De La Salle Fifth Reader - Brothers of the Christian Schools
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.]
* * * * *
_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!
* * * * *
_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."_
* * * * *
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."_
* * * * *
_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._
* * * * *
_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._
* * * * *
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?
* * * * *
_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.
* * * * *
PROSING, talking in a dull way.
In the following sentences, instead of the words in italics, use others
that have the same general meaning:
I heard these words _ringing_ out from a _room_ so _crowded_ with
_people_ that I could _but_ just _see_ the man's _face._ How _fast_ and
_steadily_ the present time is _slipping_ away!
Punctuate the following:
Go to the ant thou sluggard consider her ways and be wise.
* * * * *
_51_
yearn
car' ol
mus' ing
stee' ple
mag' ic al
SEVEN TIMES TWO.
You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes,
How many soever they be,
And let the brown meadowlark's note, as he ranges,
Come over, come over to me!
Yet birds' clearest carol, by fall or by swelling,
No magical sense conveys;
And bells have forgotten their old art of telling
The fortune of future days.
"Turn again, turn again!" once they rang cheerily,
While a boy listened alone;
Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily
All by himself on a stone.
Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over,
And mine, they are yet to be;
No listening, no longing, shall aught, aught discover:
You leave the story to me.
The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather,
And hangeth her hoods of snow;
She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather:
Oh, children take long to grow!
I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster,
Nor long summer bide so late;
And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster,
For some things are ill to wait.
I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover,
While dear hands are laid on my head,
"The child is a woman--the book may close over,
For all the lessons are said."
I wait for my story: the birds cannot sing it,
Not one, as he sits on the tree;
The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it!
Such as I wish it to be.
_Jean Ingelow._
* * * * *
"TURN AGAIN, TURN AGAIN!" Reference is here made to Dick
Whittington, a poor orphan country lad, who went to London to earn a
living, and who afterwards rose to be the first Lord Mayor of that city.
NOTE.--This poem is the second of a series of seven lyrics, entitled
"The Songs of Seven," which picture seven stages in a woman's life. For
the first of the series, "Seven Times One," see page 44 of the Fourth
Reader. Read it in connection with this. "Seven Times Two" shows the
girl standing at the entrance to maidenhood, books closed and lessons
said, longing for the years to go faster to bring to her the happiness
she imagines is waiting.
[Illustration:]
* * * * *
_52_
man' i fold
do mes' tic
pet' tish ly
in grat' i tude
MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.
It was thirteen years since my mother's death, when, after a long
absence from my native village, I stood beside the sacred mound beneath
which I had seen her buried. Since that mournful period, a great change
had come over me. My childish years had passed away, and with them my
youthful character. The world was altered, too; and as I stood at my
mother's grave, I could hardly realize that I was the same thoughtless,
happy creature, whose cheeks she so often kissed in an excess of
tenderness.
But the varied events of thirteen years had not effaced the remembrance
of that mother's smile. It seemed as if I had seen her but yesterday--as
if the blessed sound of her well-remembered voice was in my ear. The gay
dreams of my infancy and childhood were brought back so distinctly to my
mind that, had it not been for one bitter recollection, the tears I shed
would have been gentle and refreshing.
The circumstance may seem a trifling one, but the thought of it now
pains my heart; and I relate it, that those children who have parents to
love them may learn to value them as they ought.
My mother had been ill a long time, and I had become so accustomed to
her pale face and weak voice, that I was not frightened at them, as
children usually are. At first, it is true, I sobbed violently; but
when, day after day, I returned from school, and found her the same, I
began to believe she would always be spared to me; but they told me she
would die.
One day when I had lost my place in the class, I came home discouraged
and fretful. I went to my mother's chamber. She was paler than usual,
but she met me with the same affectionate smile that always welcomed my
return. Alas! when I look back through the lapse of thirteen years, I
think my heart must have been stone not to have been melted by it. She
requested me to go downstairs and bring her a glass of water. I
pettishly asked her why she did not call a domestic to do it. With a
look of mild reproach, which I shall never forget if I live to be a
hundred years old, she said, "Will not my daughter bring a glass of
water for her poor, sick mother?"
I went and brought her the water, but I did not do it kindly. Instead of
smiling, and kissing her as I had been wont to do, I set the glass down
very quickly, and left the room. After playing a short time, I went to
bed without bidding my mother good night; but when alone in my room, in
darkness and silence, I remembered how pale she looked, and how her
voice trembled when she said, "Will not my daughter bring a glass of
water for her poor, sick mother?" I could not sleep. I stole into her
chamber to ask forgiveness. She had sunk into an easy slumber, and they
told me I must not waken her.
I did not tell anyone what troubled me, but stole back to my bed,
resolved to rise early in the morning and tell her how sorry I was for
my conduct. The sun was shining brightly when I awoke, and, hurrying on
my clothes, I hastened to my mother's chamber. She was dead! She never
spoke more--never smiled upon me again; and when I touched the hand that
used to rest upon my head in blessing, it was so cold that it made me
start.
I bowed down by her side, and sobbed in the bitterness of my heart. I
then wished that I might die, and be buried with her; and, old as I now
am, I would give worlds, were they mine to give, could my mother but
have lived to tell me she forgave my childish ingratitude. But I cannot
call her back; and when I stand by her grave, and whenever I think of
her manifold kindness, the memory of that reproachful look she gave me
will bite like a serpent and sting like an adder.
* * * * *
Memory Gem:
"But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!"
* * * * *
_53_
chide
be dewed'
em balmed'
be tide'
lin' gered
wor' shiped
THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.
I love it, I love it; and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old Arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize;
I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs.
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell?--a mother sat there!
And a sacred thing is that old Arm-chair.
In Childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give,
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me that shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old Arm-chair.
I sat and watched her many a day,
When her eye grew dim and her locks were gray;
And I almost worshiped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on; but the last one sped--
My idol was shattered; my earth-star fled:
I learned how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old Arm-chair.
'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow:
'Twas there she nursed me; 'twas there she died;
And Memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it; and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old Arm-chair.
_Eliza Cook._
* * * * *
SPELL, a verse or phrase or word supposed to have magical power; a
charm.
HALLOWED, made holy.
HOLLOWED, made a hole out of; made hollow. Use these two words
in sentences of your own.
What is meant by "Memory flows with lava tide?"
Write a two-paragraph description of an old arm-chair. Your imagination
will furnish you with all needed details.
Divide the following words into their syllables, and mark the accented
syllable of each:
absurd, every, nature, mature, leisure, valuable, safety, again, virtue,
ancient, weather, history, poetry, mother, genuine, earliest, fatigued,
business.
The dictionary will aid you.
* * * * *
_54_
crags
break
tongue
thoughts
ha' ven
sail' or
state' ly
BREAK, BREAK, BREAK!
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To the haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
_Tennyson_.
[Illustration: Tennyson]
* * * * *
_55_
barns
deaf en ing
i dol' a trous
pon' der
ca lum' ni ate
Be at' i tudes
GOD IS OUR FATHER.
The Old Law, the Law given to the Jews on Mount Sinai, tended to inspire
the fear of God, which is the beginning of wisdom. It was given amidst
fire and smoke, thunders and lightnings, and whatever else could fill
the minds of the Jews with fear and wonder. Compelled, as it were, by
the idolatrous acts of His chosen people, by their repeated rebellions,
and their endless murmurings, God showed Himself to them as the almighty
Sovereign, the King of kings, the Lord of lords, whose holiness, power,
majesty, and severity in punishing sin, filled their minds with awe and
dread.