Part 7
Then one morning it happened that the monk descended from the library into the cloister garden, and there he saw a little bird perched on the bough of a tree, singing sweetly, like a nightingale. The bird did not move as the monk approached her, till he came quite close, and then she flew to another bough, and again another, as the monk pursued her. Still singing the same sweet song, the nightingale flew on; and the monk, entranced by the sound, followed her out of the garden into the wide world.
At last he stopped, and turned back to the cloister; but every thing seemed changed to him. Every thing had become larger, more beautiful, and older,--the buildings, the garden; and in the place of the low, humble cloister church, a lofty minster with three towers reared its head to the sky. This seemed very strange to the monk, indeed marvelous; but he walked on to the cloister gate and timidly rang the bell. A porter entirely unknown to him answered his summons, and drew back in amazement when he saw the monk.
The latter went in, and wandered through the church, gazing with astonishment on memorial stones which he never remembered to have seen before. Presently the brethren of the cloister entered the church; but all retreated when they saw the strange figure of the monk. The abbot only (but not his abbot) stopped, and stretching a crucifix before him, exclaimed, "In the name of Christ, who art thou, spirit or mortal? And what dost thou seek here, coming from the dead among us, the living?"
The monk, trembling and tottering like an old man, cast his eyes to the ground, and for the first time became aware that a long silvery beard descended from his chin over his girdle, to which was still suspended the key of the library. To the monks around, the stranger seemed some marvelous appearance; and, with a mixture of awe and admiration, they led him to the chair of the abbot. There he gave the key to a young monk, who opened the library, and brought out a chronicle wherein it was written that three hundred years ago the monk Urban had disappeared; and no one knew whither he had gone.
"Ah, bird of the forest, was it then thy song?" said the monk Urban, with a sigh. "I followed thee for scarce three minutes, listening to thy notes, and yet three hundred years have passed away! Thou hast sung to me the song of eternity which I could never before learn. Now I know it; and, dust myself, I pray to God kneeling in the dust." With these words he sank to the ground, and his spirit ascended to heaven.
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Copy the last paragraph, omitting all marks of punctuation.
Close the book, and punctuate what you have written. Compare your work with the printed page.
Memory Gems:
If thou wouldst live long, live well; for folly and wickedness shorten life.
_From "Poor Richard's Proverbs"_
The older I grow--and I now stand upon the brink of eternity--the more comes back to me the sentence in the catechism which I learned when a child, and the fuller and deeper becomes its meaning: "What is the chief end of man? To glorify God, and to enjoy Him forever."
_Thomas Carlyle._
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_43_
dole man' na em' blem re leased' plumes breathe crim' son feath' ered soared dou' bly hom' i ly ser'a phim
THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS.
Up soared the lark into the air, A shaft of song, a wingèd prayer, As if a soul, released from pain, Were flying back to heaven again.
St. Francis heard; it was to him An emblem of the Seraphim; The upward motion of the fire, The light, the heat, the heart's desire.
Around Assisi's convent gate The birds, God's poor who cannot wait, From moor and mere and darksome wood Came flocking for their dole of food.
"O brother birds," St. Francis said, "Ye come to me and ask for bread, But not with bread alone to-day Shall ye be fed and sent away.
"Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds With manna of celestial words; Not mine, though mine they seem to be, Not mine, though they be spoken through me.
"O, doubly are ye bound to praise The great Creator in your lays; He giveth you your plumes of down, Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown.
"He giveth you your wings to fly And breathe a purer air on high, And careth for you everywhere, Who for yourselves so little care!"
With flutter of swift wings and songs Together rose the feathered throngs, And singing scattered far apart; Deep peace was in St. Francis' heart.
He knew not if the brotherhood His homily had understood; He only knew that to one ear The meaning of his words was clear.
_Longfellow._
From "Children's Hour and Other Poems." Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Publishers.
[Illustration: ST. FRANCIS PREACHING]
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LAYS, songs.
ASSISI ([:a]s s[=e]' ze), a town of Italy, where St. Francis was born in 1182.
What does "manna of celestial words" mean?
What is the singular form of seraphim?
Memory Gem:
Every word has its own spirit, True or false, that never dies; Every word man's lips have uttered Echoes in God's skies.
_Adelaide A. Procter._
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_44_
GLORIA IN EXCELSIS.
Gloria in excelsis! Sound the thrilling song; In excelsis Deo! Roll the hymn along.
Gloria in excelsis! Let the heavens ring; In excelsis Deo! Welcome, new-born King.
Gloria in excelsis! Over the sea and land, In excelsis Deo! Chant the anthem grand.
Gloria in excelsis! Let us all rejoice; In excelsis Deo! Lift each heart and voice.
Gloria in excelsis! Swell the hymn on high; In excelsis Deo! Sound it to the sky.
Gloria in excelsis! Sing it, sinful earth, In excelsis Deo! For the Savior's birth.
_Father Ryan._
"Father Ryan's Poems." Published by P.J. Kenedy & Sons, New York.
[Illustration: Artist _Hofmann_.--Caption: "Glory to God in the highest; and on earth peace to men of good will."]
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_45_
plied won' drous ex cite' ment com mo' tion vig' or fo' li age mar' vel ous com pas' sion
THE FIRST CHRISTMAS TREE.[004]
Once upon a time the Forest was in a great commotion. Early in the evening the wise old Cedars had shaken their heads and told of strange things that were to happen. They had lived in the Forest many, many years; but never had they seen such marvelous sights as were to be seen now in the sky, and upon the hills, and in the distant village.
"Pray tell us what you see," pleaded a little Vine; "we who are not so tall as you can behold none of these wonderful things."
"The whole sky seems to be aflame," said one of the Cedars, "and the Stars appear to be dancing among the clouds; angels walk down from heaven to the earth and talk with the shepherds upon the hills."
The Vine trembled with excitement. Its nearest neighbor was a tiny tree, so small it was scarcely ever noticed; yet it was a very beautiful little tree, and the Vines and Ferns and Mosses loved it very dearly.
"How I should like to see the Angels!" sighed the little Tree; "and how I should like to see the Stars dancing among the clouds! It must be very beautiful. Oh, listen to the music! I wonder whence it comes."
"The Angels are singing," said a Cedar; "for none but angels could make such sweet music."
"And the Stars are singing, too," said another Cedar; "yes, and the shepherds on the hills join in the song."
The trees listened to the singing. It was a strange song about a Child that had been born. But further than this they did not understand. The strange and glorious song continued all the night.
In the early morning the Angels came to the Forest singing the same song about the Child, and the Stars sang in chorus with them, until every part of the woods rang with echoes of that wondrous song. They were clad all in white, and there were crowns upon their fair heads, and golden harps in their hands. Love, hope, joy and compassion beamed from their beautiful faces. The Angels came through the Forest to where the little Tree stood, and gathering around it, they touched it with their hands, kissed its little branches, and sang even more sweetly than before. And their song was about the Child, the Child, the Child, that had been born. Then the Stars came down from the skies and danced and hung upon the branches of the little Tree, and they, too, sang the song of the Child.
When they left the Forest, one Angel remained to guard the little Tree. Night and day he watched so that no harm should come to it. Day by day it grew in strength and beauty. The sun sent it his choicest rays, heaven dropped its sweetest dew upon it, and the winds sang to it their prettiest songs.
So the years passed, and the little Tree grew until it became the pride and glory of the Forest.
One day the Tree heard some one coming through the Forest. "Have no fear," said the Angel, "for He who comes is the Master."
And the Master came to the Tree and placed His Hands upon its smooth trunk and branches. He stooped and kissed the Tree, and then turned and went away.
[Illustration: _A. Bida._]
Many times after that the Master came to the Forest, rested beneath the Tree and enjoyed the shade of its foliage. Many times He slept there and the Tree watched over Him. Many times men came with the Master to the Forest, sat with Him in the shade of the Tree, and talked with Him of things which the Tree never could understand. It heard them tell how the Master healed the sick and raised the dead and bestowed blessings wherever He walked.
But one night the Master came alone into the Forest. His Face was pale and wet with tears. He fell upon His knees and prayed. The Tree heard Him, and all the Forest was still. In the morning there was a sound of rude voices and a clashing of swords.
[Illustration: _Hofmann._]
Strange men plied their axes with cruel vigor, and the Tree was hewn to the ground. Its beautiful branches were cut away, and its soft, thick foliage was strewn to the winds. The Trees of the Forest wept.
The cruel men dragged the hewn Tree away, and the Forest saw it no more.
But the Night Wind that swept down from the City of the Great King stayed that night in the Forest awhile to say that it had seen that day a Cross raised on Calvary,--the Tree on which was nailed the Body of the dying Master.
_Eugene Field._
From "A Little Book of Profitable Tales." Published by Charles Scribner's Sons.
[Footnote 004: Copyright, 1889, by Eugene Field.]
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_46_
THE HOLY CITY.
Last night I lay a-sleeping; there came a dream so fair;-- I stood in old Jerusalem, beside the Temple there; I heard the children singing, and ever as they sang Methought the voice of Angels From Heaven in answer rang;-- Methought the voice of Angels From Heaven in answer rang. Jerusalem, Jerusalem, lift up your gates and sing Hosanna in the highest! Hosanna to your King!
And then methought my dream was changed;-- The streets no longer rang Hushed were the glad Hosannas the little children sang. The sun grew dark with mystery, The morn was cold and chill, As the shadow of a cross arose upon a lonely hill;-- As the shadow of a cross arose upon a lonely hill. Jerusalem, Jerusalem, hark! how the Angels sing Hosanna in the highest! Hosanna to your King!
And once again the scene was changed-- New earth there seemed to be; I saw the Holy City beside the tideless sea; The light of God was on its streets, The gates were open wide, And all who would might enter, And no one was denied. No need of moon or stars by night, Nor sun to shine by day; It was the New Jerusalem, that would not pass away,-- It was the New Jerusalem, that would not pass away. Jerusalem, Jerusalem, sing, for the night is o'er, Hosanna in the highest! Hosanna forevermore!
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_47_
trea' son eu' lo gies de bat' ed phi los' o phy in ge nu' i ty ap pro' pri ate con' sum ma ted
THE FEAST OF TONGUES.
Xanthus invited a large company to dinner, and Aesop was ordered to furnish the choicest dainties that money could procure. The first course consisted of tongues, cooked in different ways and served with appropriate sauces. This gave rise to much mirth and many witty remarks by the guests. The second course was also nothing but tongues, and so with the third and fourth. This seemed to go beyond a joke, and Xanthus demanded in an angry manner of Aesop, "Did I not tell you to provide the choicest dainties that money could procure?" "And what excels the tongue?" replied Aesop, "It is the channel of learning and philosophy. By it addresses and eulogies are made, and commerce carried on, contracts executed, and marriages consummated. Nothing is equal to the tongue." The company applauded Aesop's wit, and good feeling was restored.
"Well," said Xanthus to the guests, "pray do me the favor of dining with me again to-morrow. I have a mind to change the feast; to-morrow," said he, turning to Aesop, "provide us with the worst meat you can find." The next day the guests assembled as before, and to their astonishment and the anger of Xanthus nothing but tongues was provided. "How, sir," said Xanthus, "should tongues be the best of meat one day and the worst another?" "What," replied Aesop, "can be worse than the tongue? What wickedness is there under the sun that it has not a part in? Treasons, violence, injustice, fraud, are debated and resolved upon, and communicated by the tongue. It is the ruin of empires, cities, and of private friendships." The company were more than ever struck by Aesop's ingenuity, and they interceded for him with his master.
_From "Aesop's Fables."_
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XANTHUS, a Greek poet and historian, who lived in the sixth century before Christ.
Write the plurals of the following words, and tell how they are formed in each case:
dainty, sauce, eulogy, feast, city, chief, calf, day, lily, copy, loaf, roof, half, valley, donkey.
What words are made emphatic by contrast in the following sentence: "How should tongues be the best of meat one day and the worst another?"
Memorize what Aesop said in praise of the tongue, and what he said in dispraise of it.
Memory Gem:
"If any man offend not in word, the same is a perfect man. The tongue is a fire, a world of iniquity. By it we bless God and the Father; and by it we curse men who are made after the likeness of God."
_From "Epistle of St. James."_
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_48_
ap' pe tite ha rangued' sus pend' ed min' strel sy
THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE GLOWWORM.
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 down from 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 self-same 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._
Why did the nightingale feel "The keen demands of appetite?"
Do you admire the eloquent speech that the worm made to the bird? Study it by heart. Copy it from memory. Compare your copy with the printed page as to spelling, capitals and punctuation.
Memory Gems:
I would not enter on my list of friends (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, Yet wanting sensibility) the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. An inadvertent step may crush the snail That crawls at evening in the public path; But he that has humanity, forewarned, Will tread aside, and let the reptile live.
_William Cowper._
Turn, turn thy hasty foot aside, Nor crush that helpless worm! The frame thy wayward looks deride Required a God to form.
The common Lord of all that move. From whom thy being flowed, A portion of His boundless love On that poor worm bestowed.
Let them enjoy their little day, Their humble bliss receive; Oh! do not lightly take away The life thou canst not give!
_Thomas Gisborne._
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_49_
mar' gin pitch' er cup' board breathed di' a mond quiv' er ing
JACK FROST.
Jack Frost looked forth one still, clear night, And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight; So, through the valley, and over the height, In silence I'll take my way. I will not go on like that blustering train, The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, Who make so much bustle and noise in vain; But I'll be as busy as they!"
Then he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest; He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed In diamond beads; and over the breast Of the quivering lake he spread A coat of mail, that it need not fear The glittering point of many a spear, Which he hung on its margin, far and near, Where a rock could rear its head.
He went to the windows of those who slept, And over each pane, like a fairy, crept: Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped, By the morning light were seen Most beautiful things!--there were flowers and trees; There were bevies of birds, and swarms of bees; There were cities with temples and towers; and these All pictured in silvery sheen!
But he did one thing that was hardly fair; He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there That all had forgotten for him to prepare.-- "Now, just to set them a-thinking, I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he; "This costly pitcher I'll burst in three; And the glass of water they've left for me, Shall '_tchick_,' to tell them I'm drinking."
_Hannah F. Gould._
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CREST, top or summit.
COAT OF MAIL, a garment of iron or steel worn by warriors in olden times.
BEVIES, flocks or companies.
SHEEN, brightness.
TCHICK a combination of letters whose pronunciation is supposed to resemble the sound of breaking glass.
What did Jack Frost do when he went to the mountain?
How did he dress the boughs of the trees? What did he spread over the lake? Why?
What could be seen after he had worked on "the windows of those who slept?"
What mischief did he do in the cupboard, and why?
Is Jack Frost an artist? In what kind of weather does he work? Why does he work generally at night?
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_50_
re' al ize pen' du lum dil' i gent ly sig nif' i cance auc tion eer' per sist' ent ly in ex haust' i ble un der stood' hope' less ly nev er the less
"GOING! GOING! GONE!"
The other day, as I was walking through a side street in one of our large cities, I heard these words ringing out from a room so crowded with people that I could but just see the auctioneer's face and uplifted hammer above the heads of the crowd.
"Going! Going! Going! Gone!" and down came the hammer with a sharp rap.
I do not know how or why it was, but the words struck me with a new force and significance. I had heard them hundreds of times before, with only a sense of amusement. This time they sounded solemn.
"Going! Going! Gone!"
"That is the way it is with life," I said to myself;--"with time." This world is a sort of auction-room; we do not know that we are buyers: we are, in fact, more like beggars; we have brought no money to exchange for precious minutes, hours, days, or years; they are given to us. There is no calling out of terms, no noisy auctioneer, no hammer; but nevertheless, the time is "going! going! gone!"
The more I thought of it, the more solemn did the words sound, and the more did they seem to me a good motto to remind one of the value of time.
When we are young we think old people are preaching and prosing when they say so much about it,--when they declare so often that days, weeks, even years, are short. I can remember when a holiday, a whole day long, appeared to me an almost inexhaustible play-spell; when one afternoon, even, seemed an endless round of pleasure, and the week that was to come seemed longer than does a whole year now.
One needs to live many years before one learns how little time there is in a year,--how little, indeed, there will be even in the longest possible life,--how many things one will still be obliged to leave undone.
But there is one thing, boys and girls, that you can realize if you will try--if you will stop and think about it a little; and that is, how fast and how steadily the present time is slipping away. However long life may seem to you as you look forward to the whole of it, the present hour has only sixty minutes, and minute by minute, second by second, it is "going! going! gone!" If you gather nothing from it as it passes, it is "gone" forever. Nothing is so utterly, hopelessly lost as "lost time." It makes me unhappy when I look back and see how much time I have wasted; how much I might have learned and done if I had but understood how short is the longest hour.
All the men and women who have made the world better, happier or wiser for their having lived in it, have done so by working diligently and persistently. Yet, I am certain that not even one of these, when "looking backward from his manhood's prime, saw not the specter of his mis-spent time." Now, don't suppose I am so foolish as to think that all the preaching in the world can make anything look to young eyes as it looks to old eyes; not a bit of it.
But think about it a little; don't let time slip away by the minute, hour, day, without getting something out of it! Look at the clock now and then, and listen to the pendulum, saying of every minute, as it flies,--"Going! going! gone!"
_Helen Hunt Jackson._
From "Bits of Talk." Copyright, Little, Brown & Co., Publishers.
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PROSING, talking in a dull way.