Part 13
"And he smiled, though they were fading; One by one their leaves were shed; 'Such bright things could never perish, They would bloom again,' he said. When the next day's sun had risen Child and flowers both were dead.
"Know, dear little one, our Father Will no gentle deed disdain; Love on the cold earth beginning Lives divine in Heaven again; While the angel hearts that beat there Still all tender thoughts retain."
So the angel ceased, and gently O'er his little burden leant; While the child gazed from the shining, Loving eyes that o'er him bent, To the blooming roses by him. Wondering what that mystery meant.
Thus the radiant angel answered, And with tender meaning smiled: "Ere your childlike, loving spirit, Sin and the hard world defiled, God has given me leave to seek you,-- I was once that little child!"
* * * * *
In the churchyard of that city Rose a tomb of marble rare, Decked, as soon as Spring awakened, With her buds and blossoms fair,-- And a humble grave beside it,-- No one knew who rested there.
_Adelaide A. Procter_.
[Illustration: _Kaulbach_.]
* * * * *
Enlarge the following brief summary of the Angel's Story into a composition the length of which to be determined by your teacher. Use many of the words and forms of expression you find in the poem.
THE ANGEL'S STORY
A poor little boy, to whom a child of wealth had in pity given a bunch of "reddest roses," died with the fading flowers. Afterwards he came as a "radiant angel" to visit his dying friend, and in a spirit of gratitude bore him to heaven.
* * * * *
_80_
al' ti tude as tound' ing ve loc' i ty vag' a bond mus tach' es hes i ta' ting ly par' a lyzed tre men' dous ex tra or' di na ry
GLUCK'S VISITOR.
It was drawing toward winter, and very cold weather, when one day Gluck's two older brothers had gone out, with their usual warning to little Gluck, who was left to mind the roast, that he was to let nobody in and give nothing out. Gluck sat down quite close to the fire, for it was raining very hard. He turned and turned, and the roast got nice and brown.
"What a pity," thought Gluck, "that my brothers never ask anybody to dinner. I'm sure, when they have such a nice piece of mutton as this, it would do their hearts good to have somebody to eat it with them." Just as he spoke there came a double knock at the house door, yet heavy and dull, as though the knocker had been tied up. "It must be the wind," said Gluck; "nobody else would venture to knock double knocks at our door."
No; it wasn't the wind. There it came again very hard, and what was particularly astounding the knocker seemed to be in a hurry, and not to be in the least afraid of the consequences. Gluck put his head out the window to see who it was.
It was the most extraordinary looking little gentleman he had ever seen in his life. He had a very large nose, slightly brass-colored; his cheeks were very round and very red; his eyes twinkled merrily through long, silky eyelashes; his mustaches curled twice round like a corkscrew on each side of his mouth, and his hair, of a curious mixed pepper-and-salt color, descended far over his shoulders. He was about four feet six in height, and wore a conical pointed cap of nearly the same altitude, decorated with a black feather some three feet long. He wore an enormous black, glossy-looking cloak, which must have been very much too long in calm weather, as the wind carried it clear out from the wearer's shoulders to about four times his own length.
Gluck was so perfectly paralyzed by the appearance of his visitor that he remained fixed, without uttering a word, until the old gentleman turned round to look after his fly-away cloak. In so doing he caught sight of Gluck's little yellow head jammed in the window, with its mouth and eyes very wide open indeed.
"Hello!" said the little gentleman, "that's not the way to answer the door. I'm wet; let me in." To do the little gentleman justice, he _was_ wet. His feather hung down between his legs like a beaten puppy's tail, dripping like an umbrella; and from the end of his mustaches the water was running into his waistcoat pockets, and out again like a mill stream.
"I'm very sorry" said Gluck, "but I really can't."
"Can't what?" said the old gentleman.
"I can't let you in, sir. My brothers would beat me to death, sir, if I thought of such a thing. What do you want, sir?"
"Want?" said the old gentleman. "I want fire and shelter; and there's your great fire there blazing, crackling, and dancing on the walls, with nobody to feel it. Let me in, I say."
Gluck had had his head, by this time, so long out of the window that he began to feel it was really unpleasantly cold. When he turned and saw the beautiful fire rustling and roaring, and throwing long, bright tongues up the chimney, as if it were licking its chops at the savory smell of the leg of mutton, his heart melted within him that it should be burning away for nothing.
"He does look _very_ wet," said little Gluck; "I'll just let him in for a quarter of an hour."
As the little gentleman walked in, there came a gust of wind through the house that made the old chimney totter.
"That's a good boy. Never mind your brothers. I'll talk to them."
"Pray, sir, don't do any such thing," said Gluck. "I can't let you stay till they come; they'd be the death of me."
"Dear me," said the old gentleman, "I'm sorry to hear that. How long may I stay?"
"Only till the mutton is done, sir," replied Gluck, "and it's very brown." Then the old gentleman walked into the kitchen and sat himself down on the hob, with the top of his cap up the chimney, for it was much too high for the roof.
"You'll soon dry there; sir," said Gluck, and sat down again to turn the mutton. But the old gentleman did _not_ dry there, but went on drip, drip, dripping among the cinders, so that the fire fizzed and sputtered and began to look very black and uncomfortable. Never was such a cloak; every fold in it ran like a gutter.
"I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck, at length, after watching the water spreading in long, quicksilver-like streams over the floor; "mayn't I take your cloak?"
"No, thank you," said the old gentleman.
"Your cap, sir?"
"I am all right, thank you," said the old gentleman, rather gruffly.
"But--sir--I'm very sorry," said Gluck, hesitatingly, "but--really--sir--you're putting the fire out."
"It'll take longer to do the mutton, then."
Gluck was very much puzzled by the behavior of his guest; it was such a strange mixture of coolness and humility.
"That mutton looks very nice," said the old gentleman. "Can't you give me a little bit?"
"Impossible, sir," said Gluck.
"I'm very hungry," continued the old gentleman; "I've had nothing to eat yesterday nor to-day. They surely couldn't miss a bit from the knuckle!"
He spoke in so very melancholy a tone that it quite melted Gluck's heart.
"They promised me one slice to-day, sir," said he; "I can give you that, but no more."
"That's a good boy," said the old gentleman again.
"I don't care if I do get beaten for it," thought Gluck.
Just as he had cut a large slice out of the mutton, there came a tremendous rap at the door. The old gentleman jumped; Gluck fitted the slice into the mutton again, and ran to open the door.
"What did you keep us waiting in the rain for?" said Schwartz, as he walked in, throwing his umbrella in Gluck's face.
"Aye; what for, indeed, you little vagabond?" said Hans, administering an educational box on the ear, as he followed his brother.
"Bless my soul!" said Schwartz, when he opened the door.
"Amen," said the little gentleman, who had taken his cap off, and was standing in the middle of the kitchen, bowing with the utmost velocity.
"Who's that?" said Schwartz, catching up a rolling-pin, and turning fiercely to Gluck.
"I don't know, indeed, brother," said Gluck, in great terror.
"How did he get in?" roared Schwartz.
"My dear brother, he was so _very_ wet!"
The rolling-pin was descending on Gluck's head; but, at that instant, the old gentleman interposed his conical cap, on which it crashed with a shock that shook the water out of it all over the room. What was very odd, the rolling-pin no sooner touched the cap, than it flew out of Schwartz's hand, spinning like a straw in a high wind, and fell into the corner at the farther end of the room.
"Who are you sir?" demanded Schwartz.
"What's your business?" snarled Hans.
"I'm a poor old man, sir," the little gentleman began, very modestly, "and I saw your fire through the window, and begged shelter for a quarter of an hour."
"Have the goodness to walk out again, then," said Schwartz. "We've quite enough water in our kitchen, without making it a drying house."
"It's a very cold day, sir, to turn an old man out in, sir; look at my gray hairs."
"Aye!" said Hans, "there are enough of them to keep you warm. Walk!"
"I'm very, very hungry, sir; couldn't you spare me a bit of bread before I go?"
"Bread, indeed!" said Schwartz; "do you suppose we've nothing to do with our bread but to give it to such fellows as you?"
"Why don't you sell your feather?" said Hans, sneeringly. "Out with you."
"A little bit," said the old gentleman.
"Be off!" said Schwartz.
"Pray, gentlemen."
"Off!" cried Hans, seizing him by the collar. But he had no sooner touched the old gentleman's collar than away he went after the rolling-pin, spinning round and round, till he fell into the corner on the top of it.
Then Schwartz was very angry, and ran at the old gentleman to turn him out. But he also had hardly touched him, when away he went after Hans and the rolling-pin, and hit his head against the wall as he tumbled into the corner. And so there they lay, all three.
Then the old gentleman spun himself round until his long cloak was all wound neatly about him, clapped his cap on his head, very much on one side, gave a twist to his corkscrew mustaches, and replied, with perfect coolness: "Gentlemen, I wish you a very good morning. At twelve o'clock to-night, I'll call again."
_John Ruskin._
* * * * *
NOTE.--"The King of the Golden River," from which the selection is taken, is a charming story for children. It was written in 1841, for the amusement of a sick child. It is said to be the finest story of its kind in the language.
[Illustration:]
* * * * *
_81_
elf en cir' cled jerk hur' ri cane rein'deer min' i a ture tar' nished
A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS.
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse: The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In the hope that St. Nicholas soon would be there. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And Mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, When out on the lawn there rose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave the luster of midday to objects below; When, what to my wondering eyes should appear But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick! More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted and called them by name: "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! now, Vixen! On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall, Now, dash away! dash away! dash away, all!" As dry leaves, that before the wild hurricane fly When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas, too; And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack; His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry; His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow; The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath; He had a broad face, and a little round belly, That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly. He was chubby and plump,--a right jolly old elf-- And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself. A wink of his eye and a twist of his head Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And, laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle; But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"
_Clement C. Moore._
* * * * *
_82_
a chieved' es poused' thral' dom al li' ance ter rif' ic Del' a ware Com' mo dore re cip' i ents New' found land can non ad' ing par tic' i pa ted char ac ter is' tic
COMMODORE JOHN BARRY.
The story of the American Navy is a story of glorious deeds. From the early days of Barry and Jones, when it swept the decks of King George's proud ships with merciless fire, down to the glories achieved by Admirals Dewey and Schley in our war with Spain, the story of our Navy is the pride and glory of our Republic. The glowing track of its victories extends around the world.
Of the many distinguished men whose names and whose deeds adorn the pages of our country's history, there is none more deserving of our gratitude and admiration than Commodore John Barry. His name and fame will live in the naval annals of our country as long as the history of America lasts.
Commodore Barry, the founder of the American Navy, was born in County Wexford, Ireland, in the year 1745. At the age of fourteen he left home for a life on
"The sea, the sea, the open sea, The blue, the fresh, the ever free."
On board trading vessels he made several voyages to America. He spent his leisure hours in reading and study, and in this way soon acquired a general and practical education. By fidelity to duty, he advanced so rapidly in his profession that at the age of twenty-five we find him in command of the _Black Prince,_ one of the finest merchant vessels then running between Philadelphia and London.
When the Revolution broke out between the Colonies and England, our gallant Commodore gave up the command of his ship, and without delay or hesitation espoused the cause of his adopted country. Congress purchased a few vessels, had them fitted out for war, and placed the little fleet under the command of Captain Barry. His flagship was the _Lexington_, named after the first battle of the Revolution; and Congress having at this time adopted a national flag, the Star-spangled Banner, the _Lexington_ was the first to hoist this ensign of freedom.
From the time of the fitting out of the _Lexington_ down to the time of the declaration of peace, which assured the liberation of the Colonies from the thraldom of Great Britain, Commodore Barry was constantly engaged on shore and afloat. Though he actually participated in upwards of twenty sea fights, always against a force superior to his own, he never once struck his flag to the enemy. The field of his operations ranged all the way from the capes of the Delaware to the West Indies, and as far east as the coast of Maine and Newfoundland. His victories were hailed with joy throughout the country, and Barry and his men were publicly thanked by General Washington.
During the darkest days of the War, while Washington was spending the winter of 1777 in camp at Valley Forge, with our brave soldiers perishing for want of provisions, blankets, clothing and tents, an incident occurred which shows how supremely loyal and devoted Commodore Barry was to the American cause. The British troops were occupying Philadelphia. Lord Howe, their commander, offered our great sea fighter a bribe of fifty thousand guineas and the command of a ship of war, if he would abandon the American cause and enter the service of England. Barry's indignant reply should be written in letters of gold: "I have engaged in the service of my adopted country, and neither the value nor the command of the whole British fleet can seduce me from it."
General Washington had the utmost confidence in the pluck and daring and loyalty of Barry. He selected him as the best and safest man to be trusted with the important mission of carrying our commissioners to France to secure that alliance and assistance which we then so sorely needed.
On his homeward trip, it is related that being hailed by a British man-of-war with the usual questions as to the name of his ship, captain, and destination, he gave the following bold and characteristic reply: "This is the United States ship _Alliance_: Jack Barry, half Irishman and half Yankee, commander: who are you?" In the engagement that followed, Barry and his band of heroes performed such deeds of valor that after a few hours of terrific cannonading, the English ship was forced to strike its colors and surrender to the "half Irishman and half Yankee."
This illustrious man, who was the first that bore the title of Commodore in the service of our Republic, continued at the head of our infant Navy till his death, which took place in Philadelphia, on the 13th of September, 1803. During life he was generous and charitable, and at his death made the children of the Catholic Orphan Asylum of Philadelphia the chief recipients of his wealth. His remains repose in the little graveyard attached to St. Mary's Catholic church.
Through the generous patriotism of the "Friendly Sons of St. Patrick," a society of which General Washington himself was a member, a magnificent monument was erected to the memory of Commodore Barry, in Independence Square, Philadelphia, under the shadow of Independence Hall, the cradle of American liberty. Miss Elise Hazel Hepburn, a great-great-grandniece of the Commodore, had a prominent part at the ceremonies of the unveiling, which took place on Saint Patrick's Day, 1907.
* * * * *
There are gallant hearts whose glory Columbia loves to name, Whose deeds shall live in story And everlasting fame. But never yet one braver Our starry banner bore Than saucy old Jack Barry, The Irish Commodore.
What is meant by the Congress of the U.S.? What two bodies compose it? What is the number of senators, and how are they chosen?
Which was the most notable sea fight of Commodore John Paul Jones?
Where did Admiral Dewey specially distinguish himself? And Admiral Schley?
What countries does the island of Great Britain comprise?
What does "never struck his flag" mean?
Name the capes of the Delaware. Locate Newfoundland.
Recite the two famous replies of Commodore Barry given in the selection.
[Illustration: COMMODORE JOHN BARRY]
* * * * *
_83_
sau' cy ig nored' rev' eled plain' tive dis traught' wea' ri some rol' lick ing mis' chie vous frec'kle-faced
THE BOY OF THE HOUSE.
He was the boy of the house, you know, A jolly and rollicking lad; He was never tired, and never sick, And nothing could make him sad.
Did some one urge that he make less noise, He would say, with a saucy grin, "Why, one boy alone doesn't make much stir-- I'm sorry I am not a twin!"
"There are two of twins--oh, it must be fun To go double at everything: To hollo by twos, and to run by twos, To whistle by twos, and to sing!"
His laugh was something to make you glad, So brimful was it of joy; A conscience he had, perhaps, in his breast, But it never troubled the boy.
You met him out in the garden path, With the terrier at his heels; You knew by the shout he hailed you with How happy a youngster feels.
The maiden auntie was half distraught At his tricks as the days went by; "The most mischievous child in the world!" She said, with a shrug and a sigh.
His father owned that her words were true, And his mother declared each day Was putting wrinkles into her face, And was turning her brown hair gray.
But it never troubled the boy of the house; He reveled in clatter and din, And had only one regret in the world-- That he hadn't been born a twin.
* * * * *
There's nobody making a noise to-day, There's nobody stamping the floor, There's an awful silence, upstairs and down, There's crape on the wide hall door.
The terrier's whining out in the sun-- "Where's my comrade?" he seems to say; Turn your plaintive eyes away, little dog. There's no frolic for you to-day.
The freckle-faced girl from the house next door Is sobbing her young heart out; Don't cry, little girl, you'll soon forget To miss the laugh and the shout.
How strangely quiet the little form, With the hands on the bosom crossed! Not a fold, not a flower, out of place, Not a short curl rumpled and tossed!
So solemn and still the big house seems-- No laughter, no racket, no din, No starting shriek, no voice piping out, "I'm sorry I am not a twin!"
There a man and a woman, pale with grief, As the wearisome moments creep; Oh! the loneliness touches everything-- The boy of the house is asleep.
_Jean Blewett._
From the Toronto _Globe_.
[Illustration:]
* * * * *
_84_
BIOGRAPHIES