Chapter 10

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

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

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

_Paul H. Hayne._

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CLOSES, small inclosed fields.

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

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

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_66_

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

CHRISTMAS DINNER AT THE CRATCHITS'.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovelful of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass,--two tumblers and a custard cup without a handle.

These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob proposed: "A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!"

Which all the family re[:e]choed.

"God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all.

He sat very close to his father's side, upon his little stool. Bob held his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the child, and wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him.

_Charles Dickens._

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DECLENSION, a falling downward.

COPPER, a boiler made of copper.

RALLIED, indulged in pleasant humor.

UBIQUITOUS (u b[)i]k' w[)i] t[)u]s), appearing to be everywhere at the same time.

EKED OUT, added to; increased.

BEDIGHT, bedecked; adorned.

RE[:E]CHOED (reëchoed): What is the mark placed over the second _ë_ called, and what does it denote?

NOTE.--"A Christmas Carol," from which the selection is taken, is considered the best short story that Dickens wrote, and one of the best Christmas stories ever written. The Cratchits were very poor as to the goods of this world, but very rich in love, kindness, and contentment.

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_67_

WHICH SHALL IT BE?

Which shall it be? Which shall it be? I looked at John, John looked at me; And when I found that I must speak, My voice seemed strangely low and weak: "Tell me again what Robert said," And then I, listening, bent my head-- This is his letter: "I will give A house and land while you shall live, If in return from out your seven One child to me for aye is given."

I looked at John's old garments worn; I thought of all that he had borne Of poverty, and work, and care, Which I, though willing, could not share; I thought of seven young mouths to feed, Of seven little children's need, And then of this.

"Come, John," said I, "We'll choose among them as they lie Asleep." So, walking hand in hand, Dear John and I surveyed our band: First to the cradle lightly stepped, Where Lilian, the baby, slept. Softly the father stooped to lay His rough hand down in loving way, When dream or whisper made her stir, And huskily he said: "Not her!"

We stooped beside the trundle-bed, And one long ray of lamplight shed Athwart the boyish faces there, In sleep so pitiful and fair; I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek A tear undried. Ere John could speak, "He's but a baby too," said I, And kissed him as we hurried by. Pale, patient Robbie's angel face Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace-- "No, for a thousand crowns, not him!" He whispered, while our eyes were dim.

Poor Dick! bad Dick, our wayward son-- Turbulent, restless, idle one-- Could he be spared? Nay, He who gave Bade us befriend him to the grave; Only a mother's heart could be Patient enough for such as he; "And so," said John, "I would not dare To take him from her bedside prayer."

Then stole we softly up above, And knelt by Mary, child of love; "Perhaps for her 'twould better be," I said to John. Quite silently He lifted up a curl that lay Across her cheek in wilful way, And shook his head: "Nay, love, not thee," The while my heart beat audibly.

Only one more, our eldest lad, Trusty and truthful, good and glad, So like his father. "No, John, no! I cannot, will not, let him go." And so we wrote in courteous way, We could not give one child away; And afterwards toil lighter seemed, Thinking of that of which we dreamed, Happy in truth that not one face Was missed from its accustomed place, Thankful to work for all the seven, Trusting the rest to One in Heaven!

_Anonymous_.

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Write the story of the poem in the form of a composition. Tell of the great affection of parents for their children. Even in the poorest and most numerous families, what parent could think of parting with a child for any sum of money?

Tell about the letter John and his wife received from a rich man without children who wished to adopt one of their seven. Tell about the offer the rich man made. What a great temptation this was!

The parents considered the offer, looked into each other's faces and asked, "Which shall it be?" Not the baby. Why? Not the two youngest boys. Why? Not the poor helpless little cripple. Why? Not the sweet child, Mary. Why? Not Dick, the wayward son. Why? Not, for worlds, the oldest boy. Why?

Tell the answer the parents sent the rich man.

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_68_

Dor'o thy in her'it ance Cap pa do' ci a ob' sti na cy The oph' i lus ex e cu' tion ers

ST. DOROTHY, MARTYR

The names of St. Catherine and St. Agnes, St. Lucy and St. Cecilia, are familiar to us all; and to many of us, no doubt, their histories are well known also. Young as they were, they despised alike the pleasures and the flatteries of the world. They chose God alone as their portion and inheritance; and He has highly exalted them, and placed their names amongst those glorious martyrs whose memory is daily honored in the holy Sacrifice of the Mass.

St. Dorothy was another of these virgin saints. She was born in the city of Cæsarea, and was descended of a rich and noble family. While the last of the ten terrible persecutions, which for three hundred years steeped the Church in the blood of martyrs, was raging, Dorothy embraced the faith of Christ, and, in consequence, was seized and carried before the Roman Prefect of the city.

She was put to the most cruel tortures, and, at length, condemned to death. When the executioners were preparing to behead her, the Prefect said, "Now, at least, confess your folly, and pray to the immortal gods for pardon."

"I pray," replied the martyr, "that the God of heaven and earth may pardon and have mercy on you; and I will also pray when I reach the land whither I am going."

"Of what land do you speak?" asked the judge, who, like most of the pagans, had very little notion of another world.

"I speak of that land where Christ, the Son of God, dwells with his saints," replied St. Dorothy. "_There_ is neither night nor sorrow; _there_ is the river of life, and the brightness of eternal glory; and _there_ is a paradise of all delight, and flowers that shall never fade."

"I pray you, then," said a young man, named Theophilus, who was listening to her words with pity mingled with wonder, "if these things be so, to send me some of those flowers, when you shall have reached the land you speak of."

Dorothy looked at him as he spoke; and then answered: "Theophilus, you shall have the sign you ask for." There was no time for more; the executioner placed her before the block, and, in another moment, with one blow, he struck off the head of the holy martyr.

"Those were strange words," said Theophilus to one of his friends, as they were about to leave the court; "but these Christians are not like other people." "Their obstinacy is altogether surprising," rejoined his friend; "death itself will never make them waver. But who is this, Theophilus?" he continued, as a young boy came up to them, of such singular beauty that the eyes of all were fixed upon him with wonder and admiration. He seemed not more than ten years old; his golden hair fell on his shoulders, and in his hand he bore four roses, two white and two red, and of so brilliant a color and rich a fragrance that their like had never before been seen. He held them out to Theophilus. "These flowers are for you," said he; "will you not take them?" "And whence do you bring them, my boy?" asked Theophilus. "From Dorothy," he replied, "and they are the sign you even now asked for." "Roses, and in winter time!" said Theophilus, as he took the flowers; "yea, and such roses as never blossomed in any earthly garden. Prefect, your task is not yet ended; your sword has slain one Christian, but it has made another; I, too, profess the faith for which Dorothy died."

Within another hour, Theophilus was condemned to death by the enraged Prefect; and on the spot where Dorothy had been beheaded, he too poured forth his blood, and obtained the crown of martyrdom.

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CÆSAREA (s[)e]s [.a] r[=e]' [.a]), an ancient city of Palestine. It is celebrated as being the scene of many events recorded in the New Testament.

Memory Gem:

Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave.

_A line from Lowell's "0de."_

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_69_

TO A BUTTERFLY.

I've watched you now a full half hour Self-poised upon that yellow flower; And, little butterfly, indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless!--not frozen seas More motionless!--and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard ground is ours; My trees they are, my sister's flowers; Here rest your wings when they are weary; Here lodge as in a sanctuary! Come often to us, fear no wrong; Sit near us on the bough! We'll talk of sunshine and of song, And summer days, when we were young; Sweet childish days, that were as long As twenty days are now!

_Wordsworth_.

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SELF-POISED, balanced.

What is a sanctuary? In the Temple at Jerusalem, what was the Holy of Holies? Why are the sanctuaries of Catholic churches so supremely holy?

Why are "sweet childish days" as long "As twenty days are now?"

Tell what you know of the author's life.

Memorize the poem.

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_70_

re tort' ed quizzed in cred' i ble man u fac' ture sat' ire vi o lin' ist com pre hend' me lo' di ous ly hu' mor ex hib' it a chieve' ments for' ests

THE PEN AND THE INKSTAND.

In the room of a poet, where his inkstand stood upon the table, it was said, "It is wonderful what can come out of an inkstand. What will the next thing be? It is wonderful!"

"Yes, certainly," said the Inkstand. "It's extraordinary--that's what I always say," he exclaimed to the pen and to the other articles on the table that were near enough to hear. "It is wonderful what a number of things can come out of me. It's quite incredible. And I really don't myself know what will be the next thing, when that man begins to dip into me. One drop out of me is enough for half a page of paper; and what cannot be contained in half a page?

"From me all the works of the poet go forth--all these living men, whom people can imagine they have met--all the deep feeling, the humor, the vivid pictures of nature. I myself don't understand how it is, for I am not acquainted with nature, but it certainly is in me. From me all things have gone forth, and from me proceed the troops of charming maidens, and of brave knights on prancing steeds, and all the lame and the blind, and I don't know what more--I assure you I don't think of anything."

"There you are right," said the Pen; "you don't think at all; for if you did, you would comprehend that you only furnish the fluid. You give the fluid, that I may exhibit upon the paper what dwells in me, and what I would bring to the day. It is the pen that writes. No man doubts that; and, indeed, most people have about as much insight into poetry as an old inkstand."

"You have but little experience," replied the Inkstand. "You've hardly been in service a week, and are already half worn out. Do you fancy you are the poet? You are only a servant; and before you came I had many of your sorts, some of the goose family, and others of English manufacture. I know the quill as well as the steel pen. Many have been in my service, and I shall have many more when _he_ comes--the man who goes through the motions for me, and writes down what he derives from me. I should like to know what will be the next thing he'll take out of me."

"Inkpot!" exclaimed the Pen.

Late in the evening the poet came home. He had been to a concert, where he had heard a famous violinist, with whose admirable performances he was quite enchanted. The player had drawn a wonderful wealth of tone from the instrument; sometimes it had sounded like tinkling water-drops, like rolling pearls, sometimes like birds twittering in chorus, and then again it went swelling on like the wind through the fir trees.

The poet thought he heard his own heart weeping, but weeping melodiously, like the sound of woman's voice. It seemed as though not only the strings sounded, but every part of the instrument.

It was a wonderful performance; and difficult as the piece was, the bow seemed to glide easily to and fro over the strings, and it looked as though every one might do it. The violin seemed to sound of itself, and the bow to move of itself--those two appeared to do everything; and the audience forgot the master who guided them and breathed soul and spirit into them. The master was forgotten; but the poet remembered him, and named him, and wrote down his thoughts concerning the subject:

"How foolish it would be of the violin and the bow to boast of their achievements. And yet we men often commit this folly--the poet, the artist, the laborer in the domain of science, the general--we all do it. We are only the instruments which the Almighty uses: to Him alone be the honor! We have nothing of which we should be proud."

Yes, that is what the poet wrote down. He wrote it in the form of a parable, which he called "The Master and the Instrument."

"That is what you get, madam," said the Pen to the Inkstand, when the two were alone again. "Did you not hear him read aloud what I have written down?"

"Yes, what I gave you to write," retorted the Inkstand. "That was a cut at you, because of your conceit. That you should not even have understood that you were being quizzed! I gave you a cut from within me--surely I must know my own satire!"

"Ink-pipkin!" cried the Pen.

"Writing-stick!" cried the Inkstand.