SCENE II

_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 cannot 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 on’t 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 hit’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! (_Throws away the apple._) I will not murder him, If I can help it--for the honor of The form thou wearest, if all the heart is gone.

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 cannot 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. 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. You must not.

ALB. I must! I cannot 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?

SOL. I do.

TELL. Is it so you pick an arrow, friend? The point, you see, is bent; the feather jagged. (_Breaks it._) That’s all the use ’tis fit for.

GES. Let him have another.

TELL. Why, ’tis better than the first, But yet not good enough for such an aim As I’m to take--’tis heavy in the shaft; I’ll not shoot with it! (_Throws it away._) Let me see my quiver. Bring it! ’Tis 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 upon his bow._)

VER. (_Rushing in with ALBERT._) Thy 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 cannot, boy.

ALB. You grant him life?

GES. I do.

ALB. And we are free?

GES. You are. (Crossing angrily behind.)

VER. Open his vest And give him air.

(_ALBERT opens his father’s vest, and the arrow drops. TELL starts, fixes his eye upon 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!

--SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

THE SCHOOLMASTER OF SLEEPY HOLLOW

I. HIS SCHOOL AND HIS FRIENDS

custom vicinity scarecrow murmur uncouth adjacent appalling personage

In a remote period of American history there lived in Sleepy Hollow a worthy man whose name was Ichabod Crane. He sojourned, or, as he expressed it, “tarried” in that quiet little valley for the purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity.

He was tall, but very lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, and feet that might have served as shovels. His head was small, with huge ears, large glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose. To see him striding along the crest of a hill on a windy day, with his ill-fitting clothes fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for some scarecrow escaped from a cornfield.

His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, rudely built of logs. It stood in a rather lonely but pleasant place, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a birch tree growing near one end of it. From this place of learning the low murmur of children’s voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard on a drowsy summer day like the hum of a beehive. Now and then this was interrupted by the stern voice of the master, or perhaps by the appalling sound of a birch twig, as some loiterer was urged along the flowery path of knowledge.

When school hours were over, the teacher forgot that he was the master, and was even the companion and playmate of the older boys; and on holiday afternoons he liked to go home with some of the smaller ones who happened to have pretty sisters, or mothers noted for their skill in cooking.

Indeed, it was a wise thing for him to keep on good terms with his pupils. He earned so little by teaching school that he could scarcely have had enough to eat had he not, according to country custom, boarded at the houses of the children whom he instructed. With these he lived, by turns, a week at a time, thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly goods tied up in a cotton handkerchief.

He had many ways of making himself both useful and agreeable. He helped the farmers in the lighter labors of their farms, raked the hay at harvest time, mended the fences, took the horses to water, drove the cows from pasture, and cut wood for the winter fire. He found favor in the eyes of the mothers by petting the children, particularly the youngest; and he would often sit with a child on one knee and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together.

He was looked upon as a kind of idle, gentlemanlike personage of finer tastes and better manners than the rough young men who had been brought up in the country. He was always welcome at the tea table of a farmhouse; and his presence was almost sure to bring out an extra dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or the parade of a silver teapot. He would walk with the young ladies in the churchyard between services on Sundays, gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that overran the surrounding trees, or sauntering with a whole bevy of them along the banks of the adjacent mill pond; while the bashful country youngsters hung sheepishly back and hated him for his fine manners.

One of his sources of pleasure was to pass long winter evenings with the Dutch farmers, as they sat by the fire with a long row of apples roasting and sputtering along the hearth. He listened to their wondrous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or “Galloping Hessian of the Hollow,” as they sometimes called him. And then he would entertain them with stories of witchcraft, and would frighten them with woeful speculations about comets and shooting stars, and by telling them that the world did really turn round, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy.

There was pleasure in all this while snugly cuddling in the chimney corner of a room that was lighted by the ruddy glow from a crackling wood fire, and where no ghost dared show its face; but it was a pleasure dearly bought by the terrors which would beset him during his walk homeward. How fearful were the shapes and shadows that fell across his way in the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night! How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet, and dread to look over his shoulder lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him!

II. THE INVITATION

autumnal urchins application cavalier pensive pommel apparition genuine horizon plumage luxurious gradually

On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool from whence he watched the doings of his little school. In his hand he held a ferule, that scepter of despotic power; the birch of justice reposed on three nails behind the stool, a constant terror to evil doers; while on the desk were sundry contraband articles taken from idle urchins, such as half-eaten apples, popguns, whirligigs, and fly cages. His scholars were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the master, and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the schoolroom.

This stillness was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro, in tow-cloth jacket and trousers, who, mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, came clattering up to the schoolhouse door. He brought an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merrymaking, or “quilting frolic,” to be held that evening at the house of Herr Van Tassel; and having delivered his message, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering away up the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of his mission.

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet schoolroom. The scholars were hurried through their lessons. Those who were nimble skipped over half without being noticed; and those who were slow were hurried along by a smart application of the rod. Then books were flung aside without being put away on the shelves; inkstands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual time, the children yelping and racketing about the green, in joy at their early freedom.

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing his best and only suit of rusty black, and arranging his looks by a bit of broken looking-glass that hung up in the schoolhouse. That he might make his appearance at the party in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was boarding, and, thus gallantly mounted, rode forth, like a knight-errant in quest of adventures.

The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plow horse. He was gaunt and shagged, with a slender neck, and a head like a hammer. His mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burs. One eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral, but the other still gleamed with genuine wickedness. He must have had plenty of fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from his name, which was Gunpowder.

Ichabod was a rider suited for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle; his elbows stuck out like a grasshopper’s; and as the horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called; and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horse’s tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed as they shambled along the highway; and it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight.

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day. The sky was clear and serene. The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frost into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air. The bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble fields.

The small birds fluttered, chirping and frolicking, from bush to bush, and tree to tree, gay and happy because of the plenty and variety around them. There were the twittering blackbirds, flying in sable clouds; and the golden-winged woodpecker, with his crimson crest and splendid plumage; and the cedar bird, with its red-tipped wings and yellow-tipped tail; and the blue jay, in his gay, light-blue coat and white underclothes, screaming and chattering, nodding and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every songster of the grove.

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples,--some still hanging on the trees, some gathered into baskets and barrels for the market, others heaped up in rich piles for the cider press. Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty pudding. There, too, were multitudes of yellow pumpkins turning up their yellow sides to the sun, and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies. And anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the odor of the beehive; and as he beheld them, he dreamed of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey.

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts, he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down into the west. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine, golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple-green, and from that into the deep blue of the midheaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depth to the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides.

III. AT THE PARTY

adjacent innovations sumptuous piazza antiquated animated skeleton specter

It was toward evening when Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Herr Van Tassel. He found it thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country,--old farmers, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles; their brisk little dames, in close-crimped caps and long-waisted gowns, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside; young girls, almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock showed signs of city innovations; the sons, in short, square-skirted coats with rows of huge brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times.

What a world of charms burst upon the gaze of my hero as he entered the state parlor of Van Tassel’s mansion--the ample charms of a Dutch country tea table, in the sumptuous time of autumn! Such heaped-up platters of cakes, of various and indescribable kinds, known only to experienced Dutch housewives!

There were doughnuts and crisp, crumbling crullers; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes; and then there were apple pies, and peach pies, and pumpkin pies; and slices of ham and smoked beef; and dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces; not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens, together with bowls of milk and cream; all mingled, higgledy-piggledy, with the motherly teapot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst! I want breath and time to describe this banquet as I ought, and am too eager to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry, but did ample justice to every dainty.

And now, supper being ended, the sound of music from the common room summoned to the dance. The musician was an old, gray-headed negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a century. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greater part of the time he scraped away on two or three strings, moving his head with every movement of the bow, and stamping his foot whenever a fresh couple were to start.

Ichabod prided himself on his dancing. Not a limb, not a fiber about him was idle. How could the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous? When the dance was over, Ichabod joined a circle of the older folks, who, with Herr Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza, and told stories of the war and wild and wonderful legends of ghosts and other supernatural beings.

Some mention was made of a woman in white that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on wintry nights before a storm. The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite specter of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who had been heard several times of late patrolling the country. One man told how he had once met the horseman and was obliged to get up behind him; how they galloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge by the church, when the horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw him into the brook, and sprang away over the tree tops with a clap of thunder.

A wild, roistering young man, who was called Brom Bones, declared that the headless horseman was, after all, no rider compared with himself. He said that returning one night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper; that he had offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, and would have won it, too, but just as they came to the church bridge, the specter bolted and vanished in a flash of fire.

IV. THE MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE

idea gnarled sensitive sociability dismal covert gigantic desperation inquiry violence opposite evidently

The party now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered together their families in their wagons, and were heard for some time rattling along the hollow roads and over the distant hills. Their light-hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, growing fainter and fainter till they gradually died away, and the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted.

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod pursued his travel homeward. In the dead hush of midnight he could hear the barking of a dog on the opposite shore of the Hudson, but it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of the distance between them. No signs of life occurred near, but now and then the chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bullfrog from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably and turning suddenly in his bed.

All the stories that Ichabod had heard about ghosts and goblins now came crowding into his mind. The night grew darker and darker. The stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the center of the road stood an enormous tulip tree, which towered like a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large as the trunks of ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the ground, and rising again into the air.

As Ichabod approached this tree, he began to whistle. He thought his whistle was answered: it was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. Coming a little nearer, he thought he saw something white hanging in the midst of the tree. He paused, and ceased whistling, but, on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the tree had been struck by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan. His teeth chattered, and his knees smote against the saddle. It was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him.

About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly wooded glen. A few rough logs laid side by side served for a bridge over this stream. To pass this bridge was the severest trial; for it was here that the unfortunate André had been captured, and under covert of the thicket of chestnuts and vines by the side of the road had the sturdy yeomen, who surprised him, lain concealed. The stream has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark.

As Ichabod approached the stream his heart began to thump. He gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and tried to dash briskly across the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod jerked the rein on the other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot. It was all in vain. His steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles.

The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon the ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, but came to a stand just by the bridge with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the trees he beheld something huge, black, and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveler.

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror. What was to be done? Summoning up a show of courage, he called out in stammering accents, “Who are you?” He received no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgeled the sides of Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and, with a scramble and a bound, stood at once in the middle of the road.

Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, and mounted on a horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and waywardness.

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones and the headless horseman, now quickened his steed, in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod drew up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind; the other did the same. His heart began to sink within him. There was something in the moody and dogged silence of his companion that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for.

On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveler in relief against the sky, Ichabod was horror-struck on perceiving that he was headless; but his horror was still more increased on observing that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of his saddle. His terror rose to desperation. He rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping, by sudden movement, to give his companion the slip; but the specter started full jump with him.

Away, then, they dashed, through thick and thin, stones flying and sparks flashing at every bound. Ichabod’s flimsy garments fluttered in the air as he stretched his long, lank body away over his horse’s head, in the eagerness of his flight.

They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged headlong down hill to the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story; and just beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church.

Just as he had got halfway through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and Ichabod felt it slipping from under him. He seized it by the pommel, and tried to hold it firm, but in vain. He had just time to save himself by clasping Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of its owner’s wrath passed across his mind, for it was his Sunday saddle; but this was no time for petty fears. He had much ado to keep his seat, sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse’s backbone with a violence that was far from pleasant.

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hope that the church bridge was at hand. “If I can but reach that bridge,” thought Ichabod, “I am safe.” Just then he heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind him. He even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; he gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish in a flash of fire and brimstone.

Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod tried to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash. He was tumbled headlong into the dust; and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider passed by like a whirlwind.

The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master’s gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast. Dinner hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook; but no schoolmaster.

An inquiry was set on foot, and after much investigation they came upon his traces. In one part of the road by the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt. The tracks of horses’ hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin. The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was not to be discovered.

As Ichabod was a bachelor, and in nobody’s debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him. It is true, an old farmer, who went down to New York on a visit several years after, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive; that he had left the neighborhood, partly through fear of the goblin and the farmer whose horse he had ridden, and partly for other reasons; that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the country, had kept school and studied law, and finally had been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, was observed to look very knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin, which led some to suppose that he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell.

--WASHINGTON IRVING.

THE BLUEBIRD

When God had made a host of them, One little flower still lacked a stem To hold its blossom blue; So into it He breathed a song, And suddenly, with petals strong As wings, away it flew.

--FATHER TABB.

* * * * *

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial. We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.

--PHILIP JAMES BAILEY.

THE BROOK

I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip’s farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling.

And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel.

And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeams dance Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars; I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

--ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE STORY OF A HAPPY CHILD

I

chevalier poem education opera conservatory poetry poverty accord applause talent composer theater

The Chevalier had found a lad who would be worthy of his care. To be sure he was but a peasant boy full of fun and laughter. The Chevalier himself had once been young and remembered how tempting the sunshine used to be and the fields and the ripe nuts of autumn. He had marked with pleasure this handsome lad, and watched with interest his changing face and dancing eye as he went on his merry way.

“I shall ask him to my house,” thought the Chevalier, “and see what he will say to my books.”

So Giochino went to the Chevalier’s house and listened eagerly while the Chevalier told him of the beautiful verses and stories which many of the books contained. Now and then the Chevalier would read a few lines from a poem.

The boy loved poetry. It was sweet in sound and had a movement like the gliding of boats on still water. It made him forget everything else,--even how he had teased his old music teacher, and that his mother was sometimes sad.

Perhaps he was a little lonesome, for his mother, whom he loved dearly, was often far off. She was working for her boy, saving every cent possible to give him the musical education for which she had longed. Here and there throughout Italy she went singing in one of the traveling opera companies so common in those days. In her younger years her voice had been full and strong, but now it was failing and she wondered what would happen to Giochino.

But the boy’s heart was too joyous to be cast down by poverty or trouble. The days were bright and sunny, why should he not be gay? His voice was clear, true, pure in tone, and almost of its own accord broke into song. Occasionally he, too, would earn a little money by singing at the theater.

After a time he was able to study music with a master and finally entered the conservatory at Bologna. Here he was taught some of the more difficult things about music.

It was not long before he discovered that he already knew enough to write operas. He was delighted. He would go to seek his fortune.

His teacher, realizing that he had extraordinary talent, wished him to continue his study further and even offered to instruct him in the stately music of the Church, if he would remain. But the youth did not heed his offer and started forth.

In his happy, aimless way he went from place to place. He sang, he accompanied, he directed and composed. He was always good-natured, always generous, and never without friends.

It was evening in Venice. The opera was just over. People were thronging from the door of the opera house. They were talking excitedly. Evidently they were much pleased. Giochino Rossini’s opera, “Tancred,” had been presented for the first time. It had been received with wild applause.

Rossini was surprised at this. “I fancied,” he said, “that, after hearing my opera, they would put me into the madhouse. But they are madder than I.”

II

popular finally composition indignation spirit composer message mentioned

When he was but twenty-four Rossini produced what has been, perhaps, the most popular of his operas, “The Barber of Seville.” But fame alone could not make him content. Beyond Italy the world was wide. The spirit of the man was as restless as that of the boy. He went to Vienna, and finally to Paris.

In Paris he felt he could work at his best. Here he composed his great masterpiece in opera, “William Tell.” It was the story in music and song of the great Swiss hero, of whom you have doubtless heard many tales. For years the hero had seen his country bound under the hand of a tyrant. His soul was on fire with indignation. His country must be freed. He would make it free.

Nothing but grand and noble music could tell such a story. Yet Rossini has told it wonderfully. The opera was brought out in Paris and has been played many times since.

Although as yet you may not have listened to any of the music which has been mentioned thus far, the most of you have probably heard many times Rossini’s finest composition. When he wrote it, he was forty-five; and when it was done, he wrote no longer. This was his last message to the world. This was the “Stabat Mater,” sung for the first time on Good Friday.

In his house in Paris Rossini gathered about him many friends, among them young men who desired to become musicians, poets, or writers. His generous heart was full to the last of merriment and song, though as a composer he was silent. He was born at Pesaro, Italy, February 29, 1792, and died in Paris, November 13, 1868.

MAY CAROL

See the robins swinging ’Mid the orchards’ snow; Feel the perfumed breezes Wafted to and fro; Listen to the music Heard from bird and spray; Lift your hearts, ye sad ones, ’Tis the lovely May.

Ah, our hearts were weary Waiting for the light, For the frosts to vanish With their bitter blight: See, the earth’s brown bosom Heaves, where zephyrs play; See, she thrills and answers To the touch of May.

May, all fresh and smiling, Sweet--from heaven above; May, our souls beguiling With her dreams of love: Violet-eyed and fragrant-- How our pulses play ’Neath the virgin beauty Of the radiant May.

Lift your hearts up: floating Through the gold and blue Where the liquid sunlight Streams and filters through, There a Lady, smiling, Stands ’mid cloudless day-- Snow-white Virgin-Mother, Dazzling Queen of May.

--MARY ANTONIA, SISTER OF MERCY.

THE PRECIOUS BLOOD OF JESUS

O Precious Blood of Jesus, Shed for me, Upon the cruel cross of Calvary:

Each drop of blood so precious, And the pain, A sacrifice was offered Not in vain.

O Precious Blood of Jesus, May I feel The fire of love for Christ, and Holy zeal!

O Precious Blood of Jesus, Cleansing, pure! Inflame my soul with ardor To endure.

--HENRY COYLE.

THE SPANISH COOK

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Pilar was a young peasant woman. I do not know from what village she came, somewhere in the neighborhood of Malaga. She was paid three dollars a month, and she “found” herself. A man cook in that happy land gets five dollars a month, but times were bad, and my friends had for three years to content themselves with a woman cook. She cooked well, though, and cheerfully, and she prepared more meals in the twenty-four hours than any other cook I ever heard of.

She seemed to have identified herself thoroughly with the family, and to work with a zealous love for them all. There was, however, one of the many children for whom she had a special affection, a very delicate little maiden of two and a half. During the autumn this child had been desperately ill. The doctors gave no hope. Pilar in anguish prayed for her recovery, and promised the Bestower of life that if He would spare little Anita, she would, before the end of Holy Week, carry to the shrine on the top of the “Calvary” outside the town, one pound of olive oil to be burned in His honor. She promised a great many prayers besides, which she managed to get said, in the intervals of her frying and stewing and boiling.

Well, the little girl, contrary to the doctors, began to mend, and finally was entirely restored to health. Pilar was most grateful, and said many _Aves_ in thanksgiving. The winter was a busy one, and then Lent came and seemed not less busy in that big household. Pilar did not forget the pound of oil, but there never seemed a moment when she could ask a half day to go and carry it to the shrine. Holy Week came, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday,--what should she do! She could scarcely get away from her work even to go out to her parish church on Holy Thursday to say a little prayer before the Repository, where, throned in flowers and lighted with myriad candles, the Blessed Sacrament is kept till the morning of Good Friday.

As to going to seven churches and saying her prayers before each Repository as other people did, that, alas! was not “for the likes of her.” She had a dumb, deep-down feeling, however, that the good God knew, and that it would be all right. On her way back from her hurried prayer at the church, a procession passed which she watched for a moment. But this only proved painful, for it had begun to rain, and her pious Southern soul was aflame with wrath that the image of the Blessed Redeemer should be exposed to the storm.

“They don’t care about wetting his dear curls,” she cried, “as long as they can have a good procession.”

She shook her fist at the crowd, and came away in tears. Her mistress, a devout Catholic, tried to console her by reminding her that, after all, it was only an image and not the dear Lord she loved. Oh, she knew _that_; but “it was cruel, but it was shameful!”

She felt as a mother would feel if the dress of her dead baby, or its little half-worn shoe, were spoiled by the caprice or cold-heartedness of some one who had no feeling for it. All together Holy Thursday was not very consoling to Pilar, and the pound of oil grew heavier every hour.

The next day, Good Friday, she had only time to go to church through the silent streets, where no wheels were heard, and say her prayers and look at the black, black altars and the veiled statues. That night, after her work was done, and the last baby had been served with its last porridge, she put her kitchen in hurried order, and stole out silently. She had bought the pound of oil at a little shop in the next street and, hiding it under her shawl, turned her steps towards Barcenillas.

The night was black and tempestuous. A hot, dry wind blew; occasionally a gust brought a few drops of rain, but more often it was a gale which made the street lamps blink, and whirled the dust around her. It was a long way to the suburb; it was late; there were few abroad, but no matter, the good Lord knew why she was out, and He would take care of her.

There are no street cars running in the days of Holy Week. From Holy Thursday till after the cathedral bells ring for first vespers on Holy Saturday, no wheels move in the streets of Malaga.

It was nearly midnight when she got to Barcenillas. She crossed the silent plaza, passed through the gate, and began the ascent of the steep hill. There is a great broad road that winds up it, and at every “station” there is a lamp burning. She knelt at each as she reached it. But the place was very lonely; the eucalyptus trees shook and whispered to each other, and the lamps were dim and flickered in the rough wind.

The night before there had been processions all through the night, crowds upon crowds going up the hill; she would not have been lonely then. But she could not get away, because of little Josef’s being ill and needing the water heated for his bath every hour. Yes, it would have been nicer last night, with all the priests, and all the chanting, and all the flaming torches. But the good God knew all about it,--why she did not come then, when she wanted to. She would not worry, but she said her prayers with chattering teeth, and many furtive looks behind her.

At last she reached the summit, where in a little chapel burned the light that could be seen for miles around Malaga. There a solitary brother knelt, saying his beads, and keeping watch. She said her last prayers at the altar, and left the votive oil with the friar, who commended her piety and was very kind. As she came out, the clouds broke and the Paschal moon shone through them, and the broad road led down with smooth ease towards the sleeping, silent city. Her steps made just as lonely echoes on the stones of the deserted streets, but she felt herself favored of heaven, as no doubt she was, and all her fears were gone.

It was after three o’clock when she let herself in at the kitchen door; and it was several weeks before her mistress learned, by accident, of the dolorous little pilgrimage.

--MIRIAM COLES HARRIS.

THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE TREE

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Come, let us plant the apple tree. Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; Wide let its hollow bed be made; There gently lay the roots, and there Sift the dark mold with kindly care, And press it o’er them tenderly, As round the sleeping infant’s feet We softly fold the cradle sheet; So plant we the apple tree.

What plant we in this apple tree? Buds which the breath of summer days Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest; We plant, upon the sunny lea, A shadow for the noontide hour, A shelter from the summer shower, When we plant the apple tree.

What plant we in this apple tree? Sweets for a hundred flowery springs, To load the May wind’s restless wings, When, from the orchard row, he pours Its fragrance through our open doors; A world of blossoms for the bee, Flowers for the sick girl’s silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, We plant with the apple tree.

What plant we in this apple tree? Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, And redden in the August noon, And drop, when gentle airs come by, That fan the blue September sky; While children come, with cries of glee, And seek them where the fragrant grass Betrays their bed to those who pass, At the foot of the apple tree.

And when, above this apple tree, The winter stars are quivering bright, And winds go howling through the night, Girls, whose young eyes o’erflow with mirth, Shall peel its fruits by cottage hearth, And guests in prouder homes shall see, Heaped with the grape of Cintra’s vine, And golden orange of the line, The fruit of the apple tree.

The fruitage of this apple tree, Winds and our flag of stripe and star Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, Where men shall wonder at the view, And ask in what fair groves they grew; And sojourners beyond the sea Shall think of childhood’s careless day, And long, long hours of summer play, In the shade of the apple tree.

Each year shall give this apple tree A broader flush of roseate bloom, A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. The years shall come and pass, but we Shall hear no longer, where we lie, The summer’s songs, the autumn’s sigh, In the boughs of the apple tree.

And time shall waste this apple tree. Oh, when its aged branches throw Thin shadows on the ground below, Shall fraud and force and iron will Oppress the weak and helpless still? What shall the tasks of mercy be, Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears Of those who live when length of years Is wasting this apple tree?

“Who planted this old apple tree?” The children of that distant day Thus to some aged man shall say; And, gazing on its mossy stem, The gray-haired man shall answer them: “A poet of the land was he, Born in the rude but good old times; ’Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes On planting the apple tree.”

--WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE CONVERSION OF KING RATBODO

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St. Wulfram and his monks had much work for a time. The Frisians came in crowds for Christian instructions and baptism. It was a great and hard task to teach human beings in the lowest stage of development. Moreover, the teachings of the missionaries were opposed in all things to the traditional customs of the people. Many wrongs, such as slavery, for instance, could not be set aside at once. Moreover, if the people were to be made peaceful and weaned from their wildness, they had to be taught other ways of support than plundering and hunting.

So the Benedictines taught the converts not only Christian doctrine, but how to plow and to plant. They built dunes to hold out the devastating sea, and sent to their abbey home for seeds and implements. In a few years the face of Frisia was greatly changed.

Ratbodo had given Wulfram land and a dwelling near his own residence. In this way he could best keep track of everything that happened at the mission.

The king himself remained obdurate in his paganism. Once he said, tauntingly, to the entreating Wulfram, that if the Christian God would work a miracle for him especially, he would be converted. Wulfram reminded him of the miracles he had seen and had not been converted. Then Ratbodo said that if the table in front of him were changed into gold, he would yield; but Wulfram, in righteous indignation, told him how childish was such a request.

All the while the chieftains were urging the king to send away the bishop. But he laughed at them, saying that what Wulfram had built up he himself would destroy in ten days when the time came, just as had been done in the case of many others. Even the king’s little son, Clodio, was baptized and died a Christian, but the king only smiled. His day was coming, he held.

Then Wulfram went back to Fontinella to get more monks, laborers, and lay brothers for his work in Frisia. The converted Frisians were beginning to realize the blessings of regular and well-ordered work. There were more and more laborers and fewer sea robbers and warriors. Nevertheless, the great mass of the Frisian people remained obstinate, following the example of the king and the great chiefs.

Among the gods whose wrath the Frisians most feared was the god of the sea. The lowness of the land made frequent inundations inevitable. Besides, Frisians, when not robbing, were fishing, or living on the water in some way. Thus they were always anxious to pacify the mighty god of the floods.

On this day, too, a great multitude, together with the king and the chieftains, were gathered at the sea-coast, waiting to soothe the water deity by human sacrifice. The lot had fallen on two little boys this time, the only children of a widow. At the time of low tide the little ones were laid on a projecting point of land, so that the rising waters would cover them. Their feet were tied so cunningly that the childish hands could not undo the knots. Thus they sat on the beach, waiting the waters that were to be their death.

Several hundred feet back, the crowds were gathered to watch the unhappy spectacle. In the foreground sat a young woman, the mother of the children, weeping and moaning in her grief, without, however, waking the faintest sympathy in the hearts of the by-standers.

The waters were even then advancing on the point of land, and a strong wind was driving up the flood in great waves. The little ones began to scream in terror as the spray struck them, and the mother sprang to her feet. If she had not been held fast, she would have flung herself into the water with her children. Gradually the land disappeared; nothing was left but the raised point to which the children clung. One could see how the older boy was trying to hold up his little brother.

“King!” said a voice, ringing with a holy anger, “why this abomination before the eyes of almighty God?”

Ratbodo started and the chieftains stared in silent astonishment.

“We are offering sacrifice to the god of the waters,” said the king, after a moment. “Go take the victims away from him if you can; they may be your slaves and the slaves of your God for the rest of time,” he added with a sneer.

“So be it,” answered Wulfram. Turning, he made the sign of the cross over the rising tide and walked out as if on solid land. The Christians present in the crowd cried aloud for joy, but the pagans stood in wonder bordering on fear. The king himself was most moved by the miraculous sight. His eyes were fixed, his face pale as death. He was convinced that in the saint walking thus unharmed over the waters he saw an unmistakable manifestation of the power of the Christian God.

“That is even more than a golden table,” he whispered tremblingly.

Wulfram lifted the children out of the water and carried them to the land. At once the Frisians crowded about him, asking to be made Christians. Ratbodo himself said:--

“It is but right that a man should keep his word. I said to you years ago that if your God would make a golden table before my eyes, I would become a Christian. But He did more. He made a solid floor of the moving sea. Come to me every day and instruct me.”

--CONRAD VON BOLANDEN.

THE BLESSED VIRGIN MARY

If our faith had given us nothing more Than this example of all womanhood, So mild, so merciful, so strong, so good, So patient, peaceful, loyal, loving, pure, This were enough to prove it higher and truer Than all creeds the world had known before.

--H. W. LONGFELLOW.

From _The Golden Legend_.

COME TO JESUS

Souls of men! why will ye scatter Like a crowd of frightened sheep? Foolish hearts! why will ye wander From a love so true and deep?

Was there ever kindest shepherd Half so gentle, half so sweet As the Saviour who would have us Come and gather round His feet?

It is God: His love looks mighty, But is mightier than it seems: ’Tis our Father: and His fondness Goes far out beyond our dreams.

There’s a wideness in God’s mercy, Like the wideness of the sea: There’s a kindness in His justice, Which is more than liberty.

There is no place where earthly sorrows Are more felt than up in heaven; There is no place where earthly failings Have such kindly judgment given.

There is welcome for the sinner, And more graces for the good; There is mercy with the Saviour; There is healing in His Blood.

There is grace enough for thousands Of new worlds as great as this; There is room for fresh creations In that upper home of bliss.

For the love of God is broader Than the treasures of man’s mind; And the heart of the Eternal Is most wonderfully kind.

There is plentiful redemption In the Blood that has been shed; There is joy for all the members In the sorrows of the Head.

If our love were but more simple, We should take Him at His word; And our lives would be all sunshine In the sweetness of our Lord.

--FATHER FABER.

* * * * *

Be comforted; and blessèd be The meek, the merciful, the pure Of heart; for they shall see, shall hear God’s mercy. So shall peace endure.

--JOAQUIN MILLER.

FATHER MARQUETTE

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In 1672, letters from Quebec informed Marquette that the government had taken up the project of exploring the Mississippi, and that he was the missionary selected to accompany the expedition. His heart exulted at the prospect. The hope of a glorious martyrdom while opening the way to future heralds of the Cross buoyed him up, though in his humility he never spoke of martyrdom. To him it was but a death, “to cease to offend God.”

The winter was spent by the two explorers in studying all that had yet been learned of the great river, in gathering around them every Indian wanderer, and amid the tawny group drawing their first rude map of the Mississippi, and the water courses that led to it. And on this first map, traced doubtless kneeling on the ground, they set down the name of each tribe they were to pass, each important point to be met. The undertaking was dangerous, but it was not to be rash: all was the result of calm, cool investigation. In the spring they embarked at Mackinaw in two frail bark canoes; each with his paddle in hand, and full of hope, they soon plied them merrily over the crystal waters of the lake.

All was new to Marquette. He had now attained the limit of former discoveries, the new world was before them; they looked back a last adieu to the waters, which, great as the distance was, connected them with Quebec and their countrymen; they knelt on the shore to offer, by a new devotion, their lives, their honor, and their undertaking to their beloved mother the Virgin Mary Immaculate; then, launching on the broad Wisconsin, they sailed slowly down its current, amid its vine-clad isles and its countless sand bars.

No sound broke the stillness, no human form appeared, and at last, after sailing seven days, on the 17th of June they happily glided into the great river. Joy that could find no utterance in words filled the grateful heart of Marquette. The broad river of the Conception, as he named it, now lay before them, stretching away hundreds of miles to an unknown sea.

“The Mississippi River,” he writes, “has its source in several lakes in the country of the nations at the north; it is narrow at the mouth of the Wisconsin; its current, which runs south, is slow and gentle. On the right is a considerable chain of very high mountains, and on the left fine lands; it is in many places studded with islands. On sounding we found ten fathoms of water. Its breadth varies greatly; sometimes it is three quarters of a league broad, and then narrows in to less than two hundred yards. We followed its course quietly, as it bears south and southeast to the forty-second degree.

“Then we perceive that the whole face of the country changes. Scarcely a forest or mountain is now in sight. The islands increase in beauty and are covered with finer trees; we see nothing but deer and elk, wild geese and swans unable to fly, as they are here moulting. From time to time we encounter monstrous fish, one of which struck our canoe with such violence that I took it for a large tree that would knock our frail craft to pieces. Another time we perceived on the water a bearded monster with a tiger’s head, a pointed muzzle like a wild cat; ears erect, a gray head but a jet-black neck. It was the only one we beheld.

“When we cast our nets we took sturgeon, and a very strange fish resembling a trout, but with larger mouth and smaller eyes and snout. From the last projects a large bone, three fingers wide, and a cubit long; the end is round and as wide as a hand. When the fish leaps out of water, the weight of this bone often throws it back.

“Having descended the river to 41° 2´, still keeping the same direction, we found that turkeys took the place of other wild birds, and wild cattle replaced other animals. We call them wild cattle, because they resemble our domestic ones. They are not longer, but almost as bulky again, and more corpulent. Our man killed one, and the three of us could move it only with great difficulty. The head is very large, the forehead flat and a half yard broad between the horns, which resemble exactly those of our oxen, but are black and longer. A large crop hangs down from the neck, and there is a high hump on the back. The whole head, neck, and part of the shoulders are covered with a great mane like a horse’s; it is a foot long and gives them a hideous appearance, and as it falls over the eyes prevents their seeing straight ahead.

“The rest of the body is covered with a coarse curly hair like the wool of our sheep, but much stronger and thicker. This is shed every summer, and then the skin is as soft as velvet. At this time the Indians employ the skins to make beautiful robes, which they paint with various colors. The flesh and fat are excellent, and furnish the best dish at banquets. They are very fierce, and not a year passes without their killing some Indian. When attacked, they take a man with their horns, if they can, lift him up, and then dash him on the ground, and trample him to death.

“When you fire at them from a distance with gun or bow, you must throw yourself on the ground as soon as you fire, and hide in the grass, for if they perceive the person who fired, they rush on him and attack him. As their feet are large and rather short, they do not generally move fast, unless they are provoked. They are scattered over the prairies like herds of cattle. I have seen four hundred of them in a band.”

At last, on the 25th of June, they descried footprints on the shore. They now took heart again, and Joliet and the missionary, leaving their five men in the canoes, followed a little beaten path to discover who the tribe might be. They traveled on in silence almost to the cabin doors, when they halted, and with a loud halloo proclaimed their coming. Three villages lay before them; the first, roused by the cry, poured forth its motley group, which halted at the sight of the newcomers and the well-known dress of the missionary.

“They deputed four old men to come and speak with us,” says Marquette. “Two carried tobacco pipes richly adorned and trimmed with feathers of many kinds. They walked slowly, lifting their pipes toward the sun, as if offering them to him to smoke, but yet without uttering a single word. They were a long time coming the short distance between us and the village. Having at last reached us, they stopped to examine us carefully.

“On seeing these ceremonies which are used only with friends, I took courage, more especially as I saw they wore European goods, which made me judge them to be allies of the French. I therefore spoke to them first, and asked them who they were. They answered: ‘We are Illinois,’ and in token of peace they offered us their pipes to smoke. They then invited us to their village, where the whole tribe impatiently awaited us.

“At the door of the cabin in which we were to be received was an old man awaiting us in a very remarkable attitude. It is their usual ceremony in receiving strangers. This man stood perfectly naked, with his hands stretched out and raised toward the sun, as if he wished to screen himself from its rays, which nevertheless passed through his fingers to his face. When we came near him, he addressed this compliment to us: ‘How beautiful is the sun, O Frenchman, when thou comest to visit us! All our town awaits thee, and thou shalt enter all our cabins in peace,’ He then took us into his, where there was a crowd of people, who devoured us with their eyes, but maintained the deepest silence. We heard, however, these words occasionally addressed to us: ‘Well done, brothers, to visit us!’”

Then the great peace calumet was brought and solemnly smoked, and the two Frenchmen were conducted to the village of the great sachem. Here, too, they were received with pomp, and the calumet was again smoked. Marquette explained the object of their voyage to visit the nations living on the great river, and announce to them the word of God their Creator. They told the Illinois that they were sent by the great chief of the French, and asked information as to the nations between them and the sea.

The sachem presented them an Indian slave, saying: “I thank thee, Blackgown, and thee, Frenchman, for taking so much pains to come and visit us; never has the earth been so beautiful, nor the sun so bright as to-day; never has our river been so calm, nor so free from rocks, which your canoes have removed as they passed; never has our tobacco had so fine a flavor, nor our corn appeared so beautiful as we behold it to-day. Here is my son, whom I give thee, that thou mayst know my heart. I pray thee to take pity on me and all my nation. Thou knowest the Great Spirit who has made us all; thou speakest to Him and hearest His word. Ask Him to give me life and health, and come and dwell with us that we may know Him.”

They feasted the two Frenchmen, and gave them a calumet of peace as a safeguard against hostile tribes, but tried to persuade them to go no farther.

--JOHN GILMARY SHEA.

THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS

There came a youth upon the earth, Some thousand years ago, Whose slender hands were nothing worth, Whether to plow, or reap, or sow.

Upon an empty tortoise shell He stretched some chords, and drew Music that made men’s bosoms swell Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.

Then King Admetus, one who had Pure taste by right divine, Decreed his singing not too bad To hear between the cups of wine.

And so, well pleased with being soothed Into a sweet half-sleep, Three times his kingly beard he smoothed, And made him viceroy o’er his sheep.

His words were simple words enough, And yet he used them so, That what in other mouths was rough In his seemed musical and low.

Men called him but a shiftless youth In whom no good they saw; And yet, unwittingly, in truth, They made his careless words their law.

They knew not how he learned at all, For idly, hour by hour, He sat and watched the dead leaves fall, Or mused upon a common flower.

It seemed the loveliness of things Did teach him all their use, For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs, He found a healing power profuse.

Men granted that his speech was wise, But, when a glance they caught Of his slim grace and woman’s eyes, They laughed, and called him good-for-naught.

Yet after he was dead and gone, And e’en his memory dim, Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, More full of love, because of him.

--JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

THE SERMON ON THE MOUNT

I

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One day a vast multitude follows our Blessed Lord up a mountain side. They come trooping after Him, men, women, and children; their homes, their business, all the cares of this life, by common consent left behind. Now He has stopped and turned round, facing them. He waits long and patiently as they come toiling up, guiding them with His hand to go here and there where they may hear Him best.

It is His first great Sermon that He is going to preach, this Sermon on the Mount, and it is not only for the numbers beyond all reckoning gathered together here, but for all that shall come into this world and have to be taught what they must do to save their souls. Therefore He would speak so solemnly and from such a lofty place. He sits down, and the Twelve come and stand around Him, or sit on the ground at His feet. The people press round as close as they can, and when all are seated and quiet He begins to speak.

What will the text of this great Preacher be? What is the thought uppermost in His mind and heart? This--to teach us what we must do to be happy. He knows that we are made for happiness, and that we long to be happy. But He knows, too, that very many try to find happiness in things that will not satisfy them, in the riches, pleasures, and honors of this world which can never content our hearts. And so He tells us in the beginning of His Sermon on the Mount who are really blessed or happy.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.

“Blessed are the meek, for they shall possess the land.

“Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.

“Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after justice, for they shall have their fill.

“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.

“Blessed are the clean of heart, for they shall see God.

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.

“Blessed are they that suffer persecution for justice’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.”

Blessed the sufferers for whom Heaven is waiting! this is the text of the Sermon on the Mount.

II

envy abundance sufficiency conquerors society invitation spiritual victors raiment contrition special deserve

_The poor in spirit_ are those who, having little of the good things of this life, are content with what God has given them, and do not envy those who are better off. Those, too, who having a sufficiency or an abundance of the pleasant things of this world, do not let their hearts get too fond of them, are ready to give them up if God should take them away, and are generous in sharing them with those in need. To poor, such as these, our Lord promises all the riches of Heaven by and by.

_The meek_ are those who have gained a mastery over anger and revengeful thoughts. They possess as conquerors three lands--the land of their own soul, which they control as lords and masters, the Land of Heaven, where nothing will trouble them any more, and, strange to say, that very land in which they seemed to be overcome. For in the little difficulties and differences of daily life, it is those that yield who are really victors. How many conquests has meekness made!

_The mourners_ are those who all their lives long have a quiet, loving sorrow for their sins--not as though they were unforgiven, but just because they are forgiven, because they have offended Him who forgives so readily and so often. Those, too, are blessed mourners who remember when sorrow comes that He who loves them only permits it for their good, and that in a very little while He will wipe away all tears from their eyes, and they shall be comforted, “nor mourning, nor crying, nor sorrow shall be any more.”

_Who hunger and thirst after justice._ The soul, like the body, has its hunger and thirst. Our Lord says those are blessed who take care to feed it with those things which keep it alive in the grace of God, with prayer, and instruction, and the Sacraments. Blessed are those who hunger after this spiritual food, who are always trying to get more and more of God’s grace, who go hungry to prayer, hungry to Confession and Communion. Almighty God says, “Open thy mouth and I will fill it.” And our Blessed Lady sings in her canticle, “He hath fed the hungry with good things.” It was because all the saints hungered like this that so much was given them.

_The merciful._ There is nothing our Lord tells us so often and so plainly as this--that to obtain mercy from God we must ourselves be merciful. If we wish Him to judge us kindly and to forgive our many faults, we must be forgiving and kind. “Be merciful,” He says, “as your Heavenly Father is merciful.” He tells us that at the Last Day He will say “Come” to those who have been merciful to others for His sake, and “Depart from Me” to those who have been unmerciful to the poor and needy, and therefore to Him. For what we do to His least brethren He counts as done to Himself. If, then, we want to hear His sweet invitation on that dreadful Day, we know how to secure it--“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.”

_The clean of heart._ The reward and the joy of the next life is to see God. There are many joys in Heaven--freedom from pain and care, the delights of the glorified body, the society of the Angels and Saints, reunion with those we loved on earth. But all these are as nothing compared with the Vision of God. It is this that makes Heaven what it is. Without this all the rest would not satisfy us. But to see the All Holy God we must be holy. In Heaven all are clothed with white robes, and the nearer the approach to the Great White Throne, the more dazzlingly white is the raiment. We must be getting ready to join that spotless throng. How? By taking as much pains to keep our soul free from stain as we do to prevent soiling our dress when we go along a miry road; by shunning with care all mortal sin and deliberate venial sin; by being careful in our examination of conscience, and often cleansing our soul in the Sacrament of Penance, and by frequent acts of contrition. If we do this we shall be among the clean of heart, and one day we shall see God.

_The peacemakers._ “Some there are who are neither at peace with themselves nor suffer others to be at peace. And some there are who keep themselves in peace and study to restore peace to others.” Gladness goes with these peacemakers; they turn aside little words and jokes that would give pain, and come among us like our Blessed Lord, whose favorite word of greeting was, “Peace be to you.” They are so like their Father who is in Heaven that they deserve to be called in a special way His children.

_The persecuted._ If our Lord had not told us these are blessed, should we ever have guessed it? To be persecuted seems such a terrible thing, and so indeed it is unless we can bring ourselves to think more of Him for whose sake we suffer than of the suffering itself. Perhaps we may have known the quiet happiness of being by the side of one we loved who was in pain. The thought that our presence and our sympathy soothed that dear one was greater joy than any pleasure to be found elsewhere. Something like this is the gladness those have even now who for our Lord’s sake are hated and persecuted. They know that if they are like Him in His suffering they will be like Him one day in His glory. Are they not blessed then?

III

reverent amazement revenge deceive riveted congregation poverty beatitudes

And now let us stop awhile to look at our dear Master and His hearers. The Twelve are listening with reverent and fixed attention, their eyes riveted on His blessed face. The people gaze at Him in amazement and delight. They have been taught to hate their enemies, to seek revenge, to think that poverty and suffering are the signs of God’s anger, that an abundance of corn and wine and cattle are the rewards for which a good man must hope.

Their beatitudes would have been, “Blessed are the rich and the successful, those that laugh and are held in honor by men.” How unlike these to the blessed ones of Jesus of Nazareth! His way to happiness was a hard way, but they knew as they looked up into His face that it was the right way. And they felt that He could not only teach but help them. Had they known the story of His life as we do they would have seen that He had first practised all He taught. He was so poor that He had not where to lay His head. He was meek and humble of heart, the Man of sorrows, the great Peacemaker.

After the Sermon our Lord comes down from the Mount, conversing familiarly with His disciples, His simple congregation flocking after Him, trying to get near Him, all so refreshed by His company and His words. Hear them talking of Him among themselves, saying, “We never heard the like.”

Oh, if we had seen our Blessed Lord as these happy people saw Him, if we had followed Him about with the crowd, had sat at His feet as He taught, and watched Him as He laid His hands on the eyes of the blind and the sores of the poor lepers--how we should have loved Him!

--MOTHER MARY LOYOLA.

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER

perilous ramparts haughty conceals conquer desolation hireling confusion motto triumph reposes pollution

Oh say, can you see by the dawn’s early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming-- Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight, O’er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?

And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there. Oh say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?

On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?

Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam, In full glory reflected now shines on the stream; ’Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore ’Mid the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion, A home and a country shall leave us no more? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps’ pollution.

No refuge could save the hireling and slave, From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave. And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Oh, thus be it ever when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war’s desolation; Blest with victr’y and peace, may the heaven-rescued land, Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation.

Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, And this be our motto: “In God is our trust!” And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

HOW AMERICA WAS DISCOVERED

I

THE ITALIAN SAILOR

Italian belief finally dangerous Indies ocean theory persuade Europe imagine journey furnish

About four hundred years ago there came to Spain an Italian sailor who believed that the earth is round. Such a belief may not seem at all strange to us, but to the people of that time it appeared to be very foolish and unreasonable. Almost everybody laughed at the Italian, and called him a silly fellow.

“Have you eyes?” they asked. “If so, you need only to open them and look about you to see that the earth is as flat as the top of a table.”

“You may think it is flat,” he answered, “and indeed it does appear to be so. But I know it is round; and if I had only a good ship or two, and some trusty sailors, I would prove it to you. I would sail westward across the great ocean, and in the end would reach the Indies and China, which must be on the other side of the great round world.”

“Who ever heard of such nonsense!” cried his learned critics. “Everybody knows that China and the Indies are in the far East, and that they can be reached only by a dangerous voyage through the Mediterranean Sea, and long journeys with camels across the great desert. Yet, here is Mr. Crack-brain, an Italian sailor, who says he can go to the East by sailing west. One might as well try to reach the moon by going down into a deep well.”

“But you don’t understand me,” answered the man whom they had called Mr. Crack-brain. “Here is an apple. Let us suppose that it is the earth. I stick a pin on this side, and call it Spain. On the other side I stick another pin, and call it the Indies. Now suppose a fly lights upon the apple at the point which I have called Spain. By turning to the right, or eastward, he can travel round to the Indies with but little trouble; or by turning to the left, or westward, he can reach the same place with just as much ease, and in really a shorter time. Do you see?”

“Do we see?” said his hearers. “Most certainly we see the apple, and we can imagine that we see the fly. It is very hard, however, to imagine that the earth is an apple, or anything like it. For, suppose that it were so: what would become of all the water in the seas and the great ocean? Why, it would run off at the blossom end of the apple, which you call the South Pole; and all the rocks and trees and men would follow it. Or, suppose that men could stick to the lower part of the earth as the fly does to the lower part of the apple--how very silly it would be to think of them walking about with their heads hanging down!”

“And suppose,” said one of the doubters, who thought himself very wise,--“suppose that the earth is round, and suppose that the water should not spill off, and suppose you should sail to the other side, as you want to do, how are you to get back? Did anybody ever hear of a ship sailing uphill?”

And so, with sneering remarks, the wise men dismissed the whole subject. They said it was not worth while for them to spend their time in talking about such things. But the man whom they had called Mr. Crack-brain would not give up his theory. He was not the first man to believe that the earth is round--this he knew; but he hoped to be the first to prove it by sailing westward, and thus finally reaching the Indies, and the rich countries of the far East. And yet he had no ship, he was very poor, and the few friends whom he had were not able to give him any help.

“My only hope,” he said, “is to persuade the king and queen to furnish me with a ship.”

But how should an unknown Italian sailor make himself heard by the king and queen of the most powerful country in Europe?

The great men at the king’s court ridiculed him. “You had better buy a fisherman’s boat,” they said, “and try to make an honest living with your nets. Men of your kind have no business with kings. As to your crazy theory about the shape of the earth, only think of it! How dare you, the son of an Italian wool-comber, imagine that you know more about it than the wisest men in the world?”

But he did not despair. For years he followed the king’s court from place to place. Most people looked upon him as a kind of harmless lunatic who had gotten a single idea in his head and was unable to think of anything else. But there were a few good and wise men who listened to his theories, and after studying them carefully began to believe that there was some truth in them.

One of these men was Father Perez, the prior of the convent of La Rabida, and, to please this good prior, the queen at last sent for the sailor and asked him to tell her all about his strange theories and his plans for sailing west and reaching the East.

“You say that, if you had the vessels and the men, you would sail westward and discover new lands on the farther side of the great ocean,” said the queen. “What reasons have you for supposing that there are any such lands?”

“My first reason is that, since the earth is round like a ball, the countries of China and the Indies must lie in a westward direction and can, sooner or later, be reached by sailing across the sea,” was the answer. “You, yourself, have heard the story of St. Brandon, the Scottish priest, who, eight hundred years ago, was driven by a storm far across the ocean, and how at last he landed upon a strange and unknown shore. I doubt not but that this country was one of the outlying islands of the Indies, or perhaps the eastern shore of China.

“Not very long ago, Martin Vincent, a sea captain of Lisbon, ventured to go a distance of four hundred miles from land. There he picked up a piece of wood, with strange marks and carvings upon it, which had been drifted from the west by strong winds. Other seafaring men have found, far out in the ocean, reeds and light wood, such as travelers say are found in some parts of the Indies, but nowhere in Europe. And if any one should want more proofs than these, it would not be hard to find them. There is a story among the people of the far north which relates that, about five hundred years ago, some bold sea rovers from Iceland discovered a wild, wooded country many days’ sail to the westward. Indeed, it is said that these men tried to form a settlement there, and that they sent more than one shipload of grapes and timber back to Iceland. Now, it is very plain to me that this country of Vinland, as they called it, was no other than a part of the northern coast of China or Japan.”

It is not to be supposed that the queen cared whether the earth was round or flat; nor is it likely that her mind was ever troubled with questions of that kind. But she thought that if this man’s theories were true, and there were lands rich in gold and spices on the other side of the ocean, it would be a fine thing for the queen and king of Spain to possess them. The Italian sailor had studied his subject well, and he certainly knew what he was talking about. He had told his story so well that the queen was almost ready to believe that he was right. But she was very busy just then, in a war with the Moors, and she had little time to think about anything else. If the Italian would wait till everything else could be settled, she would see whether a ship or two might not be fitted out for his use.

For seven years this man with a new idea kept on trying to find some one who was able and willing to help him carry out the plans which he had so much at heart. At last, broken in health and almost penniless, he gave up hope, and was about to leave Spain forever. It was then that one of his friends, Luis St. Angel, pleaded his case before the queen.

“It will cost but little to fit out two or three ships for him. If the undertaking should prove to be a failure you would not lose much. But if it should succeed, only think what vast riches and how great honor will be won for Spain!”

“I will take the risk!” cried the queen, at last. “If the money cannot be had otherwise, I will sell my jewels to get it. Find him, and bring him before me; and let us lose no more time about this business.”

St. Angel hastened to obey.

“Do you know whether Christopher Columbus has passed out through this gate to-day?” he asked of the soldier who was standing guard at one of the gates of the old city of Granada.

“Christopher Columbus? Who is he?” asked the soldier.

“He is a gray-bearded man, rather tall, with a stoop in his shoulders. When last seen he was riding on a small, brown mule, and coming this way.”

“Oh? Do you mean the fellow who has been trying to make people believe that the earth is round?”

“Yes, that is the man.”

“He passed through here not half an hour ago. His mule is a very slow traveler, and if you follow, you can easily overtake him before he has gone far.”

St. Angel gave the rein to his swift horse, and galloped onward in pursuit of Columbus. It was not long until the slow-paced mule, with its sad rider, was seen plodding along the dusty highway. The man was too busy with his own thoughts to heed the sound of the ringing hoofs behind him.

“Christopher Columbus!” cried his friend, “turn about, and come back with me. I have good news for you. Queen Isabella bids me say that she will help you, and that you shall have the ships and the men for which you ask. And she hopes that you may find a new way to the East, and perhaps discover unknown lands on the farther side of the great ocean. Turn about, and come back with me!”

II

THE VOYAGE

Palos Canary precious monsters Niña Santa Maria anxious venture Pinta Perez mysterious expanse

One morning in August, 1492, there was a great stir in the little seaport town of Palos in Spain. At break of day the streets were full of people. Long before sunrise the shore was lined with anxious men, women, and children. All were talking about the same thing; some were weeping; some appeared to be angry; some were in despair.

“Only think of it,” said one. “Think of sailing into seas where the water is always boiling hot.”

“And if you escape being scalded,” said another, “then there are those terrible sea beasts that are large enough to swallow ships and sailors at a mouthful.”

“It is all on account of that Italian sailor who says that the world is round,” said a third. “He has persuaded several persons, who ought to know better, that he can reach the East by sailing west.”

Moored near the shore were three small ships. They were but little larger than fishing boats; and in these frail vessels Columbus was going to venture into the vast unknown sea, in search of strange lands and of a new and better way to distant India.

Two of the ships, the “Niña” and the “Pinta,” had no decks and were covered only at the ends where the sailors slept. The third, called the “Santa Maria,” was larger and had a deck, and from its masthead floated the flag of Columbus. It was toward these three ships that the eyes of the people on shore were directed; it was about these ships and the men on board of them that all were talking.

On the deck of the largest ship stood Columbus, and by his side was good Father Perez, praying that the voyagers might be blessed with fair winds and a smooth sea, and that the brave captain might be successful in his quest. Then the last good-bys were spoken, the moorings were cast loose, the sails were spread; and, a little before sunrise, the vessels glided slowly out of the harbor and into the vast western ocean. The people stood on the shore and watched, while the sails grew smaller and smaller and at last were lost to sight below the line of sea and sky.

“Alas! We shall never see them again,” said some, returning to their homes. But others remained all day by the shore talking about the strange idea that there were unknown lands in the distant West.

Two hundred miles southwest of Palos there is a group of islands called the Canary Islands. These were well known to the people of that time, and belonged to Spain. But sailors seldom ventured beyond them, and no one knew of any land farther to the west. It was to these islands that Columbus first directed his course. In six days the three little vessels reached the Canary Islands. The sailing had been very slow. The rudder of one of the ships had not been well made and had soon been broken. And so, now, much time was wasted while having a new rudder made and put in place.

It was not until the 6th of September that Columbus again set sail, pushing westward into unknown waters. Soon the sailors began to give way to their fears. The thought that they were on seas where no man had before ventured filled them with alarm. They remembered all the strange stories that they had heard of dreadful monsters and of mysterious dangers, and their minds were filled with distress.

But Columbus showed them how unreasonable these stories were; and he aroused their curiosity by telling them wonderful things about India--that land of gold and precious stones, which they would surely reach if they would bravely persevere.

And so, day after day, they sailed onward. The sea was calm, and the wind blowing from the east drove the ships steadily forward. By the first of October they had sailed more than two thousand miles. Birds came from the west, and flew about the ships. The water was full of floating seaweed. But still no land could be seen.

Then the sailors began to fear that they would never be able to return against the east wind that was blowing. “Why should we obey this man, Columbus?” they said. “He is surely mad. Let us throw him into the sea, and then turn the ships about while we can.”

But Columbus was so firm and brave that they dared not lay hands on him; they dared not disobey him. Soon they began to see signs of the nearness of land. Weeds, such as grow only in rivers, were seen floating near the ships. A branch of a tree, with berries on it, was picked up. Columbus offered a reward to the man who should first see land.

“We must be very near it now,” he said.

That night no one could sleep. At about two o’clock the man who was on the lookout on one of the smaller vessels cried: “Land! land! land!” Columbus himself had seen a distant light moving, some hours before. There was now a great stir on board the ships.

“Where is the land?” cried every one.

“There--there! Straight before us.”

III

THE DISCOVERY

San Salvador anchor bananas messenger Cuba scarlet palms brilliant

Yes, there was a low, dark mass far in front of them, which might be land. In the dim starlight, it was hard to make out what it was. But one thing was certain, it was not a mere expanse of water, such as lay in every other direction. And so the sailors brought out a little old-fashioned cannon and fired it off as a signal to the crews of the other vessels. Then the sails of the three ships were furled, and they waited for the light of day.

When morning dawned, Columbus and his companions saw that they were quite near to a green and sunny island. It was a beautiful spot. There were pleasant groves where the songs of birds were heard. Thousands of flowers were seen on every hand, and the trees were laden with fruit. The island was inhabited, too; for strange men could be seen running toward the shore and looking with wonder at the ships.

The sailors, who had lately been ready to give up all hope, were now filled with joy. They crowded around Columbus, and kissed his hands, and begged him to forgive them for thinking of disobeying him. The ships cast anchor, the boats were lowered, and Columbus, with most of the men, went on shore. Columbus was dressed in a grand robe of scarlet, and the banner of Spain was borne above him.

As soon as the boats reached the shore, Columbus stepped out and knelt down upon the beach and gave thanks to God; then he took possession of the island in the name of the king and queen of Spain, and called it San Salvador. It was thus that the first land in America was discovered on the 12th of October, 1492.

The natives were filled with wonder at what they saw. At first they were awed and frightened at sight of the ships and the strange men; but they soon overcame their fears and seemed delighted and very friendly. They brought to Columbus gifts of all they had,--bananas, yams, oranges, and beautiful birds.

“Surely,” they said, “these wonderful beings who have come to us from the sea are not mere men like ourselves. They must be messengers from heaven.”

Columbus believed that this island was near the coast of Asia, and that it was one of the islands of India; and so he called the people Indians. He did not remain here long, but sailed away to discover other lands. In a short time the ships came to a large island where there were rivers of fresh water flowing into the sea. The air was sweet with the breath of blossoms; the sky was blue and clear; the sea was calm; the world seemed full of joy and peace. This island was Cuba.

“Let us live here always!” cried the sailors; “for surely this is paradise.”

And so, for three months and more, Columbus and his companions sailed among scenes of delight, such as they had never before imagined. They visited island after island, and everywhere saw new beauties and new pleasures. The natives were simple-hearted and kind. “They love their neighbors as themselves,” said Columbus. They looked with wonder upon the bright swords of the white men and upon their brilliant armor; and when the little cannon was fired, they were so filled with alarm that they fell to the ground.

It was on the 15th of the next March that Columbus, after a stormy homeward voyage, sailed again into the little harbor of Palos, from which he had started. And now there was a greater stir in the little town than there had been before. “Christopher Columbus has come back from the unknown seas!” was the cry that went from house to house.

“Did he reach the East by sailing west? Has he really been to far-off India?” asked the doubting ones.

“He has, indeed!” was the answer. “He has discovered a new world.”

Then the bells were rung, guns were fired, and bonfires blazed on the hilltops. Everybody rejoiced. Everybody was willing now to say that the Italian sailor was right when he declared the earth to be round.

THE POWER OF GOD

Thou art, O God! the life and light Of all this wondrous world we see; Its glow by day, its smile by night, Are but reflections caught from Thee. Where’er we turn, Thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are Thine.

When day, with farewell beam, delays, Among the opening clouds of even, And we can almost think we gaze Through golden vistas into heaven; Those hues that mark the sun’s decline, So soft, so radiant, Lord! are Thine.

When night, with wings of starry gloom, O’ershadows all the earth and skies, Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes;-- That sacred gloom, those fires Divine, So grand, so countless, Lord! are Thine.

--THOMAS MOORE.

OUR COUNTRY AND OUR HOME

There is a land, of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o’er all the world beside; Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons emparadise the night: A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth: The wandering mariner whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air. For in this land of Heaven’s peculiar grace, The heritage of Nature’s noblest race, There is a spot of earth supremely blest-- A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest: Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife, Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life; In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, An angel-guard of loves and graces lie; Around her knees domestic duties meet, And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. “Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?” Art thou a man?--a patriot?--look around; Oh, thou shalt find, howe’er thy footsteps roam, That land _thy_ Country, and that spot thy _Home_.

--MONTGOMERY.

NOTES ABOUT AUTHORS

PAGE 7.--=François Coppée=, a noted French writer, was born at Paris in 1842. Although he was the writer of good French poetry and some successful plays, he is best known to American readers by his charming short stories, in which he depicts the life and aspirations of the common people. In his later life he was an ardent Catholic, and as such wrote fearlessly in defense of the rights of the Church in France. He died in 1908.

PAGE 14.--=John James Audubon=, a noted American ornithologist of French descent, was born at New Orleans in 1780. Perhaps no other person has done so much for the birds of America, or has described them so well, as he. His drawings of birds are particularly famous. He died at New York in 1851.

PAGE 16.--=J. R. Marre=, is a contemporary Catholic writer whose poems are well known to readers of _The Ave Maria_ and other religious periodicals.

PAGE 17.--=Rev. John Banister Tabb= was born in Virginia, March 22, 1845. He studied for the priesthood and was ordained in 1884. He is an instructor in St. Charles College, Maryland. His poems are exquisite in movement and diction no less than in richness of thought.

PAGE 18.--=Horace Binney Wallace=, a noted American lawyer and prose writer, was born at Philadelphia, 1817; died at Paris, 1852. His best known work, _Literary Criticisms_, was published after his death.

PAGE 23.--=Henry Coyle= is a contemporary Catholic poet residing at Boston, Massachusetts. He is well known as a contributor to Catholic periodicals. His first volume of poetry, entitled _The Promise of Morning_, was published in 1899. His writings are characterized by deep religious feeling no less than by rare poetic charm.

PAGE 24.--=Miguel de Saavedra Cervantes=, a celebrated Spanish poet and novelist, was born near Madrid, 1547; died, 1616. His most famous work is the romance entitled _Don Quixote_, which was first printed in 1605. It has been translated into every language of Europe.

PAGE 43.--=John Henry, Cardinal Newman= was born at London in 1801. He was educated at a private school until he entered Oxford, where he took his degree before he was twenty. In 1822 he was elected Fellow in Oriel College. In 1845 he left the Church of England for the Roman Catholic Church. He wrote many sermons, treatises, and poems. In literary merit his work ranks very high. He died in 1890.

=Rev. Thomas Edward Bridgett=, a noted priest and author, was born at Derby, England, in 1829. He was the founder of the Confraternity of the Holy Family for men, and much of his life was devoted to missionary work. He was the author of numerous religious and historical works, among which may be named, _The History of the Holy Eucharist_, _Life of the Blessed John Fisher_, _Blunders and Forgeries_, etc. Father Bridgett died at St. Mary’s Clapham, England, in 1899.

PAGE 56.--=William Cowper=, a celebrated English poet, was born in 1731. He attended Westminster school and afterwards studied law. His most famous poems are _The Task_ and the ballad _John Gilpin’s Ride_. He died in 1800.

PAGE 58.--=Rev. Frederick William Faber= was born in Yorkshire, England, in 1814. He was an eloquent preacher, a brilliant talker, and had an unsurpassed power of gaining the love of all with whom he came in contact. His hymns are well known, and sung throughout the world. He founded a religious community which was afterwards merged in the oratory of St. Philip Neri. He died in 1863.

PAGE 75.--=John Greenleaf Whittier= was born at Haverhill, Massachusetts, 1807. At the age of eighteen he studied for two years at an academy near his home. In 1829 he became the editor of a paper established at Boston to advocate protective tariff. He was active in the cause of antislavery. He died in 1892.

PAGE 82.--=Mary Lydia Bolles Branch= was born at New London, Connecticut, in 1840. She is best known as a writer of stories for children.

PAGE 84.--=John Burroughs= was born in Roxbury, New York, in 1837. He was the son of a farmer, but received a good college education. For eight or nine years he taught school, and then became a journalist in New York city. From 1861 till 1873 he was a clerk in the Treasury Department at Washington. He finally settled on a farm at West Park, New York, giving his time to literature and the observation of nature. His love of nature has inspired most of what he has contributed to the literature of the world.

PAGE 96.--=Aubrey de Vere=, an Irish Catholic poet, was born in 1788. He belonged to a good family, and always had leisure to cultivate a naturally refined taste. At first he wrote dramas, but later, poems, especially sonnets. He was a true patriot, and pays many tributes of love to his country in his historical themes. He died in 1846.

PAGE 97.--=Sir Walter Scott= was born at Edinburgh in 1771. His delightful art of story telling, both in prose and poetry, has been excelled by few. Among his most popular poems are _The Lady of the Lake_ and _Marmion_; among his most popular novels are _Kenilworth_, _Ivanhoe_, _The Talisman_, and _Old Mortality_. He died in 1832.

PAGE 106.--=Thomas Moore= was born at Dublin, Ireland, in 1779; died in 1852. He entered Trinity College, Dublin, at fifteen years of age. He studied law, and in 1799 entered the Middle Temple, London. In 1803 he received a government appointment to the Bermuda Islands and traveled quite extensively in the United States. Among English Catholic poets he holds a high rank.

PAGE 107.--=Andrew Lang= was born in Scotland in 1844; died at London in 1912. He pursued many different lines of literary work, and was one of the most versatile writers of modern times. The number of volumes bearing his name as author is surprisingly large.

PAGE 114.--=Lady Gregory= is the daughter of Dudley Presse, Deputy Lieutenant of Roxborough, County Galway, Ireland. She has done very valuable service to literature in preserving and editing many of the early Celtic legends. Some of her publications are: _Poets and Dreamers_, _Cuchullain of Muerthemme_, and _Gods and Fighting Men_.

PAGE 118.--=Helen Hunt Jackson= was born in 1831 at Amherst, Massachusetts. In 1867 she wrote her first stories, and from that time until her death books from the pen of H. H. were published with frequency. She wrote verses, essays, sketches of travel, children’s stories, novels, and tracts on questions of the day.

PAGE 120.--=St. Ambrose= or Ambrosius, one of the fathers of the Latin Church, was born at Treves, A.D. 340; died, 397. He was the champion of the Catholics against Arians and pagans; he became Bishop of Milan in 374. He was the author of numerous hymns and other religious works.

PAGE 121.--=James Sheridan Knowles= was born at Dublin, Ireland, 1784. For a time he held a commission in the militia, but became attracted to the stage and entered the dramatic profession. He died in 1862.

PAGE 132.--=Washington Irving= was born in New York city, April 3, 1783; died, 1859. His early schooling was not very systematic. When a young man he began the study of law, but never followed the profession very steadily. He is the most popular of the American writers of the early part of the nineteenth century.

PAGE 152.--=Alfred Tennyson= was born at Somersby, England, in 1809. He was educated at Cambridge, where he gained the Chancellor’s medal for his poem _Timbuctoo_ in blank verse. In 1830 he published his first volume of poems. Other poems followed quickly and soon became popularly known. Tennyson’s poetry is distinguished by its rare quality and delicate choice of language. He was for many years poet laureate. He died in 1892.

PAGE 158.--=Sister Mary Antonia= is an occasional and highly esteemed contributor of verse to current Catholic periodicals.

PAGE 161.--=Miriam Coles Harris= is a contemporary Catholic writer whose works have attracted considerable attention. The extract is from _A Corner of Spain_, published in 1896.

PAGE 166.--=William Cullen Bryant=, a famous American poet, was born at Cummington, Massachusetts, November 3, 1794. He entered Williams College at the age of sixteen, but at the end of two years took honorable dismission and engaged in the study of law. He was admitted to the bar in 1815; removed to New York in 1825; was editor of the _New York Review_ in the same year; and in 1826 became connected with the _Evening Post_, with which he continued until his death, which occurred in 1878.

PAGE 170.--=Conrad Von Bolanden= is the pseudonym of a contemporary German Catholic writer, Monsignor Joseph Bischoff, who was born in August, 1828. He was made a Papal Chamberlain to Pope Pius IX in recognition of the merits of his efforts in the field of Catholic literature. He has written much, finding the motives of his books in history and in the problems of social life.

PAGE 174.--=Henry Wadsworth Longfellow= is often called the children’s poet, partly because of his love for children and partly because of some poems written for children. He was born in Portland, Maine, in 1807. From 1835 to 1854 he was professor of modern languages at Harvard University. He died in 1882.

PAGE 178.--=John Gilmary Shea=, a brilliant Catholic writer, was born at New York city, July 1824; died, 1892. He devoted most of his time to literature instead of to the law, for which he was educated. Perhaps no one has done more to preserve the history and language of the aborigines of this country. _History of the Catholic Missions among the Indian Tribes of the United States_, _Early Voyages up and down the Mississippi_, _History of the Catholic Church in Colonial Times_, are some of his most popular works.

PAGE 186.--=James Russell Lowell= was born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, February 22, 1819. He died in the same house in which he was born, August 12, 1891. For many years he held the chair of modern languages in Harvard University. He was a man who represented American culture and letters at their best.

PAGE 188.--=Mother Mary Loyola= of the Bar Convent, York, England, is a writer of more than ordinary power on the subjects dearest to every true Catholic. Her book, _Jesus of Nazareth_, from which our selection is taken, was written especially for American children and is dedicated to them.

PAGE 196.--=Francis Scott Key=, author of “The Star-spangled Banner,” was born in Frederick County, Maryland, in 1780. It was during the British invasion in 1814, while he was detained on a British man-of-war within sight of the bombardment of Fort McHenry, that Key wrote this beautiful lyrical poem. He died at Baltimore in 1843.

PAGE 214.--=James Montgomery= was a Scottish poet, born in 1776; died in 1854. His poems, once very popular, are now almost forgotten.

WORD LIST

GUIDE TO PRONUNCIATION

ā, as in māte. ā̇, as in sen´ā̇te. â, as in câre. ă, as in ăt. ä, as in ärm. ȧ, as in ȧsk. a̤, as in a̤ll. ạ = ŏ, as in whạt. ç = s, as in çell. ch = k, as in chorus. çh = sh, as in maçhine. ē, as in hē, mēte. ē̇, as in ē̇vent. ĕ, as in mĕt. ẽ, as in hẽr. e̱ = ā̱, as in e̱ight. ê, = â, as in whêre. ḡ, as in ḡet. ġ = j, as in ġem. ī, as in mīne. i̇, as in i̇dea. ĭ, as in ĭt. ĩ = ẽ, as in sĩr, bĩrd. ï = ē, as in machïne. ṉ = ng, as in baṉk, liṉger. ō, as in ōld. ō̇, as in ō̇bey. ô, as in ôr. ŏ, as in nŏt. o̤ = o̅o̅, as in do̤, ro̅o̅m. ọ = o͝o or ụ, as in wọlf, fo͝ot. ȯ = ŭ, as in sȯn. s̱ = z, as in his̱. th, as in thin. t͞h, as in t͞hen. ū, as in mūte. ŭ, as in thŭs. ṳ, as in rṳde. ụ= o͝o, as in fụll. û, as in bûrn. x̱ = gz, as in ex̱ist. ȳ = ī, as in bȳ. y̆ = ĭ, as in hy̆mn. ỹ = ẽ, as in mỹrtle.

Certain vowels, as a and e, when obscure are marked thus, a̯, e̯. Silent letters are italicized. In the following word list only accented syllables and syllables of doubtful pronunciation are marked.

a băn´don ab hôr´ a bŏm´i nā´tion a bŭn´dạnçe ăc´çi dent ăc côrd´ āc_h_´ing ac quā_i_nt´ed ä d_i_eū´ ad jā´çent ăd´mĭ rā´tion ad mĭt´tanç_e_ al lē vĭ ā´tion a māz´ing a māze´ment am´mu nĭ´tion ăn´chor ăṉ´guĭsh ăn´ĭ māt ed ăn´tĭ quāt ed ăṉx´ious (-yŭs) a pŏ_s´t_l_e_ ap pa̤ll´ing ap păr´el ap pâr´ent ly ap´pa rĭ´tion ăp´pe tīt_e_ ap pla̤_u_s̱_e_´ ap´plĭ cā´tion ap prō_a_ch_e_d´ ăp´pro bā´tion ärch´er y är´mor as săs´sĭn as sa̤_u_lt´ as sĕm´bl_e_ at tĕnd´a̯nt a̤_u_ tŭm´nal ăv´ȧ lănch_e_ a vĕnġ_e_´ a wa̤rd´ bä nä´nȧ băṉ´quet băr´rĭ er bē̇ ăt´ĭ tud_e_ be hāv´ior (-yer) be hĕst´ be l_i_ēf´ bĕn´e fit brĭl´liançe (-ya̯ns) brĭl´liant bŭg´ȧ boo cä_l_m´ căl´u met cam pā_ig_n´ cā̇ prïç_e_´ cär´di nal ca̤_u_´tious ly cav ȧ l_i_ēr´ căv´i ty çel´e brā´tion c_h_ā´ŏs chăr´ĭ ot chef (shĕf) çhĕv´a l_i_ēr´ ch_i_ēf´ta̯_i_n çhĭv´al ry çĭv´il ly clē_a_v_e_ cŏm´ic cŏm´mȧn dänt´ com mŏd´ĭ ty cȯm´pa ny com´plē mĕnt´a ry cŏm´plĭ ment com pōs̱´er com po s̱ĭ´tion con çē_a_l´ con çĕp´tion con fū´s̱ion cŏn gre gā´tion cŏṉ´quer (-kẽr) cŏṉn´quer or con sĕnt´ con sẽrv´a to ry con sĭd´er a bl_e_ con tĕnt´ con trĭ bu´tion coun´çil coun´te na̯nç_e_ couple (kŭp´l) c_o_ûr´aġ_e_ c_o_ûr´te ous ly c_o_ûr´te sy cō_u_rt´ĭer cȯv´ert cre ā´tor crĕv´ĭç_e_ crĭm´s̱on crṳ´çĭ fȳ crṳa sād_e_´ cū´bit cū´rĭ _o_us cŭs´tom çy´press dān´ġer _o_us de çē_i_v_e_´ dĕl´ĭ cā̇ çy̆ dĕl´ĭ cat_e_ de pūt´ed de rānġ_e_´ de s̱ẽrv_e_´ dĕs´ic cāt ed de s̱ī_g_n´ des´o lā´tion dĕs´per at_e_ des per ā´tion dev´ăs tat ing de vĕl´op ment de vīç_e_´ de vout´ dĭs̱´ma̯l dis mā_y_´ dis´o bē´di ĕnç_e_ dis pẽrs_e_´ dĭs´trict do mĕs´tic dŏṉ´k_e_y̆ dȯz´_e_n dūn_e_s̱ ē_a_´ger ē_a_´ger ly ẽ_a_r´nest ly ĕd´u cā´tion ĕl´e ment ĕl´o quent ĕm´er ald en dē_a_r´ en dūr´a̯nç_e_ ĕn´ē̇ my en´ter tā_i_n´ en thū´s̱ĭ asm ĕn´vy e rĕct´ es pĕ´çĭal ly ĕv´ĭ dent ly ĕx´çel lent ex ha̤_u_st´ ex păns_e_´ ex pe dĭ´tion ex plō´s̱ion ex pō´s̱ur_e_ ex prĕss´iv_e_ ex tr_a_ôr´dĭ na ry fa̤_l_´con ry fath´om fā´vor ĭt_e_ fẽr´vor fĕs´tĭ val fī´nal ly fĭs´sūr_e_ fŏr_e´h_ĕ_a_d fra̤_u_d frĕs´co frṳ_i_t´ag_e_ fū´ġĭ tĭv_e_ fûr´nish gär´land ġĕn er _o_ŭs ġĕn´e sĭs ġĕn´ū ĭn_e_ ġī´ant ġī găn´tic _g_närled grăd´u al ly grăn´d_e_ûr gr_i_ēv´ing hab´ĭ tā´tion hȧ răng_ue_´ ha̤_ugh_´ty hä_u_nt h_e_ī_gh_t hĕr´it ag_e_ hẽr´mit hīr_e_´ling hŏl´ĭ da_y_ _h_ŏn´ŏr ho rī´zon hȯv´er ing hū´man hu mĭl ĭ ā´tion hū´mor hûr´rĭ cā̇n_e_ īdē´ȧ ī dŏl´a try ĭm ăġ´ĭn_e_ im mĕns_e_´ in crē_a_s_e_´ in´dĭg nā´tion in fē´rĭ or ĭn´fĭ nĭt_e_ ĭn´fĩrm´i ty ĭn´flu enç_e_ in grăt´i tud_e_ in hăb´it ant ĭn´no çent in´no vā´tion in quī´ry in sĭst´ed ĭn´ter val in tŏl´er a bl_e_ in vĕs´ti gat_e_ in vĭ tā´tion jew´_e_l j_o_ŭr´n_e_y̆ j_o_ŭst jŭs´tĭc_e_ kĭn´dred lē_a_ lē_a_g_ue_ l_ie_ū tĕn´ant lux ū´ri_o_us măm´moth mär’tyr dom mär´vel_e_d ma tē´rĭ al mē_a_´ger ly mĕl´an chol y mĕn´tion mẽr´çi ful mĕs´saġ_e_ mĕs´sen ġer mĭl´i ta ry mĭn´strel sy mĭr´a cl_e_ mĭs hăp´ mĭs´sĭl_e_ mod´es ty mōld mŏn´ster mo̅o̅r_e_d mŏt´to mŭl´tĭ tūd_e_ mûr´mur my̆s´tē rĭ _o_us my̆s´ter y my̆th n_o_ŭr´ish ing o bē´di enç_e_ ŏb´sti nat_e_ oc cā´s̱ion ō´çean (-sha̯n) ŏp´e rȧ ŏp´po s̱ĭt_e_ op prĕs_se_d´ or´acl_e_ o rā´tion pā´gan pälms par tĭc´u lar pā´tiençe (-shens) pa trōl_le_d´ pĕ_a_s̱´ant pe cūl´iar pĕn´anç_e_ pĕn´sĭv_e_ pĕr´il _o_us per plĕx´i ty per se cū´tion pẽr´son ag_e_ per suāde´ per suā´sion pĕt´ri fi_e_d phĭ lŏs´o pher phy̆s̱´ic al pĭ ăz´zȧ pĭl´grim ag_e_ pĭt´y plä´zȧ plūm´ag_e_ pō´em pō´et ry pŏl´i cy pol lū´tion pȯm´mel pŏp´u lar pôr´ri_d_g_e_ pos̱ s̱ĕss´ pŏv´er ty prĕ´cious pre s̱erv_e_´ prĭs̱´on er prŏb´a bly pro çĕs´sion pro tĕct´or prŏv´ĭ denç_e_ pûr´pos_e_ pûr sū_i_t´ rā_i_´ment răm´parts răp´tur _o_us rē´al ly rĕck´on ing rĕc´og niz_e_ re cȯv´er y rĕf´ug_e_ re lā´tion re l_i_ēf´ re nown_e_d´ re pos̱_e_´ rĕs´cū_e_ re s̱ŏlv_e_´ rĕs´ŭr rĕc´tion re tôrts´ re trē_a_t´ re vē_a_l´ re vĕnġ_e_´ rĕv´er ent r_h_ȳme rīght´eous (-chŭs) rĭv´et ed rō´s̱ē̇ āt_e_ rŭf´fĭ an săl´u ta´tion sal vā´tion sănc´tion săt´is fy săv´aġ_e_ scăf´fold scăr´çĭ ty scâr_e_´cro_w_ scär´let s_c_ēn_e_ s_c_ĕnt´ed sẽ_a_rch sĕm´i cĩr´cl_e_ sĕn´si tive sĕp´a rat ed shrewd s_i_ēġ_e_ sĭg´nal sĭg´ni fy sĭn´ew skĕl´e ton sleev_e_ snĭv´el ing sō´cia bl_e_ so´cia bĭl´ĭ ty sō´cial (-shal) so ç´īe ty so j_o_ûrn´er so lĕm´_n_ĭ ty sŏl´emn ly sŏl´ī tud_e_ spĕ´cial spē´cies (-shē̇z) spĕç´i men spĕc´ter sphēr_e_ spĭr´it spĭr´it u al spŏn´sor stĕ_a_d´ĭ ly sŭb´stanc_e_ subtle (sŭt´l) sŭd´den ly sŭf fi´cien cy sŭm´mit sŭmp´tu _o_us sŭs pĕct´ sy̆m´pa thy̆ tăl´ent tĕn´der ly tĕr´rā̇ç_e_ tĕr´ri fi_e_d ter´ror thē´a ter thē´o ry thĩrst thrŭsh tŏr´rent tôr´tur_e_ to̤_u_r´na ment to̤_u_r´n_e_y trăġ´e dy trăġ´ic trăṉ´quil trăns pâr´ent trĭ´but_e_ trĭp´l_e_ tri´umph tri ŭm´phant tȳ´rant un cĭv´il un co̤_u_th´ ûr´chin ū´s̱ū al ŭt´ter anç_e_ văn´ish ve̱_i_n´ing vĕn´tur_e_ vẽr´dur _o_us vẽr´min vĕs´per vĭ çĭn´ĭ ty vĭc´tor vĭc´to ry vĭg´or vĭg´or _o_us vĭl´ l_a_in vī´o l_e_nç_e_ vĭs̱´ion wäm´pum wĕ_a_p´on whĕlp _w_rē_a_th zĕ_a_l´_o_us

PROPER NAMES

Ad mē´tus Af´rĭ cȧ A̤l´ba ny Al ex ăn´der Am´brōs̱_e_ An´ġe lo An ï´ta´ An´tĭ oc_h_ Ap´en nīn_e_s̱ A rā´bĭ a̯ A´sĭȧ As sĭ´sĭ A̤_u_ gŭs´tĭne A̤_u_ gŭs´tu̯s Ā_y_´mer Ben e dĭct´ĭn_e_ Bẽr lĭn´ Blĕn´_he_im Bo´he mond Bŏn´ĭ fāç_e_ Bouillon (bo̅o̅ yōṉ´) Brĭt´_ai_n Brṳç_e_ Căl´va ry Ca pẽr´na um Cär rä´rä Căth´bad Çhĕv ȧ l_i_ēr´ Çhĕv´ĭ ot Clẽr´mont Comyn (kŭm´in) Cŏn´_eh_ū bär Cŏn´na̤ught Cŏn´stan tĭ nō´pl_e_ Cor o nä´rï Cū´bȧ Cuchulain (ko̅o̅ ho̅o̅´lin) Cṳlā_i_n Da kō´tȧ Da măs´cus De troit´ Don Quixote (dŏn kehō´te) D_o_ŭg´las Drĕs̱´den Drṳ´ĭd Dul çĭn´e a E´bro E´ġy̆pt E mā_i_n´ E´rin Es´t_h_e̯r Eū´rop_e_ Fẽr´gus Flŏr´enc_e_ Fon tĭ nĕl´lȧ Frăn´cis Frĕd´er ick Frï´s̱ĭ ȧ Gā´brĭ el Ġĕn´ō̇ ȧ Ġĕn o ēs̱_e_´ Gĕs´ler G_h_ï bẽr´tï Ġ_i_ō chï´no Gŏd´fr_e_y̆ Grĕg´o ry Häl´le̯ Han´del Hel vĕl´ly̆n Hŭṉ´ gȧ ry Ic_h_´ȧ bŏd In´dĭ_e_s̱ It´a ly Je rṳ´sa lem Joliet (zhō lyā´) Jôr´da̯n Lē o närd´ō̇ Lē´vīt_e_ Măç´e don Măl´a gȧ Mär quette´ (-kĕt) Mĕc´cȧ Me dï´nȧ Mĕd´ĭ ter rā´ne an Me nŏm´o nĭ_e_ Mī´c_h_a el Mĭl´an Mis´sis sĭp´pĭ Mo hăm´med Mŏs̱lem Mus tȧ´phȧ Nĭc_h_´o las Nï´ña Păl´es tīn_e_ Pä´lōs Păn´the on Pe̱´rez (-āth) Persia (pēr´shĭȧ) Pe̱´sä rō Piacenza (pē ä chĕn´zä) Pil är´ Pĭn´ta Po nē´mä_h_ Que bĕc´ Rāph´a el Rat bō´do Ros sï´nï Ro´zĭ năn te Sa măr´ĭ tan Săn´c_h_o Sän Săl´va dor Sän Sïs´to Sän´tȧ Crō´ce (-chā) Sän´ta Ma rï´a Săr´a çen Săx´o ny Se tăn´ta Seville (sĕv´ĭl) Sĭs´tïn_e_ Spăn´ĭard Stä´bat Mä´ter Tăn´cred Thames (tĕmz) Ul´ster Ur´ban Ur bï´no Valence (vä lŏṉs´) Văt´ĭ can Vĕn´ĭç_e_ Vẽr´ner Vï´ȧ Cŏr o nä´rĭ Vï ĕn´nȧ Wis cŏn´sin Wọlff Wu̇lf´ram