Chapter 1
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READING WITH EXPRESSION
EIGHTH READER
BY
JAMES BALDWIN
AUTHOR OF "SCHOOL READING BY GRADES--BALDWIN'S READERS," "HARPER'S READERS," ETC.
AND
IDA C. BENDER
SUPERVISOR OF PRIMARY GRADES, BUFFALO, NEW YORK
_EIGHT-BOOK SERIES_
NEW YORK ·:· CINCINNATI ·:· CHICAGO AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY.
ENTERED AT STATIONERS' HALL, LONDON.
B. & B. EIGHTH READER.
W. P. 2
TO THE TEACHER
The paramount design of this series of School Readers is to help young people to acquire the art and the habit of reading well--that is, of interpreting the printed page in such manner as to give pleasure and instruction to themselves and to those who listen to them. In his eighth year at school the pupil is supposed to be able to read, with ease and with some degree of fluency, anything in the English language that may come to his hand; but, that he may read always with the understanding and in a manner pleasing to his hearers and satisfactory to himself, he must still have daily systematic practice in the rendering of selections not too difficult for comprehension and yet embracing various styles of literary workmanship and illustrating the different forms of English composition. The contents of this volume have been chosen and arranged to supply--or, where not supplying, to suggest--the materials for this kind of practice.
Particular attention is called both to the high quality and to the wide variety of the selections herein presented. They include specimens of many styles of literary workmanship--the products of the best thought of modern times. It is believed that their study will not only prove interesting to pupils, but will inspire them with a desire to read still more upon the same subjects or from the works of the same authors; for it is only by loving books and learning to know them that any one can become a really good reader.
The pupils should be encouraged to seek for and point out the particular passages in each selection that are distinguished for their beauty, their truth, or their peculiar adaptability to the purpose in view. The habit should be cultivated of looking for and enjoying the admirable qualities of any worthy literary production; and special attention should be given to the style of writing which characterizes and gives value to the works of various authors. These points should be the subjects of daily discussions between teacher and pupils.
The notes under the head of "Expression," which follow many of the lessons, are intended, not only to aid in securing correctness of expression, but also to afford suggestions for the appreciative reading of the selections and an intelligent comparison of their literary peculiarities. In the study of new, difficult, or unusual words, the pupils should invariably refer to the dictionary.
CONTENTS
PAGE
Brother and Sister _George Eliot_ 11
My Last Day at Salem House _Charles Dickens_ 22
The Departure from Miss Pinkerton's _W. M. Thackeray_ 27
Two Gems from Browning: I. Incident of the French Camp _Robert Browning_ 36 II. Dog Tray _Robert Browning_ 41
The Discovery of America _Washington Irving_ 43
The Glove and the Lions _Leigh Hunt_ 48
St. Francis, the Gentle _William Canton_ 51
The Sermon of St. Francis _Henry W. Longfellow_ 54
In the Woods _John Burroughs_ 56
Bees and Flowers _Arabella B. Buckley_ 59
Song of the River _Abram J. Ryan_ 64
Song of the Chattahoochee _Sidney Lanier_ 66
War and Peace: I. War as the Mother of Valor and Civilization _Andrew Carnegie_ 68 II. Friendship among Nations _Victor Hugo_ 71 III. Soldier, Rest _Sir Walter Scott_ 74 IV. The Soldier's Dream _Thomas Campbell_ 75 V. How Sleep the Brave? _William Collins_ 76
Early Times in New York _Washington Irving_ 77
A Winter Evening in Old New England _J. G. Whittier_ 82
The Old-fashioned Thanksgiving _Donald G. Mitchell_ 84
A Thanksgiving _Robert Herrick_ 92
First Days at Wakefield _Oliver Goldsmith_ 94
Doubting Castle _John Bunyan_ 100
Shooting with the Longbow _Sir Walter Scott_ 108
A Christmas Hymn _Alfred Domett_ 117
Christmas Eve at Fezziwig's _Charles Dickens_ 120
The Christmas Holly _Eliza Cook_ 124
The New Year's Dinner Party _Charles Lamb_ 125
The Town Pump _Nathaniel Hawthorne_ 128
Come up from the Fields, Father _Walt Whitman_ 135
The Address at Gettysburg _Abraham Lincoln_ 139
Ode to the Confederate Dead _Henry Timrod_ 140
The Chariot Race _From Sophocles_ 141
The Coliseum at Midnight _Henry W. Longfellow_ 145
The Deacon's Masterpiece _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 147
Dogs and Cats _Alexandre Dumas_ 154
The Owl Critic _James T. Fields_ 157
Mrs. Caudle's Umbrella Lecture _Douglas William Jerrold_ 161
The Dark Day in Connecticut _J. G. Whittier_ 164
Two Interesting Letters: I. Columbus to the Lord Treasurer of Spain 167 II. Governor Winslow to a Friend in England 171
Poems of Home and Country: I. "This is My Own, My Native Land" _Sir Walter Scott_ 174 II. The Green Little Shamrock of Ireland _Andrew Cherry_ 175 III. My Heart's in the Highlands _Robert Burns_ 176 IV. The Fatherland _James R. Lowell_ 177 V. Home _Oliver Goldsmith_ 178
The Age of Coal _Agnes Giberne_ 179
Something about the Moon _Richard A. Proctor_ 183
The Coming of the Birds _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 187
The Return of the Birds _John Burroughs_ 188
The Poet and the Bird: I. The Song of the Lark 193 II. To a Skylark _Percy B. Shelley_ 197
Hark, Hark! the Lark _William Shakespeare_ 201
Echoes of the American Revolution: I. Patrick Henry's Famous Speech 202 II. Marion's Men _W. Gilmore Simms_ 206 III. In Memory of George Washington _Henry Lee_ 209
Three Great American Poems: I. Thanatopsis _William Cullen Bryant_ 213 II. The Bells _Edgar Allan Poe_ 219 III. Marco Bozzaris _Fitz-Greene Halleck_ 224
The Indian _Edward Everett_ 228
National Retribution _Theodore Parker_ 231
Who are Blessed _The Bible_ 233
Little Gems from the Older Poets: I. The Noble Nature _Ben Jonson_ 235 II. A Contented Mind _Joshua Sylvester_ 235 III. A Happy Life _Sir Henry Wotton_ 236 IV. Solitude _Alexander Pope_ 237 V. A Wish _Samuel Rogers_ 238
How King Arthur got his Name _Fiona Macleod_ 239
Antony's Oration over Cæsar's Dead Body _William Shakespeare_ 244
Selections to be Memorized: I. The Prayer Perfect _James Whitcomb Riley_ 250 II. Be Just and Fear Not _William Shakespeare_ 250 III. If I can Live _Author Unknown_ 251 IV. The Bugle Song _Alfred Tennyson_ 251 V. The Ninetieth Psalm _Book of Psalms_ 252 VI. Recessional _Rudyard Kipling_ 253
Proper Names 255
List of Authors 257
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Acknowledgment and thanks are proffered to Andrew Carnegie for permission to reprint in this volume his tract on "War as the Mother of Civilization and Valor"; to the Bobbs-Merrill Company for their courtesy in allowing us to use "The Prayer Perfect," from James Whitcomb Riley's _Rhymes of Childhood_; to David Mackay for the poem by Walt Whitman entitled "Come up from the Fields, Father"; to Charles Scribner's Sons for the "Song of the Chattahoochee," from the _Poems of Sidney Lanier_; and, also, to the same publishers for the selection, "The Old-fashioned Thanksgiving," from _Bound Together_ by Donald G. Mitchell. The selections from John Burroughs, Ralph Waldo Emerson, James T. Fields, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Henry W. Longfellow, and John G. Whittier are used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Company, the authorized publishers of the works of those authors.
EIGHTH READER
BROTHER AND SISTER[1]
I. THE HOME COMING
Tom was to arrive early in the afternoon, and there was another fluttering heart besides Maggie's when it was late enough for the sound of the gig wheels to be expected. For if Mrs. Tulliver had a strong feeling, it was fondness for her boy. At last the sound came--that quick light bowling of the gig wheels.
"There he is, my sweet lad!" Mrs. Tulliver stood with her arms open; Maggie jumped first on one leg and then on the other; while Tom descended from the gig, and said, with masculine reticence as to the tender emotions, "Hallo! Yap--what! are you there?"
Nevertheless he submitted to be kissed willingly enough, though Maggie hung on his neck in rather a strangling fashion, while his blue eyes wandered toward the croft and the lambs and the river, where he promised himself he would begin to fish the first thing to-morrow morning. He was one of those lads that grow everywhere in England, and at twelve or thirteen years of age look as much alike as goslings,--a lad with a physiognomy in which it seems impossible to discern anything but the generic character of boyhood.
"Maggie," said Tom, confidentially, taking her into a corner, as soon as his mother was gone out to examine his box, and the warm parlor had taken off the chill he had felt from the long drive, "you don't know what I've got in my pockets," nodding his head up and down as a means of rousing her sense of mystery.
"No," said Maggie. "How stodgy they look, Tom! Is it marbles or cobnuts?" Maggie's heart sank a little, because Tom always said it was "no good" playing with her at those games--she played so badly.
"Marbles! no; I've swopped all my marbles with the little fellows, and cobnuts are no fun, you silly, only when the nuts are green. But see here!" He drew something half out of his right-hand pocket.
"What is it?" said Maggie, in a whisper. "I can see nothing but a bit of yellow."
"Why, it's--a--new--guess, Maggie!"
"Oh, I can't guess, Tom," said Maggie, impatiently.
"Don't be a spitfire, else I won't tell you," said Tom, thrusting his hand back into his pocket, and looking determined.
"No, Tom," said Maggie, imploringly, laying hold of the arm that was held stiffly in the pocket. "I'm not cross, Tom; it was only because I can't bear guessing. Please be good to me."
Tom's arm slowly relaxed, and he said, "Well, then, it's a new fish line--two new ones--one for you, Maggie, all to yourself. I wouldn't go halves in the toffee and gingerbread on purpose to save the money; and Gibson and Spouncer fought with me because I wouldn't. And here's hooks; see here!--I say, won't we go and fish to-morrow down by the Round Pool? And you shall catch your own fish, Maggie, and put the worms on, and everything--won't it be fun?"
Maggie's answer was to throw her arms around Tom's neck and hug him, and hold her cheek against his without speaking, while he slowly unwound some of the line, saying, after a pause:--
"Wasn't I a good brother, now, to buy you a line all to yourself? You know, I needn't have bought it, if I hadn't liked."
"Yes, very, very good--I do love you, Tom."
Tom had put the line back in his pocket, and was looking at the hooks one by one, before he spoke again. "And the fellows fought me, because I wouldn't give in about the toffee."
"Oh, dear! I wish they wouldn't fight at your school, Tom. Didn't it hurt you?"
"Hurt me? no," said Tom, putting up the hooks again, taking out a large pocketknife, and slowly opening the largest blade, which he looked at meditatively as he rubbed his finger along it. Then he added--"I gave Spouncer a black eye, I know--that's what he got by wanting to leather me; I wasn't going to go halves because anybody leathered me."
"Oh, how brave you are, Tom! I think you're like Samson. If there came a lion roaring at me, I think you'd fight him--wouldn't you, Tom?"
"How can a lion come roaring at you, you silly thing? There's no lions, only in the shows."
"No; but if we were in the lion countries--I mean in Africa, where it's very hot--the lions eat people there. I can show it to you in the book where I read it."
"Well, I should get a gun and shoot him."
"But if you hadn't got a gun--we might have gone out, you know, not thinking just as we go fishing; and then a great lion might run toward us roaring, and we couldn't get away from him. What should you do, Tom?" Tom paused, and at last turned away contemptuously, saying, "But the lion isn't coming. What's the use of talking?"
"But I like to fancy how it would be," said Maggie, following him. "Just think what you would do, Tom."
"Oh, don't bother, Maggie! you're such a silly--I shall go and see my rabbits."
II. THE FALLING OUT
Maggie's heart began to flutter with fear. She dared not tell the sad truth at once, but she walked after Tom in trembling silence as he went out, thinking how she could tell him the news so as to soften at once his sorrow and his anger; for Maggie dreaded Tom's anger of all things--it was quite a different anger from her own. "Tom," she said timidly, when they were out of doors, "how much money did you give for your rabbits?"
"Two half crowns and a sixpence," said Tom.
"I think I've got a great deal more than that in my steel purse upstairs. I'll ask mother to give it to you."
"What for?" said Tom. "I don't want your money, you silly thing. I've got a great deal more money than you, because I'm a boy. I always have half sovereigns and sovereigns for my Christmas boxes, because I shall be a man, and you only have five-shilling pieces, because you're only a girl."
"Well, but, Tom--if mother would let me give you two half crowns and a sixpence out of my purse to put into your pocket and spend, you know; and buy some more rabbits with it?"
"More rabbits? I don't want any more."
"Oh, but, Tom, they're all dead."
Tom stopped immediately in his walk and turned round toward Maggie. "You forgot to feed 'em, then, and Harry forgot," he said, his color heightening for a moment, but soon subsiding. "I'll pitch into Harry--I'll have him turned away. And I don't love you, Maggie. You shan't go fishing with me to-morrow. I told you to go and see the rabbits every day."
He walked on again.
"Yes, but I forgot--and I couldn't help it, indeed, Tom. I'm so very sorry," said Maggie, while the tears rushed fast.
"You're a naughty girl," said Tom, severely; "and I'm sorry I bought you the fish line. I don't love you."
"Oh, Tom, it's very cruel," sobbed Maggie. "I'd forgive you, if you forgot anything--I wouldn't mind what you did--I'd forgive you and love you."
"Yes, you're a silly--but I never do forget things--I don't."
"Oh, please forgive me, Tom; my heart will break," said Maggie, shaking with sobs, clinging to Tom's arm, and laying her wet cheek on his shoulder.
Tom shook her off, and stopped again, saying in a peremptory tone, "Now, Maggie, you just listen. Aren't I a good brother to you?"
"Ye-ye-es," sobbed Maggie, her chin rising and falling convulsedly.
"Didn't I think about your fish line all this quarter, and mean to buy it, and saved my money o' purpose, and wouldn't go halves in the toffee, and Spouncer fought me because I wouldn't?"
"Ye-ye-es--and I--lo-lo-love you so, Tom."
"But you're a naughty girl. Last holidays you licked the paint off my lozenge box, and the holidays before that you let the boat drag my fish line down when I'd set you to watch it, and you pushed your head through my kite, all for nothing."
"But I didn't mean," said Maggie; "I couldn't help it."
"Yes, you could," said Tom, "if you'd minded what you were doing. And you're a naughty girl, and you shan't go fishing with me to-morrow." With this terrible conclusion, Tom ran away from Maggie toward the mill.
Maggie stood motionless, except for her sobs, for a minute or two; then she turned round and ran into the house, and up to her attic, where she sat on the floor, and laid her head against the worm-eaten shelf, with a crushing sense of misery. Tom was come home, and she had thought how happy she should be--and now he was cruel to her. What use was anything, if Tom didn't love her? Oh, he was very cruel! Hadn't she wanted to give him the money, and said how very sorry she was? She had never been naughty to Tom--had never meant to be naughty to him.
"Oh, he is cruel!" Maggie sobbed aloud, finding a wretched pleasure in the hollow resonance that came through the long empty space of the attic. She was too miserable to be angry.
III. THE MAKING UP
Maggie soon thought she had been hours in the attic, and it must be tea time, and they were all having their tea, and not thinking of her. Well, then, she would stay up there and starve herself--hide herself behind the tub, and stay there all night; and then they would all be frightened, and Tom would be sorry. Thus Maggie thought as she crept behind the tub; but presently she began to cry again at the idea that they didn't mind her being there.
Tom had been too much interested in going the round of the premises, to think of Maggie and the effect his anger had produced on her. He meant to punish her, and that business having been performed, he occupied himself with other matters, like a practical person. But when he had been called in to tea, his father said, "Why, where's the little wench?" and Mrs. Tulliver, almost at the same moment, said, "Where's your little sister?"--both of them having supposed that Maggie and Tom had been together all the afternoon.
"I don't know," said Tom. He didn't want to "tell" of Maggie, though he was angry with her; for Tom Tulliver was a lad of honor.
"What! hasn't she been playing with you all this while?" said the father. "She'd been thinking of nothing but your coming home."
"I haven't seen her this two hours," says Tom, commencing on the plum cake.
"Goodness heart! She's got drowned!" exclaimed Mrs. Tulliver, rising from her seat and running to the window. "How could you let her do so?" she added, as became a fearful woman, accusing she didn't know whom of she didn't know what.
"Nay, nay, she's none drowned," said Mr. Tulliver. "You've been naughty to her, I doubt, Tom?"
"I'm sure I haven't, father," said Tom, indignantly. "I think she's in the house."
"Perhaps up in that attic," said Mrs. Tulliver, "a-singing and talking to herself, and forgetting all about mealtimes."
"You go and fetch her down, Tom," said Mr. Tulliver, rather sharply, his perspicacity or his fatherly fondness for Maggie making him suspect that the lad had been hard upon "the little un," else she would never have left his side. "And be good to her, do you hear? Else I'll let you know better."
Tom never disobeyed his father, for Mr. Tulliver was a peremptory man; but he went out rather sullenly, carrying his piece of plum cake, and not intending to reprieve Maggie's punishment, which was no more than she deserved. Tom was only thirteen, and had no decided views in grammar and arithmetic, regarding them for the most part as open questions, but he was particularly clear and positive on one point--namely, that he would punish everybody who deserved it; why, he wouldn't have minded being punished himself, if he deserved it; but, then, he never did deserve it.
It was Tom's step, then, that Maggie heard on the stairs, when her need of love had triumphed over her pride, and she was going down with her swollen eyes and disheveled hair to beg for pity. At least her father would stroke her head and say, "Never mind, my wench."
But she knew Tom's step, and her heart began to beat violently with the sudden shock of hope. He only stood still at the top of the stairs and said, "Maggie, you're to come down." But she rushed to him and clung round his neck, sobbing, "O Tom, please forgive me--I can't bear it--I will always be good--always remember things--do love me--please, dear Tom!"
Maggie and Tom were still very much like young animals, and so she could rub her cheek against his, and kiss his ear in a random, sobbing way; and there were tender fibers in the lad that had been used to answer to Maggie's fondling; so that he behaved with a weakness quite inconsistent with his resolution to punish her as much as she deserved; he actually began to kiss her in return, and say:--
"Don't cry, then, Magsie--here, eat a bit o' cake." Maggie's sobs began to subside, and she put out her mouth for the cake and bit a piece; and then Tom bit a piece, just for company, and they ate together and rubbed each other's cheeks and brows and noses together, while they ate, with a humiliating resemblance to two friendly ponies.
"Come along, Magsie, and have tea," said Tom at last, when there was no more cake except what was downstairs.
So ended the sorrows of this day.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 1: From "The Mill on the Floss," by George Eliot.]
MY LAST DAY AT SALEM HOUSE[2]
I pass over all that happened at school, until the anniversary of my birthday came round in March. The great remembrance by which that time is marked in my mind seems to have swallowed up all lesser recollections, and to exist alone.
It is even difficult for me to believe there was a gap of full two months between my return to Salem House and the arrival of that birthday. I can only understand that the fact was so, because I know it must have been so; otherwise I should feel convinced there was no interval, and that the one occasion trod upon the other's heels.