Part 12
Suppose your teacher took the class to this lake for a day's outing. Write a composition on how the day was spent.
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_74_
A BUILDER'S LESSON.
Memorize:
"How shall I a habit break?" As you did that habit make. As you gathered, you must lose; As you yielded, now refuse. Thread by thread the strands we twist Till they bind us, neck and wrist; Thread by thread the patient hand Must untwine, ere free we stand. As we builded, stone by stone, We must toil, unhelped, alone, Till the wall is overthrown.
But remember, as we try, Lighter every test goes by; Wading in, the stream grows deep Toward the center's downward sweep; Backward turn, each step ashore Shallower is than that before.
Ah, the precious years we waste Leveling what we raised in haste: Doing what must be undone Ere content or love be won! First, across the gulf we cast Kite-borne threads, till lines are passed, And habit builds the bridge at last!
_John Boyle O'Reilly._
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Memory Gem:
Habit is a cable. Every day we weave a thread, until at last it is so strong we cannot break it.
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_75_
in ured' ru' di ments nine' ti eth ma tur' er ac' cu ra cy in ad vert' ence an' ec dotes e ner' vate in cor' po ra ted dig' ni fied in junc' tion pre var i ca' tion
WASHINGTON AND HIS MOTHER.
Some of the most interesting anecdotes of the early life of Washington were derived from his mother, a dignified matron who, by the death of her husband, while her children were young, became the sole conductress of their education. To the inquiry, what course she had pursued in rearing one so truly illustrious, she replied, "Only to require obedience, diligence, and truth."
These simple rules, faithfully enforced, and incorporated with the rudiments of character, had a powerful influence over his future greatness.
He was early accustomed to accuracy in all his statements, and to speak of his faults and omissions without prevarication or disguise. Hence arose that noble openness of soul, and contempt of deceit in others, which ever distinguished him. Once, by an inadvertence of his youth, considerable loss had been incurred, and of such a nature as to interfere with the plans of his mother. He came to her, frankly owning his error, and she replied, while tears of affection moistened her eyes, "I had rather it should be so, than that my son should have been guilty of a falsehood."
She was careful not to enervate him by luxury or weak indulgence. He was inured to early rising, and never permitted to be idle. Sometimes he engaged in labors which the children of wealthy parents would now account severe, and thus acquired firmness of frame and a disregard of hardship.
The systematic employment of time, which from childhood he had been taught, was of great service when the weight of a nation's concerns devolved upon him. It was then observed by those who surrounded him, that he was never known to be in a hurry, but found time for the transaction of the smallest affairs in the midst of the greatest and most conflicting duties.
Such benefit did he derive from attention to the counsels of his mother. His obedience to her commands, when a child, was cheerful and strict; and as he approached to maturer years, the expression of her slightest wish was law.
At length, America having secured her independence, and the war being ended, Washington, who for eight years had not tasted the repose of home, hastened with filial reverence to ask his mother's blessing. The hero, "first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen," came to lay his laurels at his mother's feet.
This venerable woman continued, till past her ninetieth year, to be respected and beloved by all around. With pious grief, Washington closed her eyes and laid her in the grave which she had selected for herself.
We have now seen the man who was the leader of victorious armies, the conqueror of a mighty kingdom, and the admiration of the world, in the delightful attitude of an obedient and affectionate son. She, whom he honored with such filial reverence, said that "he had learned to command others by first learning to obey."
Let those, then, who in the morning of life are ambitious of future eminence, cultivate the virtue of filial obedience, and remember that they cannot be either fortunate or happy while they neglect the injunction, "My son, keep thy father's commandments, and forsake not the law of thy mother."
[Illustration: _L.E. Fournier._]
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CONDUCTRESS, a woman who leads or directs.
The suffix _-ess_ is used to form feminine name-words.
Tell what each of the following words means:
ab' bess ac' tress duch' ess li' on ess count' ess po' et ess song' stress au' thor ess di rect' ress
Use the following homonyms in sentences:
air, ere, e'er, heir; oar, ore, o'er; in, inn; four, fore; vain, vein; vale, veil; core, corps; their, there; hear, here; fair, fare; sweet, suite; strait, straight.
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_76_
na' tal a main' toc' sin re count' ed
WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY.
'Tis splendid to have a record So white and free from stain That, held to the light, it shows no blot, Though tested and tried amain; That age to age forever Repeats its story of love, And your birthday lives in a nation's heart, All other days above.
And this is Washington's glory, A steadfast soul and true, Who stood for his country's honor When his country's days were few. And now when its days are many, And its flag of stars is flung To the breeze in radiant glory, His name is on every tongue.
Yes, it's splendid to live so bravely, To be so great and strong, That your memory is ever a tocsin To rally the foes of wrong; To live so proudly and purely, That your people pause in their way, And year by year, with banner and drum, Keep the thought of your natal day.
_Margaret E. Sangster._
By permission of the author.
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_77_
Brit' on (un) ant' lers wrin' kled vet' er an im mor' tal
THE SWORD OF BUNKER HILL.
He lay upon his dying bed, His eye was growing dim, When, with a feeble voice, he called His weeping son to him: "Weep not, my boy," the veteran said, "I bow to heaven's high will; But quickly from yon antlers bring The sword of Bunker Hill."
The sword was brought; the soldier's eye Lit with a sudden flame; And, as he grasped the ancient blade, He murmured Warren's name; Then said, "My boy, I leave you gold, But what is richer still, I leave you, mark me, mark me well, The sword of Bunker Hill.
"'Twas on that dread, immortal day, I dared the Briton's band; A captain raised his blade on me, I tore it from his hand; And while the glorious battle raged, It lightened Freedom's will; For, son, the God of Freedom blessed The sword of Bunker Hill.
"Oh! keep this sword," his accents broke,-- A smile--and he was dead; But his wrinkled hand still grasped the blade, Upon that dying bed. The son remains, the sword remains, Its glory growing still, And twenty millions bless the sire And sword of Bunker Hill.
_William R. Wallace._
[Illustration:]
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_78_
es' say buoy' ant in sip' id fe quent' ing scowl' ing ly sug ges' tion in tel' li gence sin' gu lar ly so lic' i tude com pet' i tor phi los' o pher ve' he ment ly tre men' dous ly ex pos tu la' tion ig no min' i ous ly
THE MARTYR'S BOY.
It is a youth full of grace, and sprightliness, and candor, that comes forward with light and buoyant steps across the open court, towards the inner hall; and we shall hardly find time to sketch him before he reaches it. He is about fourteen years old, but tall for that age, with elegance of form and manliness of bearing. His bare neck and limbs are well developed by healthy exercise; his features display an open and warm heart, while his lofty forehead, round which his brown hair naturally curls, beams with a bright intelligence. He wears the usual youth's garment, the short toga, reaching below the knee, and a hollow spheroid of gold suspended round his neck. A bundle of papers and vellum rolls fastened together, and carried by an old servant behind him, shows us that he is just returning home from school.
While we have been thus noting him, he has received his mother's embrace, and has sat himself low by her feet. She gazes upon him for some time in silence, as if to discover in his countenance the cause of his unusual delay, for he is an hour late in his return. But he meets her glance with so frank a look, and with such a smile of innocence, that every cloud of doubt is in a moment dispelled, and she addresses him as follows:
"What has detained you to-day, my dearest boy? No accident, I trust, has happened to you on the way."
"Oh, none, I assure you, sweetest mother; on the contrary, all has been so delightful that I can scarcely venture to tell you."
A look of smiling, expostulation drew from the open-hearted boy a delicious laugh, as he continued: "Well, I suppose I must. You know I am never happy if I have failed to tell you all the bad and the good of the day about myself. But, to-day, for the first time, I have a doubt whether I ought to tell you all."
Did the mother's heart flutter more than usual, as from a first anxiety, or was there a softer solicitude dimming her eye, that the youth should seize her hand and put it tenderly to his lips, while he thus replied:
"Fear nothing, mother most beloved, your son has done nothing that may give you pain. Only say, do you wish to hear _all_ that has befallen me to-day, or only the cause of my late return home?"
"Tell me all, dear Pancratius," she answered; "nothing that concerns you can be indifferent to me."
"Well, then," he began, "this last day of my frequenting school appears to me to have been singularly blessed. First, I was crowned as the successful competitor in a declamation, which our good master Cassianus set us for our work during the morning hours; and this led, as you will hear, to some singular discoveries. The subject was, 'That the real philosopher should be ever ready to die for the truth.' I never heard anything so cold or insipid (I hope it is not wrong to say so) as the compositions read by my companions. It was not their fault, poor fellows! what truth can they possess, and what inducements can they have to die for any of their vain opinions? But to a Christian, what charming suggestions such a theme naturally makes! And so I felt it. My heart glowed, and all my thoughts seemed to burn, as I wrote my essay, full of the lessons you have taught me, and of the domestic examples that are before me. The son of a martyr could not feel otherwise. But when my turn came to read my declamation, I found that my feelings had nearly betrayed me. In the warmth of my recitation, the word 'Christian' escaped my lips instead of 'philosopher,' and 'faith' instead of 'truth,' At the first mistake, I saw Cassianus start; at the second, I saw a tear glisten in his eye, as bending affectionately towards me, he said, in a whisper, 'Beware, my child, there are sharp ears listening.'"
"What, then," interrupted the mother, "is Cassianus a Christian? I chose his school because it was in the highest repute for learning and morality; and now indeed I thank God that I did so. But in these days of danger we are obliged to live as strangers in our own land. Certainly, had Cassianus proclaimed his faith, his school would soon have been deserted. But go on, my dear boy. Were his apprehensions well grounded?"
"I fear so; for while the great body of my school-fellows vehemently applauded my hearty declamation, I saw the dark eyes of Corvinus bent scowlingly upon me, as he bit his lip in manifest anger."
"And who is he, my child, that was so displeased, and wherefore?"
"He is the strongest, but, unfortunately, the dullest boy in the school. But this, you know, is not his fault. Only, I know not why, he seems ever to have had a grudge against me, the cause of which I cannot understand."
"Did he say aught to you, or do?"
"Yes, and was the cause of my delay. For when we went forth from school into the field by the river, he addressed me insultingly in the presence of our companions, and said, 'Come, Pancratius, this, I understand, is the last time we meet _here_; but I have a long score to demand payment of from you. You have loved to show your superiority in school over me and others older and better than yourself; I saw your supercilious looks at me as you spouted your high-flown declamation to-day; ay, and I caught expressions in it which you may live to rue, and that very soon. Before you leave us, I must have my revenge. If you are worthy of your name let us fairly contend in more manly strife than that of the style and tables. Wrestle with me, or try the cestus against me. I burn to humble you as you deserve, before these witnesses of your insolent triumphs.'"
The anxious mother bent eagerly forward as she listened, and scarcely breathed. "And what," she exclaimed, "did you answer, my dear son?"
"I told him gently that he was quite mistaken; for never had I consciously done anything that could give pain to him or any of my school-fellows; nor did I ever dream of claiming superiority over them. 'And as to what you propose,' I added, 'you know, Corvinus, that I have always refused to indulge in personal combats, which, beginning in a cool trial of skill, end in an angry strife, hatred, and wish for revenge. How much less could I think of entering on them now, when you avow that you are anxious to begin them with those evil feelings which are usually their bad end?' Our school-mates had now formed a circle round us; and I clearly saw that they were all against me, for they had hoped to enjoy some of the delights of their cruel games; I therefore cheerfully added, 'And now, my comrades, good-by, and may all happiness attend you. I part from you, as I have lived with you, in peace,' 'Not so,' replied Corvinus, now purple in the face with fury; 'but--'"
The boy's countenance became crimsoned, his voice quivered, his body trembled, and, half-choked, he sobbed out, "I cannot go on; I dare not tell the rest!"
"I entreat you, for God's sake, and for the love you bear your father's memory," said the mother, placing her hand upon her son's head, "conceal nothing from me. I shall never again have rest if you tell me not all. What further said or did Corvinus?"
The boy recovered himself by a moment's pause and a silent prayer, and then proceeded:
"'Not so!' exclaimed Corvinus, 'not so do you depart! You have concealed your abode from us, but I will find you out; till then bear this token of my determined purpose to be revenged!' So saying, he dealt me a furious blow upon the face, which made me reel and stagger, while a shout of savage delight broke forth from the boys around us."
He burst into tears, which relieved him, and then went on:
"Oh, how I felt my blood boil at that moment; how my heart seemed bursting within me; and a voice appeared to whisper in my ear the name of 'coward!' It surely was an evil spirit. I felt that I was strong enough--my rising anger made me so--to seize my unjust assailant by the throat, and cast him gasping on the ground. I heard already the shout of applause that would have hailed my victory and turned the tables against him. It was the hardest struggle of my life; never were flesh and blood so strong within me. O God! may they never be again so tremendously powerful."
"And what did you do, then, my darling boy?" gasped forth the trembling matron.
He replied, "My good angel conquered the demon at my side. I stretched forth my hand to Corvinus, and said, 'May God forgive you, as I freely and fully do; and may He bless you abundantly.' Cassianus came up at that moment, having seen all from a distance, and the youthful crowd quickly dispersed. I entreated him, by our common faith, now acknowledged between us, not to pursue Corvinus for what he had done; and I obtained his promise. And now, sweet mother," murmured the boy, in soft, gentle accents, into his parent's bosom, "do you think I may call this a happy day?"
_"Fabiola"--Cardinal Wiseman._
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SPHEROID (sf[=e]'), a body or figure in shape like a sphere.
VELLUM, a fine kind of parchment, made of the skin of a lamb, goat, sheep or young calf, for writing on.
THEME, a subject or topic on which a person writes or speaks.
SCORE, bill, account, reckoning.
SUPERCIL'IOUS, proud, haughty.
STYLES AND TABLES, writing implements for schools. The tables or tablets were covered with wax, on which the letters were traced by the sharp point of the style, and erased by its flat top.
CESTUS, a covering for the hands of boxers, made of leather bands, and often loaded with lead or iron.
"IF YOU ARE WORTHY OF YOUR NAME." Reference is here made by Corvinus to the _pancratium_, an athletic exercise among the Romans, which combined all personal contests, such as boxing, wrestling, etc.
CASSIANUS, St. Cassian, who, though a Bishop, opened a school for Roman youths. Having confessed Christ, and refusing to offer sacrifice to the gods, the pagan judge commanded that his own pupils should stab him to death with their iron writing pencils, called styles.
AY or AYE, meaning _yes_, is pronounced _[=i]_ or _[:a][)i]_; meaning _ever_, and used only in poetry, it is pronounced _[=a]_.
Read carefully two or three times the opening paragraph of the selection, so that the picture conveyed by the words may be clearly impressed on the mind. Then with book closed write out in your own words a description of "The Martyr's Boy."
[Illustration:]
[Illustration:]
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_79_
THE ANGEL'S STORY.
Through the blue and frosty heavens Christmas stars were shining bright; Glistening lamps throughout the City Almost matched their gleaming light; While the winter snow was lying, And the winter winds were sighing, Long ago, one Christmas night.
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Rich and poor felt love and blessing From the gracious season fall; Joy and plenty in the cottage, Peace and feasting in the hall; And the voices of the children Ringing clear above it all.
Yet one house was dim and darkened; Gloom, and sickness, and despair, Dwelling in the gilded chambers, Creeping up the marble stair, Even stilled the voice of mourning,-- For a child lay dying there.
Silken curtains fell around him, Velvet carpets hushed the tread, Many costly toys were lying All unheeded by his bed; And his tangled golden ringlets Were on downy pillows spread.
The skill of all that mighty City To save one little life was vain,-- One little thread from being broken, One fatal word from being spoken; Nay, his very mother's pain And the mighty love within her Could not give him health again.
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Suddenly an unseen Presence Checked those constant moaning cries, Stilled the little heart's quick fluttering, Raised those blue and wondering eyes, Fixed on some mysterious vision With a startled, sweet surprise.
For a radiant angel hovered, Smiling, o'er the little bed; White his raiment; from his shoulders Snowy dove-like pinions spread, And a starlike light was shining In a glory round his head.
While, with tender love, the angel, Leaning o'er the little nest, In his arms the sick child folding, Laid him gently on his breast, Sobs and wailings told the mother That her darling was at rest.
So the angel, slowly rising, Spread his wings, and through the air Bore the child; and, while he held him To his heart with loving care, Placed a branch of crimson roses Tenderly beside him there.
While the child, thus clinging, floated Towards the mansions of the Blest, Gazing from his shining guardian To the flowers upon his breast, Thus the angel spake, still smiling On the little heavenly guest:
"Know, dear little one, that Heaven Does no earthly thing disdain; Man's poor joys find there an echo Just as surely as his pain; Love, on earth so feebly striving, Lives divine in Heaven again.
"Once, in that great town below us, In a poor and narrow street, Dwelt a little sickly orphan; Gentle aid, or pity sweet, Never in life's rugged pathway Guided his poor tottering feet.
"All the striving, anxious fore-thought That should only come with age Weighed upon his baby spirit, Showed him soon life's sternest page; Grim Want was his nurse, and Sorrow Was his only heritage."
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"One bright day, with feeble footsteps Slowly forth he tried to crawl Through the crowded city's pathways, Till he reached a garden-wall, Where 'mid princely halls and mansions Stood the lordliest of all.
"There were trees with giant branches, Velvet glades where shadows hide; There were sparkling fountains glancing, Flowers, which in luxuriant pride Even wafted breaths of perfume To the child who stood outside.
"He against the gate of iron Pressed his wan and wistful face, Gazing with an awe-struck pleasure At the glories of the place; Never had his brightest day-dream Shone with half such wondrous grace.
"You were playing in that garden, Throwing blossoms in the air, Laughing when the petals floated Downwards on your golden hair; And the fond eyes watching o'er you, And the splendor spread before you, Told a House's Hope was there.
"When your servants, tired of seeing Such a face of want and woe, Turning to the ragged orphan, Gave him coin, and bade him go, Down his cheeks so thin and wasted Bitter tears began to flow.
"But that look of childish sorrow On your tender child-heart fell, And you plucked the reddest roses From the tree you loved so well, Passed them through the stern cold grating, Gently bidding him 'Farewell!'
"Dazzled by the fragrant treasure And the gentle voice he heard, In the poor forlorn boy's spirit, Joy, the sleeping Seraph, stirred; In his hand he took the flowers, In his heart the loving word.
"So he crept to his poor garret; Poor no more, but rich and bright; For the holy dreams of childhood-- Love, and Rest, and Hope, and Light-- Floated round the orphan's pillow Through the starry summer night.
"Day dawned, yet the visions lasted; All too weak to rise he lay; Did he dream that none spake harshly,-- All were strangely kind that day? Surely then his treasured roses Must have charmed all ills away.