They went on a little farther, and soon heard the sound of a drum and fife. Daffy-down-dilly besought his companion to hurry forward, that they might not miss seeing the soldiers.

"Quick step! Forward march!" shouted a gruff voice.

Little Daffy-down-dilly started in great dismay; and, turning his eyes to the captain of the company, what should he see but the very image of old Mr. Toil himself, with a smart cap and feather on his head, a pair of gold epaulets on his shoulders, a laced coat on his back, a purple sash round his waist, and a long sword, instead of a birch rod, in his hand! Though he held his head high and strutted like a rooster, still he looked quite as ugly and disagreeable as when he was hearing lessons in the schoolroom.

"This is certainly old Mr. Toil," said Daffy-down-dilly, in a trembling voice. "Let us run away, for fear he will make us enlist in his company!"

"You are mistaken again, my little friend," replied the stranger, very composedly. "This is not Mr. Toil, the schoolmaster, but a brother of his, who has served in the army all his life. People say he's a very severe fellow, but you and I need not be afraid of him."

"Well, well," said Daffy-down-dilly, "but, if you please, sir, I don't want to see the soldiers any more."

So the child and the stranger resumed their journey; and, by and by, they came to a house by the roadside, where some people were making merry. Young men and rosy-cheeked girls, with smiles on their faces, were dancing to the sound of a fiddle.

"Let us stop here," cried Daffy-down-dilly to his companion; "for Mr. Toil will never dare to show his face where there is a fiddler, and where people are dancing and making merry. We shall be quite safe here."

But these last words died away upon Daffy-down-dilly's tongue, for, happening to cast his eyes on the fiddler, whom should he behold again, but the likeness of Mr. Toil, holding a fiddle bow instead of a birch rod.

"Oh, dear!" whispered he, turning pale, "it seems as if there was nobody but Mr. Toil in the world. Who could have thought of his playing on a fiddle!"

"This is not your old schoolmaster," said the stranger, "but another brother of his, who was bred in France, where he learned the profession of a fiddler. He is ashamed of his family, and generally calls himself Mr. Pleasure; but his real name is Toil, and those who have known him best, think him still more disagreeable than his brother."

"Pray let us go a little farther," said Daffy-down-dilly. "I don't like the looks of this fiddler."

Thus the stranger and little Daffy-down-dilly went wandering along the highway, and in shady lanes, and through pleasant villages; and, whithersoever they went, behold! there was the image of old Mr. Toil.

He stood like a scarecrow in the cornfields. If they entered a house, he sat in the parlor; if they peeped into the kitchen, he was there. He made himself at home in every cottage, and, under one disguise or another, stole into the most splendid mansions.

"Oh, take me back!—take me back!" said poor little Daffy-down-dilly, bursting into tears. "If there is nothing but Toil all the world over, I may just as well go back to the schoolhouse."

"Yonder it is,—there is the schoolhouse!" said the stranger; for, though he and little Daffy-down-dilly had taken a great many steps, they had traveled in a circle, instead of a straight line. "Come; we will go back to school together."

There was something in his companion's voice that little Daffy-down-dilly now remembered; and it is strange that he had not remembered it sooner. Looking up into his face, behold! there again was the likeness of old Mr. Toil; so the poor child had been in company with Toil all day, even while he was doing his best to run away from him.

When Daffy-down-dilly became better acquainted with Mr. Toil, he began to think that his ways were not so very disagreeable, and that the old schoolmaster's smile of approbation made his face almost as pleasant as the face of his own dear mother.

Nathaniel Hawthorne.

"Little Daffy-down-dilly and Other Stories." Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Publishers.

* * * * *

How will the following sentences read if you change the name-words from the singular to the plural form: The old schoolmaster has a rod in his hand. The boy likes his teacher. The girl goes cheerfully on an errand for her mother. The pupil attends to his book, and knows his lesson perfectly. Under the blue sky, and while the bird was singing sweetly in tree and bush, the farmer was making hay in his meadow. The man won't trouble him unless he becomes a laborer on his farm. The captain had a smart cap and feather on his head, a laced coat on his back, a purple sash round his waist, and a long sword instead of a birch rod in his hand.

From points furnished by your teacher, write a short composition on "Our School." Be careful as to spelling, capitals, punctuation, paragraphs, margin, penmanship, neatness and general appearance.

Memory Gems:

Evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart.

Hood.

It is not where you are, but what you are, that determines your happiness.

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63

su' macs char' coal of fi' cial fres' coes in i' tial rest' less ly



IN SCHOOL DAYS

Still sits the schoolhouse by the road, A ragged beggar sunning; Around it still the sumacs grow And blackberry vines are running.

Within, the master's desk is seen, Deep scarred by raps official; The warping floor, the battered seats, The jackknife's carved initial;

The charcoal frescoes on its wall; Its door's worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school, Went storming out to playing!

Long years ago a winter sun Shone over it at setting; Lit up its western window-panes, And low eaves' icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls, And brown eyes full of grieving, Of one who still her steps delayed When all the school were leaving.

For near her stood the little boy Her childish favor singled; His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled.

Pushing with restless feet the snow To right and left, he lingered; As restlessly her tiny hands The blue-checked apron fingered.

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt The soft hand's light caressing, And heard the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing:

"I'm sorry that I spelt the word; I hate to go above you, Because,"—the brown eyes lower fell,— "Because, you see, I love you!"

Still memory to a gray-haired man That sweet child-face is showing. Dear girl! the grasses on her grave Have forty years been growing!

He lives to learn, in life's hard school, How few who pass above him Lament their triumph and his loss, Like her,—because they love him.

Whittier.

From "Child Life in Poetry." Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Publishers.



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64

Mars so' lar (ler) Ve' nus plan' ets Mer' cu ry di am' e ter com' pass es sat' el lite tel' e scope grad' u al ly in' ter est ing cir cum' fer ence



THE SUN'S FAMILY

"Please tell me a story, Frank" said Philip, as the two boys sat in the shade of a large tree.

"I have heard and read many wonderful stories. I will try to recall one," said Frank.

"Let me see. Well—perhaps—I think that the most wonderful story I have ever read is that of the solar system, or the sun's family."

"Solar system!" repeated Philip. "That certainly sounds hard enough to puzzle even a fairy. Please tell me all about it."

"That I should find much too hard" answered Frank. "But I'll try to tell you what little I know. You see the sun there, don't you—the great shining sun? Do you think the sun moves?"

"Of course it moves," said Philip. "I always see it in the morning when I am in the garden. It rises first above the bushes, then over the trees and houses; by evening it has traveled across the sky, when it sinks below the houses and trees, out of sight on the other side of the town."

"Now that is quite a mistake," said Frank, "You think that the sun is traveling all that way along the sky, whereas it is really we—we on this big ball of earth—who are moving. We are whirling around on the outer surface, rushing on at the rate—let me think—at the rate of more than one thousand miles a minute!"

"Frank, what do you mean?" cried Philip.

"I mean that the earth is moving many times faster than a ball moves when shot from the mouth of a cannon!"

"Do you expect me to believe that, Frank! I can hardly believe that this big, solid earth moves at all; but to think of it with all the cities, towns, and people whirling round and round faster than a ball from the mouth of a cannon, while we never feel that it stirs one inch,—this is much harder to believe than all that the fairies have ever told us."

"Yes, but it is quite true for all that," replied Frank.

"I have learned much about the motions of the planets, and viewed the stars one night through a telescope. As I looked through this instrument, the stars appeared to me much larger than ever before. The earth is a planet, and there are besides our earth seven large planets and many small ones, which also whirl around the sun. Some of these planets are larger than our world. Some of them also move much faster.

"The sun is in the middle with the planets moving around him. The one nearest to the sun is Mercury."

"It must be hot there!" cried Philip.

"I dare say that if we were in Mercury we should be scorched to ashes; but if creatures live on that planet, God has given them a different nature from ours, so that they may enjoy what would be dreadful to us.

"The next planet to Mercury is Venus. Venus is sometimes seen shining so bright after sunset; then she is called the evening star. Some of the time, a little before sunrise, she may be seen in the east; she is then called the morning star.

"Venus can never be an evening star and a morning star at the same time of the year. If you are watching her this evening before or after sundown, there is no use getting up early to-morrow to look for her again. For several weeks Venus remains an evening star, then gradually disappears. Two months later you may see her in the east—a bright morning star.

"Our earth is the third planet, and Mars is the fourth from the sun. Now let us make a drawing of what we have been talking about.

"First open the compasses one inch; describe a circle, and make a dot on its circumference, naming it Mercury. Write on this circle eighty-eight days; this shows the time it takes Mercury to travel around the sun. Make another circle three and one-half inches in diameter and make a dot on it. This represents Venus. It takes Venus two hundred twenty-five days to journey around the sun.

"The next circle we have to draw is a very interesting one to us. The compasses must be opened two and one-half inches. The path made represents the journey we take in three hundred sixty-five days.

"One more circle must be drawn to complete our little plan. This circle must be eight inches in diameter. You see Mars is much farther from the sun than our earth is. It takes him six hundred eighty-seven days to make the trip around the sun. The other planets are too far away to be put in this plan."

"O, Frank, you have missed the biggest of all—the moon!" said Philip.

"O, no, no!" exclaimed Frank. "The moon is quite a little ball. It is less than seven thousand miles around her, while our earth is twenty-five thousand miles around."

"Is that a little ball, Frank?"

"Yes, compared with the sun and the planets. The moon is what is called a satellite—that is, a servant or an attendant. She is a satellite of our earth. She keeps circling round and round our earth, while we go circling round and round the sun.

"How fast the moon must travel! If I were to go rushing round a field, and a bird should keep flying around my head, you see that the movements of the bird would be much quicker than mine."

"I can't understand it, Frank," said Philip. "The moon always looks so quiet in the sky. If she is darting about like lightning, why is it that she scarcely seems to move more than an inch in ten minutes?"

"I suppose," said Frank, after a thoughtful silence, "that what to us seems an inch in the sky is really many miles. You know how very fast the steam cars seem to go when one is quite near them, yet I have seen a train of cars far off which seemed to go so slowly that I could fancy it was painted on the sky."

"Yes, that must be the reason; but how do people find out these curious things about the sun and the stars—to know how large they are and how fast they go?" asked Philip.

"That is something we shall understand when we are older," said Frank. "We must gain a little knowledge every day."

"Is the earth the only planet that has a moon?" asked Philip.

"Mercury and Venus have no moons. Mars has two, and Jupiter has four, but we can see them only when we look through a telescope." replied Frank.

"Are all the twinkling stars which one sees on a fine clear night, planets?" inquired Philip.

"Those that twinkle are not planets; they are fixed stars," said Frank. "A planet does not twinkle. It has no light of its own. It shines just as the moon shines, because the sun gives it light."

"But our earth does not shine!" said Philip.

"Indeed it does," explained Frank. "Our earth appears to Venus and Mars as a shining planet."

"There must be many more fixed stars than planets, then, for almost every star that I can see twinkles and sparkles like a diamond. Do these fixed stars all go around the sun?" asked Philip.

"O, Philip! haven't you noticed that they are called fixed stars to show that they do not move like planets? The word planet means to wander. These fixed stars are suns themselves, which may have planets of their own. They are so very far away that we cannot know much about them, except that they shine of themselves just as our sun does.

"We know that our sun gives light and heat to the planets and satellites with which he is surrounded. We know that without his warm rays there would not be any flowers or birds or any living thing on the earth. So we can easily imagine that all other suns are shining in the same way for the worlds that surround them."

* * * * *

Make a drawing of the sun and the three planets nearest it, as directed in the lesson.

Fill each blank space in the following sentences with the correct form of the action-word draw:

My boys like to —.

Yesterday they — the picture of an old mill.

They are now — a picture of the solar system.

The lines on the blackboard were — by John. He — well.

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65

dew' y clos'es ca ress' twined wreaths weath'er brook' let togeth'er



WILL AND I

We roam the hills together, In the golden summer weather, Will and I; And the glowing sunbeams bless us, And the winds of heaven caress us, As we wander hand in hand Through the blissful summer land, Will and I.

Where the tinkling brooklet passes Through the heart of dewy grasses, Will and I Have heard the mock-bird singing, And the field lark seen upspringing, In his happy flight afar, Like a tiny winged star— Will and I.

Amid cool forest closes, We have plucked the wild wood-roses, Will and I; And have twined, with tender duty, Sweet wreaths to crown the beauty Of the purest brows that shine With a mother-love divine, Will and I.

Ah! thus we roam together, Through the golden summer weather, Will and I; While the glowing sunbeams bless us, And the winds of heaven caress us, As we wander hand in hand O'er the blissful summer land, Will and I.

Paul H. Hayne.

* * * * *

CLOSES, small inclosed fields.

Write about what you and Will saw, heard, and did, as you roamed together over the hills, through the woods, along the brooklet, on a certain bright, clear day in early summer. You are a country boy and Will is your city cousin. If you begin your composition by saying, "It was a beautiful afternoon towards the end of June," keep the image of the day in mind till the end of the paragraph; tell what made the day beautiful,—such as the sun, the sky, the trees, the grass. In other paragraphs tell the things you saw and heard in the order in which you saw and heard them. Give a paragraph to what you did in the "closes" of the cool forest, and why you plucked the wild flowers. Conclude by telling what a pleasant surprise you gave mother on your return home; and how she surprised you two hungry boys during supper.

In your composition, use as many of the words and phrases of the poem as you can.

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66

themes her' e sy ramp' ant a chieved' es cort ed po ta'toes trem' u lous lux u' ri ous cre du' li ty in cred' i ble phe nom' e non pre ma ture' ly



CHRISTMAS DINNER AT THE CRATCHITS'.



Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and getting the corners of his monstrous shirt-collar (Bob's private property, conferred upon his son and heir in honor of the day) into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired. And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's they had smelt the goose, and known it for their own; and, basking in luxurious thoughts of sage and onions, they danced about the table, and exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while he (not proud, although his collar nearly choked him) blew the fire, until the potatoes, bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan-lid to be let out and peeled.

"What has ever kept your precious father, then?" said Mrs. Cratchit. "And your brother, Tiny Tim? And Martha wasn't as late last Christmas Day by half an hour!"

"Here's Martha, mother!" cried the two young Cratchits. "Hurrah! There's such a goose, Martha!"

"Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!" said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet for her with officious zeal.

"We'd a deal of work to finish up last night, and had to clear away this morning, mother!"

"Well, never mind so long as you are come," said Mrs. Cratchit. "Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye!"

"No, no! There's father coming," cried the two young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once. "Hide, Martha, hide!"

So Martha hid herself, and in came the father, with at least three feet of comforter, exclusive of the fringe, hanging down before him; and his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, to look seasonable; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his limb supported by an iron frame.

"Why, where's our Martha?" cried Bob Cratchit, looking round.

"Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchit.

"Not coming!" said Bob, with a sudden declension in his high spirits; for he had been Tim's blood-horse all the way from church, and had come home rampant. "Not coming upon Christmas Day!"

Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off to the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper.

"And how did little Tim behave?" asked Mrs. Cratchit, when she had rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart's content.

"As good as gold," said Bob, "and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember, upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk and blind men see."

Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.

His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to his stool beside the fire; and while Bob compounded some hot mixture in a jug, and put it on the hob to simmer, Master Peter and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high procession.

Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter of course—and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and, mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah!

Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't eaten it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows! But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone—too nervous to bear witnesses—to take the pudding up and bring it in.

Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in turning out! Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the backyard and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose—a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid. All sorts of horrors were supposed.

Halloa! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating house and a pastry cook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that! That was the pudding! In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered—flushed, but smiling proudly—with the pudding like a speckled cannon ball, so hard and firm, smoking hot, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.

Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that, now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for so large a family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing.

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 reëchoed.

"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.



* * * * *

DECLENSION, a falling downward.

COPPER, a boiler made of copper.

RALLIED, indulged in pleasant humor.

UBIQUITOUS (u bĭk' wĭ tŭs), appearing to be everywhere at the same time.

EKED OUT, added to; increased.

BEDIGHT, bedecked; adorned.

REËCHOED (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 (sĕs ȧ rē' ȧ), 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."



* * * * *



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.



* * * * *



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."

"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.

* * * * *



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."



* * * * *

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.



* * * * *



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 (sfē'), 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 ī or äĭ; meaning ever, and used only in poetry, it is pronounced ā.

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."



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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.

* * * * *

Suddenly an unseen Presence Checked those constant moaning cries, Stilled the little heart's quick fluttering, Raised those blue and wondering eyes, Fixed on some mysterious vision With a startled, sweet surprise.

For a radiant angel hovered, Smiling, o'er the little bed; White his raiment; from his shoulders Snowy dove-like pinions spread, And a starlike light was shining In a glory round his head.

While, with tender love, the angel, Leaning o'er the little nest, In his arms the sick child folding, Laid him gently on his breast, Sobs and wailings told the mother That her darling was at rest.

So the angel, slowly rising, Spread his wings, and through the air Bore the child; and, while he held him To his heart with loving care, Placed a branch of crimson roses Tenderly beside him there.

While the child, thus clinging, floated Towards the mansions of the Blest, Gazing from his shining guardian To the flowers upon his breast, Thus the angel spake, still smiling On the little heavenly guest:

"Know, dear little one, that Heaven Does no earthly thing disdain; Man's poor joys find there an echo Just as surely as his pain; Love, on earth so feebly striving, Lives divine in Heaven again.

"Once, in that great town below us, In a poor and narrow street, Dwelt a little sickly orphan; Gentle aid, or pity sweet, Never in life's rugged pathway Guided his poor tottering feet.

"All the striving, anxious fore-thought That should only come with age Weighed upon his baby spirit, Showed him soon life's sternest page; Grim Want was his nurse, and Sorrow Was his only heritage."

* * * * *

"One bright day, with feeble footsteps Slowly forth he tried to crawl Through the crowded city's pathways, Till he reached a garden-wall, Where 'mid princely halls and mansions Stood the lordliest of all.

"There were trees with giant branches, Velvet glades where shadows hide; There were sparkling fountains glancing, Flowers, which in luxuriant pride Even wafted breaths of perfume To the child who stood outside.

"He against the gate of iron Pressed his wan and wistful face, Gazing with an awe-struck pleasure At the glories of the place; Never had his brightest day-dream Shone with half such wondrous grace.

"You were playing in that garden, Throwing blossoms in the air, Laughing when the petals floated Downwards on your golden hair; And the fond eyes watching o'er you, And the splendor spread before you, Told a House's Hope was there.

"When your servants, tired of seeing Such a face of want and woe, Turning to the ragged orphan, Gave him coin, and bade him go, Down his cheeks so thin and wasted Bitter tears began to flow.

"But that look of childish sorrow On your tender child-heart fell, And you plucked the reddest roses From the tree you loved so well, Passed them through the stern cold grating, Gently bidding him 'Farewell!'

"Dazzled by the fragrant treasure And the gentle voice he heard, In the poor forlorn boy's spirit, Joy, the sleeping Seraph, stirred; In his hand he took the flowers, In his heart the loving word.

"So he crept to his poor garret; Poor no more, but rich and bright; For the holy dreams of childhood— Love, and Rest, and Hope, and Light— Floated round the orphan's pillow Through the starry summer night.

"Day dawned, yet the visions lasted; All too weak to rise he lay; Did he dream that none spake harshly,— All were strangely kind that day? Surely then his treasured roses Must have charmed all ills away.

"And he smiled, though they were fading; One by one their leaves were shed; 'Such bright things could never perish, They would bloom again,' he said. When the next day's sun had risen Child and flowers both were dead.

"Know, dear little one, our Father Will no gentle deed disdain; Love on the cold earth beginning Lives divine in Heaven again; While the angel hearts that beat there Still all tender thoughts retain."

So the angel ceased, and gently O'er his little burden leant; While the child gazed from the shining, Loving eyes that o'er him bent, To the blooming roses by him. Wondering what that mystery meant.

Thus the radiant angel answered, And with tender meaning smiled: "Ere your childlike, loving spirit, Sin and the hard world defiled, God has given me leave to seek you,— I was once that little child!"

* * * * *

In the churchyard of that city Rose a tomb of marble rare, Decked, as soon as Spring awakened, With her buds and blossoms fair,— And a humble grave beside it,— No one knew who rested there.

Adelaide A. Procter.



* * * * *

Enlarge the following brief summary of the Angel's Story into a composition the length of which to be determined by your teacher. Use many of the words and forms of expression you find in the poem.

THE ANGEL'S STORY

A poor little boy, to whom a child of wealth had in pity given a bunch of "reddest roses," died with the fading flowers. Afterwards he came as a "radiant angel" to visit his dying friend, and in a spirit of gratitude bore him to heaven.

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80

al' ti tude as tound' ing ve loc' i ty vag' a bond mus tach' es hes i ta' ting ly par' a lyzed tre men' dous ex tra or' di na ry



GLUCK'S VISITOR.

It was drawing toward winter, and very cold weather, when one day Gluck's two older brothers had gone out, with their usual warning to little Gluck, who was left to mind the roast, that he was to let nobody in and give nothing out. Gluck sat down quite close to the fire, for it was raining very hard. He turned and turned, and the roast got nice and brown.

"What a pity," thought Gluck, "that my brothers never ask anybody to dinner. I'm sure, when they have such a nice piece of mutton as this, it would do their hearts good to have somebody to eat it with them." Just as he spoke there came a double knock at the house door, yet heavy and dull, as though the knocker had been tied up. "It must be the wind," said Gluck; "nobody else would venture to knock double knocks at our door."

No; it wasn't the wind. There it came again very hard, and what was particularly astounding the knocker seemed to be in a hurry, and not to be in the least afraid of the consequences. Gluck put his head out the window to see who it was.

It was the most extraordinary looking little gentleman he had ever seen in his life. He had a very large nose, slightly brass-colored; his cheeks were very round and very red; his eyes twinkled merrily through long, silky eyelashes; his mustaches curled twice round like a corkscrew on each side of his mouth, and his hair, of a curious mixed pepper-and-salt color, descended far over his shoulders. He was about four feet six in height, and wore a conical pointed cap of nearly the same altitude, decorated with a black feather some three feet long. He wore an enormous black, glossy-looking cloak, which must have been very much too long in calm weather, as the wind carried it clear out from the wearer's shoulders to about four times his own length.

Gluck was so perfectly paralyzed by the appearance of his visitor that he remained fixed, without uttering a word, until the old gentleman turned round to look after his fly-away cloak. In so doing he caught sight of Gluck's little yellow head jammed in the window, with its mouth and eyes very wide open indeed.

"Hello!" said the little gentleman, "that's not the way to answer the door. I'm wet; let me in." To do the little gentleman justice, he was wet. His feather hung down between his legs like a beaten puppy's tail, dripping like an umbrella; and from the end of his mustaches the water was running into his waistcoat pockets, and out again like a mill stream.

"I'm very sorry" said Gluck, "but I really can't."

"Can't what?" said the old gentleman.

"I can't let you in, sir. My brothers would beat me to death, sir, if I thought of such a thing. What do you want, sir?"

"Want?" said the old gentleman. "I want fire and shelter; and there's your great fire there blazing, crackling, and dancing on the walls, with nobody to feel it. Let me in, I say."

Gluck had had his head, by this time, so long out of the window that he began to feel it was really unpleasantly cold. When he turned and saw the beautiful fire rustling and roaring, and throwing long, bright tongues up the chimney, as if it were licking its chops at the savory smell of the leg of mutton, his heart melted within him that it should be burning away for nothing.

"He does look very wet," said little Gluck; "I'll just let him in for a quarter of an hour."

As the little gentleman walked in, there came a gust of wind through the house that made the old chimney totter.

"That's a good boy. Never mind your brothers. I'll talk to them."

"Pray, sir, don't do any such thing," said Gluck. "I can't let you stay till they come; they'd be the death of me."

"Dear me," said the old gentleman, "I'm sorry to hear that. How long may I stay?"

"Only till the mutton is done, sir," replied Gluck, "and it's very brown." Then the old gentleman walked into the kitchen and sat himself down on the hob, with the top of his cap up the chimney, for it was much too high for the roof.

"You'll soon dry there; sir," said Gluck, and sat down again to turn the mutton. But the old gentleman did not dry there, but went on drip, drip, dripping among the cinders, so that the fire fizzed and sputtered and began to look very black and uncomfortable. Never was such a cloak; every fold in it ran like a gutter.

"I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck, at length, after watching the water spreading in long, quicksilver-like streams over the floor; "mayn't I take your cloak?"

"No, thank you," said the old gentleman.

"Your cap, sir?"

"I am all right, thank you," said the old gentleman, rather gruffly.

"But—sir—I'm very sorry," said Gluck, hesitatingly, "but—really—sir—you're putting the fire out."

"It'll take longer to do the mutton, then."

Gluck was very much puzzled by the behavior of his guest; it was such a strange mixture of coolness and humility.

"That mutton looks very nice," said the old gentleman. "Can't you give me a little bit?"

"Impossible, sir," said Gluck.

"I'm very hungry," continued the old gentleman; "I've had nothing to eat yesterday nor to-day. They surely couldn't miss a bit from the knuckle!"

He spoke in so very melancholy a tone that it quite melted Gluck's heart.

"They promised me one slice to-day, sir," said he; "I can give you that, but no more."

"That's a good boy," said the old gentleman again.

"I don't care if I do get beaten for it," thought Gluck.

Just as he had cut a large slice out of the mutton, there came a tremendous rap at the door. The old gentleman jumped; Gluck fitted the slice into the mutton again, and ran to open the door.

"What did you keep us waiting in the rain for?" said Schwartz, as he walked in, throwing his umbrella in Gluck's face.

"Aye; what for, indeed, you little vagabond?" said Hans, administering an educational box on the ear, as he followed his brother.

"Bless my soul!" said Schwartz, when he opened the door.

"Amen," said the little gentleman, who had taken his cap off, and was standing in the middle of the kitchen, bowing with the utmost velocity.

"Who's that?" said Schwartz, catching up a rolling-pin, and turning fiercely to Gluck.

"I don't know, indeed, brother," said Gluck, in great terror.

"How did he get in?" roared Schwartz.

"My dear brother, he was so very wet!"

The rolling-pin was descending on Gluck's head; but, at that instant, the old gentleman interposed his conical cap, on which it crashed with a shock that shook the water out of it all over the room. What was very odd, the rolling-pin no sooner touched the cap, than it flew out of Schwartz's hand, spinning like a straw in a high wind, and fell into the corner at the farther end of the room.

"Who are you sir?" demanded Schwartz.

"What's your business?" snarled Hans.

"I'm a poor old man, sir," the little gentleman began, very modestly, "and I saw your fire through the window, and begged shelter for a quarter of an hour."

"Have the goodness to walk out again, then," said Schwartz. "We've quite enough water in our kitchen, without making it a drying house."

"It's a very cold day, sir, to turn an old man out in, sir; look at my gray hairs."

"Aye!" said Hans, "there are enough of them to keep you warm. Walk!"

"I'm very, very hungry, sir; couldn't you spare me a bit of bread before I go?"

"Bread, indeed!" said Schwartz; "do you suppose we've nothing to do with our bread but to give it to such fellows as you?"

"Why don't you sell your feather?" said Hans, sneeringly. "Out with you."

"A little bit," said the old gentleman.

"Be off!" said Schwartz.

"Pray, gentlemen."

"Off!" cried Hans, seizing him by the collar. But he had no sooner touched the old gentleman's collar than away he went after the rolling-pin, spinning round and round, till he fell into the corner on the top of it.

Then Schwartz was very angry, and ran at the old gentleman to turn him out. But he also had hardly touched him, when away he went after Hans and the rolling-pin, and hit his head against the wall as he tumbled into the corner. And so there they lay, all three.

Then the old gentleman spun himself round until his long cloak was all wound neatly about him, clapped his cap on his head, very much on one side, gave a twist to his corkscrew mustaches, and replied, with perfect coolness: "Gentlemen, I wish you a very good morning. At twelve o'clock to-night, I'll call again."

John Ruskin.

* * * * *

NOTE.—"The King of the Golden River," from which the selection is taken, is a charming story for children. It was written in 1841, for the amusement of a sick child. It is said to be the finest story of its kind in the language.



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81

elf en cir' cled jerk hur' ri cane rein'deer min' i a ture tar' nished



A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse: The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In the hope that St. Nicholas soon would be there. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And Mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, When out on the lawn there rose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave the luster of midday to objects below; When, what to my wondering eyes should appear But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick! More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted and called them by name: "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! now, Vixen! On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall, Now, dash away! dash away! dash away, all!" As dry leaves, that before the wild hurricane fly When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas, too; And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack; His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry; His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow; The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath; He had a broad face, and a little round belly, That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly. He was chubby and plump,—a right jolly old elf— And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself. A wink of his eye and a twist of his head Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And, laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle; But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

Clement C. Moore.

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82

a chieved' es poused' thral' dom al li' ance ter rif' ic Del' a ware Com' mo dore re cip' i ents New' found land can non ad' ing par tic' i pa ted char ac ter is' tic



COMMODORE JOHN BARRY.

The story of the American Navy is a story of glorious deeds. From the early days of Barry and Jones, when it swept the decks of King George's proud ships with merciless fire, down to the glories achieved by Admirals Dewey and Schley in our war with Spain, the story of our Navy is the pride and glory of our Republic. The glowing track of its victories extends around the world.

Of the many distinguished men whose names and whose deeds adorn the pages of our country's history, there is none more deserving of our gratitude and admiration than Commodore John Barry. His name and fame will live in the naval annals of our country as long as the history of America lasts.

Commodore Barry, the founder of the American Navy, was born in County Wexford, Ireland, in the year 1745. At the age of fourteen he left home for a life on

"The sea, the sea, the open sea, The blue, the fresh, the ever free."

On board trading vessels he made several voyages to America. He spent his leisure hours in reading and study, and in this way soon acquired a general and practical education. By fidelity to duty, he advanced so rapidly in his profession that at the age of twenty-five we find him in command of the Black Prince, one of the finest merchant vessels then running between Philadelphia and London.

When the Revolution broke out between the Colonies and England, our gallant Commodore gave up the command of his ship, and without delay or hesitation espoused the cause of his adopted country. Congress purchased a few vessels, had them fitted out for war, and placed the little fleet under the command of Captain Barry. His flagship was the Lexington, named after the first battle of the Revolution; and Congress having at this time adopted a national flag, the Star-spangled Banner, the Lexington was the first to hoist this ensign of freedom.

From the time of the fitting out of the Lexington down to the time of the declaration of peace, which assured the liberation of the Colonies from the thraldom of Great Britain, Commodore Barry was constantly engaged on shore and afloat. Though he actually participated in upwards of twenty sea fights, always against a force superior to his own, he never once struck his flag to the enemy. The field of his operations ranged all the way from the capes of the Delaware to the West Indies, and as far east as the coast of Maine and Newfoundland. His victories were hailed with joy throughout the country, and Barry and his men were publicly thanked by General Washington.

During the darkest days of the War, while Washington was spending the winter of 1777 in camp at Valley Forge, with our brave soldiers perishing for want of provisions, blankets, clothing and tents, an incident occurred which shows how supremely loyal and devoted Commodore Barry was to the American cause. The British troops were occupying Philadelphia. Lord Howe, their commander, offered our great sea fighter a bribe of fifty thousand guineas and the command of a ship of war, if he would abandon the American cause and enter the service of England. Barry's indignant reply should be written in letters of gold: "I have engaged in the service of my adopted country, and neither the value nor the command of the whole British fleet can seduce me from it."

General Washington had the utmost confidence in the pluck and daring and loyalty of Barry. He selected him as the best and safest man to be trusted with the important mission of carrying our commissioners to France to secure that alliance and assistance which we then so sorely needed.

On his homeward trip, it is related that being hailed by a British man-of-war with the usual questions as to the name of his ship, captain, and destination, he gave the following bold and characteristic reply: "This is the United States ship Alliance: Jack Barry, half Irishman and half Yankee, commander: who are you?" In the engagement that followed, Barry and his band of heroes performed such deeds of valor that after a few hours of terrific cannonading, the English ship was forced to strike its colors and surrender to the "half Irishman and half Yankee."

This illustrious man, who was the first that bore the title of Commodore in the service of our Republic, continued at the head of our infant Navy till his death, which took place in Philadelphia, on the 13th of September, 1803. During life he was generous and charitable, and at his death made the children of the Catholic Orphan Asylum of Philadelphia the chief recipients of his wealth. His remains repose in the little graveyard attached to St. Mary's Catholic church.