imagined. They
visited island after island, and everywhere saw new beauties and new
pleasures. The natives were simple-hearted and kind. “They love their
neighbors as themselves,” said Columbus. They looked with wonder upon the
bright swords of the white men and upon their brilliant armor; and when
the little cannon was fired, they were so filled with alarm that they fell
to the ground.

It was on the 15th of the next March that Columbus, after a stormy
homeward voyage, sailed again into the little harbor of Palos, from which
he had started. And now there was a greater stir in the little town than
there had been before. “Christopher Columbus has come back from the
unknown seas!” was the cry that went from house to house.

“Did he reach the East by sailing west? Has he really been to far-off
India?” asked the doubting ones.

“He has, indeed!” was the answer. “He has discovered a new world.”

Then the bells were rung, guns were fired, and bonfires blazed on the
hilltops. Everybody rejoiced. Everybody was willing now to say that the
Italian sailor was right when he declared the earth to be round.

THE POWER OF GOD

Thou art, O God! the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we see;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,
Are but reflections caught from Thee.
Where’er we turn, Thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine.

When day, with farewell beam, delays,
Among the opening clouds of even,
And we can almost think we gaze
Through golden vistas into heaven;
Those hues that mark the sun’s decline,
So soft, so radiant, Lord! are Thine.

When night, with wings of starry gloom,
O’ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes;--
That sacred gloom, those fires Divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord! are Thine.

--THOMAS MOORE.

OUR COUNTRY AND OUR HOME

There is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by Heaven o’er all the world beside;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons emparadise the night:
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth:
The wandering mariner whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air.
For in this land of Heaven’s peculiar grace,
The heritage of Nature’s noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest--
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest:
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life;
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.
“Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?”
Art thou a man?--a patriot?--look around;
Oh, thou shalt find, howe’er thy footsteps roam,
That land _thy_ Country, and that spot thy _Home_.

--MONTGOMERY.

NOTES ABOUT AUTHORS

PAGE 7.--=François Coppée=, a noted French writer, was born at Paris in
1842. Although he was the writer of good French poetry and some successful
plays, he is best known to American readers by his charming short stories,
in which he depicts the life and aspirations of the common people. In his
later life he was an ardent Catholic, and as such wrote fearlessly in
defense of the rights of the Church in France. He died in 1908.

PAGE 14.--=John James Audubon=, a noted American ornithologist of French
descent, was born at New Orleans in 1780. Perhaps no other person has done
so much for the birds of America, or has described them so well, as he.
His drawings of birds are particularly famous. He died at New York in 1851.

PAGE 16.--=J. R. Marre=, is a contemporary Catholic writer whose poems are
well known to readers of _The Ave Maria_ and other religious periodicals.

PAGE 17.--=Rev. John Banister Tabb= was born in Virginia, March 22,
1845. He studied for the priesthood and was ordained in 1884. He is an
instructor in St. Charles College, Maryland. His poems are exquisite in
movement and diction no less than in richness of thought.

PAGE 18.--=Horace Binney Wallace=, a noted American lawyer and prose
writer, was born at Philadelphia, 1817; died at Paris, 1852. His best
known work, _Literary Criticisms_, was published after his death.

PAGE 23.--=Henry Coyle= is a contemporary Catholic poet residing at
Boston, Massachusetts. He is well known as a contributor to Catholic
periodicals. His first volume of poetry, entitled _The Promise of
Morning_, was published in 1899. His writings are characterized by deep
religious feeling no less than by rare poetic charm.

PAGE 24.--=Miguel de Saavedra Cervantes=, a celebrated Spanish poet and
novelist, was born near Madrid, 1547; died, 1616. His most famous work is
the romance entitled _Don Quixote_, which was first printed in 1605. It
has been translated into every language of Europe.

PAGE 43.--=John Henry, Cardinal Newman= was born at London in 1801. He
was educated at a private school until he entered Oxford, where he took
his degree before he was twenty. In 1822 he was elected Fellow in Oriel
College. In 1845 he left the Church of England for the Roman Catholic
Church. He wrote many sermons, treatises, and poems. In literary merit his
work ranks very high. He died in 1890.

=Rev. Thomas Edward Bridgett=, a noted priest and author, was born at
Derby, England, in 1829. He was the founder of the Confraternity of the
Holy Family for men, and much of his life was devoted to missionary work.
He was the author of numerous religious and historical works, among which
may be named, _The History of the Holy Eucharist_, _Life of the Blessed
John Fisher_, _Blunders and Forgeries_, etc. Father Bridgett died at St.
Mary’s Clapham, England, in 1899.

PAGE 56.--=William Cowper=, a celebrated English poet, was born in 1731.
He attended Westminster school and afterwards studied law. His most famous
poems are _The Task_ and the ballad _John Gilpin’s Ride_. He died in 1800.

PAGE 58.--=Rev. Frederick William Faber= was born in Yorkshire, England,
in 1814. He was an eloquent preacher, a brilliant talker, and had an
unsurpassed power of gaining the love of all with whom he came in contact.
His hymns are well known, and sung throughout the world. He founded a
religious community which was afterwards merged in the oratory of St.
Philip Neri. He died in 1863.

PAGE 75.--=John Greenleaf Whittier= was born at Haverhill, Massachusetts,
1807. At the age of eighteen he studied for two years at an academy near
his home. In 1829 he became the editor of a paper established at Boston to
advocate protective tariff. He was active in the cause of antislavery. He
died in 1892.

PAGE 82.--=Mary Lydia Bolles Branch= was born at New London, Connecticut,
in 1840. She is best known as a writer of stories for children.

PAGE 84.--=John Burroughs= was born in Roxbury, New York, in 1837. He
was the son of a farmer, but received a good college education. For eight
or nine years he taught school, and then became a journalist in New York
city. From 1861 till 1873 he was a clerk in the Treasury Department at
Washington. He finally settled on a farm at West Park, New York, giving
his time to literature and the observation of nature. His love of nature
has inspired most of what he has contributed to the literature of the
world.

PAGE 96.--=Aubrey de Vere=, an Irish Catholic poet, was born in 1788. He
belonged to a good family, and always had leisure to cultivate a naturally
refined taste. At first he wrote dramas, but later, poems, especially
sonnets. He was a true patriot, and pays many tributes of love to his
country in his historical themes. He died in 1846.

PAGE 97.--=Sir Walter Scott= was born at Edinburgh in 1771. His delightful
art of story telling, both in prose and poetry, has been excelled by few.
Among his most popular poems are _The Lady of the Lake_ and _Marmion_;
among his most popular novels are _Kenilworth_, _Ivanhoe_, _The Talisman_,
and _Old Mortality_. He died in 1832.

PAGE 106.--=Thomas Moore= was born at Dublin, Ireland, in 1779; died in
1852. He entered Trinity College, Dublin, at fifteen years of age. He
studied law, and in 1799 entered the Middle Temple, London. In 1803 he
received a government appointment to the Bermuda Islands and traveled
quite extensively in the United States. Among English Catholic poets he
holds a high rank.

PAGE 107.--=Andrew Lang= was born in Scotland in 1844; died at London in
1912. He pursued many different lines of literary work, and was one of the
most versatile writers of modern times. The number of volumes bearing his
name as author is surprisingly large.

PAGE 114.--=Lady Gregory= is the daughter of Dudley Presse, Deputy
Lieutenant of Roxborough, County Galway, Ireland. She has done very
valuable service to literature in preserving and editing many of the
early Celtic legends. Some of her publications are: _Poets and Dreamers_,
_Cuchullain of Muerthemme_, and _Gods and Fighting Men_.

PAGE 118.--=Helen Hunt Jackson= was born in 1831 at Amherst,
Massachusetts. In 1867 she wrote her first stories, and from that time
until her death books from the pen of H. H. were published with frequency.
She wrote verses, essays, sketches of travel, children’s stories, novels,
and tracts on questions of the day.

PAGE 120.--=St. Ambrose= or Ambrosius, one of the fathers of the Latin
Church, was born at Treves, A.D. 340; died, 397. He was the champion of
the Catholics against Arians and pagans; he became Bishop of Milan in 374.
He was the author of numerous hymns and other religious works.

PAGE 121.--=James Sheridan Knowles= was born at Dublin, Ireland, 1784. For
a time he held a commission in the militia, but became attracted to the
stage and entered the dramatic profession. He died in 1862.

PAGE 132.--=Washington Irving= was born in New York city, April 3, 1783;
died, 1859. His early schooling was not very systematic. When a young
man he began the study of law, but never followed the profession very
steadily. He is the most popular of the American writers of the early part
of the nineteenth century.

PAGE 152.--=Alfred Tennyson= was born at Somersby, England, in 1809. He
was educated at Cambridge, where he gained the Chancellor’s medal for his
poem _Timbuctoo_ in blank verse. In 1830 he published his first volume
of poems. Other poems followed quickly and soon became popularly known.
Tennyson’s poetry is distinguished by its rare quality and delicate choice
of language. He was for many years poet laureate. He died in 1892.

PAGE 158.--=Sister Mary Antonia= is an occasional and highly esteemed
contributor of verse to current Catholic periodicals.

PAGE 161.--=Miriam Coles Harris= is a contemporary Catholic writer whose
works have attracted considerable attention. The extract is from _A Corner
of Spain_, published in 1896.

PAGE 166.--=William Cullen Bryant=, a famous American poet, was born
at Cummington, Massachusetts, November 3, 1794. He entered Williams
College at the age of sixteen, but at the end of two years took honorable
dismission and engaged in the study of law. He was admitted to the bar in
1815; removed to New York in 1825; was editor of the _New York Review_ in
the same year; and in 1826 became connected with the _Evening Post_, with
which he continued until his death, which occurred in 1878.

PAGE 170.--=Conrad Von Bolanden= is the pseudonym of a contemporary German
Catholic writer, Monsignor Joseph Bischoff, who was born in August, 1828.
He was made a Papal Chamberlain to Pope Pius IX in recognition of the
merits of his efforts in the field of Catholic literature. He has written
much, finding the motives of his books in history and in the problems of
social life.

PAGE 174.--=Henry Wadsworth Longfellow= is often called the children’s
poet, partly because of his love for children and partly because of some
poems written for children. He was born in Portland, Maine, in 1807. From
1835 to 1854 he was professor of modern languages at Harvard University.
He died in 1882.

PAGE 178.--=John Gilmary Shea=, a brilliant Catholic writer, was born
at New York city, July 1824; died, 1892. He devoted most of his time to
literature instead of to the law, for which he was educated. Perhaps no
one has done more to preserve the history and language of the aborigines
of this country. _History of the Catholic Missions among the Indian Tribes
of the United States_, _Early Voyages up and down the Mississippi_,
_History of the Catholic Church in Colonial Times_, are some of his most
popular works.

PAGE 186.--=James Russell Lowell= was born at Cambridge, Massachusetts,
February 22, 1819. He died in the same house in which he was born, August
12, 1891. For many years he held the chair of modern languages in Harvard
University. He was a man who represented American culture and letters at
their best.

PAGE 188.--=Mother Mary Loyola= of the Bar Convent, York, England, is a
writer of more than ordinary power on the subjects dearest to every true
Catholic. Her book, _Jesus of Nazareth_, from which our selection is
taken, was written especially for American children and is dedicated to
them.

PAGE 196.--=Francis Scott Key=, author of “The Star-spangled Banner,” was
born in Frederick County, Maryland, in 1780. It was during the British
invasion in 1814, while he was detained on a British man-of-war within
sight of the bombardment of Fort McHenry, that Key wrote this beautiful
lyrical poem. He died at Baltimore in 1843.

PAGE 214.--=James Montgomery= was a Scottish poet, born in 1776; died in
1854. His poems, once very popular, are now almost forgotten.

WORD LIST

GUIDE TO PRONUNCIATION

ā, as in māte.
ā̇, as in sen´ā̇te.
â, as in câre.
ă, as in ăt.
ä, as in ärm.
ȧ, as in ȧsk.
a̤, as in a̤ll.
ạ = ŏ, as in whạt.
ç = s, as in çell.
ch = k, as in chorus.
çh = sh, as in maçhine.
ē, as in hē, mēte.
ē̇, as in ē̇vent.
ĕ, as in mĕt.
ẽ, as in hẽr.
e̱ = ā̱, as in e̱ight.
ê, = â, as in whêre.
ḡ, as in ḡet.
ġ = j, as in ġem.
ī, as in mīne.
i̇, as in i̇dea.
ĭ, as in ĭt.
ĩ = ẽ, as in sĩr, bĩrd.
ï = ē, as in machïne.
ṉ = ng, as in baṉk, liṉger.
ō, as in ōld.
ō̇, as in ō̇bey.
ô, as in ôr.
ŏ, as in nŏt.
o̤ = o̅o̅, as in do̤, ro̅o̅m.
ọ = o͝o or ụ, as in wọlf, fo͝ot.
ȯ = ŭ, as in sȯn.
s̱ = z, as in his̱.
th, as in thin.
t͞h, as in t͞hen.
ū, as in mūte.
ŭ, as in thŭs.
ṳ, as in rṳde.
ụ= o͝o, as in fụll.
û, as in bûrn.
x̱ = gz, as in ex̱ist.
ȳ = ī, as in bȳ.
y̆ = ĭ, as in hy̆mn.
ỹ = ẽ, as in mỹrtle.

Certain vowels, as a and e, when obscure are marked thus, a̯, e̯. Silent
letters are italicized. In the following word list only accented syllables
and syllables of doubtful pronunciation are marked.

a băn´don
ab hôr´
a bŏm´i nā´tion
a bŭn´dạnçe
ăc´çi dent
ăc côrd´
āc_h_´ing
ac quā_i_nt´ed
ä d_i_eū´
ad jā´çent
ăd´mĭ rā´tion
ad mĭt´tanç_e_
al lē vĭ ā´tion
a māz´ing
a māze´ment
am´mu nĭ´tion
ăn´chor
ăṉ´guĭsh
ăn´ĭ māt ed
ăn´tĭ quāt ed
ăṉx´ious (-yŭs)
a pŏ_s´t_l_e_
ap pa̤ll´ing
ap păr´el
ap pâr´ent ly
ap´pa rĭ´tion
ăp´pe tīt_e_
ap pla̤_u_s̱_e_´
ap´plĭ cā´tion
ap prō_a_ch_e_d´
ăp´pro bā´tion
ärch´er y
är´mor
as săs´sĭn
as sa̤_u_lt´
as sĕm´bl_e_
at tĕnd´a̯nt
a̤_u_ tŭm´nal
ăv´ȧ lănch_e_
a vĕnġ_e_´
a wa̤rd´
bä nä´nȧ
băṉ´quet
băr´rĭ er
bē̇ ăt´ĭ tud_e_
be hāv´ior (-yer)
be hĕst´
be l_i_ēf´
bĕn´e fit
brĭl´liançe (-ya̯ns)
brĭl´liant
bŭg´ȧ boo
cä_l_m´
căl´u met
cam pā_ig_n´
cā̇ prïç_e_´
cär´di nal
ca̤_u_´tious ly
cav ȧ l_i_ēr´
căv´i ty
çel´e brā´tion
c_h_ā´ŏs
chăr´ĭ ot
chef (shĕf)
çhĕv´a l_i_ēr´
ch_i_ēf´ta̯_i_n
çhĭv´al ry
çĭv´il ly
clē_a_v_e_
cŏm´ic
cŏm´mȧn dänt´
com mŏd´ĭ ty
cȯm´pa ny
com´plē mĕnt´a ry
cŏm´plĭ ment
com pōs̱´er
com po s̱ĭ´tion
con çē_a_l´
con çĕp´tion
con fū´s̱ion
cŏn gre gā´tion
cŏṉ´quer (-kẽr)
cŏṉn´quer or
con sĕnt´
con sẽrv´a to ry
con sĭd´er a bl_e_
con tĕnt´
con trĭ bu´tion
coun´çil
coun´te na̯nç_e_
couple (kŭp´l)
c_o_ûr´aġ_e_
c_o_ûr´te ous ly
c_o_ûr´te sy
cō_u_rt´ĭer
cȯv´ert
cre ā´tor
crĕv´ĭç_e_
crĭm´s̱on
crṳ´çĭ fȳ
crṳa sād_e_´
cū´bit
cū´rĭ _o_us
cŭs´tom
çy´press
dān´ġer _o_us
de çē_i_v_e_´
dĕl´ĭ cā̇ çy̆
dĕl´ĭ cat_e_
de pūt´ed
de rānġ_e_´
de s̱ẽrv_e_´
dĕs´ic cāt ed
de s̱ī_g_n´
des´o lā´tion
dĕs´per at_e_
des per ā´tion
dev´ăs tat ing
de vĕl´op ment
de vīç_e_´
de vout´
dĭs̱´ma̯l
dis mā_y_´
dis´o bē´di ĕnç_e_
dis pẽrs_e_´
dĭs´trict
do mĕs´tic
dŏṉ´k_e_y̆
dȯz´_e_n
dūn_e_s̱
ē_a_´ger
ē_a_´ger ly
ẽ_a_r´nest ly
ĕd´u cā´tion
ĕl´e ment
ĕl´o quent
ĕm´er ald
en dē_a_r´
en dūr´a̯nç_e_
ĕn´ē̇ my
en´ter tā_i_n´
en thū´s̱ĭ asm
ĕn´vy
e rĕct´
es pĕ´çĭal ly
ĕv´ĭ dent ly
ĕx´çel lent
ex ha̤_u_st´
ex păns_e_´
ex pe dĭ´tion
ex plō´s̱ion
ex pō´s̱ur_e_
ex prĕss´iv_e_
ex tr_a_ôr´dĭ na ry
fa̤_l_´con ry
fath´om
fā´vor ĭt_e_
fẽr´vor
fĕs´tĭ val
fī´nal ly
fĭs´sūr_e_
fŏr_e´h_ĕ_a_d
fra̤_u_d
frĕs´co
frṳ_i_t´ag_e_
fū´ġĭ tĭv_e_
fûr´nish
gär´land
ġĕn er _o_ŭs
ġĕn´e sĭs
ġĕn´ū ĭn_e_
ġī´ant
ġī găn´tic
_g_närled
grăd´u al ly
grăn´d_e_ûr
gr_i_ēv´ing
hab´ĭ tā´tion
hȧ răng_ue_´
ha̤_ugh_´ty
hä_u_nt
h_e_ī_gh_t
hĕr´it ag_e_
hẽr´mit
hīr_e_´ling
hŏl´ĭ da_y_
_h_ŏn´ŏr
ho rī´zon
hȯv´er ing
hū´man
hu mĭl ĭ ā´tion
hū´mor
hûr´rĭ cā̇n_e_
īdē´ȧ
ī dŏl´a try
ĭm ăġ´ĭn_e_
im mĕns_e_´
in crē_a_s_e_´
in´dĭg nā´tion
in fē´rĭ or
ĭn´fĭ nĭt_e_
ĭn´fĩrm´i ty
ĭn´flu enç_e_
in grăt´i tud_e_
in hăb´it ant
ĭn´no çent
in´no vā´tion
in quī´ry
in sĭst´ed
ĭn´ter val
in tŏl´er a bl_e_
in vĕs´ti gat_e_
in vĭ tā´tion
jew´_e_l
j_o_ŭr´n_e_y̆
j_o_ŭst
jŭs´tĭc_e_
kĭn´dred
lē_a_
lē_a_g_ue_
l_ie_ū tĕn´ant
lux ū´ri_o_us
măm´moth
mär’tyr dom
mär´vel_e_d
ma tē´rĭ al
mē_a_´ger ly
mĕl´an chol y
mĕn´tion
mẽr´çi ful
mĕs´saġ_e_
mĕs´sen ġer
mĭl´i ta ry
mĭn´strel sy
mĭr´a cl_e_
mĭs hăp´
mĭs´sĭl_e_
mod´es ty
mōld
mŏn´ster
mo̅o̅r_e_d
mŏt´to
mŭl´tĭ tūd_e_
mûr´mur
my̆s´tē rĭ _o_us
my̆s´ter y
my̆th
n_o_ŭr´ish ing
o bē´di enç_e_
ŏb´sti nat_e_
oc cā´s̱ion
ō´çean (-sha̯n)
ŏp´e rȧ
ŏp´po s̱ĭt_e_
op prĕs_se_d´
or´acl_e_
o rā´tion
pā´gan
pälms
par tĭc´u lar
pā´tiençe (-shens)
pa trōl_le_d´
pĕ_a_s̱´ant
pe cūl´iar
pĕn´anç_e_
pĕn´sĭv_e_
pĕr´il _o_us
per plĕx´i ty
per se cū´tion
pẽr´son ag_e_
per suāde´
per suā´sion
pĕt´ri fi_e_d
phĭ lŏs´o pher
phy̆s̱´ic al
pĭ ăz´zȧ
pĭl´grim ag_e_
pĭt´y
plä´zȧ
plūm´ag_e_
pō´em
pō´et ry
pŏl´i cy
pol lū´tion
pȯm´mel
pŏp´u lar
pôr´ri_d_g_e_
pos̱ s̱ĕss´
pŏv´er ty
prĕ´cious
pre s̱erv_e_´
prĭs̱´on er
prŏb´a bly
pro çĕs´sion
pro tĕct´or
prŏv´ĭ denç_e_
pûr´pos_e_
pûr sū_i_t´
rā_i_´ment
răm´parts
răp´tur _o_us
rē´al ly
rĕck´on ing
rĕc´og niz_e_
re cȯv´er y
rĕf´ug_e_
re lā´tion
re l_i_ēf´
re nown_e_d´
re pos̱_e_´
rĕs´cū_e_
re s̱ŏlv_e_´
rĕs´ŭr rĕc´tion
re tôrts´
re trē_a_t´
re vē_a_l´
re vĕnġ_e_´
rĕv´er ent
r_h_ȳme
rīght´eous (-chŭs)
rĭv´et ed
rō´s̱ē̇ āt_e_
rŭf´fĭ an
săl´u ta´tion
sal vā´tion
sănc´tion
săt´is fy
săv´aġ_e_
scăf´fold
scăr´çĭ ty
scâr_e_´cro_w_
scär´let
s_c_ēn_e_
s_c_ĕnt´ed
sẽ_a_rch
sĕm´i cĩr´cl_e_
sĕn´si tive
sĕp´a rat ed
shrewd
s_i_ēġ_e_
sĭg´nal
sĭg´ni fy
sĭn´ew
skĕl´e ton
sleev_e_
snĭv´el ing
sō´cia bl_e_
so´cia bĭl´ĭ ty
sō´cial (-shal)
so ç´īe ty
so j_o_ûrn´er
so lĕm´_n_ĭ ty
sŏl´emn ly
sŏl´ī tud_e_
spĕ´cial
spē´cies (-shē̇z)
spĕç´i men
spĕc´ter
sphēr_e_
spĭr´it
spĭr´it u al
spŏn´sor
stĕ_a_d´ĭ ly
sŭb´stanc_e_
subtle (sŭt´l)
sŭd´den ly
sŭf fi´cien cy
sŭm´mit
sŭmp´tu _o_us
sŭs pĕct´
sy̆m´pa thy̆
tăl´ent
tĕn´der ly
tĕr´rā̇ç_e_
tĕr´ri fi_e_d
ter´ror
thē´a ter
thē´o ry
thĩrst
thrŭsh
tŏr´rent
tôr´tur_e_
to̤_u_r´na ment
to̤_u_r´n_e_y
trăġ´e dy
trăġ´ic
trăṉ´quil
trăns pâr´ent
trĭ´but_e_
trĭp´l_e_
tri´umph
tri ŭm´phant
tȳ´rant
un cĭv´il
un co̤_u_th´
ûr´chin
ū´s̱ū al
ŭt´ter anç_e_
văn´ish
ve̱_i_n´ing
vĕn´tur_e_
vẽr´dur _o_us
vẽr´min
vĕs´per
vĭ çĭn´ĭ ty
vĭc´tor
vĭc´to ry
vĭg´or
vĭg´or _o_us
vĭl´ l_a_in
vī´o l_e_nç_e_
vĭs̱´ion
wäm´pum
wĕ_a_p´on
whĕlp
_w_rē_a_th
zĕ_a_l´_o_us

PROPER NAMES

Ad mē´tus
Af´rĭ cȧ
A̤l´ba ny
Al ex ăn´der
Am´brōs̱_e_
An´ġe lo
An ï´ta´
An´tĭ oc_h_
Ap´en nīn_e_s̱
A rā´bĭ a̯
A´sĭȧ
As sĭ´sĭ
A̤_u_ gŭs´tĭne
A̤_u_ gŭs´tu̯s
Ā_y_´mer
Ben e dĭct´ĭn_e_
Bẽr lĭn´
Blĕn´_he_im
Bo´he mond
Bŏn´ĭ fāç_e_
Bouillon (bo̅o̅ yōṉ´)
Brĭt´_ai_n
Brṳç_e_
Căl´va ry
Ca pẽr´na um
Cär rä´rä
Căth´bad
Çhĕv ȧ l_i_ēr´
Çhĕv´ĭ ot
Clẽr´mont
Comyn (kŭm´in)
Cŏn´_eh_ū bär
Cŏn´na̤ught
Cŏn´stan tĭ nō´pl_e_
Cor o nä´rï
Cū´bȧ
Cuchulain (ko̅o̅ ho̅o̅´lin)
Cṳlā_i_n
Da kō´tȧ
Da măs´cus
De troit´
Don Quixote (dŏn kehō´te)
D_o_ŭg´las
Drĕs̱´den
Drṳ´ĭd
Dul çĭn´e a
E´bro
E´ġy̆pt
E mā_i_n´
E´rin
Es´t_h_e̯r
Eū´rop_e_
Fẽr´gus
Flŏr´enc_e_
Fon tĭ nĕl´lȧ
Frăn´cis
Frĕd´er ick
Frï´s̱ĭ ȧ
Gā´brĭ el
Ġĕn´ō̇ ȧ
Ġĕn o ēs̱_e_´
Gĕs´ler
G_h_ï bẽr´tï
Ġ_i_ō chï´no
Gŏd´fr_e_y̆
Grĕg´o ry
Häl´le̯
Han´del
Hel vĕl´ly̆n
Hŭṉ´ gȧ ry
Ic_h_´ȧ bŏd
In´dĭ_e_s̱
It´a ly
Je rṳ´sa lem
Joliet (zhō lyā´)
Jôr´da̯n
Lē o närd´ō̇
Lē´vīt_e_
Măç´e don
Măl´a gȧ
Mär quette´ (-kĕt)
Mĕc´cȧ
Me dï´nȧ
Mĕd´ĭ ter rā´ne an
Me nŏm´o nĭ_e_
Mī´c_h_a el
Mĭl´an
Mis´sis sĭp´pĭ
Mo hăm´med
Mŏs̱lem
Mus tȧ´phȧ
Nĭc_h_´o las
Nï´ña
Păl´es tīn_e_
Pä´lōs
Păn´the on
Pe̱´rez (-āth)
Persia (pēr´shĭȧ)
Pe̱´sä rō
Piacenza (pē ä chĕn´zä)
Pil är´
Pĭn´ta
Po nē´mä_h_
Que bĕc´
Rāph´a el
Rat bō´do
Ros sï´nï
Ro´zĭ năn te
Sa măr´ĭ tan
Săn´c_h_o
Sän Săl´va dor
Sän Sïs´to
Sän´tȧ Crō´ce (-chā)
Sän´ta Ma rï´a
Săr´a çen
Săx´o ny
Se tăn´ta
Seville (sĕv´ĭl)
Sĭs´tïn_e_
Spăn´ĭard
Stä´bat Mä´ter
Tăn´cred
Thames (tĕmz)
Ul´ster
Ur´ban
Ur bï´no
Valence (vä lŏṉs´)
Văt´ĭ can
Vĕn´ĭç_e_
Vẽr´ner
Vï´ȧ Cŏr o nä´rĭ
Vï ĕn´nȧ
Wis cŏn´sin
Wọlff
Wu̇lf´ram

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Standard Catholic Readers by Grades: Fifth Year" ***

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