—Longfellow.

[21] Boston.

[22] Charlestown.

[23] grenadiers, British soldiers.

BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; He is tramping out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword; His truth is marching on.

I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I have read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps: His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel; "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel; Since God is marching on."

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment seat; Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me; As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on.

—Julia Ward Howe.

THE BAREFOOT BOY.[24]

Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy with cheeks of tan! With thy turned up pantaloons And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lips, redder still, Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; From my heart I give thee joy!— I was once a barefoot boy!

Oh, for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned in schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild flower's time and place, How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell,

How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung, Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shine, Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay.

Oh, for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw Me, their master, waited for! I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade.

Laughed the brook for my delight, Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall. Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides.

I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy!

—Whittier.

[24] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.

LINCOLN, THE GREAT COMMONER.[25]

When the Norn-mother saw the Whirl-wind Hour, Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, She bent the strenuous heavens and came down To make a man to meet the mortal need. She took the tried clay of the common road, Clay warm yet with the genial heat of earth, Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy: Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff, It was a stuff to wear for centuries, A man that matched the mountains and compelled The stars to look our way and honor us.

The color of the ground was in him, the red Earth The tang and odor of the primal things— The rectitude and patience of the rocks: The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; The courage of the bird that dares the sea; The justice of the rain that loves all leaves; The pity of the snow that hides all scars; The loving kindness of the wayside well; The tolerance and equity of light That gives as freely to the shrinking weed As to the great oak flaring to the wind— To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn That shoulders out the sky.

And so he came From prairie cabin up to Capitol, One fair Ideal led our chieftain on. Forevermore he burned to do his deed With the fine stroke and gesture of a king. He built the rail pile as he built the State, Pouring his splendid strength through every blow, The conscience of him testing every blow, To make his deed the measure of a man.

So came the captain with the mighty heart; And when the step of earthquake shook the house, Wrenching the rafters from their ancient hold, He held the ridge-pole up and spiked again The rafters of the Home. He held his place— Held the long purpose like a growing tree— Held on through blame and faltered not at praise. And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down As when a kingly cedar green with boughs Goes down with a great shout upon the hills.

—Edwin Markham.

[25] Copyrighted by Doubleday & McClure. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.

OPPORTUNITY.[26]

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream: There spread a cloud of dust along a plain And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords Shocked upon swords and shields, a prince's banner Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.

A craven hung along the battle's edge, And thought: "Had I a sword of keener steel— That blue blade that the king's son bears—but this Blunt thing!" He snapped and flung it from his hand, And lowering crept away and left the field.

Then came the king's son wounded, sore bestead, And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, Hilt buried in the dry and trodden sand, And ran and snatched it, and with battle shout Lifted afresh, he hewed his enemy down, And saved a great cause on that heroic day.

—Edward Rowland Sill.

[26] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.

A SONG.[27]

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear; There is ever a something sings alway: There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear, And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray.

The sunshine showers across the grain, And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree; And in and out, when the eaves drip rain, The swallows are twittering ceaselessly.

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear. Be the skies above or dark or fair, There is ever a song that our hearts may hear— There is ever a song somewhere, my dear— There is ever a song somewhere!

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, In the mid-night black, or the mid-day blue; The robin pipes when the sun is here, And the cricket chirps the whole night through.

The buds may blow, and the fruit may grow, And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sear; But whether the sun, or the rain, or the snow, There is ever a song somewhere, my dear.

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear. Be the skies above or dark or fair, There is ever a song that our hearts may hear— There is ever a song somewhere, my dear— There is ever a song somewhere!

—James Whitcomb Riley.

[27] From "Afterwhiles," copyrighted 1887, by Bowen-Merrill Co. Must not be reprinted without permission from the publishers.

TO A FRIEND.

Green be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days! None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell, when thou wert dying, From eyes unused to weep, And long, where thou art lying, Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts, whose truth was proven, Like thine are laid in earth, There should a wreath be woven To tell the world their worth.

—Fitz-Greene Halleck.



SEVENTH GRADE

PSALM CXXI.

1. I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help.

2. My help cometh from the Lord, which made Heaven and earth.

3. He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: He that keepeth thee will not slumber.

4. Behold, He that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.

5. The Lord is thy keeper: The Lord is thy shade on thy right hand.

6. The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night.

7. The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: He shall preserve thy soul.

8. The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore.

—Bible.

RAIN IN SUMMER.

How beautiful is the rain! After the dust and heat, In the broad and fiery street, In the narrow lane, How beautiful is the rain!

How it clatters upon the roofs Like the tramp of hoofs! How it gushes and struggles out From the throat of the overflowing spout.

Across the window-pane It pours and pours, And swift and wide, With a muddy tide, Like a river down the gutter roars The rain, the welcome rain!

The sick man from his chamber looks At the twisted brooks; He can feel the cool Breath of each little pool; His fevered brain Grows calm again, And he breathes a blessing on the rain!

From the neighboring school Come the boys With more than their wonted noise And commotion; And down the wet streets Sail their mimic[28] fleets, Till the treacherous pool Engulfs them in its whirling And turbulent ocean.

In the country on every side, Where, far and wide, Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, Stretches the plain, To the dry grass and the drier grain How welcome is the rain!

In the furrowed land The toilsome and patient oxen stand, Lifting the yoke-encumbered[29] head, With their dilated nostrils spread, They silently inhale The clover-scented gale, And the vapors that arise From the well-watered and smoking soil For this rest in the furrow after toil, Their large and lustrous eyes Seem to thank the Lord, More than man's spoken word.

Near at hand, From under the sheltering trees, The farmer sees His pastures and his fields of grain, As they bend their tops To the numberless beating drops Of the incessant rain. He counts it as no sin That he sees therein Only his own thrift and gain.

These and far more than these, The Poet sees! He can behold Aquarius[30] old Walking the fenceless fields of air And, from each ample fold Of the clouds about him rolled, Scattering everywhere The showery rain, As the farmer scatters his grain.

He can behold Things manifold That have not yet been wholly told, Have not been wholly sung nor said. For his thought, which never stops, Follows the water-drops Down to the graves of the dead, Down through chasms and gulfs profound To the dreary fountain-head Of lakes and rivers under ground, And sees them, when the rain is done, On the bridge of colors seven, Climbing up once more to heaven, Opposite the setting sun.

Thus the seer,[31] With vision clear, Sees forms appear and disappear, In the perpetual round of strange Mysterious change From birth to death, from death to birth; From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth, Till glimpses more sublime Of things unseen before Unto his wondering eyes reveal The universe, as an immeasurable wheel Turning forevermore In the rapid and rushing river of time.

—Longfellow.

[28] mimic, copies (toys).

[29] encumbered, burdened.

[30] Aquarius, water-bearer.

[31] seer, prophet, wise man.

A PSALM OF LIFE.

Tell me not in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle— Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no future, howe'er pleasant; Let the dead past bury its dead! Act, act in the living present, Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time:

Footprints that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

—Longfellow.

HYMN ON THE FIGHT AT CONCORD.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept, Alike the conqueror silent sleeps, And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set to-day the votive stone, That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee.

—R. W. Emerson.

TO A WATERFOWL.

Whither, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowlers' eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, The desert and illimitable air, Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallow'd up thy form; yet, on my heart, Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright.

—Bryant.

THE HERITAGE.

The rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick and stone, and gold, And he inherits soft white hands, And tender flesh that fears the cold, Nor dares to wear a garment old; A heritage it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares; The banks may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn; A heritage it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants, His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart, he hears the pants Of toiling hands with brown arms bare, And wearies in his easy-chair; A heritage it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit? Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; King of two hands, he does his part In every useful toil and art; A heritage it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit? Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, Content that from enjoyment springs, A heart that in his labor sings; A heritage it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit? A patience learned of being poor, Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, A fellow-feeling that is sure To make the outcast bless his door; A heritage, it seems to me A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man's son! there is a toil That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil, But only whiten, soft, white hands— This is the best crop from thy lands; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man's son, scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great; Toil only gives the soul to shine, And makes rest fragrant and benign; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last; Both children of the same dear God, Prove title to your heirship vast By record of a well-filled past; A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee.

—Lowell.

ELEGY

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry; the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour— The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstacy the living lyre.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air,

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes

Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd: Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool, sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries, Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd Dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

"One morn I missed him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.

"The next, with dirges due in sad array, Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne— Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth, And melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heav'n did a recompense as largely send: He gave to mis'ry all he had, a tear, He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose) The bosom of his father and his God.

—Thomas Gray.

GRADATIM.[32]

Heaven is not gained at a single bound; But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, And we mount to its summit round by round.

I count this thing to be grandly true, That a noble deed is a step toward God— Lifting the soul from the common sod To a purer air and a broader view.

We rise by things that are 'neath our feet; By what we have mastered of good and gain; By the pride deposed and the passion slain, And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust, When the morning calls us to life and light, But our hearts grow weary, and, ere the night, Our lives are trailing the sordid dust.

We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray, And we think that we mount the air on wings Beyond the recall of sensual things, While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.

Wings for the angels, but feet for men! We may borrow the wings to find the way— We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray, But our feet must rise, or we fall again.

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown From the weary earth to the sapphire walls; But the dream departs, and the vision falls, And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound: But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, And we mount to its summit round by round.

—J. G. Holland.

[32] From "The Complete Poetical Writings Of J. G. Holland," copyright 1879-1881 by Charles Scribner's Sons.

GOD SAVE THE FLAG.[33]

Washed in the blood of the brave and the blooming, Snatched from the altars of insolent foes, Burning with star-fires, but never consuming, Flashed its broad ribbons of lily and rose.

Vainly the prophets of Baal would rend it, Vainly his worshipers pray for its fall; Thousands have died for it, millions defend it, Emblem of justice and mercy to all.

Justice that reddens the sky with her terrors, Mercy that comes with her white-handed train, Soothing all passions, redeeming all errors, Sheathing the saber and breaking the chain.

Born on the deluge of old usurpations, Drifted our Ark o'er the desolate seas, Bearing the rainbow of hope to the nations Torn from the storm-cloud and flung to the breeze!

God bless the flag and its loyal defenders While its broad folds o'er the battle-fields wave, Till the dim star-wreaths rekindle its splendors Washed from its stains in the blood of the brave!

—Oliver Wendell Holmes.

[33] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.

LIFE.[34]

Forenoon and afternoon and night—Forenoon and afternoon and night, Forenoon, and—what! The empty song repeats itself. No more? Yea, that is life: Make this forenoon sublime, This afternoon a psalm, this night a prayer, And Time is conquered and thy crown is won.

—Edward Rowland Sill.

[34] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.



EIGHTH GRADE

HYMN TO THE NIGHT.

I heard the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o'er me from above; The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold soft chimes, That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, Like some old poet's rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there— From those deep cisterns flows.

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear What man has borne before! Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more.

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! Descend with broad-winged flight, The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, The best beloved Night!

—Longfellow.

THE BUILDERS.

All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme.

Nothing useless is, or low; Each thing in its place is best; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest.

For the structure that we raise, Time is with materials filled; Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build.

Truly shape and fasten these; Leave no yawning gaps between; Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen.

In the elder days of art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part; For the gods see everywhere.

Let us do our work as well Both the unseen and the seen; Make the house where God may dwell Beautiful, entire, and clean.

Else our lives are incomplete, Standing in these walls of Time, Broken stairways, where the feet Stumble as they seek to climb.

Build to-day, then, strong and sure, With a firm and ample base; And ascending and secure Shall to-morrow find its place.

Thus alone can we attain To those turrets, where the eye Sees the world as one vast plain, And one boundless reach of sky.

—Longfellow.

POLONIUS' ADVICE TO LAERTES.

Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportioned thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. The friends thou hast and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in, Bear it that the opposer may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear; but few thine voice; Take each man's censure; but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy; For the apparel oft proclaims the man; And they in France, of the best rank and station, Are of a most select and generous chief in that. Neither a borrower nor a lender be; For a loan oft loses both itself and friend. And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all—to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou can'st not then be false to any man.

—Shakespeare.

THANATOPSIS.

To him who in the love of nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart— Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around— Earth and her waters, and the depths of air— Comes a still voice—Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements. To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone—nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings, The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills Book-ribbed and ancient as the sun—the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods—rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste— Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning—and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings—yet—the dead are there; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest—and what if thou withdraw Unheeded by the living—and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employment, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men, The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man, Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, By those, who in their turn shall follow them. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, that moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

—Bryant.

THE AMERICAN FLAG.

When Freedom, from her mountain height, Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there. She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure, celestial white With streakings of the morning light; Then, from his mansion in the sun, She called her eagle bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land.

Majestic monarch of the cloud! Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest trumpings loud And see the lightning lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven— Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given To guard the banner of the free; To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle-stroke; And bid its blending shine afar, Like rainbows on the clouds of war, The harbingers of victory!

Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high! When speaks the signal trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on, Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, Each soldier eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn, And, as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance; And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud, And gory sabres rise and fall, Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, Then shall thy meteor glances glow, And cowering foes shall shrink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death.

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave, When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frightened waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack; Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye.

Flag of the free heart's hope and home, By angel hands to valor given, Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us!

—Joseph Rodman Drake.

SPEECH AT THE DEDICATION OF THE NATIONAL CEMETERY AT GETTYSBURG.

NOVEMBER 18, 1863.

Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here; but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us, to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, and for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

—President Lincoln.

TO A SKYLARK.

Hail to thee, blithe spirit— Bird thou never wert— That from heaven, or near it Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire: The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning Of the setting sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run; Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven, In the broad daylight, Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.

Keen as are the arrows Of that silvery sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there.

All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.

What thou art we know not; What is most like thee! From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not;

Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower;

Like a glow-worm golden, In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view;

Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflower'd, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.

Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and fresh and clear, thy music doth surpass.

Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine; I have never heard Praise of lore or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphant chant, Match'd with thine, would be all But an empty vaunt— A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What object are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain?

With thy clear, keen joyance Languor cannot be; Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee; Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Waking, or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after, And pine for what is not; Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride and fear, If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

—Percy Bysshe Shelley.

THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP.

Then the Master, With a gesture of command, Waved his hand; And at the word, Loud and sudden there was heard, All around them and below, The sound of hammers, blow on blow, Knocking away the shores and spurs. And see! she stirs! She starts—she moves—she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel, And, spurning with her foot the ground, With one exulting, joyous bound, She leaps into the ocean's arms!

And lo! from the assembled crowd There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, That to the ocean seemed to say, "Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray. Take her to thy protecting arms, With all her youth and all her charms!"

How beautiful she is! How fair She lies within those arms, that press Her form with many a soft caress Of tenderness and watchful care! Sail forth into the sea, O ship! Through wind and wave, right onward steer! The moistened eye, the trembling lip, Are not the signs of doubt or fear.

Sail forth into the sea of life, O gentle, loving, trusting wife, And safe from all adversity Upon the bosom of that sea Thy comings and thy goings be! For gentleness and love and trust Prevail o'er angry wave and gust; And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives!

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! Sail on, O Union, strong and great! Humanity with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate!

We know what Master laid thy keel, What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, What anvils rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge and what a heat Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!

Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 'Tis of the wave and not the rock; 'Tis but the flapping of the sail, And not a rent made by the gale! In spite of rock and tempest's roar, In spite of false lights on the shore, Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, Our hearts our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee,—are all with thee!

—Longfellow.

RECESSIONAL.

God of our fathers, known of old— Lord of our far-flung battle line— Beneath Whose awful Hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine— Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies— The captains and the kings depart, Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away— On dune and headland sinks the fire— Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe— Such boasting as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law— Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard— All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard— For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord! Amen.

—Kipling.

THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE.

Saint Augustine! well hast thou said, That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread Beneath our feet each deed of shame.

All common things, each day's events, That with the hour begin and end, Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend.

The low desire, the base design, That makes another's virtues less; The revel of the ruddy wine, And all occasions of excess;

The longing for ignoble things; The strife for triumph more than truth; The hardening of the heart, that brings Irreverence for the dreams of youth;

All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds, That have their root in thoughts of ill; Whatever hinders or impedes The action of the nobler will.

All these must first be trampled down Beneath our feet, if we would gain In the bright fields of fair renown The right of eminent domain.

We have not wings, we cannot soar; But we have feet to scale and climb By slow degrees, by more and more, The cloudy summits of our time.

The mighty pyramids of stone That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, When nearer seen, and better known, Are but gigantic flights of stairs.

The distant mountains, that uprear Their solid bastions to the skies, Are crossed by pathways, that appear As we to higher levels rise.

The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upward in the night.

Standing on what too long we bore With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, We may discern—unseen before— A path to higher destinies.

Nor deem the irrevocable Past As wholly wasted, wholly vain, If, rising on its wrecks, at last To something nobler we attain.

—Longfellow.

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.[35]

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main,— The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed,— Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea. Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

—Oliver Wendell Holmes.

[35] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.



PRESIDENT WILLIAM McKINLEY

TO THE YOUNG PEOPLE OF OAKLAND, CAL. MAY 24, 1901

"There is nothing better for the United States than EDUCATED CITIZENSHIP; and, my young friends, there never was a time in all our history when knowledge was so essential to success as now. Everything requires knowledge. What we want of the young people now is exact knowledge. You want to know whatever you undertake to do a little better than anybody else. And if you will do that, then there is nothing that is not within your reach.

And what you want besides education is CHARACTER—CHARACTER! There is nothing that will serve a young man or an old man so well as good character. And did you ever think that it is just as easy to form a good habit as it is to form a bad one; and it is just as hard to break a good habit as it is to break a bad one? So get the good ones and keep them. With EDUCATION and CHARACTER you will not only achieve individual success, but you will contribute largely to the progress of your country."



BRIEF MEMORY GEMS AND PROVERBS.

FIRST AND SECOND GRADES.

If at first you don't succeed, Try, try again.

Be kind and be gentle To those who are old, For dearer is kindness And better than gold.

Sing, pretty birds, and build your nests, The fields are green, the skies are clear; Sing, pretty birds, and build your nests, The world is glad to have you here.

A friend in need is a friend indeed.

If a task is once begun, Never leave it till it's done; Be the labor great or small, Do it well or not at all.

Whatever way the wind doth blow, Some heart is glad to have it so, So blow it east, or blow it west, The wind that blows—that wind is best.

Dare to do right! dare to be true! For you have a work no other can do; Do it so bravely, so kindly, so well, Angels will hasten the story to tell.

To do to others as I would That they should do to me Will make me honest, kind and good, As children ought to be.

God make my life a little light, Within the world to glow: A little flame that burneth bright Wherever I may go.

Better be an hour too early than a minute too late.

"Help one another," the snowflakes said, As they cuddled down in their fleecy bed, "One of us here would not be felt, One of us here would quickly melt; But I'll help you and you help me, And then what a splendid drift there'll be."

By-and-by is a very bad boy, Shun him at once and forever; For they who travel with By-and-by Soon come to the house of Never.

Politeness is to do and say The kindest things in the kindest way.

And isn't it, my boy or girl, The wisest, bravest plan, Whatever comes, or doesn't come, To do the best you can?

THIRD AND FOURTH GRADES.

Beautiful hands are those that do Work that is earnest, brave and true Moment by moment, the long day through.

Kind hearts are gardens, Kind thoughts are roots, Kind words are blossoms, Kind deeds are fruits; Love is the sweet sunshine That warms into life, For only in darkness Grow hatred and strife.

Be good, dear child, and let who will be clever; Do noble deeds, not dream them all day long; And so make life, death, and that vast forever One grand, sweet song.

—Kingsley.

Whene'er a task is set for you Don't idly sit and view it,— Nor be content to wish it done; Begin at once and do it.

Look up and not down, look forward and not back, look out and not in, and lend a hand.

—Hale.

This world is not so bad a world As some would like to make it; Though whether good or whether bad, Depends on how we take it.

—M. W. Beck.

Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

—Longfellow.

Dare to be true, nothing can need a lie; A fault which needs it most grows two thereby.

—George Herbert.

If wisdom's ways you'd wisely seek, Five things observe with care,— Of whom you speak, to whom you speak, And how, and when, and where.

Cowards are cruel, but the brave Love mercy, and delight to save.

—Gay.

If there is a virtue in the world at which we should always aim, it is cheerfulness.

—Bulwer Lytton.

'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view And clothes the mountain with its azure hue.

—Campbell.

Give fools their gold and knaves their power, Let fortune's bubble rise and fall; Who sows a field, or trains a flower, Or plants a tree is more than all.

—Whittier.

Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build.

—Longfellow.

Too low they build who build beneath the stars.

—Young.

Errors, like straws upon the surface flow; He who would seek for pearls must dive below.

—Dryden.

The cross, if rightly borne, shall be No burden, but support to thee.

—Whittier.

Oh, deem it not an idle thing A pleasant word to speak; The face you wear, the thoughts you bring, A heart may heal or break.

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime,— And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time.

One by one thy duties wait thee, Let thy whole strength go to each; Let no future dreams elate thee,— Learn thou first what these can teach.

FIFTH AND SIXTH GRADES.

Count that day lost whose low descending sun Views from thy hand no worthy action done.

—Robart.

Honor and shame from no condition rise; Act well your part; there all the honor lies.

—Pope.

Success does not consist in never making blunders, but in never making the same one a second time.

—Shaw.

Whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well.

—Chesterfield.

One cannot always be a hero, but one can always be a man.

—Goethe.

The heights by great men reached and kept, Were not attained by sudden flight; But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upward in the night.

—Longfellow.

All that's great and good is done Just by patient trying.

—Phoebe Cary.

No star is lost we ever once have seen: We always may be what we might have been.

—Adelaide Proctor.

Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.

—Longfellow.

Too much of joy is sorrowful, So cares must needs abound, The vine that bears too many flowers Will trail upon the ground.

—Alice Cary.

Life is too short for aught but high endeavor.

—Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

To climb steep hills requires slow pace at first.

—Shakespeare.

Cloud and sun together make the year; Without some storms no rainbow could appear.

—Alice Cary.

The noblest service comes from nameless hands, And the best servant does his work unseen.

—Oliver Wendell Holmes.

He who seeks to pluck the stars Will lose the jewels at his feet.

—Phoebe Cary.

For he who is honest is noble, Whatever his fortunes or birth.

—Alice Cary.

There's never a leaf or a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace.

—James Russell Lowell.

No endeavor is in vain. Its reward is in the doing; And the rapture of pursuing Is the prize the vanquished gain.

—Longfellow.

Press on! if once and twice thy feet Slip back and stumble, harder try.

—Benjamin.

Dare to do right; dare to be true; The failings of others can never save you; Stand by your conscience, your honor, your faith— Stand like a hero, and battle till death!

He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit, than he that taketh a city.

—Bible.

He prayeth best who loveth best All things, both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all.

—Coleridge.

Hours are golden links, God's token, Reaching heaven, but one by one Take them; lest the chain be broken Ere the pilgrimage be done.

—A. A. Proctor.

There is a lesson in each flower, A story in each stream and bower; On every herb on which we tread, Are written words which, rightly read, Will lead us from earth's fragrant sod To hope and holiness and God.

Oh, many a shaft at random sent, Finds mark the archer little meant! And many a word at random spoken, May soothe, or wound, a heart that's broken.

—Scott.

SEVENTH AND EIGHTH GRADES.

To thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.

—Shakespeare.

Be noble! and the nobleness that lies In other men, sleeping but never dead, Will rise in majesty to meet thine own.

—Lowell.

What must of necessity be done, you can always find out how to do.

—Ruskin.

He fails not who makes truth his cause, Nor bends to win the crowd's applause, He fails not—he who stakes his all Upon the right and dares to fall.

—Richard Watson Gilder.

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,—act in the living Present! Heart within and God o'erhead!

—Longfellow.

Tell me not in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.

—Longfellow.

Be just and fear not; let all the ends thou aimest at, be thy country's, thy God's, and truth's.

—Shakespeare.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen— The saddest are these: "It might have been!"

—Whittier.

Truth crushed to earth shall rise again; The eternal years of God are hers; But error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers.

—Bryant.

Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies;— Hold you here, root and all, in my hand, Little flower,—but if I could understand What you are, root and all—and all in all, I should know what God and man is.

—Tennyson.

Life is the beat possible thing we can make of it.

—Curtis.

Without a sign his sword the brave man draws, And asks no omen but his country's cause.

—Pope.

There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.

—Shakespeare.

To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take up arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing, end them?

—Shakespeare.

Whatever makes men good Christians, makes them good citizens.

—Webster.

Our grand business is, not to see what lies dimly at a distance, but to do what lies clearly at hand.

—Thomas Carlyle.

With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right.

—Lincoln.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

—Gray.

POOR RICHARD'S SAYINGS.

God helps them that help themselves.

The sleeping fox catches no poultry.

What we call time enough always proves little enough.

Sloth makes all things difficult, but industry all easy.

Drive thy business, let not that drive thee.

Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.

Industry needs not wish.

He that lives upon hope will die fasting.

He that hath a trade hath an estate, and he that hath a calling hath an office of profit and honor.

Have you somewhat to do to-morrow, do it to-day.

God gives all things to industry: then plough deep while sluggards sleep, and you will have corn to sell and to keep.

Keep thy shop, and thy shop will keep thee.

If you would have your business done, go; if not, send.

He that by the plough would thrive, Himself must either hold or drive.

Silks and satins, scarlet and velvets put out the kitchen fire.

For want of a nail the shoe was lost; for want of a shoe the horse was lost; and for want of a horse the rider was lost.

Many a little makes a mickle.

Fools make feasts, and wise men eat them.

Wise men learn by others' harms, fools scarcely by their own.

When the well is dry they know the worth of water.

Pride is as loud a beggar as want, and a great deal more saucy.

A little neglect may breed great mischief.

Vessels large may venture more, But little boats should keep near shore.

What is a butterfly? at best He's but a caterpillar drest; The gaudy fop's his picture just.

For age and want save while you may.

No morning sun lasts a whole day.

Rather go to bed supperless than rise in debt.

Get what you can, and what you get, hold, 'Tis the stone that will turn all your lead into gold.

Experience keeps a dear school; but fools will learn in no other, and scarce in that; for it is true we may give advice, but we cannot give conduct.

The key, often used, is always bright.

But dost thou love life? then do not waste time, for that's the stuff life is made of.

Lost time is never found again.

There are no gains without pains.

At the workingman's house hunger looks in, but dares not enter.

Diligence is the mother of good luck.

The cat in gloves catches no mice.

By industry and patience the mouse ate into the cable.

Since thou art not sure of a minute, throw not away an hour.

A workingman on his legs is higher than a gentleman on his knees.

It is folly for the frog to swell in order to equal the ox.

It is easier to build two chimneys than to keep one in fuel.

A fool and his money are soon parted.

Troubles spring from idleness, and grievous toils from needless ease.

If you would be wealthy think of saving as well as of getting.



* * * * *



Transcriber's note:

Typographical errors and misprints were corrected.

The Table of Contents was extended to include the speech by McKinley and the subheadings in the final section "Brief Memory Gems and Proverbs."

THE END