Chapter 11

And each of them felt a conviction that he had answered well; and it is a pleasing conviction to feel that one has given a good answer--a conviction on which one can sleep; and accordingly they slept upon it. But the poet did not sleep. Thoughts welled up from within him, like the tones from the violin, falling like pearls, rushing like the storm-wind through the forests. He understood his own heart in these thoughts, and caught a ray from the Eternal Master. To _Him_ be all the honor!

_Hans Christian Andersen._

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PIPKIN, a small pipe; a small jar made of baked clay.

Write as many synonyms as you know, or can find, of the words _vivid, exhibit, comprehend_. Consult the dictionary.

What one word may you use instead of "laborer in the domain of science?"

Seek in your dictionary the definition of the word _parable_. Relate one of our Lord's parables.

By means of the prefixes and suffixes that you have learned, form as many words as you can from the following: man, do, late, loud, art, room, blind, easy, heart, humor, vivid, maiden, famous, service, furnished.

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_71_

THE WIND AND THE MOON.

Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out. You stare in the air Like a ghost in a chair, Always looking what I am about, I hate to be watched; I'll blow you out."

The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon. So, deep on a heap Of clouds, to sleep Down lay the Wind and slumbered soon, Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon."

He turned in his bed; she was there again! On high in the sky, With her one ghost eye, The Moon shone white and alive and plain. Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again."

The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim. "With my sledge and my wedge I have knocked off her edge. If only I blow right fierce and grim, The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."

He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread: "One puff more's enough To blow her to snuff! One good puff more where the last was bred, And glimmer, glimmer, glum, will go the thread."

He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone, In the air nowhere Was a moonbeam bare; Far off and harmless the shy stars shone; Sure and certain the Moon was gone!

The Wind he took to his revels once more; On down, in town, Like a merry-mad clown, He leaped and holloed with whistle and roar,-- "What's that?" The glimmering thread once more!

He flew in a rage--he danced and he blew; But in vain was the pain Of his bursting brain; For still the broader the moon-scrap grew, The broader he swelled his big cheeks, and blew.

Slowly she grew, till she filled the night, And shone on her throne In the sky alone, A matchless, wonderful, silvery light, Radiant and lovely, the Queen of the Night.

Said the Wind: "What a marvel of power am I! With my breath, good faith! I blew her to death-- First blew her away right out of the sky, Then blew her in; what a strength am I!"

But the Moon she knew nothing about the affair; For, high in the sky, With her one white eye, Motionless, miles above the air, She had never heard the great Wind blare.

_George MacDonald._

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DOWN (7th stanza), a tract of sandy, hilly land near the sea.

GLIMMER, fainter.

GLUM, dark, gloomy.

What is a suffix? What does the suffix _less_ mean? Define _cloudless, matchless, motionless._

What class of people does Mr. Wind remind you of?

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_72_

mi' ter can'on car' di nal dis course' di' a logue cour'te ous ly

ST. PHILIP NERI AND THE YOUTH.

St. Philip Neri, as old readings say, Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day, And being ever courteously inclined To give young folks a sober turn of mind, He fell into discourse with him, and thus The dialogue they held comes down to us.

_Saint_.--Tell me what brings you, gentle youth, to Rome? _Youth_.--To make myself a scholar, sir, I come. _St_.--And when you are one, what do you intend? _Y_.--To be a priest, I hope, sir, in the end. _St_.--Suppose it so; what have you next in view? _Y_.--That I may get to be a canon too. _St_.--Well; and what then? _Y_.-- Why then, for aught I know, I may be made a bishop. _St_.-- Be it so,-- What next? _Y_.-- Why, cardinal's a high degree; And yet my lot it possibly may be. _St_.--Suppose it was; what then? _Y_.-- Why, who can say But I've a chance of being pope one day? _St_.--Well, having worn the miter and red hat, And triple crown, what follows after that?

_Y_.--Nay, there is nothing further, to be sure, Upon this earth, that wishing can procure: When I've enjoyed a dignity so high As long as God shall please, then I must die.

_St_.--What! must you die? fond youth, and at the best, But wish, and hope, and may be, all the rest! Take my advice--whatever may betide, For that which _must be_, first of all provide; Then think of that which _may be_; and indeed, When well prepared, who knows what may succeed, But you may be, as you are pleased to hope, Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope.

* * * * *

ST. PHILIP NERI, born in Florence, Italy, in 1515. Went to Rome in 1533, where he founded the "Priests of the Oratory," and where he died in 1595.

TRIPLE CROWN, the tiara; the crown worn by our Holy Father, the Pope.

Use correctly in sentences the words _canon, cannon, cañon._

NOTE.--It will prove interesting if one pupil reads the first six lines of the selection, and two others personate St. Philip and the Youth.

The whole selection might be given from memory.

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_73_

mag' ic sta' mens de sert' ed pet' als pic' tures dis cour' aged liq' uid sat' is fied per se ver' ance

THE WATER LILY.

There was once a little boy who was very fond of pictures. There were not many pictures for him to look at, for he lived long ago near a great American forest. His father and mother had come from England, but his father was dead now. His mother was very poor, but there were still a few beautiful pictures on the walls of her house.

The little boy liked to copy these pictures; but as he was not fond of work, he often threw his drawings away before they were half done. He said that he wished that some good fairy would finish them for him.

"Child," said his mother, "I don't believe that there are any fairies. I never saw one, and your father never saw one. Mind your books, my child, and never mind the fairies."

"Very well, mother," said the boy.

"It makes me sad to see you stand looking at the pictures," said his mother another day, as she laid her hand on his curly head. "Why, child, pictures can't feed a body, pictures can't clothe a body, and a log of wood is far better to burn and warm a body."

"All that is quite true, mother," said the boy.

"Then why do you keep looking at them, child?" but the boy could only say, "I don't know, mother."

"You don't know! Nor I, neither! Why, child, you look at the dumb things as if you loved them! Put on your cap and run out to play."

So the boy wandered off into the forest till he came to the brink of a little sheet of water. It was too small to be called a lake; but it was deep and clear, and was overhung with tall trees. It was evening, and the sun was getting low. The boy stood still beside the water and thought how beautiful it was to see the sun, red and glorious, between the black trunks of the pine trees. Then he looked up at the great blue sky and thought how beautiful it was to see the little clouds folding over one another like a belt of rose-colored waves. Then he looked at the lake and saw the clouds and the sky and the trees all reflected there, down among the lilies.

And he wished that he were a painter, for he said to himself, "I am sure there are no trees in the world with such beautiful leaves as these pines. I am sure there are no clouds in the world so lovely as these. I know this is the prettiest little lake in the world, and if I could paint it, every one else would know it, too."

But he had nothing to paint with. So he picked a lily and sat down with it in his hand and tried very hard to make a correct drawing of it. But he could not make a very good picture. At last he threw down his drawing and said to the lily:

"You are too beautiful to draw with a pencil. How I wish I were a painter!"

As he said these words he felt the flower move. He looked, and the cluster of stamens at the bottom of the lily-cup glittered like a crown of gold. The dewdrops which hung upon the stamens changed to diamonds before his eyes. The white petals flowed together, and the next moment a beautiful little fairy stood on his hand. She was no taller than the lily from which she came, and she was dressed in a robe of the purest white.

"Child, are you happy?" she asked.

"No," said the boy in a low voice, "because I want to paint and I cannot."

"How do you know that you cannot?" asked the fairy.

"Oh, I have tried a great many times. It is of no use to try any more."

"But I will help you."

"Oh," said the boy. "Then I might succeed."

"I heard your wish, and I am willing to help you," said the fairy. "I know a charm which will give you success. But you must do exactly as I tell you. Do you promise to obey?"

"Spirit of a water lily!" said the boy, "I promise with all my heart."

"Go home, then," said the fairy, "and you will find a little key on the doorstep. Take it up and carry it to the nearest pine tree; strike the trunk with it, and a keyhole will appear. Do not be afraid to unlock the door. Slip in your hand, and you will bring out a magic palette. You must be very careful to paint with colors from that palette every day. On this depends the success of the charm. You will find that it will make your pictures beautiful and full of grace.

"If you do not break the spell, I promise you that in a few years you shall be able to paint this lily so well that you will be satisfied; and that you shall become a truly great painter."

"Can it be possible?" said the boy. And the hand on which the fairy stood trembled for joy.

"It shall be so, if only you do not break the charm," said the fairy. "But lest you forget what you owe to me, and as you grow older even begin to doubt that you have ever seen me, the lily you gathered to-day will never fade till my promise is fulfilled."

The boy raised his eyes, and when he looked again there was nothing in his hand but the flower.

He arose with the lily in his hand, and went home at once. There on the doorstep was the little key, and in the pine tree he found the magic palette. He was so delighted with it and so afraid that he might break the spell that he began to work that very night. After that he spent nearly all his time working with the magic palette. He often passed whole days beside the sheet of water in the forest. He painted it when the sun shone on it and it was spotted all over with the reflections of fleeting white clouds. He painted it covered with water lilies rocking on the ripples. He painted it by moonlight, when but two or three stars in the empty sky shone down upon it; and at sunset, when it lay trembling like liquid gold.

So the years passed, and the boy grew to be a man. He had never broken the charm. The lily had never faded, and he still worked every day with his magic palette.

But no one cared for his pictures. Even his mother did not like them. His forests and misty hills and common clouds were too much like the real ones. She said she could see as good any day by looking out of her window. All this made the young man very unhappy. He began to doubt whether he should ever be a painter, and one day he threw down his palette. He thought the fairy had deserted him.

He threw himself on his bed. It grew dark, and he soon fell asleep; but in the middle of the night he awoke with a start. His chamber was full of light, and his fairy friend stood near.

"Shall I take back my gift?" she asked.

"Oh, no, no, no!" he cried. He was rested now, and he did not feel so much discouraged.

"If you still wish to go on working, take this ring," said the fairy. "My sister sends it to you. Wear it, and it will greatly assist the charm."

He took the ring, and the fairy was gone. The ring was set with a beautiful blue stone, which reflected everything bright that came near it; and he thought he saw inside the ring the one word--"Hope."

Many more years passed. The young man's mother died, and he went far, far from home. In the strange land to which he went people thought his pictures were wonderful; and he had become a great and famous painter.

One day he went to see a large collection of pictures in a great city. He saw many of his own pictures, and some of them had been painted before he left his forest home. All the people and the painters praised them; but there was one that they liked better than the others. It was a picture of a little child, holding in its hands several water lilies.

Toward evening the people departed one by one, till he was left alone with his masterpieces. He was sitting in a chair thinking of leaving the place, when he suddenly fell asleep. And he dreamed that he was again standing near the little lake in his native land, watching the rays of the setting sun as they melted away from its surface. The beautiful lily was in his hand, and while he looked at it the leaves became withered, and fell at his feet. Then he felt a light touch on his hand. He looked up, and there on the chair beside him stood the little fairy.

"O wonderful fairy!" he cried, "how can I thank you for your magic gift? I can give you nothing but my thanks. But at least tell me your name, so that I may cut it on a ring and always wear it."

"My name," replied the fairy, "is Perseverance."

_Jean Ingelow._

* * * * *

Name the different objects you see in the picture. What did the artist desire to tell? What is the central object? Where is the scene of the picture placed? What time of the day and of the year does it show?

Describe the boy. How old is he? What impresses you most about him?

Suppose your teacher took the class to this lake for a day's outing. Write a composition on how the day was spent.

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_74_

A BUILDER'S LESSON.

Memorize:

"How shall I a habit break?" As you did that habit make. As you gathered, you must lose; As you yielded, now refuse. Thread by thread the strands we twist Till they bind us, neck and wrist; Thread by thread the patient hand Must untwine, ere free we stand. As we builded, stone by stone, We must toil, unhelped, alone, Till the wall is overthrown.

But remember, as we try, Lighter every test goes by; Wading in, the stream grows deep Toward the center's downward sweep; Backward turn, each step ashore Shallower is than that before.

Ah, the precious years we waste Leveling what we raised in haste: Doing what must be undone Ere content or love be won! First, across the gulf we cast Kite-borne threads, till lines are passed, And habit builds the bridge at last!

_John Boyle O'Reilly._

* * * * *

Memory Gem:

Habit is a cable. Every day we weave a thread, until at last it is so strong we cannot break it.

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_75_

in ured' ru' di ments nine' ti eth ma tur' er ac' cu ra cy in ad vert' ence an' ec dotes e ner' vate in cor' po ra ted dig' ni fied in junc' tion pre var i ca' tion

WASHINGTON AND HIS MOTHER.

Some of the most interesting anecdotes of the early life of Washington were derived from his mother, a dignified matron who, by the death of her husband, while her children were young, became the sole conductress of their education. To the inquiry, what course she had pursued in rearing one so truly illustrious, she replied, "Only to require obedience, diligence, and truth."

These simple rules, faithfully enforced, and incorporated with the rudiments of character, had a powerful influence over his future greatness.

He was early accustomed to accuracy in all his statements, and to speak of his faults and omissions without prevarication or disguise. Hence arose that noble openness of soul, and contempt of deceit in others, which ever distinguished him. Once, by an inadvertence of his youth, considerable loss had been incurred, and of such a nature as to interfere with the plans of his mother. He came to her, frankly owning his error, and she replied, while tears of affection moistened her eyes, "I had rather it should be so, than that my son should have been guilty of a falsehood."

She was careful not to enervate him by luxury or weak indulgence. He was inured to early rising, and never permitted to be idle. Sometimes he engaged in labors which the children of wealthy parents would now account severe, and thus acquired firmness of frame and a disregard of hardship.

The systematic employment of time, which from childhood he had been taught, was of great service when the weight of a nation's concerns devolved upon him. It was then observed by those who surrounded him, that he was never known to be in a hurry, but found time for the transaction of the smallest affairs in the midst of the greatest and most conflicting duties.

Such benefit did he derive from attention to the counsels of his mother. His obedience to her commands, when a child, was cheerful and strict; and as he approached to maturer years, the expression of her slightest wish was law.

At length, America having secured her independence, and the war being ended, Washington, who for eight years had not tasted the repose of home, hastened with filial reverence to ask his mother's blessing. The hero, "first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen," came to lay his laurels at his mother's feet.

This venerable woman continued, till past her ninetieth year, to be respected and beloved by all around. With pious grief, Washington closed her eyes and laid her in the grave which she had selected for herself.

We have now seen the man who was the leader of victorious armies, the conqueror of a mighty kingdom, and the admiration of the world, in the delightful attitude of an obedient and affectionate son. She, whom he honored with such filial reverence, said that "he had learned to command others by first learning to obey."

Let those, then, who in the morning of life are ambitious of future eminence, cultivate the virtue of filial obedience, and remember that they cannot be either fortunate or happy while they neglect the injunction, "My son, keep thy father's commandments, and forsake not the law of thy mother."

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CONDUCTRESS, a woman who leads or directs.

The suffix _-ess_ is used to form feminine name-words.

Tell what each of the following words means:

ab' bess ac' tress duch' ess li' on ess count' ess po' et ess song' stress au' thor ess di rect' ress

Use the following homonyms in sentences:

air, ere, e'er, heir; oar, ore, o'er; in, inn; four, fore; vain, vein; vale, veil; core, corps; their, there; hear, here; fair, fare; sweet, suite; strait, straight.

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_76_

na' tal a main' toc' sin re count' ed

WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY.

'Tis splendid to have a record So white and free from stain That, held to the light, it shows no blot, Though tested and tried amain; That age to age forever Repeats its story of love, And your birthday lives in a nation's heart, All other days above.

And this is Washington's glory, A steadfast soul and true, Who stood for his country's honor When his country's days were few. And now when its days are many, And its flag of stars is flung To the breeze in radiant glory, His name is on every tongue.

Yes, it's splendid to live so bravely, To be so great and strong, That your memory is ever a tocsin To rally the foes of wrong; To live so proudly and purely, That your people pause in their way, And year by year, with banner and drum, Keep the thought of your natal day.

_Margaret E. Sangster._

By permission of the author.

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_77_

Brit' on (un) ant' lers wrin' kled vet' er an im mor' tal

THE SWORD OF BUNKER HILL.

He lay upon his dying bed, His eye was growing dim, When, with a feeble voice, he called His weeping son to him: "Weep not, my boy," the veteran said, "I bow to heaven's high will; But quickly from yon antlers bring The sword of Bunker Hill."

The sword was brought; the soldier's eye Lit with a sudden flame; And, as he grasped the ancient blade, He murmured Warren's name; Then said, "My boy, I leave you gold, But what is richer still, I leave you, mark me, mark me well, The sword of Bunker Hill.

"'Twas on that dread, immortal day, I dared the Briton's band; A captain raised his blade on me, I tore it from his hand; And while the glorious battle raged, It lightened Freedom's will; For, son, the God of Freedom blessed The sword of Bunker Hill.

"Oh! keep this sword," his accents broke,-- A smile--and he was dead; But his wrinkled hand still grasped the blade, Upon that dying bed. The son remains, the sword remains, Its glory growing still, And twenty millions bless the sire And sword of Bunker Hill.

_William R. Wallace._

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_78_

es' say buoy' ant in sip' id fe quent' ing scowl' ing ly sug ges' tion in tel' li gence sin' gu lar ly so lic' i tude com pet' i tor phi los' o pher ve' he ment ly tre men' dous ly ex pos tu la' tion ig no min' i ous ly

THE MARTYR'S BOY.

It is a youth full of grace, and sprightliness, and candor, that comes forward with light and buoyant steps across the open court, towards the inner hall; and we shall hardly find time to sketch him before he reaches it. He is about fourteen years old, but tall for that age, with elegance of form and manliness of bearing. His bare neck and limbs are well developed by healthy exercise; his features display an open and warm heart, while his lofty forehead, round which his brown hair naturally curls, beams with a bright intelligence. He wears the usual youth's garment, the short toga, reaching below the knee, and a hollow spheroid of gold suspended round his neck. A bundle of papers and vellum rolls fastened together, and carried by an old servant behind him, shows us that he is just returning home from school.