8. Listen now. Do you hear those three half-plaintive notes, quickly and clearly poured out? She is calling the boys and girls together. She sings not now "Bob White!" nor "Ah! Bob White!" That is her husband's love call, or his trumpet blast of defiance. But she calls sweetly and softly for her lost children. Hear them "Peep! peep! peep!" at the welcome voice of their mother's love! They are coming together. Soon the whole family will meet again.

9. It is a foul sin to disturb them; but retread your devious way, and let her hear your coming footsteps, breaking down the briers, as you renew the danger. She is quiet. Not a word is passed between the fearful fugitives. Now, if you have the heart to do it, lie low, keep still, and imitate the call of the hen quail. O mother! mother! how your heart would die if you could witness the deception! The little ones raise up their trembling heads, and catch comfort and imagined safety from the sound. "Peep! peep!" They come to you, straining their little eyes, and, clustering together and answering, seem to say, "Where is she? Mother! mother! we are here!"

DEFINITIONS.—1. A-quat'ic, frequenting the water. 2. Vo'cal, having a voice. 3. I-den'ti-fied, united. Cu-pid'i-ty, eager desire to possess something. 4. Tus'sock, a tuft of grass or twigs. 5. Cra'dler, one who uses a cradle, which is an instrument attached to a scythe in cutting grain. 6. U-surp'ing, seizing and holding in possession by force. 7. Af-fect', to pretend. 9. De'vi-ous, winding.

NOTE.—l. Boreas is the name which the ancient Greeks gave to the north wind.



LVIII. THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.

1. By the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead;— Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the one, the Blue; Under the other, the Gray.

2. These, in the robings of glory, Those, in the gloom of defeat, All, with the battle blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet;— Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the laurel, the Blue; Under the willow, the Gray.

3. From the silence of sorrowful hours, The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers, Alike for the friend and the foe;— Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the roses, the Blue; Under the lilies, the Gray.

4. So, with an equal splendor, The morning sun rays fall, With a touch, impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all;— Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Broidered with gold, the Blue; Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

5. So, when the summer calleth, On forest and field of grain, With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain;— Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Wet with the rain, the Blue; Wet with the rain, the Gray.

6. Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done: In the storm of the years that are fading, No braver battle was won;— Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the blossoms, the Blue; Under the garlands, the Gray.

7. No more shall the war cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever, When they laurel the graves of our dead;— Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Love and tears, for the Blue; Tears and love, for the Gray. —F. M. Finch.

NOTE.—The above touching little poem first appeared in the "Atlantic Monthly" in September, 1867. It commemorates the noble action on the part of the women at Columbus, Miss., who in decorating the graves strewed flowers impartially on those of the Confederate and of the Federal soldiers.



LIX. THE MACHINIST'S RETURN.

[Adapted from a letter written by a correspondent of the Washington "Capital."]

1. On our way from Springfield to Boston, a stout, black-whiskered man sat immediately in front of me, in the drawing-room car, whose maneuvers were a source of constant amusement. He would get up every five minutes, hurry away to the narrow passage leading to the door of the car, and commence laughing in the most violent manner, continuing that healthful exercise until he observed that some one was watching him, when he would return to his seat.

2. As we neared Boston these demonstrations increased in frequency and violence, but the stranger kept his seat and chuckled to himself. He shifted the position of his two portmanteaus, or placed them on the seat as if he was getting ready to leave. As we were at least twenty-five miles from Boston, such early preparations seemed extremely ridiculous. He became so excited at last that he could not keep his secret. Some one must be made a confidant; and as I happened to be the nearest to him, he selected me.

3. Turning around suddenly, and rocking himself to and fro in his chair, he said, "I have been away from home three years. Have been in Europe. My folks don't expect me for three months yet, but I got through and started. I telegraphed them at the last station—they've got the dispatch by this time." As he said this he rubbed his hands, and changed the portmanteau on his left to the right, and then the one on the right to the left.

4. "Have you a wife?" said I. "Yes, and three children," was the answer. He then got up and folded his overcoat anew, and hung it over the back of the seat. "You are somewhat nervous just now, are you not?" said I.

5. "Well, I should think so," he replied. "I have n't slept soundly for a week. Do you know," he went on, speaking in a low tone, "I am almost certain this train will run off the track and break my neck before I get to Boston. I have had too much good luck lately for one man. It can't last. It rains so hard, sometimes, that you think it's never going to stop; then it shines so bright you think it's always going to shine; and just as you are settle in either belief, you are knocked over by a change, to show you that you know nothing about it."

6. "Well, according to your philosophy," I said, "you will continue to have sunshine because you are expecting a storm." "Perhaps so," he replied; "but it is curious that the only thing which makes me think I shall get through safe is, I fear that I shall not."

7. "I am a machinist," he continued; "I made a discovery; nobody believed in it; I spent all my money in trying to bring it out; I mortgaged my home—everything went. Everybody laughed at me—everybody but my wife. She said she would work her fingers off before I should give it up. I went to England. At first I met with no encouragement whatever, and came very near jumping off London Bridge. I went into a workshop to earn money enough to come home with: there I met the man I wanted. To make a long story short, I've brought home 50,000 Pounds with me, and here I am."

8. "Good!" I exclaimed. "Yes," said he, "and the best of it is, she knows nothing about it. She has been disappointed so often that I concluded I would not write to her about my unexpected good luck. When I got my money, though, I started for home at once."

9. "And now, I suppose, you will make her happy?" "Happy!" he replied; "why, you don't know anything about it! She's worked night and day since I have been in England, trying to support herself and the children decently. They paid her thirteen cents apiece for making shirts, and that's the way she has lived half the time. She'll come down to the depot to meet me in a gingham dress and a shawl a hundred years old, and she'll think she's dressed up! Perhaps she won't have any fine dresses in a week or so, eh?'" 10. The stranger then strode down the passageway again, and getting in a corner where he seemed to suppose that he was out of sight, went through the strangest pantomime,—laughing putting his mouth into the drollest shapes, and swinging himself back and forth in the limited space.

11. As the train was going into the depot, I placed myself on the platform of the car in front of the one in which I had been riding, and opposite the stranger, who, with a portmanteau in each hand, was standing on the lowest step, ready to jump to the ground. I looked from his face to the faces of the people before us, but saw no sign of recognition. Suddenly he cried, "There they are!"

12. Then he laughed outright, but in a hysterical way, as he looked over the crowd in front of him. I followed his eye and saw, some distance back, as if crowded out by the well-dressed and elbowing throng, a little woman in a faded dress and a well-worn hat, with a face almost painful in its intense but hopeful expression, glancing rapidly from window to window as the coaches passed by.

13. She had not seen the stranger, but a moment after she caught his eye. In another instant he had jumped to the platform with his two portmanteaus, and, pushing his way through the crowd, he rushed towards the place where she was standing. I think I never saw a face assume so many different expressions in so short a time as did that of the little woman while her husband was on his way to meet her.

14. She was not pretty,—on the contrary, she was very plain-looking; but somehow I felt a big lump rise in my throat as I watched her. She was trying to laugh, but, God bless her, how completely she failed in the attempt! Her mouth got into the position to laugh, but it never moved after that, save to draw down at the corners and quiver, while her eyes blinked so fast that I suspect she only caught occasional glimpses of the broad-shouldered fellow who elbowed his way so rapidly toward her.

15. As he drew close, and dropped the portmanteaus, she turned to one side, and covered her face with her hands; and thus she was when the strong man gathered her up in his arms as if she were a child, and held her sobbing to his breast.

16. There were enough staring at them, heaven knows; so I turned my eyes away a moment, and then I saw two boys in threadbare roundabouts standing near, wiping their eyes on their sleeves, and bursting into tears anew at every fresh demonstration on the part of their mother. When I looked at the stranger again he had his hat drawn over his eyes; but his wife was looking up at him, and it seemed as if the pent-up tears of those weary months of waiting were streaming through her eyelids.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Ma-neu'vers, movements. 2. Dem-on-stra'-tions, expression of the feelings by outward signs. Port-man'teau (pro. port-man'to), a traveling bag, usually made of leather. Con-fi-dant', one to whom secrets are intrusted. 3. Dis-patch', a message. 6. Phi-los'o-phy, reasoning. 7. Ma-chin'ist, a constructor of ma-chines and engines. Mort'gaged (pro. mor'gajd), given as security for debt. 9. Ging'ham, a kind of cotton cloth which is dyed before it is woven. 10. Pan'to-mime, acting without speaking, dumb show. 12. Hys-ter'ic-al, convulsive, fitful.



LX. MAKE WAY FOR LIBERTY.

James Montgomery (b. 1771, d. 1854) was born in Irvine, Ayrshire, Scotland. His father, a Moravian preacher, sent him to a Moravian school at Fulneck, Yorkshire, England, to be educated. In 1794 he started "The Sheffield Iris," a weekly paper, which he edited, with marked ability, till 1825. He was fined and imprisoned twice for publishing articles decided to be seditious. His principal poetical works are "The World before the Flood," "Greenland," "The West Indies," "The Wanderer in Switzerland," "The Pelican Island," and "Original Hymns, for Public, Private, and Social Devotion." Mr. Montgomery's style is generally too diffuse; but its smoothness and the evident sincerity of his emotions have made many of his hymns and minor poems very popular. A pension of 300 Pounds a year was granted to him in 1833.

1. "Make way for Liberty!" he cried; Made way for Liberty, and died!

2. In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, A living wall, a human wood! A wall, where every conscious stone Seemed to its kindred thousands grown; A rampart all assaults to bear, Till time to dust their frames should wear A wood like that enchanted grove, In which, with fiends, Rinaldo strove, Where every silent tree possessed A spirit prisoned in its breast, Which the first stroke of coming strife Would startle into hideous life: So dense, so still, the Austrians stood, A living wall, a human wood!

3. Impregnable their front appears, All horrent with projected spears, Whose polished points before them shine, From flank to flank, one brilliant line, Bright as the breakers' splendors run Along the billows to the sun.

4. Opposed to these, a hovering band, Contending for their native laud; Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke From manly necks the ignoble yoke, And forged their fetters into swords, On equal terms to fight their lords; And what insurgent rage had gained, In many a mortal fray maintained: Marshaled once more at Freedom's call, They came to conquer or to fall, Where he who conquered, he who fell. Was deemed a dead or living Tell!

5. And now the work of life and death Hung on the passing of a breath; The fire of conflict burned within; The battle trembled to begin; Yet, while the Austrians held their ground, Point for attack was nowhere found; Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed, The unbroken line of lances blazed; That line 't were suicide to meet, And perish at their tyrants' feet; How could they rest within their graves, And leave their homes the home of slaves? Would they not feel their children tread With clanking chains above their head?

6. It must not be: this day, this hour, Annihilates the oppressor's power All Switzerland is in the field, She will not fly, she can not yield; Few were the numbers she could boast, But every freeman was a host, And felt as though himself were he On whose sole arm hung victory.

7. It did depend on one, indeed: Behold him! Arnold Winkelried! There sounds not to the trump of fame The echo of a nobler name. Unmarked he stood amid the throng, In rumination deep and long, Till you might see with sudden grace, The very thought come o'er his face; And by the motion of his form: Anticipate the bursting storm; And by the uplifting of his brow, Tell where the bolt would strike, and how. But 't was no sooner thought than done; The field was in a moment won.

8. "Make way for Liberty!" he cried: Then ran, with arms extended wide, As if his dearest friend to clasp; Ten spears he swept within his grasp: "Make way for Liberty!" he cried, Their keen points met from side to side; He bowed among them like a tree, And thus made way for Liberty.

9. Swift to the breach his comrades fly; "Make way for Liberty!" they cry, And through the Austrian phalanx dart, As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart; While instantaneous as his fall, Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all. An earthquake could not overthrow A city with a surer blow.

10. Thus Switzerland again was free, Thus Death made way for Liberty!

DEFINITIONS.—2. Pha'lanx, a body of troops formed in close array. Con'scious, sensible, knowing. Kin'dred, those of like nature, relatives. Ram'part, that which defends from assault, a bulwark. 3. Im-preg'na-ble, that can not be moved or shaken. Hor'rent, standing out like bristles. 4. In-sur'gent, rising in opposition to authority. 13. An-ni'hi-lates, destroys. 7. Ru-mi-na'tion, the act of musing, meditation. 9. Breach, a gap or opening made by breaking.

NOTES.—The incident related in this poem is one of actual occurrence, and took place at the battle of Sempach, fought in 1386 A.D., between only 1,300 Swiss and a large army of Austrians. The latter had obtained possession of a narrow pass in the mountains, from which it seemed impossible to dislodge them until Arnold von Winkelried made a breach in their line, as narrated.

Rinaldo is a knight in Tasso's "Jerusalem Delivered" (Canto XVIII, 17-40), who enters an enchanted wood, and, by cutting down a tree in spite of the nymphs and phantoms that endeavor in every way to stop him, breaks the spell; the Christian army are thus enabled to enter the grove and obtain timber for their engines of war.



LXI. THE ENGLISH SKYLARK.

Elihu Burritt (b. 1810, d. 1879). "the learned blacksmith," was born in New Britain, Conn. His father was a shoemaker. Having received only a limited amount of instruction at the district school, he was apprenticed to a blacksmith about 1827. During his apprenticeship he labored hard at self-instruction. He worked at his trade many years, from ten to twelve hours each day, but managed, in the meantime to acquire a knowledge of many ancient and modern languages. He made translations from several of these, which were published in the "American Eclectic Review." In 1844 he commenced the publication of "The Christian Citizen." His leading literary works are "Sparks from the Anvil," "A Voice from the Forge," "Peace Papers," and "Walks to John o' Groat's House." From the last of these the following selection is abridged.

1. Take it in all, no bird in either hemisphere equals the English lark in heart or voice, for both unite to make it the sweetest, the happiest, the welcomest singer that was ever winged, like the high angels of God's love. It is the living ecstasy of joy when it mounts up into its "glorious privacy of light."

2. On the earth it is timid, silent, and bashful, as if not at home, and not sure of its right to be there at all. It is rather homely withal, having nothing in feather, feature, or form to attract notice. It is seemingly made to be heard, not seen, reversing the old axiom addressed to children when getting noisy.

3. Its mission is music, and it floods a thousand acres of the blue sky with it several times a day. Out of that palpitating speck of living joy there wells forth a sea of twittering ecstasy upon the morning and evening air. It does not ascend by gyrations, like the eagle and birds of prey. It mounts up like a human aspiration.

4. It seems to spread its wings and to be lifted straight upwards out of sight by the afflatus of its own happy heart. To pour out this in undulating rivulets of rhapsody is apparently the only motive of its ascension. This it is that has made it so loved of all generations.

5. It is the singing angel of man's nearest heaven, whose vital breath is music. Its sweet warbling is only the metrical palpitation of its life of joy. It goes up over the rooftrees of the rural hamlet on the wings of its song, as if to train the human soul to trial flights heavenward.

6. Never did the Creator put a voice of such volume into so small a living thing. It is a marvel—almost a miracle. In a still hour you can hear it at nearly a mile's distance. When its form is lost in the hazy lace work of the sun's rays above, it pours down upon you all the thrilling semitones of its song as distinctly as if it were warbling to you in your window.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Ec'sta-sy, overmastering joy, rapture. 2. Ax'i-om, a self-evident truth. 3. Pal'pi-tat-ing, throbbing, fluttering. Wells, pours, flows. Gy-ra'tions, circular or spiral motions. 4. Af—fla'tus, breath, inspiration. Un'du-la-ting, rising and falling like waves. Rhap'so-dy, that which is uttered in a disconnected way under strong excitement. Gen-er-a'tion, the mass of beings at one period. 5. Met'ric-al, arranged in measures, as poetry and music. Roof 'tree, the beam in the angle of a roof, hence the roof itself. Ham'let, a little cluster of houses.



LXII. HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE.

William Collins (b. 1721, d. 1759) was born at Chichester, England. He was educated at Winchester and Oxford. About 1745, he went to London as a literary adventurer, and there won the esteem of Dr. Johnson. His "Odes" were published in 1746, but were not popular. He was subsequently relieved from pecuniary embarrassment by a legacy of 2,000 Pounds from a maternal uncle; but he soon became partially insane, and was for some time confined in an asylum for lunatics. He afterwards retired to Chichester, where he was cared for by his sister until his death.

1. How sleep the brave who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blessed! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mold, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

2. By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There honor comes a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair To dwell a weeping hermit there!



LXIII. THE RAINBOW.

John Keble (b. 1792. d. 1866) was born near Fairfax, Gloucestershire, England. He graduated at Oxford with remarkably high honors, and afterwards was appointed to the professorship of poetry in that university. Since his death, Keble College, at Oxford, has been erected to his memory. In 1835, he became vicar of Hursley and rector of Otterbourne, and held these livings until his death. His most famous work is "The Christian Year," a collection of sacred poems.

1. A fragment of a rainbow bright Through the moist air I see, All dark and damp on yonder height, All bright and clear to me.

2. An hour ago the storm was here, The gleam was far behind; So will our joys and grief appear, When earth has ceased to blind.

3. Grief will be joy if on its edge Fall soft that holiest ray, Joy will be grief if no faint pledge Be there of heavenly day.



LXIV. SUPPOSED SPEECH OF JOHN ADAMS.

Daniel Webster (b. 1782, d. 1852) was born in Salisbury, N.H. He spent a few months of his boyhood at Phillips Academy, Exeter, but fitted for college under Rev. Samuel Wood, of Boscawen, N.H. He graduated from Dartmouth College in 1801. He taught school several terms, during and after his college course. In 1805, he was admitted to the bar in Boston, and practiced law in New Hampshire for the succeeding eleven years. In 1812, he was elected to the United States House of Representatives. In 1816, he removed to Boston, and in 1827 was elected to the United States Senate, which position he held for twelve years. In 1841, he was appointed Secretary of State. He returned to the Senate in 1845. In 1850, he was reappointed Secretary of State and continued in office until his death. He died at his residence, in Marshfield, Mass. Mr. Webster's fame rests chiefly on his state papers and speeches. As a speaker he was dignified and stately, using clear, pure English. During all his life he took great interest in agriculture, and was very fond of outdoor sports.

1. Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand and my heart to this vote. It is true, indeed, that, in the beginning, we aimed not at independence. But

"There's a divinity that shapes our ends."

The injustice of England has driven us to arms; and blinded to her own interest, she has obstinately persisted, till independence is now within our grasp. We have but to reach forth to it, and it is ours. Why then should we defer the declaration? Is any man so weak as now to hope for a reconciliation with England, which shall leave either safety to the country and its liberties, or security to his own life and his own honor! Are not you, sir, who sit in that chair, is not he, our venerable colleague, near you, are you not both already the proscribed and predestined objects of punishment and of vengeance? Cut off from all hope of royal clemency, what are you, what can you be, while the power of England remains, but outlaws?

2. If we postpone independence, do we mean to carry on, or to give up, the war? Do we mean to submit, and consent that we shall be ground to powder, and our country and its rights trodden down in the dust? I know we do not mean to submit. We NEVER shall submit! Do we intend to violate that most solemn obligation ever entered into by men, that plighting, before God, of our sacred honor to Washington, when, putting him forth to incur the dangers of war, as well as the political hazards of the times, we promised to adhere to him in every extremity with our fortunes and our lives? I know there is not a man here, who would not rather see a general conflagration sweep over the land, or an earthquake sink it, than one jot or tittle of that plighted faith fall to the ground. For myself, having twelve months ago, in this place, moved you that George Washington be appointed commander of the forces raised, or to be raised, for the defense of American liberty; may my right hand forget her cunning, and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I hesitate or waver in the support I give him.

3. The war, then, must go on. We must fight it through. And if the war must go on, why put off the Declaration of Independence? That measure will strengthen us. It will give us character abroad. Nations will then treat with us, which they never can do while we acknowledge ourselves subjects in arms against our sovereign. Nay, I maintain that England herself will sooner treat for peace with us on the footing of independence, than consent, by repealing her acts, to acknowledge that her whole conduct toward us has been a course of injustice and oppression. Her pride will be less wounded by submitting to that course of things, which now predestinates our independence, than by yielding the points in controversy to her rebellious subjects. The former, she would regard as the result of fortune; the latter, she would feel as her own deep disgrace. Why, then, do we not change this from a civil to a national war? And since we must fight it through, why not put ourselves in a state to enjoy all the benefits of victory, if we gain the victory.

4. If we fail, it can be no worse for us. But we shall not fail. The cause will raise up armies; the cause will create navies. The people—the people, if we are true to them, will carry us, and will carry themselves, gloriously through this struggle. I care not how fickle other people have been found. I know the people of these colonies; and I know that resistance to British aggression is deep and settled in their hearts, and can not be eradicated. Sir, the Declaration of Independence will inspire the people with increased courage. Instead of a long and bloody war for the restoration of privileges, for redress of grievances, for chartered immunities, held under a British king, set before them the glorious object of entire independence, and it will breathe into them anew the spirit of life.

5. Read this declaration at the head of the army; every sword will be drawn, and the solemn vow uttered to maintain it, or perish on the bed of honor. Publish it from the pulpit; religion will approve it, and the love of religious liberty will cling around it, resolved to stand with it or fall with it. Send it to the public halls; proclaim it there; let them see it who saw their brothers and their sons fall on the field of Bunker Hill and in the streets of Lexington and Concord, and the very walls will cry out in its support.

6. Sir, I know the uncertainty of human affairs, but I see—I see clearly through this day's business. You and I, indeed, may rue it. We may not live to see the time this declaration shall be made good. We may die; die colonists; die slaves; die, it may be, ignominiously and on the scaffold. Be it so: be it so. If it be the pleasure of Heaven that my country shall require the poor offering of my life, the victim shall be ready at the appointed hour of sacrifice, come when that hour may. But while I do live, let me have a country, or at least the hope of a country, and that a FREE country.

7. But whatever may be our fate, be assured—be assured that this Declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, and it may cost blood; but it will stand, and it will richly compensate for both. Through the thick gloom of the present I see the brightness of the future as the sun in heaven. We shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. When we are in our graves, our children will honor it. They will celebrate it with thanksgiving, with festivity, with bonfires, and illuminations. On its annual return they will shed tears,—copious, gushing tears; not of subjection and slavery, not of agony and distress, but of exultation, of gratitude, and of joy.

8. Sir, before God I believe the hour is come. My judgment approves the measure, and my whole heart is in it. All that I have, and all that I am, and all that I hope in this life, I am now ready here to stake upon it; and I leave off as I began, that, live or die, survive or perish, I am for the Declaration. It is my living sentiment, and, by the blessing of God, it shall by my dying sentiment; independence now, and INDEPENDENCE FOREVER.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Rec-on-cil-i-a'tion, renewal of friendship. Col'league (pro. kol'leg), an associate in some civil office. Pro-scribed', doomed to destruction, put out of the protection of the law. Pre-des'tined, decreed beforehand. Clem'en-cy, mercy, indulgence.



Notes.—Mr. Webster, in a speech upon the life and character of John Adams, imagines some one opposed to the Declaration of Independence to have stated his fears and objections before Congress while deliberating on that subject. He then supposes Mr. Adams to have replied in the language above.

1. The quotation is from "Hamlet," Act V, Scene 2.

You, sir, who sit in that chair. This was addressed to John Hancock, president of the Continental Congress. Our venerable colleague refers to Samuel Adams. After the battles of Concord and Lexington, Governor Gage offered pardon to all the rebels who would lay down their arms, excepting Samuel Adams and John Hancock.



LXV. THE RISING.

Thomas Buchanan Read (b. 1822, d. 1872) was born in Chester County, Pennsylvania. In 1839 he entered a sculptor's studio in Cincinnati, where he gained reputation as a portrait painter. He afterwards went to New York, Boston, and Philadelphia, and, in 1850, to Italy. He divided his time between Cincinnati, Philadelphia, and Rome, in the latter years of his life. Some or his poems are marked by vigor and strength, while others are distinguished by smoothness and delicacy. The following selection is abridged from "The Wagoner of the Alleghanies."

1. Out of the North the wild news came, Far flashing on its wings of flame, Swift as the boreal light which flies At midnight through the startled skies.

2. And there was tumult in the air, The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat, And through the wide land everywhere The answering tread of hurrying feet, While the first oath of Freedom's gun Came on the blast from Lexington. And Concord, roused, no longer tame, Forgot her old baptismal name, Made bare her patriot arm of power, And swelled the discord of the hour.

3. The yeoman and the yoeman's son, With knitted brows and sturdy dint, Renewed the polish of each gun, Recoiled the lock, reset the flint; And oft the maid and matron there, While kneeling in the firelight glare, Long poured, with half-suspended breath, The lead into the molds of death.

4. The hands by Heaven made silken soft To soothe the brow of love or pain, Alas! are dulled and soiled too oft By some unhallowed earthly stain; But under the celestial bound No nobler picture can be found Than woman, brave in word and deed, Thus serving in her nation's need: Her love is with her country now, Her hand is on its aching brow.

5. Within its shade of elm and oak The church of Berkley Manor stood: There Sunday found the rural folk, And some esteemed of gentle blood, In vain their feet with loitering tread Passed 'mid the graves where rank is naught: All could not read the lesson taught In that republic of the dead.

6. The pastor rose: the prayer was strong; The psalm was warrior David's song; The text, a few short words of might,— "The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!"

7. He spoke of wrongs too long endured, Of sacred rights to be secured; Then from his patriot tongue of flame The startling words for Freedom came. The stirring sentences he spake Compelled the heart to glow or quake, And, rising on his theme's broad wing, And grasping in his nervous hand The imaginary battle brand, In face of death he dared to fling Defiance to a tyrant king.

8. Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed In eloquence of attitude, Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher; Then swept his kindling glance of fire From startled pew to breathless choir; When suddenly his mantle wide His hands impatient flung aside, And, lo! he met their wondering eyes Complete in all a warrior's guise.

9. A moment there was awful pause,— When Berkley cried, "Cease, traitor! cease! God's temple is the house of peace!" The other shouted, "Nay, not so, When God is with our righteous cause: His holiest places then are ours, His temples are our forts and towers That frown upon the tyrant foe: In this the dawn of Freedom's day There is a time to fight and pray!"

10. And now before the open door— The warrior priest had ordered so— The enlisting trumpet's sudden soar Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er, Its long reverberating blow, So loud and clear, it seemed the ear Of dusty death must wake and hear. And there the startling drum and fife Fired the living with fiercer life; While overhead with wild increase, Forgetting its ancient toll of peace, The great bell swung as ne'er before: It seemed as it would never cease; And every word its ardor flung From off its jubilant iron tongue Was, "WAR! WAR! WAR!"

11. "Who dares"—this was the patriot's cry, As striding from the desk he came— "Come out with me, in Freedom's name, For her to live, for her to die?" A hundred hands flung up reply, A hundred voices answered "I!"

DEFINITIONS.—l. Bo're-al, northern. 3. Yeo'man, a freeholder, a man freeborn. Dint, stroke. 5. Man'or, a tract of land occupied by tenants. Gen'tle (pro. jen'tl), well born, of good family. 7. Theme, a subject on which a person speaks or writes. 8. Guise, external appearance in manner or dress. 10. Soar, a towering flight.

NOTES.—2. Forgot her ... name. The reference is to the meaning of the word "concord,"—harmony, union.

4. Celestial bound; i.e., the sky, heaven.

6. The pastor. This was John Peter Gabriel Muhlenberg, who was at this time a minister at Woodstock, in Virginia. He was a leading spirit among those opposed to Great Britain, and in 1775 he was elected colonel of a Virginia regiment. The above poem describes his farewell sermon. At its close he threw off his ministerial gown, and appeared in full regimental dress. Almost every man in the congregation enlisted under him at the church door. Muhlenberg became a well-known general in the Revolution, and after the war served his country in Congress and in various official positions.



LXVI. CONTROL YOUR TEMPER.

John Todd, D.D. (b. 1800, d. 1873), was born in Rutland, Vt. In 1842 he was settled as a pastor of a Congregational Church, in Pittsfield, Mass, In 1834, he published "Lectures to Children"; in 1835, "The Student's Manual," a valuable and popular work, which has been translated into several European languages; in 1836, "The Sabbath-School Teacher"; and in 1841, "The Lost Sister of Wyoming." He was one of the founders of the Mount Holyoke Female Seminary.

1. No one has a temper naturally so good, that it does not need attention and cultivation, and no one has a temper so bad, but that, by proper culture, it may become pleasant. One of the best disciplined tempers ever seen, was that of a gentleman who was naturally quick, irritable, rash, and violent; but, by having the care of the sick, and especially of deranged people, he so completely mastered himself that he was never known to be thrown off his guard.

2. The difference in the happiness which is received or bestowed by the man who governs his temper, and that by the man who does not, is immense. There is no misery so constant, so distressing, and so intolerable to others, as that of having a disposition which is your master, and which is continually fretting itself. There are corners enough, at every turn in life, against which we may run, and at which we may break out in impatience, if we choose.

3. Look at Roger Sherman, who rose from a humble occupation to a seat in the first Congress of the United States, and whose judgment was received with great deference by that body of distinguished men. He made himself master of his temper, and cultivated it as a great business in life. There are one or two instances which show this part of his character in a light that is beautiful.

4. One day, after having received his highest honors, he was sitting and reading in his parlor. A roguish student, in a room close by, held a looking-glass in such a position as to pour the reflected rays of the sun directly in Mr. Sherman's face. He moved his chair, and the thing was repeated. A third time the chair was moved, but the looking-glass still reflected the sun in his eyes. He laid aside his book, went to the window, and many witnesses of the impudence expected to hear the ungentlemanly student severely reprimanded. He raised the window gently, and then—shut the window blind!

5. I can not forbear adducing another instance of the power he had acquired over himself. He was naturally possessed of strong passions; but over these he at length obtained an extraordinary control. He became habitually calm, sedate, and self-possessed. Mr. Sherman was one of those men who are not ashamed to maintain the forms of religion in their families. One morning he called them all together, as usual, to lead them in prayer to God; the "old family Bible" was brought out, and laid on the table.

6. Mr. Sherman took his seat, and placed beside him one of his children, a child of his old age; the rest of the family were seated around the room; several of these were now grown up. Besides these, some of the tutors of the college were boarders in the family, and were present at the time alluded to. His aged and superannuated mother occupied a corner of the room, opposite the place where the distinguished judge sat.

7. At length, he opened the Bible, and began to read. The child who was seated beside him made some little disturbance, upon which Mr. Sherman paused and told it to be still. Again he proceeded; but again he paused to reprimand the little offender, whose playful disposition would scarcely permit it to be still. And this time he gently tapped its ear. The blow, if blow it might be called, caught the attention of his aged mother, who now, with some effort, rose from the seat, and tottered across the room. At length she reached the chair of Mr. Sherman, and, in a moment, most unexpectedly to him, she gave him a blow on the ear with all the force she could summon. "There," said she, "you strike your child, and I will strike mine."

8. For a moment, the blood was seen mounting to the face of Mr. Sherman; but it was only for a moment, when all was calm and mild as usual. He paused; he raised his spectacles; he cast his eye upon his mother; again it fell upon the book from which he had been reading. Not a word escaped him; but again he calmly pursued the service, and soon after sought in prayer an ability to set an example before his household which would be worthy of their imitation. Such a victory was worth more than the proudest one ever achieved on the field of battle.



DEFINITIONS.—1. Con-trol', subdue, restrain, govern. Cul'ture, cultivation, improvement by effort. Dis'ci-plined, brought under control, trained. 2. In-tol'er-a-ble, not capable of being borne. 3. Def 'er-ence, regard, respect. 4. Rep'ri-mand-ed, reproved for a fault. 6. Su-per-an'nu-a-ted, impaired by old age and infirmity. 8. A-chieved', gained.

NOTE.—Roger Sherman (b. 1721, d. 1793) was born at Newton Massachusetts, and until twenty-two years of age was a shoemaker. He then removed to New Milford, Connecticut, and was soon afterward appointed surveyor of lands for the county. In 1754, he was admitted to the bar. At various times he was elected a judge; sent to the Legislature, to the Colonial Assembly, and to the United States Congress; made a member of the governor's council of safety; and, in 1776, a member of the committee appointed to draft the Declaration of Independence, of which he was one of the signers.



LXVII. WILLIAM TELL.

James Sheridan Knowles (b. 1784, d. 1862), a dramatist and actor, was born in Cork, Ireland. In 1792 his father removed to London with his family. At the age of fourteen, Sheridan wrote an opera called "The Chevalier de Grillon." In 1798 he removed to Dublin, and soon after began his career as an actor and author. In 1835 he visited America. In 1839 an annual pension of 200 Pounds was granted him by the British government. Several years before his death he left the stage and became a Baptist minister. The best known of his plays are "Caius Gracchus," "Virginius," "Leo, the Gypsy," "The Hunchback," and "William Tell," from the last of which the following two lessons are abridged.

SCENE 1.—A Chamber in the Castle. Enter Gesler, Officers, and Sarnem, with Tell in chains and guarded.

Sar. Down, slave! Behold the governor. Down! down! and beg for mercy.

Ges. (Seated.) Does he hear?

Sar. He does, but braves thy power.

Officer. Why don't you smite him for that look?

Ges. Can I believe My eyes? He smiles! Nay, grasps His chains as he would make a weapon of them To lay the smiter dead. (To Tell.) Why speakest thou not?

Tell. For wonder.

Ges. Wonder?

Tell. Yes, that thou shouldst seem a man.

Ges. What should I seem?

Tell. A monster.

Ges. Ha! Beware! Think on thy chains.

Tell. Though they were doubled, and did weigh me down Prostrate to the earth, methinks I could rise up Erect, with nothing but the honest pride Of telling thee, usurper, to thy teeth, Thou art a monster! Think upon my chains? How came they on me?

Ges. Darest thou question me?

Tell. Darest thou not answer?

Ges. Do I hear?

Tell. Thou dost.

Ges. Beware my vengeance!

Tell. Can it more than kill?

Ges. Enough; it can do that.

Tell. No; not enough: It can not take away the grace of life; Its comeliness of look that virtue gives; Its port erect with consciousness of truth; Its rich attire of honorable deeds; Its fair report that's rife on good men's tongues; It can not lay its hands on these, no more Than it can pluck the brightness from the sun, Or with polluted finger tarnish it.

Ges. But it can make thee writhe.

Tell. It may.

Ges. And groan.

Tell. It may; and I may cry Go on, though it should make me groan again.

Ges. Whence comest thou?

Tell. From the mountains. Wouldst thou learn What news from thence?

Ges. Canst tell me any?

Tell. Ay: they watch no more the avalanche.

Ges. Why so?

Tell. Because they look for thee. The hurricane Comes unawares upon them; from its bed The torrent breaks, and finds them in its track.

Ges. What do they then?

Tell. Thank heaven it is not thou! Thou hast perverted nature in them. There's not a blessing heaven vouchsafes them, but The thought of thee—doth wither to a curse.

Ges. That's right! I'd have them like their hills, That never smile, though wanton summer tempt Them e'er so much.

Tell. But they do sometimes smile.

Ges. Ay! when is that?

Tell. When they do talk of vengeance.

Ges. Vengeance? Dare they talk of that?

Tell. Ay, and expect it too.

Ges. From whence?

Tell. From heaven!

Ges. From heaven?

Tell. And their true hands Are lifted up to it on every hill For justice on thee.

Ges. Where's thy abode?

Tell. I told thee, on the mountains.

Ges. Art married?

Tell. Yes.

Ges. And hast a family?

Tell. A son.

Ges. A son? Sarnem!

Sar. My lord, the boy—(Gesler signs to Sarnem to keep silence, and, whispering, sends him off.)

Tell. The boy? What boy? Is 't mine? and have they netted my young fledgeling? Now heaven support me, if they have! He'll own me, And share his father's ruin! But a look Would put him on his guard—yet how to give it! Now heart, thy nerve; forget thou 'rt flesh, be rock. They come, they come! That step—that step—that little step, so light Upon the ground, how heavy does it fall Upon my heart! I feel my child! (Enter Sarnem with Albert, whose eyes are riveted on Tell's bow, which Sarnem carries.) 'T is he! We can but perish.

Alb. (Aside.) Yes; I was right. It is my father's bow! For there's my father! I'll not own him though!

Sar. See!

Alb. What?

Sar. Look there!

Alb. I do, what would you have me see?

Sar. Thy father.

Alb. Who? That—that my father?

Tell. My boy! my boy! my own brave boy! He's safe! (Aside.)

Sar. (Aside to Gesler.) They're like each other.

Ges. Yet I see no sign Of recognition to betray the link Unites a father and his child.

Sar. My lord, I am sure it is his father. Look at them. That boy did spring from him; or never cast Came from the mold it fitted! It may be A preconcerted thing 'gainst such a chance. That they survey each other coldly thus.

Ges. We shall try. Lead forth the caitiff.

Sar. To a dungeon?

Ges. No; into the court.

Sar. The court, my lord?

Ges. And send To tell the headsman to make ready. Quick! The slave shall die! You marked the boy?

Sar. I did. He started; 't is his father.

Ges. We shall see. Away with him!

Tell. Stop! Stop!

Ges. What would you?

Tell. Time,— A little time to call my thoughts together!

Ges. Thou shalt not have a minute.

Tell. Some one, then, to speak with.

Ges. Hence with him!

Tell. A moment! Stop! Let me speak to the boy.

Ges. Is he thy son?

Tell. And if He were, art thou so lost to nature, as To send me forth to die before his face?

Ges. Well! speak with him. Now, Sarnem, mark them well.

Tell. Thou dost not know me, boy; and well for thee Thou dost not. I'm the father of a son About thy age. Thou, I see, wast horn, like him, upon the hills: If thou shouldst 'scape thy present thraldom, he May chance to cross thee; if he should, I pray thee Relate to him what has been passing here, And say I laid my hand upon thy head, And said to thee, if he were here, as thou art, Thus would I bless him. Mayst thou live, my boy, To see thy country free, or die for her, As I do! (Albert weeps.)

Sar. Mark! he weeps.

Tell. Were he my son, He would not shed a tear! He would remember The cliff where he was bred, and learned to scan A thousand fathoms' depth of nether air; Where he was trained to hear the thunder talk, And meet the lightning, eye to eye; where last We spoke together, when I told him death Bestowed the brightest gem that graces life, Embraced for virtue's sake. He shed a tear! Now were he by, I'd talk to him, and his cheek Should never blanch, nor moisture dim his eye— I'd talk to him—

Sar. He falters!

Tell. 'T is too much! And yet it must be done! I'd talk to him—

Ges. Of what?

Tell. The mother, tyrant, thou dost make A widow of! I'd talk to him of her. I'd bid him tell her, next to liberty, Her name was the last word my lips pronounced. And I would charge him never to forget To love and cherish her, as he would have His father's dying blessing rest upon him!

Sar. You see, as he doth prompt, the other acts.

Tell. So well he bears it, he doth vanquish me. My boy! my boy! Oh, for the hills, the hills, To see him bound along their tops again, With liberty.

Sar. Was there not an the father in that look?

Ges. Yet 't is 'gainst nature.

Sar. Not if he believes To own the son would be to make him share The father's death.

Ges. I did not think of that! 'T is well The boy is not thy son. I've destined him To die along with thee.

Tell. To die? For what?

Ges. For having braved my power, as thou hast. Lead them forth. Tell. He's but a child.

Ges. Away with them!

Tell. Perhaps an only child.

Ges. No matter.

Tell. He may have a mother.

Ges. So the viper hath; And yet, who spares it for the mother's sake?

Tell. I talk to stone! I talk to it as though 'T were flesh; and know 't is none. I'll talk to it No more. Come, my boy; I taught thee how to live, I'll show thee how to die.

Ges. He is thy child?

Tell. He is my child. (Weeps.)

Ges. I've wrung a tear from him! Thy name?

Tell. My name? It matters not to keep it from thee now; My name is Tell.

Ges. Tell? William Tell?

Tell. The same.

Ges. What! he, so famed 'bove all his countrymen, For guiding o'er the stormy lake the boat? And such a master of his bow, 't is said His arrows never miss! Indeed! I'll take Exquisite vengeance! Mark! I'll spare thy life; Thy boy's too; both of you are free; on one Condition.

Tell. Name it.

Ges. I would see you make A trial of your skill with that same bow You shoot so well with.

Tell. Name the trial you Would have me make.

Ges. You look upon your boy As though instinctively you guessed it.

Tell. Look upon my boy? What mean you? Look upon My boy as though I guessed it? Guessed the trial You'd have me make? Guessed it Instinctively? You do not mean—no—no, You would not have me make a trial of My skill upon my child! Impossible! I do not guess your meaning.

Ges. I would see Thee hit an apple at the distance of A hundred paces.

Tell. Is my boy to hold it?

Ges. No.

Tell. No? I'll send the arrow through the core!

Ges. It is to rest upon his head.

Tell. Great heaven, you hear him!

Ges. Thou dost hear the choice I give: Such trial of the skill thou art master of, Or death to both of you, not otherwise To be escaped.

Tell. O, monster!

Ges. Wilt thou do it?

Alb. He will! he will!

Tell. Ferocious monster! Make A father murder his own child!

Ges. Take off his chains if he consent.

Tell. With his own hand!

Ges. Does he consent?

Alb. He does. (Gesler signs to his officers, who proceed to take off Tell's chains; Tell unconscious what they do.)

Tell. With his own hand! Murder his child with his own hand? This hand? The hand I've led him, when an infant, by? 'T is beyond horror! 'T is most horrible! Amazement! (His chains fall off.) What's that you've done to me? Villains! put on my chains again. My hands Are free from blood, and have no gust for it, That they should drink my child's! Here! here! I'll Not murder my boy for Gesler.

Alb. Father! Father! You will not hit me, father!

Tell. Hit thee? Send The arrow through thy brain? Or, missing that, Shoot out an eye? Or, if thine eye escape, Mangle the cheek I've seen thy mother's lips Cover with kisses? Hit thee? Hit a hair Of thee, and cleave thy mother's heart?

Ges. Dost thou consent?

Tell. Give me my bow and quiver.

Ges. For what?

Tell. To shoot my boy!

Alb. No, father, no! To save me! You'll be sure to hit the apple. Will you not save me, father?

Tell. Lead me forth; I'll make the trial!

Alb. Thank you!

Tell. Thank me? Do You know for what? I will not make the trial. To take him to his mother in my arms! And lay him down a corse before her!

Ges. Then he dies this moment, and you certainly Do murder him whose life you have a chance To save, and will not use it.

Tell. Well, I'll do it; I'll make the trial.

Alb. Father!

Tell. Speak not to me: Let me not hear thy voice: thou must be dumb, And so should all things be. Earth should be dumb; And heaven—unless its thunders muttered at The deed, and sent a bolt to stop! Give me My bow and quiver!

Ges. When all's ready.

Tell. Ready!— I must be calm with such a mark to hit! Don't touch me, child!—Don't speak to me!—Lead on!

DEFINITIONS.—Come'li-ness, that which is becoming or graceful. Port, manner of movement or walk. At-tire', dress, clothes. Tar'-nish, to soil, to sully. Av'a-lanche, a vast body of snow, earth, and ice, sliding down from a mountain. Vouch-safes', yields, conde-scends, gives. Wan'ton, luxuriant. Net'ted, caught in a net. Fledge'ling, a young bird. Rec-og-ni'tion, acknowledgment of ac-quaintance. Pre-con-cert'ed, planned beforehand. Cai'tiff (pro. ka'tif), a mean villain. Thral'dom, bondage, slavery. Scan, to examine closely. Neth'er, lower, lying beneath. Blanch, to turn white. Gust, taste, relish.

NOTE.—William Tell is a legendary hero of Switzerland. The events of this drama are represented as occurring in 1307 A.D., when Austria held Switzerland under her control. Gesler, also a purely mythical personage, is one of the Austrian bailiffs. The legend relates that Gesler had his cap placed on a pole in the market place, and all the Swiss were required to salute it in passing in recognition of his authority. Tell refusing to do this was arrested, and condemned to death. This and the following lesson narrate how the sentence was changed, and the result.



LXVIII. WILLIAM TELL. (Concluded.)

SCENE 2.—Enter slowly, people in evident distress—Officers, Sarnem, Gesler, Tell, Albert, and soldiers—one bearing Tell's bow and quiver—another with a basket of apples.

Ges. That is your ground. Now shall they measure thence A hundred paces. Take the distance.

Tell. Is the line a true one?

Ges. True or not, what is 't to thee?

Tell. What is 't to me? A little thing. A very little thing; a yard or two Is nothing here or there—were it a wolf I shot at! Never mind.

Ges. Be thankful, slave, Our grace accords thee life on any terms.

Tell. I will be thankful, Gesler! Villain, stop! You measure to the sun.

Ges. And what of that? What matter whether to or from the sun?

Tell. I'd have it at my back. The sun should shine Upon the mark, and not on him that shoots. I can not see to shoot against the sun: I will not shoot against the sun!

Ges. Give him his way! Thou hast cause to bless my mercy.

Tell. I shall remember it. I'd like to see The apple I'm to shoot at.

Ges. Stay! show me the basket! there!

Tell. You've picked the smallest one.

Ges. I know I have.

Tell. Oh, do you? But you see The color of it is dark: I'd have it light, To see it better.

Ges. Take it as it is; Thy skill will be the greater if thou hitt'st it. Tell. True! true! I did not think of that; I wonder I did not think of that. Give me some chance To save my boy!— I will not murder him, If I can help it—for the honor of The form thou wearest, if all the heart is gone. (Throws away the apple with all his force.)

Ges. Well: choose thyself.

Tell. Have I a friend among the lookers-on?

Verner. (Rushing forward.) Here, Tell.

Tell. I thank thee, Verner! He is a friend runs out into a storm To shake a hand with us. I must be brief. When once the bow is bent, we can not take The shot too soon. Verner, whatever be The issue of this hour, the common cause Must not stand still. Let not to-morrow's sun Set on the tyrant's banner! Verner! Verner! The boy! the boy! Thinkest thou he hath the courage To stand it?

Ver. Yes.

Tell. Does he tremble?

Ver. No.

Tell. Art sure?

Ver. I am.

Tell. How looks he?

Ver. Clear and smilingly. If you doubt it, look yourself.

Tell. No, no, my friend: To hear it is enough.

Ver. He bears himself so much above his years—

Tell. I know! I know!

Ver. With constancy so modest—

Tell. I was sure he would—

Ver. And looks with such relying love And reverence upon you—

Tell. Man! Man! Man! No more! Already I'm too much the father To act the man! Verner, no more, my friend! I would be flint—flint—flint. Don't make me feel I'm not—do not mind me! Take the boy And set him, Verner, with his back to me. Set him upon his knees, and place this apple Upon his head, so that the stem may front me. Thus, Verner; charge him to keep steady; tell him I'll hit the apple! Verner, do all this More briefly than I tell it thee.

Ver. Come, Albert! (Leading him out.)

Alb. May I not speak with him before I go?

Ver. No.

Alb. I would only kiss his hand.

Ver. You must not.

Alb. I must; I can not go from him without.

Ver. It is his will you should.

Alb. His will, is it? I am content, then; come.

Tell. My boy! (Holding out his arms to him.)

Alb. My father! (Rushing into Tell's arms.)

Tell. If thou canst bear it, should not I? Go now, My son; and keep in mind that I can shoot; Go, boy; be thou but steady, I will hit The apple. Go! God bless thee; go. My bow! (The bow is handed to him.) Thou wilt not fail thy master, wilt thou? Thou Hast never failed him yet, old servant. No, I'm sure of thee. I know thy honesty, Thou art stanch, stanch. Let me see my quiver.

Ges. Give him a single arrow.

Tell. Do you shoot?

Soldier. I do.

Tell. Is it so you pick an arrow, friend? The point, you see, is bent; the feather, jagged. That's all the use 't is fit for. (Breaks it.)

Ges. Let him have another.

Tell. Why, 't is better than the first, But yet not good enough for such an aim As I'm to take. 'T is heavy in the shaft; I'll not shoot with it! (Throws it away.) Let me see my quiver. Bring it! 'T is not one arrow in a dozen I'd take to shoot with at a dove, much less A dove like that.

Ges. It matters not. Show him the quiver.

Tell. See if the boy is ready. (Tell here hides an arrow under his vest.)

Ver. He is.

Tell. I 'm ready too! Keep silent, for Heaven's sake, and do not stir; and let me have Your prayers, your prayers, and be my witnesses That if his life's in peril from my hand, 'Tis only for the chance of saving it. (To the people.)

Ges. Go on.

Tell. I will. O friends, for mercy's sake keep motionless and silent. (Tell shoots. A shout of exultation bursts from the crowd. Tell's head drops on his bosom; he with difficulty supports himself on his bow.)

Ver. (Rushing in with Albert.) The boy is safe, no hair of him is touched.

Alb. Father, I'm safe. Your Albert's safe, dear father. Speak to me! Speak to me!

Ver. He can not, boy!

Alb. You grant him life?

Ges. I do.

Alb. And we are free?

Ges. You are. (Crossing angrily behind.)

Alb. Open his vest, And give him air. (Albert opens his father's vest, and the arrow drops. Tell starts, fixes his eyes on Albert and clasps him to his breast.)

Tell. My boy! My boy!

Ges. For what Hid you that arrow in your breast? Speak, slave!

Tell. To kill thee, tyrant, had I slain my boy!

DEFINITIONS.—Ac-cords', grants, concede. Is'sue (pro. ish'u), event, consequence. Stanch, sound, strong. Jag'ged, notched, uneven. Shaft, the stem of an arrow upon which the feather and head are inserted. Quiv'er, a case for arrows.

NOTE.—The legend further relates that on the discovery of the concealed arrow Tell was again put in chains. Gesler then embarked for another place, taking Tell with him. A storm overtook them, and Tell was released to steer the boat. In passing a certain point of land now known as "Tell's Rock" or "Leap," Tell leaped ashore and escaped: then going to a point where he knew the boat must land, he lay concealed until it arrived, when he shot Gesler through the heart.



LXIX. THE CRAZY ENGINEER.

1. My train left Dantzic in the morning generally about eight o'clock; but once a week we had to wait for the arrival of the steamer from Stockholm. It was the morning of the steamer's arrival that I came down from the hotel, and found that my engineer had been so seriously injured that he could not perform his work. I went immediately to the engine house to procure another engineer, for I supposed there were three or four in reserve there, but I was disappointed.

2. I heard the puffing of the steamer, and the passengers would be on hand in fifteen minutes. I ran to the guards and asked them if they knew where there was an engineer, but they did not. I then went to the firemen and asked them if anyone of them felt competent to run the engine to Bromberg. No one dared to attempt it. The distance was nearly one hundred miles. What was to be done?

3. The steamer stopped at the wharf, and those who were going on by rail came flocking to the station. They had eaten breakfast on board the boat, and were all ready for a fresh start. The train was in readiness in the long station house, and the engine was steaming and puffing away impatiently in the distant firing house.

4. It was past nine o'clock. "Come, why don't we start?" growled an old, fat Swede, who had been watching me narrowly for the last fifteen minutes. And upon this there was a general chorus of anxious inquiry, which soon settled to downright murmuring. At this juncture some one touched me on the elbow. I turned, and saw a stranger by my side. I thought that he was going to remonstrate with me for my backwardness. In fact, I began to have strong temptations to pull off my uniform, for every anxious eye was fixed upon the glaring badges which marked me as the chief officer of the train.

5. However, this stranger was a middle-aged man, tall and stout, with a face of great energy and intelligence. His eye was black and brilliant,—so brilliant that I could not gaze steadily into it, though I tried; and his lips, which were very thin, seemed more like polished marble than human flesh. His dress was black throughout, and not only set with exact nicety, but was scrupulously clean and neat.

6. "You want an engineer, I understand," he said in a low, cautious tone, at the same time gazing quietly about him, as though he wanted no one to hear what he said. "I do," I replied. "My train is all ready, and we have no engineer within twenty miles of this place." "Well, sir, I am going to Bromberg; I must go, and I will run the engine for you." "Ha!" I uttered, "are you an engineer?" "I am, sir—one of the oldest in the country—and am now on my way to make arrangements for a great improvement I have invented for the application of steam to a locomotive. My name is Martin Kroller. If you wish, I will run as far as Bromberg; and I will show you running that is running."

7. Was I not fortunate? I determined to accept the man's offer at once, and so I told him. He received my answer with a nod and a smile. I went with him to the house, where we found the engine in charge of the fireman, and all ready for a start. Kroller got upon the platform, and I followed him. I had never seen a man betray such a peculiar aptness amid machinery as he did. He let on the steam in an instant, but yet with care and judgment, and he backed up to the baggage carriage with the most exact nicety.

8. I had seen enough to assure me that he was thoroughly acquainted with the business, and I felt composed once more. I gave my engine up to the new man, and then hastened away to the office. Word was passed for all the passengers to take their seats, and soon afterward I waved my hand to the engineer. There was a puff, a groaning of the heavy axletrees, a trembling of the building, and the train was in motion. I leaped upon the platform of the guard carriage, and in a few minutes more the station house was far behind us.

9. In less than an hour we reached Dirschau, where we took up the passengers, that had come on the Konigsberg railway. Here I went forward and asked Kroller how he liked the engine. He replied that he liked it very much. "But," he added, with a strange sparkling of the eye, "wait until I get my improvement, and then you will see traveling. Why, I could run an engine of my construction to the moon in four and twenty hours?"

10. I smiled at what I thought his enthusiasm, and then went back to my station. As soon as the Konigsberg passengers were all on board, and their baggage carriage attached, we started on again. Soon after, I went into the guard carriage and sat down. An early train from Konigsberg had been through two hours before, and was awaiting us at Little Oscue, where we took on board the Western mail.

11. "How we go," uttered one of the guards, some fifteen minutes after we had left Dirschau. "The new engineer is trying the speed," I replied, not yet having any fear. But ere long I began to apprehend he was running a little too fast. The carriages began to sway to and fro, and I could hear exclamations of fright from the passengers. "Good heavens!" cried one of the guards, coming in at that moment, "what is that fellow doing? Look, sir, and see how we are going."

12. I looked at the window, and found that we were dashing along at a speed never before traveled on that road. Posts, fences, rocks, and trees flew by in one undistinguished mass, and the carriages now swayed fearfully. I started to my feet, and met a passenger on the platform. He was one of the chief owners of our road, and was just on his way to Berlin. He was pale and excited.

13. "Sir," he gasped, "is Martin Kroller on the engine?"

"Yes," I told him.

"What! didn't you know him?"

"Know?" I repeated, somewhat puzzled; "what do you mean? He told me his name was Kroller, and that he was an engineer. We had no one to run the engine, and—"

"You took him!" interrupted the man. "Good heavens, sir, he is as crazy as a man can be! He turned his brain over a new plan for applying steam power. I saw him at the station, but did not fully recognize him, as I was in a hurry. Just now one of your passengers told me that your engineers were all gone this morning, and that you found one that was a stranger to you. Then I knew the man whom I had seen was Martin Kroller. He had escaped from the hospital at Stettin. You must get him off somehow."

14. The whole fearful truth was now open to me. The speed of the train was increasing every moment, and I knew that a few more miles per hour would launch us all into destruction. I called to the guard and then made my way forward as quickly as possible. I reached the back platform of the tender, and there stood Kroller upon the engine board, his hat and coat off, his long black hair floating wildly in the wind, his shirt unbuttoned at the front, his sleeves rolled up, with a pistol in his teeth, and thus glaring upon the fireman, who lay motionless upon the fuel. The furnace was stuffed till the very latch of the door was red-hot, and the whole engine was quivering and swaying as though it would shiver to pieces.

15. "Kroller! Kroller'!" I cried, at the top of my voice. The crazy engineer started, and caught the pistol in his hand. Oh, how those great black eyes glared, and how ghastly and frightful the face looked!

"Ha! ha! ha!" he yelled demoniacally, glaring upon me like a roused lion.

"They said that I could not make it! But see! see! See my new power! See my new engine! I made it, and they are jealous of me! I made it, and when it was done, they stole it from me. But I have found it! For years I have been wandering in search of my great engine, and they said it was not made. But I have found it! I knew it this morning when I saw it at Dantzic, and I was determined to have it. And I've got it! Ho! ho! ho! we're on the way to the moon, I say! We'll be in the moon in four and twenty hours. Down, down, villain! If you move, I'll shoot you."

This was spoken to the poor fireman, who at that moment attempted to rise, and the frightened man sank back again.

16. "Here's Little Oscue just before us," cried out one of the guard. But even as he spoke, the buildings were at hand. A sickening sensation settled upon my heart, for I supposed that we were now gone. The houses flew by like lightning. I knew if the officers here had turned the switch as usual, we should be hurled into eternity in one fearful crash. I saw a flash,—it was another engine,—I closed my eyes; but still we thundered on! The officers had seen our speed, and knowing that we would not be able to stop, in that distance, they had changed the switch, so that we went forward.

17. But there was sure death ahead, if we did not stop. Only fifteen miles from us was the town of Schwetz, on the Vistula; and at the rate we were going we should be there in a few minutes, for each minute carried us over a mile. The shrieks of the passengers now rose above the crash of the rails, and more terrific than all else arose the demoniac yells of the mad engineer.

"Merciful heavens!" gasped the guardsman, "there's not a moment to lose; Schwetz is close. But hold," he added; "let's shoot him."

18. At that moment a tall, stout German student came over the platform where we stood, and saw that the mad-man had his heavy pistol aimed at us. He grasped a huge stick of wood, and, with a steadiness of nerve which I could not have commanded, he hurled it with such force and precision that he knocked the pistol from the maniac's hand. I saw the movement, and on the instant that the pistol fell, I sprang forward, and the German followed me. I grasped the man by the arm; but I should have been nothing in his mad power, had I been alone. He would have hurled me from the platform, had not the student at that moment struck him upon the head with a stick of wood, which he caught as he came over the tender.

19. Kroller settled down like a dead man, and on the next instant I shut off the steam and opened the valve. As the free steam shrieked and howled in its escape, the speed began to decrease, and in a few minutes more the danger was passed. As I settled back, entirely overcome by the wild emotions that had raged within me, we began to turn the river; and before I was fairly recovered, the fireman had stopped the train in the station house at Schwetz.

20. Martin Kroller, still insensible, was taken from the platform; and, as we carried him to the guard room, one of the guard recognized him, and told us that he had been there about two weeks before.

"He came," said the guard, "and swore that an engine which stood near by was his. He said it was one he had made to go to the moon in, and that it had been stolen from him. We sent for more help to arrest him, and he fled."

"Well," I replied, with a shudder, "I wish he had approached me in the same way; but he was more cautious at Dantzic."

At Schwartz we found an engineer to run the engine to Bromberg; and having taken out the western mail for the next northern mail to carry along, we saw that Kroller would be properly attended to, and then started on.

21. The rest of the trip we ran in safety, though I could see the passengers were not wholly at ease, and would not be until they were entirely clear of the railway. Martin Kroller remained insensible from the effects of the blow nearly two weeks; and when he recovered from that, he was sound again; his insanity was all gone. I saw him about three weeks afterward, but he had no recollection of me. He remembered nothing of the past year, not even his mad freak on my engine. But I remembered it, and I remember it still; and the people need never fear that I shall be imposed upon again by a crazy engineer.

DEFINITIONS.—2. Com'pe-tent, fit, qualified. 4. Junc'ture, point of time, crisis. Re-mon'strate, to present strong reasons against any course of proceedings. 7. Apt'ness, fitness, suitableness. 8. Com-posed', calm. 11. Ap-pre-hend', to entertain suspicion or fear of. 14. Ten'der, a car attached to a locomotive to supply it with fuel and water. 18. Pre-ci'sion (pro. pre-sizh'un), accuracy, exactness.



NOTE.—This incident is said to have taken place on the railway following the valley of the Vistula. River, in Prussia, from Dantzic to Bromberg. The cities mentioned are all in Prussia, excepting Stockholm, which is the capital of Sweden.



LXX. THE HERITAGE.

James Russell Lowell (b. 1819, d.1891) was born in Cambridge, Mass., and was graduated from Harvard College. He entered the profession of law; but, in 1843, turned aside to publish "The Pioneer, a Literary and Critical Magazine." In 1855 he was appointed professor of Belles-lettres in Harvard College. From 1877 to 1885 he was U.S. Minister, first to Spain, afterwards to Great Britain. Lowell's powers as a writer were very versatile, and his poems range from the most dreamy and imaginative to the most trenchant and witty. Among his most noted poetical works are "The Biglow Papers," "A Fable for Critics," "The Vision of Sir Launfal," "The Cathedral," and "The Legend of Brittany;" while "Conversations on some of the Old Poets," "Among my Books," and "My Study Windows," place him in the front rank as an essayist.

1. 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.

2. The rich man's son inherits cares; The bank 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.

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

4. 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.

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

6. 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.

7. 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.

8. 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.

9. 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.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Her'it-age, that which is inherited, or taken by descent, from an ancestor. 3. Sat'ed, surfeited, glutted. Hinds, peasants, countrymen. 5. Ad-judged', decided, determined. 8. Be-nign' (pro. be-nin'), having healthful qualities, wholesome.

NOTES.—1. To hold in fee, means to have as an inheritance. 9. Prove title. That is, to prove the right of ownership.



LXXI. NO EXCELLENCE WITHOUT LABOR.

William Wirt (b. 1772, d. 1834) was born in Bladensburg, Md. He was admitted to the bar in 1799, and afterwards practiced law, with eminent success, at Richmond and Norfolk, Va. He was one of the counsel for the prosecution in the trial of Aaron Burr for treason. From 1817 to 1829 he was attorney-general for the United States. In 1803 he published the "Letters of a British Spy," a work which attracted much attention, and in 1817 a "Life of Patrick Henry."

1. The education, moral and intellectual, of every individual, must be chiefly his own work. Rely upon it that the ancients were right; both in morals and intellect we give the final shape to our characters, and thus become, emphatically, the architects of our own fortune. How else could it happen that young men, who have had precisely the same opportunities, should be continually presenting us with such different results, and rushing to such opposite destinies?

2. Difference of talent will not solve it, because that difference is very often in favor of the disappointed candidate. You will see issuing from the walls of the same college, nay, sometimes from the bosom of the same family, two young men, of whom one will be admitted to be a genius of high order, the other scarcely above the point of mediocrity; yet you will see the genius sinking and perishing in poverty, obscurity, and wretchedness; while, on the other hand, you will observe the mediocre plodding his slow but sure way up the hill of life, gaining steadfast footing at every step, and mounting, at length, to eminence and distinction, an ornament to his family, a blessing to his country.

3. Now, whose work is this? Manifestly their own. They are the architects of their respective fortunes. The best seminary of learning that can open its portals to you can do no more than to afford you the opportunity of instruction; but it must depend, at last, on yourselves, whether you will be instructed or not, or to what point you will push your instruction.

4. And of this be assured, I speak from observation a certain truth: THERE IS NO EXCELLENCE WITHOUT GREAT LABOR. It is the fiat of fate, from which no power of genius can absolve you.

5. Genius, unexerted, is like the poor moth that flutters around a candle till it scorches itself to death. If genius be desirable at all, it is only of that great and magnanimous kind, which, like the condor of South America, pitches from the summit of Chimborazo, above the clouds, and sustains itself at pleasure in that empyreal region with an energy rather invigorated than weakened by the effort.

6. It is this capacity for high and long-continued exertion, this vigorous power of profound and searching investigation, this careering and wide-spreading comprehension of mind, and these long reaches of thought, that

"Pluck bright honor from the pale-faced moon, Or dive into the bottom of the deep, And pluck up drowned honor by the locks;"

this is the prowess, and these the hardy achievements, which are to enroll your names among the great men of the earth.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Mor'al, relating to duty or obligation. Ar'-chi-tects, builders, makers. Des'ti-ny, ultimate fate, appointed condition. 2. Can'di-date, one who seeks after some honor or office. Gen'ius (pro. jen'yus), a man of superior intellectual powers. Me-di-oc'ri-ty, a middle state or degree of talents. Me'di-o-cre (pro. me'di-o-kr), a man of moderate talents. 3. Re-spec'tive, particular, own. 4. Ab-solve', set free, release from. Fi'at, a decree. 5. Con'-dor, a large bird of the vulture family. Em-pyr'e-al, relating to the highest and purest region of the heavens. 6. Ca-reer'ing, moving rapidly. Prow'ess (pro. prou'es), bravery, boldness.

NOTES.—5. Chimborazo (pro. chim-bo-ra'zo), is an extinct volcano in Ecuador, whose height is 20,517 feet above the sea.

6. The quotation is from Shakespeare's "King Henry IV," Part I, Act II Scene 3.



LXXII. THE OLD HOUSE CLOCK.

1. Oh! the old, old clock of the household stock, Was the brightest thing, and neatest; Its hands, though old, had a touch of gold, And its chimes rang still the sweetest; 'T was a monitor, too, though its words were few, Yet they lived, though nations altered; And its voice, still strong, warned old and young, When the voice of friendship faltered: "Tick! tick!" it said, "quick, quick, to bed: For ten I've given warning; Up! up! and go, or else you know, You'll never rise soon in the morning!"

2. A friendly voice was that old, old clock, As it stood in the corner smiling, And blessed the time with merry chime, The wintry hours beguiling; But a cross old voice was that tiresome clock, As it called at daybreak boldly; When the dawn looked gray o'er the misty way, And the early air looked coldly: "Tick! tick!" it said, "quick out of bed: For five I've given warning; You'll never have health, you'll never have wealth, Unless you're up soon in the morning!"

3. Still hourly the sound goes round and round, With a tone that ceases never: While tears are shed for bright days fled, And the old friends lost forever! Its heart beats on, though hearts are gone That beat like ours, though stronger; Its hands still move, though hands we love Are clasped on earth no longer! "Tick! tick!" it said, "to the churchyard bed, The grave hath given warning; Up! up! and rise, and look at the skies, And prepare for a heavenly morning!"



LXXIII. THE EXAMINATION

Daniel Pierce Thompson (b. 1193, d. 1868) was born at Charlestown, Mass., but soon removed with his father to Vermont, where he lived until twenty years of age, on a farm. His means of schooling were most limited, but he was very ambitious and seized every opportunity. By his own efforts he earned enough money to carry him through Middlebury College, where he graduated in 1820. He then went to Virginia as private tutor, and while there was entered at the bar. He shortly returned to Vermont, and opened a law office in Montpelier. In time he was elected a judge, and later secretary of state. From his college days Mr. Thompson was a writer for the various magazines. Among his novels may be mentioned "Locke Amsden, the Schoolmaster," "May Martin, or the Money Diggers," "The Green Mountain Boys," and "The Rangers, or the Tory's Daughter."

1. "Have you any questions to ask me in the other branches, sir?" asked Locke.

"Not many," replied Bunker. "There is reading, writing, grammar, etc., which I know nothing about; and as to them, I must, of course, take you by guess, which will not be much of a guess, after all, if I find you have thought well on all other matters. Do you understand philosophy?"

2. "To what branch of philosophy do you allude, sir?"

"To the only branch there is."

"But you are aware that philosophy is divided into different kinds; as, natural, moral, and intellectual."

"Nonsense! philosophy is philosophy, and means the study of the reasons and causes of the things which we see, whether it be applied to a crazy man's dreams, or the roasting of potatoes. Have you attended to it?"

"Yes, to a considerable extent, sir."

3. "I will put a question or two, then, if you please. What is the reason of the fact, for it is a fact, that the damp breath of a person blown on a good knife and on a bad one, will soonest disappear from the well-tempered blade?"

"It may be owing to the difference in the polish of the two blades, perhaps." replied Locke.

4. "Ah! that is an answer that don't go deeper than the surface," rejoined Bunker, humorously. "As good a thinker as you evidently are, you have not thought on this subject, I suspect. It took me a week, in all, I presume, of hard thinking, and making experiments at a blacksmith's shop, to discover the reason of this. It is not the polish; for take two blades of equal polish, and the breath will disappear from one as much quicker than it does from the other, as the blade is better. It is because the material of the blade is more compact or less porous in one case than in the other.

5. "In the first place, I ascertained that the steel was, made more compact by being hammered and tempered, and that the better it was tempered the more compact it would become; the size of the pores being made, of course, less in the same proportion. Well, then, I saw the reason I was in search of, at once. For we know a wet sponge is longer in drying than a wet piece of green wood, because the pores of the first are bigger. A seasoned or shrunk piece of wood dries quicker than a green one, for the same reason.

6. "Or you might bore a piece of wood with large gimlet holes, and another with small ones, fill them both with water, and let them stand till the water evaporated, and the difference of time it would take to do this would make the case still more plain. So with the blades: the vapor lingers longest on the worst wrought and tempered one, because the pores, being larger, take in more of the wet particles, and require more time in drying."

7. "Your theory is at least a very ingenious one," observed Locke, "and I am reminded by it of another of the natural phenomena, of the true explanation of which I have not been able to satisfy myself. It is this: what makes the earth freeze harder and deeper under a trodden path than the untrodden earth around it? All that I have asked, say it is because the trodden earth is more compact. But is that reason a sufficient one?"

8. "No," said Bunker, "but I will tell you what the reason is, for I thought that out long ago. You know that, in the freezing months, much of the warmth we get is given out by the earth, from which, at intervals, if not constantly, to some extent, ascend the warm vapors to mingle with and moderate the cold atmosphere above.

9. "Now these ascending streams of warm air would be almost wholly obstructed by the compactness of a trodden path, and they would naturally divide at some distance below it, and pass up through the loose earth on each side, leaving the ground along the line of the path, to a great depth beneath it, a cold, dead mass, through which the frost would continue to penetrate, unchecked by the internal heat, which, in its unobstructed ascent on each side, would be continually checking or overcoming the frost in its action on the earth around.

10. "That, sir, is the true philosophy of the case, you may depend upon it. But we will now drop the discussion of these matters; for I am abundantly satisfied that you have not only knowledge enough, but that you can think for yourself. And now, sir, all I wish to know further about you is, whether you can teach others to think, which is half the battle with a teacher. But as I have had an eye on this point, while attending to the others, probably one experiment, which I will ask you to make on one of the boys here, will be all I shall want."

"Proceed, sir," said the other.

11. "Ay, sir," rejoined Bunker, turning to the open fireplace, in which the burning wood was sending up a column of smoke, "there, you see that smoke rising, don't you? Well, you and I know the, reason why smoke goes upward, but my youngest boy does not, I think. Now take your own way, and see if you can make him understand it."

12. Locke, after a moment's reflection, and a glance round the room for something to serve for apparatus, took from a shelf, where he had espied a number of articles, the smallest of a set of cast-iron cart boxes, as are usually termed the round hollow tubes in which the axletree of a carriage turns. Then selecting a tin cup that would just take in the box, and turning into the cup as much water as he judged, with the box, would fill it, he presented them separately to the boy, and said,

"There, my lad, tell me which of these is the heavier."

13. "Why, the cart box, to be sure," replied the boy, taking the cup, half-filled with water, in one hand, and the hollow iron in the other.

"Then you think this iron is heavier than as much water as would fill the place of it, do you?" resumed Locke.

"Why, yes, as heavy again, and more too—I know it is," promptly said the boy.

14. "Well, sir, now mark what I do," proceeded the former, dropping into the cup the iron box, through the hollow of which the water instantly rose to the brim of the vessel.

"There, you saw that water rise to the top of the cup, did you?"

"Yes, I did."

"Very well, what caused it to do so?"

15. "Why, I know well enough, if I could only think: why, it is because the iron is the heavier, and as it comes all around the water so it can't get away sideways, it is forced up."

"That is right; and now I want you to tell what makes that smoke rise up the chimney."

16. "Why,—I guess," replied the boy, hesitating, "I guess,—I guess I don't know."

"Did you ever get up in a chair to look on some high shelf, so that your head was brought near the ceiling of a heated room, in winter? and did you notice any difference between the air up there and the air near the floor?"

17. "Yes, I remember I have, and found the air up there as warm as mustard; and when I got down, and bent my head near the floor to pick up something, I found it as cold as could be."

"That is ever the case; but I wish you to tell me how the cold air always happens to settle down to the lower part of the room, while the warm air, somehow, at the same time, gets above."

18. "Why, why, heavy things settle down, and the cold air—yes, yes, that's it, I am sure—the cold air is heavier, and so settles down, and crowds up the warm air."

"Very good. You then understand that cold air is heavier than the heated air, as that iron is heavier than the water; so now we will go back to the main question—what makes the smoke go upwards?"

19. "Oh! I see now as plain as day; the cold air settles down all round, like the iron box, and drives up the hot air as fast as the fire heats it, in the middle, like the water; and so the hot air carries the smoke along up with it, just as feathers and things in a whirlwind. Well! I have found out what makes smoke go up—is n't it curious?"

20. "Done like a philosopher!" cried Bunker. "The thing is settled. I will grant that you are a teacher among a thousand. You can not only think yourself, but can teach others to think; so you may call the position yours as quick as you please."

DEFINITIONS.—2. In-tel-lec'tu-al, treating of the mind. 3. Tem'-pered, brought to a proper degree of hardness. 4. Com-pact', closely and firmly united, solid, dense. 4. Por'ous, full of pores or minute openings. 6. E-vap'o-rat-ed, passed off in vapor. 7. In-gen'ious (pro. in-jen'yus), well formed, skillful. 7. Phe-nom'e-non, whatever is presented to the eye. 8. In'ter-vals, spaces of time. 12. Ap-pa-ra'tus, utensils for performing experiments.

NOTE.—Locke Amsden is represented as a bright young student in search of a position as teacher of a district school in Vermont. Mr. Buuker, the "Examining Committee," is a queer, shrewd old farmer, who can neither read nor write, but by careful observation has picked up a large amount of valuable information. The story opens in the midst of the examination.



LXXIV. THE ISLE OF LONG AGO.

Benjamin Franklin Taylor (b. 1819, d. 1887) was born at Lowville, N.Y. He graduated at Madison University, of which his father was president. In 1845 he published "Attractions of Language." For many years he was literary editor of the "Chicago Journal." Mr. Taylor wrote considerably for the magazines, was the author of many well-known favorite pieces both in prose and verse, and achieved success as a lecturer.

1. Oh, a wonderful stream is the river of Time, As it runs through the realm of tears, With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime, As it blends with the ocean of Years.

2. How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow, And the summers, like buds between; And the year in the sheaf—so they come and they go, On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow, As it glides in the shadow and sheen.

3. There's a magical isle up the river of Time, Where the softest of airs are playing; There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, And a song as sweet as a vesper chime, And the Junes with the roses are staying.

4. And the name of that isle is the Long Ago, And we bury our treasures there; There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow— There are heaps of dust—but we love them so!— There are trinkets and tresses of hair;

5. There are fragments of song that nobody sings, And a part of an infant's prayer, There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings; There are broken vows and pieces of rings, And the garments that she used to wear.

6. There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore By the mirage is lifted in air; And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar, Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, When the wind down the river is fair.

7. Oh, remembered for aye be the blessed Isle, All the day of our life till night— When the evening comes with its beautiful smile, And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile, May that "Greenwood." of Soul be in sight

DEFINITIONS.—1. Realm, region, country. Rhythm, the harmonious flow of vocal sounds. Rhyme, a word answering in sound to another word. Surge, a great, rolling swell of water. 3. Ves'per, pertaining to the evening service in the Roman Catholic Church. 6. Mi-rage' (pro. me-razh'), an optical illusion causing objects at a distance to seem as though suspended in the air. 7. Aye (pro. a), always, ever.

NOTES.—5. A lute unswept, that is, unplayed.

7. Greenwood is a notes and very beautiful cemetery at the southern extremity of Brooklyn, N.Y. The expression means, then, the resting place of the soul.



LXXV. THE BOSTON MASSACRE.

George Bancroft (b. 1800, d. 1891) was born at Worcester, Mass. He was an ambitious student, and graduated at Harvard College before he was eighteen years of age. He then traveled in Europe, spending some time at the German universities. On his return, in 1822, he was appointed tutor in Greek at Harvard. His writings at this time were a small volume of original poems, some translations from Schiller and Goethe, and a few striking essays. Mr. Bancroft has held numerous high political offices. In 1838 he was appointed collector of the port at Boston; in 1845 he was made secretary of the Navy; in 1849 he was sent as United States Minister to Great Britain; and in 1867 he was sent in the same capacity to Prussia. The work which has given Mr. Bancroft his great literary reputation is his "History of the United States, from the Discovery of the American Continent." The first volume appeared in 1834. Philosophical in reasoning, interesting, terse in style, and founded on careful research, under the most favorable advantages, the work stands alone in its sphere.

1. The evening of the fifth came on. The young moon was shining brightly in a cloudless winter sky, and its light was increased by a new-fallen snow. Parties of soldiers were driving about the streets, making a parade of valor, challenging resistance, and striking the inhabitants indiscriminately with sticks or sheathed cutlasses.

2. A band, which poured out from Murray's barracks, in Brattle Street, armed with clubs, cutlasses, and bayonets, provoked resistance, and a fray ensued. Ensign Maul, at the gate of the barrack yard, cried to the soldiers: "Turn out, and I will stand by you; kill them; stick them; knock them down; run your bayonets through them." One soldier after another leveled a firelock, and threatened to "make a lane" through the crowd.

3. Just before nine, as an officer crossed King Street, now State Street, a barber's lad cried after him: "There goes a mean fellow who hath not paid my father for dressing his hair;" on which, the sentinel stationed at the westerly end of the customhouse, on the corner of King Street and Exchange Lane, left his post, and with his musket gave the boy a stroke on the head, that made him stagger and cry for pain.

4. The street soon became clear, and nobody troubled the sentry, when a party of soldiers issued violently from the main guard, their arms glittering in the moonlight, and passed on, hallooing: "Where are they? where are they? Let them come."

5. Presently twelve or fifteen more, uttering the same cries, rushed from the south into King Street, and so by the way of Cornhill towards Murray's barracks. "Pray, soldiers, spare my life," cried a boy of twelve, whom they met. "No, no, I'll kill you all," answered one of them, and knocked him down with his cutlass. They abused and insulted several persons at their doors and others in the street; "running about like madmen in a fury," crying, "Fire!" which seemed their watchword, and, "Where are they? Knock them down." Their outrageous behavior occasioned the ringing of the bell at the head of King Street.

6. The citizens, whom the alarm set in motion, came out with canes and clubs; and, partly by the interference of well-disposed officers, partly by the courage of Crispus Attucks, a mulatto, and some others, the fray at the barracks was soon over. Of the citizens, the prudent shouted, "Home! home!" others, it is said, cried out, "Huzza for the main guard! there is the nest;" but the main guard was not molested the whole evening.

7. A body of soldiers came up Royal Exchange Lane, crying, "Where are the cowards?" and, brandishing their arms, passed through King Street. From ten to twenty boys came after them, asking, "Where are they? where are they?" "There is the soldier who knocked me down," said the barber's boy; and they began pushing one another towards the sentinel. He loaded and primed his musket. "The lobster is going to fire," cried a boy. Waving his piece about, the sentinel pulled the trigger.