De La Salle Fifth Reader - Brothers of the Christian Schools
* * * * *
_38_
elate'
despond'
lu' mi nous
pil' grim age
ONE BY ONE.
One by one the sands are flowing,
One by one the moments fall;
Some are coming, some are going;
Do not strive to grasp them all.
One by one thy duties wait thee;
Let thy whole strength go to each;
Let no future dreams elate thee,
Learn thou first what these can teach.
One by one (bright gifts from Heaven)
Joys are sent thee here below;
Take them readily when given,
Ready, too, to let them go.
One by one thy griefs shall meet thee;
Do not fear an armed band;
One will fade as others greet thee--
Shadows passing through the land.
Do not look at life's long sorrow;
See how small each moment's pain;
God will help thee for to-morrow,
So each day begin again.
Every hour that fleets so slowly
Has its task to do or bear;
Luminous the crown, and holy,
When each gem is set with care.
Do not linger with regretting,
Or for passing hours despond;
Nor, thy daily toil forgetting,
Look too eagerly beyond.
Hours are golden links, God's token,
Reaching heaven; but one by one
Take them, lest the chain be broken
Ere the pilgrimage be done.
_Adelaide A. Procter._
* * * * *
Choose any four lines of the poem, and tell what lesson each line
teaches.
Name some great works that were done little by little.
What does "Rome was not built in a day" mean?
Tell what is meant by "He that despiseth small faults shall fall by
little and little."
What is the real or literal meaning of the word _gem_?
Find the word in the poem, and tell what meaning it has there.
Explain the line--
"Let no future dreams elate thee."
What is meant by "building castles in the air?"
Study the whole poem line by line, and try to tell yourself what each
line means. Nearly every single line of it teaches an important moral
lesson. Find out what that lesson is.
Tell what you know of the author.
* * * * *
_39_
ca noe'
sup' ple
fi' brous
res' in
sin' ews
tam' a rack
ooz' ing
bal' sam
sol' i ta ry
pli' ant
fis' sure
re sist' ance
som' ber
crev' ice
re splen' dent
THE BIRCH CANOE.
"Give me of your bark, O Birch Tree!
Of your yellow bark, O Birch Tree!
Growing by the rushing river,
Tall and stately in the valley!
I a light canoe will build me,
That shall float upon the river,
Like a yellow leaf in autumn,
Like a yellow water lily!
Lay aside your cloak, O Birch Tree!
Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,
For the summer time is coming,
And the sun is warm in heaven,
And you need no white-skin wrapper!"
Thus aloud cried Hiawatha
In the solitary forest,
When the birds were singing gayly,
In the Moon of Leaves were singing.
And the tree with all its branches
Rustled in the breeze of morning,
Saying, with a sigh of patience,
"Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!"
With his knife the tree he girdled;
Just beneath its lowest branches,
Just above the roots, he cut it,
Till the sap came oozing outward;
Down the trunk, from top to bottom,
Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,
With a wooden wedge he raised it,
Stripped it from the trunk unbroken.
"Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!
Of your strong and pliant branches,
My canoe to make more steady,
Make more strong and firm beneath me!"
Through the summit of the Cedar
Went a sound, a cry of horror,
Went a murmur of resistance;
But it whispered, bending downward,
"Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!"
Down he hewed the boughs of cedar
Shaped them straightway to a framework,
Like two bows he formed and shaped them,
Like two bended bows together.
"Give me of your roots, O Tamarack!
Of your fibrous roots, O Larch Tree!
My canoe to bind together,
So to bind the ends together,
That the water may not enter,
That the river may not wet me!"
And the Larch with all its fibers
Shivered in the air of morning,
Touched his forehead with its tassels,
Said, with one long sigh of sorrow,
"Take them all, O Hiawatha!"
From the earth he tore the fibers,
Tore the tough roots of the Larch Tree.
Closely sewed the bark together,
Bound it closely to the framework.
"Give me of your balm, O Fir Tree!
Of your balsam and your resin,
So to close the seams together
That the water may not enter,
That the river may not wet me!"
And the Fir Tree, tall and somber,
Sobbed through all its robes of darkness,
Rattled like a shore with pebbles,
Answered wailing, answered weeping,
"Take my balm, O Hiawatha!"
And he took the tears of balsam,
Took the resin of the Fir Tree,
Smeared therewith each seam and fissure,
Made each crevice safe from water.
"Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog!
I will make a necklace of them,
Make a girdle for my beauty,
And two stars to deck her bosom!"
From a hollow tree the Hedgehog,
With his sleepy eyes looked at him,
Shot his shining quills, like arrows,
Saying, with a drowsy murmur,
Through the tangle of his whiskers,
"Take my quills, O Hiawatha!"
From the ground the quills he gathered,
All the little shining arrows,
Stained them red and blue and yellow,
With the juice of roots and berries;
Into his canoe he wrought them,
Round its waist a shining girdle.
Round its bows a gleaming necklace,
On its breast two stars resplendent.
Thus the Birch Canoe was builded
In the valley, by the river,
In the bosom of the forest;
And the forest's life was in it,
All its mystery and its magic,
All the lightness of the birch tree,
All the toughness of the cedar,
All the larch's supple sinews;
And it floated on the river,
Like a yellow leaf in autumn,
Like a yellow water lily.
_Longfellow._
From "Song of Hiawatha." Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Publishers.
[Illustration:]
* * * * *
MOON OF LEAVES, month of May.
SHEER, straight up and down.
TAMARACK, the American larch tree.
FISSURE, a narrow opening; a cleft.
What does Hiawatha call the bark of the birch tree?
Where did he get the balsam and resin? What use did he put these to?
What are the drops of balsam called? Why?
NOTE.--"The bark canoe of the Indians is, perhaps, the lightest and most
beautiful model of all the water craft ever invented. It is generally
made complete with the bark of one birch tree, and so skillfully shaped
and sewed together with the roots of the tamarack, that it is
water-tight, and rides upon the water as light as a cork."
* * * * *
_40_
pic' tures
pal' ace
four' teen
fa' mous ly
scul' lion
re past'
in hal' ing
en chant' ed
mat' tress
char' coal
land' scapes
ar' chi tect
PETER OF CORTONA.
A little shepherd boy, twelve years old, one day gave up the care of the
sheep he was tending, and betook himself to Florence, where he knew no
one but a lad of his own age, nearly as poor as himself, who had lived
in the same village, but who had gone to Florence to be scullion in the
house of Cardinal Sachetti. It was for a good motive that little Peter
desired to come to Florence: he wanted to be an artist, and he knew
there was a school for artists there. When he had seen the town well,
Peter stationed himself at the Cardinal's palace; and inhaling the odor
of the cooking, he waited patiently till his Eminence was served, that
he might speak to his old companion, Thomas. He had to wait a long time;
but at length Thomas appeared.
"You here, Peter! What have you come to Florence for?"
"I am come to learn painting."
"You had much better learn kitchen work to begin with; one is then sure
not to die of hunger."
"You have as much to eat as you want here, then?" replied Peter.
"Indeed I have," said Thomas; "I might eat till I made myself ill every
day, if I chose to do it."
"Then," said Peter, "I see we shall do very well. As you have too much
and I not enough, I will bring my appetite, and you will bring the food;
and we shall get on famously."
"Very well," said Thomas.
"Let us begin at once, then," said Peter; "for as I have eaten nothing
to-day, I should like to try the plan directly."
Thomas then took little Peter into the garret where he slept, and bade
him wait there till he brought him some fragments that he was freely
permitted to take. The repast was a merry one, for Thomas was in high
spirits, and little Peter had a famous appetite.
"Ah," cried Thomas, "here you are fed and lodged. Now the question is,
how are you going to study?"
"I shall study like all artists--with pencil and paper."
"But then, Peter, have you money to buy the paper and pencils?"
"No, I have nothing; but I said to myself, 'Thomas, who is scullion at
his lordship's, must have plenty of money!' As you are rich, it is just
the same as if I was."
Thomas scratched his head and replied, that as to broken victuals, he
had plenty of them; but that he would have to wait three years before he
should receive wages. Peter did not mind. The garret walls were white.
Thomas could give him charcoal, and so he set to draw on the walls with
that; and after a little while somebody gave Thomas a silver coin.
With joy he brought it to his friend. Pencils and paper were bought.
Early in the morning Peter went out studying the pictures in the
galleries, the statues in the streets, the landscapes in the
neighborhood; and in the evening, tired and hungry, but enchanted with
what he had seen, he crept back into the garret, where he was always
sure to find his dinner hidden under the mattress, _to keep it warm,_ as
Thomas said. Very soon the first charcoal drawings were rubbed off, and
Peter drew his best designs to ornament his friend's room.
One day Cardinal Sachetti, who was restoring his palace, came with the
architect to the very top of the house, and happened to enter the
scullion's garret. The room was empty; but both Cardinal and architect
were struck with the genius of the drawings. They thought they were
executed by Thomas, and his Eminence sent for him. When poor Thomas
heard that the Cardinal had been in the garret, and had seen what he
called Peter's daubs, he thought all was lost.
"You will no longer be a scullion," said the Cardinal to him; and
Thomas, thinking this meant banishment and disgrace, fell on his knees,
and cried, "Oh! my lord, what will become of poor Peter?"
The Cardinal made him tell his story.
"Bring him to me when he comes in to-night," said he, smiling.
But Peter did not return that night, nor the next, till at length a
fortnight had passed without a sign of him. At last came the news that
the monks of a distant convent had received and kept with them a boy of
fourteen, who had come to ask permission to copy a painting of Raphael
in the chapel of the convent. This boy was Peter. Finally, the Cardinal
sent him as a pupil to one of the first artists in Rome.
Fifty years afterwards there were two old men who lived as brothers in
one of the most beautiful houses in Florence. One said of the other, "He
is the greatest painter of our age." The other said of the first, "He is
a model for evermore of a faithful friend."
* * * * *
PETER OF CORTONA, a great Italian painter and architect. He was
born in Cortona in the year 1596, and died in Rome, in 1669.
EMINENCE, a title of honor, applied to a cardinal.
GALLERIES, rooms or buildings where works of art are exhibited.
VICTUALS (v[)i]t' 'lz), cooked food for human beings.
FORTNIGHT (f[^o]rt' n[=i]t or n[)i]t): This word is contracted from
_fourteen nights._
Locate the cities of _Rome_ and _Florence_.
Give words that mean the opposite of the following:
ill, bade, buy, first, old, begin, empty, enter, cooked, merry, bought,
friend, inhale, patient, palace, distant, appeared, disgrace, famous,
faithful, morning, enchanted.
Recite the words--"Oh, my lord, what will become of poor Peter?"--as
Thomas uttered them. Remember he was beseeching a great _cardinal_ in
favor of a poor destitute _boy_ whom he loved as a brother. He _felt_
what he said.
Do you find any humorous passages in the selection? Read them, and tell
wherein the humor lies.
Memory Gems:
When a friend asketh, there is no to-morrow.
_Spanish Proverb._
Diligence overcomes difficulties; sloth makes them.
_From "Poor Richard's Proverbs."_
A gift in need, though small indeed,
Is large as earth and rich as heaven.
_Whittier_.
* * * * *
_41_
vas' sal
roy' al ly
beg' gar y
hom' age
sen' ti nel
dif' fer ence
TO MY DOG BLANCO.[003]
My dear, dumb friend, low lying there,
A willing vassal at my feet,
Glad partner of my home and fare,
My shadow in the street.
I look into your great brown eyes,
Where love and loyal homage shine,
And wonder where the difference lies
Between your soul and mine!
For all the good that I have found
Within myself or human kind,
Hath royally informed and crowned
Your gentle heart and mind.
I scan the whole broad earth around
For that one heart which, leal and true,
Bears friendship without end or bound,
And find the prize in you.
I trust you as I trust the stars;
Nor cruel loss, nor scoff of pride,
Nor beggary, nor dungeon bars,
Can move you from my side!
As patient under injury
As any Christian saint of old,
As gentle as a lamb with me,
But with your brothers bold;
More playful than a frolic boy,
More watchful than a sentinel,
By day and night your constant joy
To guard and please me well.
I clasp your head upon my breast--
The while you whine and lick my hand--
And thus our friendship is confessed,
And thus we understand!
Ah, Blanco! did I worship God
As truly as you worship me,
Or follow where my Master trod
With your humility,--
Did I sit fondly at His feet,
As you, dear Blanco, sit at mine,
And watch Him with a love as sweet,
My life would grow divine!
_J.G. Holland_
From "The Complete Poetical Writings of J.G. Holland."
[Illustration:]
[Footnote 003: Copyright, 1879, 1881, by Charles Scribner's Sons.]
* * * * *
LEAL (l[=e]l), loyal, faithful.
DUNGEON (d[)u]n' j[)u]n), a close, dark prison, commonly
underground.
Tell what is meant by the terms, dumb friend; willing vassal; glad
partner; my shadow; human kind; frolic boy.
What duty does Blanco teach his master?
Memorize the last two stanzas of the poem.
The three great divisions of time are _past, present, future._ Tell what
time each of the following action-words expresses:
found, find, have found, will find, bears, shall bear, has borne,
crowned, will crown, did crown, crowns.
* * * * *
_42_
ab'bot
clois'ter
min'ster
li'brary
chron' i cle
A STORY OF A MONK.
Many hundreds of years ago there dwelt in a cloister a monk named Urban,
who was remarkable for his earnest and fervent piety. He was a studious
reader of the learned and sacred volumes in the convent library. One day
he read in the Epistles of St. Peter the words, "One day is with the
Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day;" and this
saying seemed impossible in his eyes, so that he spent many an hour in
meditating upon it.
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.
* * * * *
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._
* * * * *
_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 winged 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]
* * * * *
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._
* * * * *
_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."]
* * * * *
_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.