De La Salle Fifth Reader - Brothers of the Christian Schools
"Oh," said the boy. "Then I might succeed."
"I heard your wish, and I am willing to help you," said the fairy. "I
know a charm which will give you success. But you must do exactly as I
tell you. Do you promise to obey?"
"Spirit of a water lily!" said the boy, "I promise with all my heart."
"Go home, then," said the fairy, "and you will find a little key on the
doorstep. Take it up and carry it to the nearest pine tree; strike the
trunk with it, and a keyhole will appear. Do not be afraid to unlock the
door. Slip in your hand, and you will bring out a magic palette. You
must be very careful to paint with colors from that palette every day.
On this depends the success of the charm. You will find that it will
make your pictures beautiful and full of grace.
"If you do not break the spell, I promise you that in a few years you
shall be able to paint this lily so well that you will be satisfied; and
that you shall become a truly great painter."
"Can it be possible?" said the boy. And the hand on which the fairy
stood trembled for joy.
"It shall be so, if only you do not break the charm," said the fairy.
"But lest you forget what you owe to me, and as you grow older even
begin to doubt that you have ever seen me, the lily you gathered to-day
will never fade till my promise is fulfilled."
The boy raised his eyes, and when he looked again there was nothing in
his hand but the flower.
He arose with the lily in his hand, and went home at once. There on the
doorstep was the little key, and in the pine tree he found the magic
palette. He was so delighted with it and so afraid that he might break
the spell that he began to work that very night. After that he spent
nearly all his time working with the magic palette. He often passed
whole days beside the sheet of water in the forest. He painted it when
the sun shone on it and it was spotted all over with the reflections of
fleeting white clouds. He painted it covered with water lilies rocking
on the ripples. He painted it by moonlight, when but two or three stars
in the empty sky shone down upon it; and at sunset, when it lay
trembling like liquid gold.
So the years passed, and the boy grew to be a man. He had never broken
the charm. The lily had never faded, and he still worked every day with
his magic palette.
But no one cared for his pictures. Even his mother did not like them.
His forests and misty hills and common clouds were too much like the
real ones. She said she could see as good any day by looking out of her
window. All this made the young man very unhappy. He began to doubt
whether he should ever be a painter, and one day he threw down his
palette. He thought the fairy had deserted him.
He threw himself on his bed. It grew dark, and he soon fell asleep; but
in the middle of the night he awoke with a start. His chamber was full
of light, and his fairy friend stood near.
"Shall I take back my gift?" she asked.
"Oh, no, no, no!" he cried. He was rested now, and he did not feel so
much discouraged.
"If you still wish to go on working, take this ring," said the fairy.
"My sister sends it to you. Wear it, and it will greatly assist the
charm."
He took the ring, and the fairy was gone. The ring was set with a
beautiful blue stone, which reflected everything bright that came near
it; and he thought he saw inside the ring the one word--"Hope."
Many more years passed. The young man's mother died, and he went far,
far from home. In the strange land to which he went people thought his
pictures were wonderful; and he had become a great and famous painter.
One day he went to see a large collection of pictures in a great city.
He saw many of his own pictures, and some of them had been painted
before he left his forest home. All the people and the painters praised
them; but there was one that they liked better than the others. It was a
picture of a little child, holding in its hands several water lilies.
Toward evening the people departed one by one, till he was left alone
with his masterpieces. He was sitting in a chair thinking of leaving the
place, when he suddenly fell asleep. And he dreamed that he was again
standing near the little lake in his native land, watching the rays of
the setting sun as they melted away from its surface. The beautiful lily
was in his hand, and while he looked at it the leaves became withered,
and fell at his feet. Then he felt a light touch on his hand. He looked
up, and there on the chair beside him stood the little fairy.
"O wonderful fairy!" he cried, "how can I thank you for your magic gift?
I can give you nothing but my thanks. But at least tell me your name, so
that I may cut it on a ring and always wear it."
"My name," replied the fairy, "is Perseverance."
_Jean Ingelow._
* * * * *
[Illustration:]
Name the different objects you see in the picture. What did the artist
desire to tell? What is the central object? Where is the scene of the
picture placed? What time of the day and of the year does it show?
Describe the boy. How old is he? What impresses you most about him?
Suppose your teacher took the class to this lake for a day's outing.
Write a composition on how the day was spent.
* * * * *
_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._
* * * * *
Memory Gem:
Habit is a cable. Every day we weave a thread, until at last it is so
strong we cannot break it.
* * * * *
_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._]
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
_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.
* * * * *
_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:]
* * * * *
_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._
* * * * *
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:]
* * * * *
_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.
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *