De La Salle Fifth Reader - Brothers of the Christian Schools
At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth
swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and
considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a
shovelful of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew
round the hearth in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a
one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass,--two
tumblers and a custard cup without a handle.
These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden
goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while
the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob
proposed: "A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!"
Which all the family re[:e]choed.
"God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all.
He sat very close to his father's side, upon his little stool. Bob held
his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the child, and wished to
keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him.
_Charles Dickens._
[Illustration: Portrait of Dickens.]
* * * * *
DECLENSION, a falling downward.
COPPER, a boiler made of copper.
RALLIED, indulged in pleasant humor.
UBIQUITOUS (u b[)i]k' w[)i] t[)u]s), appearing to be everywhere at
the same time.
EKED OUT, added to; increased.
BEDIGHT, bedecked; adorned.
RE[:E]CHOED (reechoed): What is the mark placed over the second _e_ called,
and what does it denote?
NOTE.--"A Christmas Carol," from which the selection is taken, is
considered the best short story that Dickens wrote, and one of the best
Christmas stories ever written. The Cratchits were very poor as to the
goods of this world, but very rich in love, kindness, and contentment.
* * * * *
_67_
WHICH SHALL IT BE?
Which shall it be? Which shall it be?
I looked at John, John looked at me;
And when I found that I must speak,
My voice seemed strangely low and weak:
"Tell me again what Robert said,"
And then I, listening, bent my head--
This is his letter: "I will give
A house and land while you shall live,
If in return from out your seven
One child to me for aye is given."
I looked at John's old garments worn;
I thought of all that he had borne
Of poverty, and work, and care,
Which I, though willing, could not share;
I thought of seven young mouths to feed,
Of seven little children's need,
And then of this.
"Come, John," said I,
"We'll choose among them as they lie
Asleep." So, walking hand in hand,
Dear John and I surveyed our band:
First to the cradle lightly stepped,
Where Lilian, the baby, slept.
Softly the father stooped to lay
His rough hand down in loving way,
When dream or whisper made her stir,
And huskily he said: "Not her!"
We stooped beside the trundle-bed,
And one long ray of lamplight shed
Athwart the boyish faces there,
In sleep so pitiful and fair;
I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek
A tear undried. Ere John could speak,
"He's but a baby too," said I,
And kissed him as we hurried by.
Pale, patient Robbie's angel face
Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace--
"No, for a thousand crowns, not him!"
He whispered, while our eyes were dim.
Poor Dick! bad Dick, our wayward son--
Turbulent, restless, idle one--
Could he be spared? Nay, He who gave
Bade us befriend him to the grave;
Only a mother's heart could be
Patient enough for such as he;
"And so," said John, "I would not dare
To take him from her bedside prayer."
Then stole we softly up above,
And knelt by Mary, child of love;
"Perhaps for her 'twould better be,"
I said to John. Quite silently
He lifted up a curl that lay
Across her cheek in wilful way,
And shook his head: "Nay, love, not thee,"
The while my heart beat audibly.
Only one more, our eldest lad,
Trusty and truthful, good and glad,
So like his father. "No, John, no!
I cannot, will not, let him go."
And so we wrote in courteous way,
We could not give one child away;
And afterwards toil lighter seemed,
Thinking of that of which we dreamed,
Happy in truth that not one face
Was missed from its accustomed place,
Thankful to work for all the seven,
Trusting the rest to One in Heaven!
_Anonymous_.
* * * * *
Write the story of the poem in the form of a composition. Tell of the
great affection of parents for their children. Even in the poorest and
most numerous families, what parent could think of parting with a child
for any sum of money?
Tell about the letter John and his wife received from a rich man without
children who wished to adopt one of their seven. Tell about the offer
the rich man made. What a great temptation this was!
The parents considered the offer, looked into each other's faces and
asked, "Which shall it be?" Not the baby. Why? Not the two youngest
boys. Why? Not the poor helpless little cripple. Why? Not the sweet
child, Mary. Why? Not Dick, the wayward son. Why? Not, for worlds, the
oldest boy. Why?
Tell the answer the parents sent the rich man.
* * * * *
_68_
Dor'o thy
in her'it ance
Cap pa do' ci a
ob' sti na cy
The oph' i lus
ex e cu' tion ers
ST. DOROTHY, MARTYR
The names of St. Catherine and St. Agnes, St. Lucy and St. Cecilia, are
familiar to us all; and to many of us, no doubt, their histories are
well known also. Young as they were, they despised alike the pleasures
and the flatteries of the world. They chose God alone as their portion
and inheritance; and He has highly exalted them, and placed their names
amongst those glorious martyrs whose memory is daily honored in the holy
Sacrifice of the Mass.
St. Dorothy was another of these virgin saints. She was born in the city
of Caesarea, and was descended of a rich and noble family. While the last
of the ten terrible persecutions, which for three hundred years steeped
the Church in the blood of martyrs, was raging, Dorothy embraced the
faith of Christ, and, in consequence, was seized and carried before the
Roman Prefect of the city.
She was put to the most cruel tortures, and, at length, condemned to
death. When the executioners were preparing to behead her, the Prefect
said, "Now, at least, confess your folly, and pray to the immortal gods
for pardon."
"I pray," replied the martyr, "that the God of heaven and earth may
pardon and have mercy on you; and I will also pray when I reach the land
whither I am going."
"Of what land do you speak?" asked the judge, who, like most of the
pagans, had very little notion of another world.
"I speak of that land where Christ, the Son of God, dwells with his
saints," replied St. Dorothy. "_There_ is neither night nor sorrow;
_there_ is the river of life, and the brightness of eternal glory; and
_there_ is a paradise of all delight, and flowers that shall never
fade."
"I pray you, then," said a young man, named Theophilus, who was
listening to her words with pity mingled with wonder, "if these things
be so, to send me some of those flowers, when you shall have reached the
land you speak of."
Dorothy looked at him as he spoke; and then answered: "Theophilus, you
shall have the sign you ask for." There was no time for more; the
executioner placed her before the block, and, in another moment, with
one blow, he struck off the head of the holy martyr.
"Those were strange words," said Theophilus to one of his friends, as
they were about to leave the court; "but these Christians are not like
other people." "Their obstinacy is altogether surprising," rejoined his
friend; "death itself will never make them waver. But who is this,
Theophilus?" he continued, as a young boy came up to them, of such
singular beauty that the eyes of all were fixed upon him with wonder and
admiration. He seemed not more than ten years old; his golden hair fell
on his shoulders, and in his hand he bore four roses, two white and two
red, and of so brilliant a color and rich a fragrance that their like
had never before been seen. He held them out to Theophilus. "These
flowers are for you," said he; "will you not take them?" "And whence do
you bring them, my boy?" asked Theophilus. "From Dorothy," he replied,
"and they are the sign you even now asked for." "Roses, and in winter
time!" said Theophilus, as he took the flowers; "yea, and such roses as
never blossomed in any earthly garden. Prefect, your task is not yet
ended; your sword has slain one Christian, but it has made another; I,
too, profess the faith for which Dorothy died."
Within another hour, Theophilus was condemned to death by the enraged
Prefect; and on the spot where Dorothy had been beheaded, he too poured
forth his blood, and obtained the crown of martyrdom.
* * * * *
CAESAREA (s[)e]s [.a] r[=e]' [.a]), an ancient city of Palestine. It
is celebrated as being the scene of many events recorded in the New
Testament.
Memory Gem:
Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave.
_A line from Lowell's "0de."_
[Illustration:]
* * * * *
_69_
TO A BUTTERFLY.
I've watched you now a full half hour
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little butterfly, indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless!--not frozen seas
More motionless!--and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!
This plot of orchard ground is ours;
My trees they are, my sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now!
_Wordsworth_.
* * * * *
SELF-POISED, balanced.
What is a sanctuary? In the Temple at Jerusalem, what was the Holy of
Holies? Why are the sanctuaries of Catholic churches so supremely holy?
Why are "sweet childish days" as long "As twenty days are now?"
Tell what you know of the author's life.
Memorize the poem.
[Illustration:]
* * * * *
_70_
re tort' ed
quizzed
in cred' i ble
man u fac' ture
sat' ire
vi o lin' ist
com pre hend'
me lo' di ous ly
hu' mor
ex hib' it
a chieve' ments
for' ests
THE PEN AND THE INKSTAND.
In the room of a poet, where his inkstand stood upon the table, it was
said, "It is wonderful what can come out of an inkstand. What will the
next thing be? It is wonderful!"
"Yes, certainly," said the Inkstand. "It's extraordinary--that's what I
always say," he exclaimed to the pen and to the other articles on the
table that were near enough to hear. "It is wonderful what a number of
things can come out of me. It's quite incredible. And I really don't
myself know what will be the next thing, when that man begins to dip
into me. One drop out of me is enough for half a page of paper; and what
cannot be contained in half a page?
"From me all the works of the poet go forth--all these living men, whom
people can imagine they have met--all the deep feeling, the humor, the
vivid pictures of nature. I myself don't understand how it is, for I am
not acquainted with nature, but it certainly is in me. From me all
things have gone forth, and from me proceed the troops of charming
maidens, and of brave knights on prancing steeds, and all the lame and
the blind, and I don't know what more--I assure you I don't think of
anything."
"There you are right," said the Pen; "you don't think at all; for if you
did, you would comprehend that you only furnish the fluid. You give the
fluid, that I may exhibit upon the paper what dwells in me, and what I
would bring to the day. It is the pen that writes. No man doubts that;
and, indeed, most people have about as much insight into poetry as an
old inkstand."
"You have but little experience," replied the Inkstand. "You've hardly
been in service a week, and are already half worn out. Do you fancy you
are the poet? You are only a servant; and before you came I had many of
your sorts, some of the goose family, and others of English manufacture.
I know the quill as well as the steel pen. Many have been in my service,
and I shall have many more when _he_ comes--the man who goes through the
motions for me, and writes down what he derives from me. I should like
to know what will be the next thing he'll take out of me."
"Inkpot!" exclaimed the Pen.
Late in the evening the poet came home. He had been to a concert, where
he had heard a famous violinist, with whose admirable performances he
was quite enchanted. The player had drawn a wonderful wealth of tone
from the instrument; sometimes it had sounded like tinkling water-drops,
like rolling pearls, sometimes like birds twittering in chorus, and then
again it went swelling on like the wind through the fir trees.
The poet thought he heard his own heart weeping, but weeping
melodiously, like the sound of woman's voice. It seemed as though not
only the strings sounded, but every part of the instrument.
It was a wonderful performance; and difficult as the piece was, the bow
seemed to glide easily to and fro over the strings, and it looked as
though every one might do it. The violin seemed to sound of itself, and
the bow to move of itself--those two appeared to do everything; and the
audience forgot the master who guided them and breathed soul and spirit
into them. The master was forgotten; but the poet remembered him, and
named him, and wrote down his thoughts concerning the subject:
"How foolish it would be of the violin and the bow to boast of their
achievements. And yet we men often commit this folly--the poet, the
artist, the laborer in the domain of science, the general--we all do it.
We are only the instruments which the Almighty uses: to Him alone be the
honor! We have nothing of which we should be proud."
Yes, that is what the poet wrote down. He wrote it in the form of a
parable, which he called "The Master and the Instrument."
"That is what you get, madam," said the Pen to the Inkstand, when the
two were alone again. "Did you not hear him read aloud what I have
written down?"
"Yes, what I gave you to write," retorted the Inkstand. "That was a cut
at you, because of your conceit. That you should not even have
understood that you were being quizzed! I gave you a cut from within
me--surely I must know my own satire!"
"Ink-pipkin!" cried the Pen.
"Writing-stick!" cried the Inkstand.
And each of them felt a conviction that he had answered well; and it is
a pleasing conviction to feel that one has given a good answer--a
conviction on which one can sleep; and accordingly they slept upon it.
But the poet did not sleep. Thoughts welled up from within him, like the
tones from the violin, falling like pearls, rushing like the storm-wind
through the forests. He understood his own heart in these thoughts, and
caught a ray from the Eternal Master. To _Him_ be all the honor!
_Hans Christian Andersen._
* * * * *
PIPKIN, a small pipe; a small jar made of baked clay.
Write as many synonyms as you know, or can find, of the words _vivid,
exhibit, comprehend_. Consult the dictionary.
What one word may you use instead of "laborer in the domain of science?"
Seek in your dictionary the definition of the word _parable_. Relate one
of our Lord's parables.
By means of the prefixes and suffixes that you have learned, form as
many words as you can from the following: man, do, late, loud, art,
room, blind, easy, heart, humor, vivid, maiden, famous, service,
furnished.
* * * * *
_71_
THE WIND AND THE MOON.
Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out.
You stare in the air
Like a ghost in a chair,
Always looking what I am about,
I hate to be watched; I'll blow you out."
The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon.
So, deep on a heap
Of clouds, to sleep
Down lay the Wind and slumbered soon,
Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon."
He turned in his bed; she was there again!
On high in the sky,
With her one ghost eye,
The Moon shone white and alive and plain.
Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again."
The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim.
"With my sledge and my wedge
I have knocked off her edge.
If only I blow right fierce and grim,
The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."
He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread:
"One puff more's enough
To blow her to snuff!
One good puff more where the last was bred,
And glimmer, glimmer, glum, will go the thread."
He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone,
In the air nowhere
Was a moonbeam bare;
Far off and harmless the shy stars shone;
Sure and certain the Moon was gone!
The Wind he took to his revels once more;
On down, in town,
Like a merry-mad clown,
He leaped and holloed with whistle and roar,--
"What's that?" The glimmering thread once more!
He flew in a rage--he danced and he blew;
But in vain was the pain
Of his bursting brain;
For still the broader the moon-scrap grew,
The broader he swelled his big cheeks, and blew.
Slowly she grew, till she filled the night,
And shone on her throne
In the sky alone,
A matchless, wonderful, silvery light,
Radiant and lovely, the Queen of the Night.
Said the Wind: "What a marvel of power am I!
With my breath, good faith!
I blew her to death--
First blew her away right out of the sky,
Then blew her in; what a strength am I!"
But the Moon she knew nothing about the affair;
For, high in the sky,
With her one white eye,
Motionless, miles above the air,
She had never heard the great Wind blare.
_George MacDonald._
* * * * *
DOWN (7th stanza), a tract of sandy, hilly land near the sea.
GLIMMER, fainter.
GLUM, dark, gloomy.
What is a suffix? What does the suffix _less_ mean? Define _cloudless,
matchless, motionless._
What class of people does Mr. Wind remind you of?
* * * * *
_72_
mi' ter
can'on
car' di nal
dis course'
di' a logue
cour'te ous ly
ST. PHILIP NERI AND THE YOUTH.
St. Philip Neri, as old readings say,
Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day,
And being ever courteously inclined
To give young folks a sober turn of mind,
He fell into discourse with him, and thus
The dialogue they held comes down to us.
_Saint_.--Tell me what brings you, gentle youth, to Rome?
_Youth_.--To make myself a scholar, sir, I come.
_St_.--And when you are one, what do you intend?
_Y_.--To be a priest, I hope, sir, in the end.
_St_.--Suppose it so; what have you next in view?
_Y_.--That I may get to be a canon too.
_St_.--Well; and what then?
_Y_.-- Why then, for aught I know,
I may be made a bishop.
_St_.-- Be it so,--
What next?
_Y_.-- Why, cardinal's a high degree;
And yet my lot it possibly may be.
_St_.--Suppose it was; what then?
_Y_.-- Why, who can say
But I've a chance of being pope one day?
_St_.--Well, having worn the miter and red hat,
And triple crown, what follows after that?
_Y_.--Nay, there is nothing further, to be sure,
Upon this earth, that wishing can procure:
When I've enjoyed a dignity so high
As long as God shall please, then I must die.
_St_.--What! must you die? fond youth, and at the best,
But wish, and hope, and may be, all the rest!
Take my advice--whatever may betide,
For that which _must be_, first of all provide;
Then think of that which _may be_; and indeed,
When well prepared, who knows what may succeed,
But you may be, as you are pleased to hope,
Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope.
* * * * *
ST. PHILIP NERI, born in Florence, Italy, in 1515. Went to Rome in
1533, where he founded the "Priests of the Oratory," and where he died
in 1595.
TRIPLE CROWN, the tiara; the crown worn by our Holy Father, the
Pope.
Use correctly in sentences the words _canon, cannon, canon._
NOTE.--It will prove interesting if one pupil reads the first six lines
of the selection, and two others personate St. Philip and the Youth.
The whole selection might be given from memory.
* * * * *
_73_
mag' ic
sta' mens
de sert' ed
pet' als
pic' tures
dis cour' aged
liq' uid
sat' is fied
per se ver' ance
THE WATER LILY.
There was once a little boy who was very fond of pictures. There were
not many pictures for him to look at, for he lived long ago near a great
American forest. His father and mother had come from England, but his
father was dead now. His mother was very poor, but there were still a
few beautiful pictures on the walls of her house.
The little boy liked to copy these pictures; but as he was not fond of
work, he often threw his drawings away before they were half done. He
said that he wished that some good fairy would finish them for him.
"Child," said his mother, "I don't believe that there are any fairies. I
never saw one, and your father never saw one. Mind your books, my child,
and never mind the fairies."
"Very well, mother," said the boy.
"It makes me sad to see you stand looking at the pictures," said his
mother another day, as she laid her hand on his curly head. "Why, child,
pictures can't feed a body, pictures can't clothe a body, and a log of
wood is far better to burn and warm a body."
"All that is quite true, mother," said the boy.
"Then why do you keep looking at them, child?" but the boy could only
say, "I don't know, mother."
"You don't know! Nor I, neither! Why, child, you look at the dumb things
as if you loved them! Put on your cap and run out to play."
So the boy wandered off into the forest till he came to the brink of a
little sheet of water. It was too small to be called a lake; but it was
deep and clear, and was overhung with tall trees. It was evening, and
the sun was getting low. The boy stood still beside the water and
thought how beautiful it was to see the sun, red and glorious, between
the black trunks of the pine trees. Then he looked up at the great blue
sky and thought how beautiful it was to see the little clouds folding
over one another like a belt of rose-colored waves. Then he looked at
the lake and saw the clouds and the sky and the trees all reflected
there, down among the lilies.
And he wished that he were a painter, for he said to himself, "I am sure
there are no trees in the world with such beautiful leaves as these
pines. I am sure there are no clouds in the world so lovely as these. I
know this is the prettiest little lake in the world, and if I could
paint it, every one else would know it, too."
But he had nothing to paint with. So he picked a lily and sat down with
it in his hand and tried very hard to make a correct drawing of it. But
he could not make a very good picture. At last he threw down his drawing
and said to the lily:
"You are too beautiful to draw with a pencil. How I wish I were a
painter!"
As he said these words he felt the flower move. He looked, and the
cluster of stamens at the bottom of the lily-cup glittered like a crown
of gold. The dewdrops which hung upon the stamens changed to diamonds
before his eyes. The white petals flowed together, and the next moment a
beautiful little fairy stood on his hand. She was no taller than the
lily from which she came, and she was dressed in a robe of the purest
white.
"Child, are you happy?" she asked.
"No," said the boy in a low voice, "because I want to paint and I
cannot."
"How do you know that you cannot?" asked the fairy.
"Oh, I have tried a great many times. It is of no use to try any more."
"But I will help you."