New National Fourth Reader

PART III.

This was a start, not a scare--for the new vis­itor was a hu­man foe, and I had lit­tle fear of such, be­ing pos­sessed of good lungs, strong arms, and a Ro­man dag­ger near­ly as big as a carv­ing-​knife.

The step that I had just heard broke the spell, and creep­ing noise­less­ly to the win­dow, I peeped out to see a dark fig­ure com­ing up the stem of the tall tree close by, hand-​over-​hand, like a sailor or a mon­key.

“Two can play at that game, my friend; you scare me, and I'll scare you.” And with an ac­tu­al sense of re­lief in break­ing the si­lence, I sud­den­ly flung up the cur­tain, and leaned out.

I bran­dished my dag­ger with what I in­tend­ed to be an awe-​in­spir­ing screech; but, ow­ing to the flut­ter of my breath, the ef­fort end­ed in a cu­ri­ous mix­ture of howl and bray.

A most ef­fec­tive sound, nev­er­the­less; for the bur­glar dropped to the ground as if he had been shot, and, with one up­ward glance at the white fig­ure dim­ly seen in the starlight, fled as if a thou­sand ghosts were at his heels.

“What next?” thought I, won­der­ing whether this event­ful night would ev­er come to a close.

I sat and wait­ed, chilly but brave, while the strange sounds went on with­in the house and si­lence reigned with­out, till the cheer­ful crow of the punc­tu­al “cock­adoo,” as Margie called him, told me that it was sun­rise and laid the ghosts.

A red glow in the east drove away my last fear, and I soon lay down and slept qui­et­ly, quite worn out.

The sun shin­ing up­on my face waked me, and a bell ring­ing warned me to hur­ry. A child­ish voice call­ing out, “Bet­fast is most weady, Miss Wee,” as­sured me that sweet lit­tle spir­its haunt­ed the cot­tage as well as ghost­ly ones.

As I left my room to join Margie, who was wait­ing for me, I saw two things which caused me to feel that the hor­rors of the night were not all un­re­al.

Just out­side the back bed-​room door was a damp place, as if that part of the floor had been new­ly washed; and when led by cu­rios­ity, I peeped through the key­hole of the haunt­ed cham­ber, my eye dis­tinct­ly saw an open ra­zor ly­ing on a dusty ta­ble.

My see­ing was lim­it­ed to that one ob­ject, but it was quite enough. I went up the hill think­ing over the ter­ri­ble se­cret hid­den in my breast.

I longed to tell some one, but was ashamed; and, when asked why I was so pale and ab­sent-​mind­ed, I an­swered with a gloomy smile--

“It is the clams.”

All day I hid my suf­fer­ings pret­ty well, but as night ap­proached and I thought of sleep­ing again in that haunt­ed cot­tage, my heart be­gan to fail. As we sat telling sto­ries in the dusk, a bright idea came in­to my head.

I would re­late my ghost sto­ry, and rouse the cu­rios­ity of my hear­ers, so that some of them would of­fer to stay at the cot­tage in hopes of see­ing the spir­it of the rest­less Tuck­er.

Cheered by this fan­cy, when my turn came I made a thrilling tale about Bezee Tuck­er and my night's ad­ven­ture. Af­ter my hear­ers were worked up to a prop­er state of ex­cite­ment, I paused for ap­plause.

It came in a most un­ex­pect­ed form, how­ev­er, for Mrs. Grant burst out laugh­ing, and the two boys--John­ny and Joe--rolled about in con­vul­sions of mer­ri­ment.

Much dis­pleased, I de­mand­ed the cause of their laugh­ter, and then joined in the gen­er­al shout when Mrs. Grant in­formed me that Bezee Tuck­er lived, died in, and haunt­ed the tum­ble-​down house at the oth­er end of the lane, and not the cot­tage where I was stay­ing.

“Then who or what made those mys­te­ri­ous nois­es?” I asked, re­lieved but rather dis­pleased at the down­fall of my ro­mance.

“My broth­er Seth,” replied Mrs. Grant, still laugh­ing. "I thought you might be afraid to be there all alone, so he slipped in­to the bed-​room, and I for­got to tell you. He's a pow­er­ful snor­er, and that's one of the aw­ful sounds.

“The oth­er was the drip­ping of salt wa­ter; for you want­ed some, and the girl got it in a leaky pail. Seth swept out the wa­ter when he left the cot­tage ear­ly in the morn­ing.”

I said noth­ing about hav­ing seen through the key­hole the harm­less ra­zor; but wish­ing to get some praise for my hero­ic en­counter with the bur­glar, I mild­ly asked if it was the cus­tom in York for men as well as turkeys to roost in trees.

An­oth­er burst of laugh­ter from the boys did away with my last hope of glo­ry. As soon as he could speak, Joe an­swered--

“John­ny planned to be up ear­ly to pick the last cher­ries off that tree. I want­ed to get ahead of him, and as I was go­ing a-​fish­ing, I went off qui­et­ly be­fore day­light.”

“Did you get the cher­ries?” I asked, bound to have some laugh on my side.

“Guess I didn't,” grum­bled Joe, rub­bing his knees, while John­ny added--

“He got a hor­rid scare and a right good scrap­ing, for he didn't know any one was down there. Couldn't go a-​fish­ing, ei­ther--he was so lame--and I had the cher­ries af­ter all. Served him right, didn't it?”

No an­swer was nec­es­sary. Mrs. Grant went off to re­peat the tale in the kitchen, and the sounds of hearty laugh­ter that I heard, as­sured me that Seth was en­joy­ing the joke as well as the rest of us.

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son.--Let pupils make out an _anal­ysis_ for so much of the last three lessons as may be in­clud­ed un­der the sub­ject--“A Night at the Cot­tage.”

Sug­ges­tion.--The _anal­ysis_ of _sim­ple sub­jects_, and their treat­ment oral­ly or in writ­ing, are valu­able ex­er­cis­es, and should be as­signed to pupils as fre­quent­ly as pos­si­ble dur­ing the whole of their school life.

* * * * *

LES­SON XLVI­II.

mel'o dy, _sounds pleas­ant to the ear_.

chant'ed, _sung in a sim­ple melody_.

witch, _a per­son sup­posed to deal with evil spir­its_.

trump'et, _a hol­low piece of met­al used to make mu­sic_.

har'mo ny, _the ef­fect pro­duced by unit­ing two or more dif­fer­ent parts in mu­sic_.

* * * * *

WHAT THE CHIM­NEY SANG.

Over the chim­ney the night-​wind sang And chant­ed a melody no one knew; And the Wom­an stopped, as her babe she tossed, And thought of the one she had long since lost: And said, as her tear-​drop back she forced, “I hate the wind in the chim­ney.”

Over the chim­ney the night-​wind sang And chant­ed a melody no one knew; And the Chil­dren said, as they clos­er drew, “'Tis some witch that is cleav­ing the black night through-- 'Tis a fairy trum­pet that just then blew, And we fear the wind in the chim­ney.”

Over the chim­ney the night-​wind sang And chant­ed a melody no one knew; And the Man, as he sat on his hearth be­low, Said to him­self, “It will sure­ly snow, And fu­el is dear and wages low, And I'll stop the leak in the chim­ney.”

Over the chim­ney the night-​wind sang And chant­ed a melody no one knew; But the Po­et lis­tened and smiled, for he Was Man, and Wom­an, and Child--all three, And said, “It is God's own har­mo­ny, This wind we hear in the chim­ney.”

* * * * *

Di­rec­tions for Read­ing.--The first two lines of each stan­za may be read more slow­ly and with a fuller tone of voice than the rest of the stan­za.

No­tice that the words of spe­cial _em­pha­sis_ through­out the po­em be­gin with cap­ital let­ters.

Mark _in­flec­tions_ in the last four lines of the first and last stan­zas.

* * * * *

LES­SON XLIX.

sel'dom, _not of­ten; rarely_.

jun'gles, _places cov­ered with trees and brush­wood_.

tough (tuf), _not eas­ily sep­arat­ed_.

ap par'ent ly, _seem­ing­ly; in ap­pear­ance_.

a cute', _quick in ac­tion; sharp_.

charg'es, _rush­es for­ward_.

gram'p us, _a kind of fish_.

re sumed', _start­ed again; took up again_.

hid'e ous, _hor­rid to look at_.

de struc'tion, _death; en­tire loss_.

re sist', _stand against_.

des'per ate, _with­out hope or care_.

ex cur'sions, _jour­neys; ram­bles_.

* * * * *

THE RHINOCEROS.

Next to the mighty ele­phant, the rhinoceros is the largest and strongest of an­imals. There are sev­er­al species of the rhinoceros, some of which are found in Asia, and oth­ers in dif­fer­ent parts of Africa.

In the lat­ter coun­try there are four va­ri­eties--the black rhinoceros, hav­ing a sin­gle horn; the black species hav­ing two horns; the long-​horned white rhinoceros; and the com­mon white species, which has a short, stub­by horn.

The largest of the African species is the long-​horned, white, or square-​nosed rhinoceros. When full-​grown, it some­times mea­sures eigh­teen feet in length, and about the same around the body. Its horn fre­quent­ly reach­es a length of thir­ty inch­es.

The black rhinoceros, al­though much, small­er than the white, and sel­dom hav­ing a horn over eigh­teen inch­es long, is far more fe­ro­cious than the white species, and pos­sess­es a won­der­ful de­gree of strength.

The form of the rhinoceros is clum­sy, and its ap­pear­ance dull and heavy. The limbs are thick and pow­er­ful, and each, foot has three toes, which are cov­ered with broad, hoof-​like nails.

The tail is small; the head very long and large. Tak­en al­to­geth­er, there are few--if any--an­imals that com­pare with the rhinoceros in ug­li­ness.

The eyes are set in such a man­ner that the an­imal can not see any thing ex­act­ly in front of it; but the sens­es of hear­ing and smelling are so keen that sight is not re­quired to de­tect an en­emy, whether it be man or beast.

The skin of the African rhinoceros is smooth, and has on­ly a few scat­ter­ing hairs here and there. It is, how­ev­er, very thick and tough, and can re­sist the force of a ri­fle-​ball un­less it is fired from a very short dis­tance.

The largest known species of the rhinoceros is found in Asia. It lives chiefly in the marshy jun­gles, and on the banks of lakes and rivers in In­dia. Some of this species are over live feet in height, and have horns three feet in length and eigh­teen inch­es around the base.

Un­like the African rhinoceros, the skin of the Asi­at­ic species is not smooth, but lies in thick folds up­on the body, form­ing flaps which can be lift­ed with the hand.

The food of the rhinoceros con­sists of roots, and the young branch­es and leaves of trees and shrubs.

It plows up the roots with the aid of its horn, and gath­ers the branch­es and leaves with the up­per lip which is long and point­ed, and with which the food is rolled to­geth­er be­fore plac­ing it in the mouth.

The flesh of the rhinoceros is good to eat; and its strong, thick skin is made by the na­tives, in­to shields, whips, and oth­er ar­ti­cles.

Though clum­sy and ap­par­ent­ly very stupid, the rhinoceros is a very ac­tive an­imal when at­tacked or oth­er­wise alarmed, dash­ing about with won­der­ful ra­pid­ity.

It is very fierce and sav­age--so much so that the na­tives dread it more than they do the li­on. In hunt­ing the an­imal, it is dan­ger­ous for a man to fire at one un­less he is mount­ed up­on a swift horse, and can eas­ily reach some place of safe­ty.

When at­tack­ing an en­emy, the rhinoceros low­ers its head and rush­es for­ward like an an­gry goat. Though it may not see the ob­ject of its at­tack, the sense of smell is so acute that it knows about when the en­emy is reached.

Then be­gins a fu­ri­ous toss­ing of the head, and if the pow­er­ful horn strikes the foe, a ter­ri­ble wound is the re­sult.

When wound­ed it­self, the rhinoceros los­es all sense of fear, and charges again and again with such des­per­ate fury that the en­emy is al­most al­ways over­come.

A fa­mous trav­el­er in South Africa re­lates the fol­low­ing in­ci­dent that hap­pened dur­ing one of his hunt­ing ex­cur­sions:

"Hav­ing pro­ceed­ed about two miles, I came up­on a black rhinoceros, feed­ing on some Wait-​a-​bit thorns with­in fifty yards of me.

"I fired from the sad­dle, and sent a bul­let in be­hind his shoul­der, when he rushed for­ward, blow­ing like a gram­pus, and then stood look­ing about him.

"Present­ly he start­ed off, and I fol­lowed. I ex­pect­ed that he would come to bay, but it seems a rhinoceros nev­er does that--a fact I did not know at that time.

"Sud­den­ly he fell flat up­on the ground; but soon re­cov­er­ing his feet, he re­sumed his course as if noth­ing had hap­pened.

"I spurred on my horse, dashed ahead, and rode right in his path. Up­on this, the hideous mon­ster charged me in the most res­olute man­ner, blow­ing loud­ly through his nos­trils.

"Al­though I quick­ly turned about, he fol­lowed me at such a fu­ri­ous pace for sev­er­al hun­dred yards, with his hor­rid horny snout with­in a few yards of my horse's tail, that I thought my de­struc­tion was cer­tain.

"The an­imal, how­ev­er, sud­den­ly turned and ran in an­oth­er di­rec­tion. I had now be­come so ex­cit­ed with the in­ci­dent, that I de­ter­mined to give him one more shot any way.

"Nerv­ing my horse again, I made an­oth­er dash, af­ter the rhinoceros, and com­ing up pret­ty close to him, I again fired, though with lit­tle ef­fect, the ball strik­ing some thick por­tion of his skin and do­ing no harm.

“Feel­ing that I did not care to run the chance of the huge brute again charg­ing me, and be­liev­ing that my ri­fle-​ball was not pow­er­ful enough to kill him, I de­ter­mined to give up the pur­suit, and ac­cord­ing­ly let him run off while I re­turned to the camp.”

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

* * * * *

Di­rec­tions for Read­ing.--Let pupils mark _in­flec­tions_ in the first sen­tence of the les­son.

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son.--Let pupils ex­press in oth­er words the mean­ing of what is giv­en be­low in dark type.

“I ex­pect­ed that he would _come to bay_.”

* * * * *

LES­SON L.

per'il, _great dan­ger that is near one_.

pru'dent, _care­ful in re­gard to what may hap­pen_.

con'fi dence, _courage; free­dom from doubt_.

oc ca'sion, _a chance event; an in­ci­dent_.

tor'rents, _vi­olent streams, as of wa­ter_.

ford, _a place to cross a riv­er_.

per suad'ed, _in­flu­enced by ad­vice_.

op'po site, _on the oth­er side; in front of_.

fran'tic, _with­out pow­er to act prop­er­ly_.

her'o ism, _great courage, which makes one will­ing to face dan­ger of any kind_.

res'o lute, _de­cid­ed; firm_.

af fec'tion ate, _kind and lov­ing_.

* * * * *

PRES­ENCE OF MIND.

Many years ago, there lived on the banks of the Nau­gatuck Riv­er, in Con­necti­cut, a fam­ily by the name of Bish­op.

The fa­ther was not wealthy, but a good man, and re­spect­ed by all who knew him. He had fought in the bat­tles of his coun­try dur­ing the Rev­olu­tion­ary War, and was fa­mil­iar with scenes of dan­ger and per­il.

He had learned that it is al­ways more pru­dent to pre­serve an air of con­fi­dence in dan­ger, than to show signs of fear, and es­pe­cial­ly so, since his con­duct might have a great in­flu­ence up­on the minds of those about him.

On one oc­ca­sion he sent his son James, a boy twelve years old, across the riv­er to the house of a rel­ative, on an er­rand. As there was no bridge or fer­ry, all who crossed the riv­er were obliged to ford it.

James was fa­mil­iar with ev­ery part of the ford­ing-​place, and when the wa­ter was low, which was the case at this time, there was no dan­ger in cross­ing.

Mount­ed on one of his fa­ther's best hors­es, James set out. He crossed the riv­er, and soon reached the house of his rel­atives.

He was ready to start on his re­turn, when sud­den­ly the heav­ens be­came black with clouds, the wind blew with great vi­olence, and the rain fell in tor­rents.

It was late in the af­ter­noon, and as his rel­atives feared to have him at­tempt to reach home in such a storm, they per­suad­ed him to re­main over night and wait un­til day­light be­fore start­ing for home.

His fa­ther sus­pect­ed the cause of James' de­lay, and was not over anx­ious on his ac­count. He knew that the boy was pru­dent, and did not fear that any ac­ci­dent would hap­pen to him dur­ing the night.

But he knew that he had taught James to obey his com­mands in ev­ery par­tic­ular, and as the boy pos­sessed, a dar­ing and fear­less spir­it, that he would at­tempt to ford the riv­er as soon as it was light enough in the morn­ing.

He knew, al­so, that the im­mense quan­ti­ty of wa­ter that ap­peared to be falling, would cause the riv­er to rise to a con­sid­er­able height by morn­ing, and make it very dan­ger­ous even for a strong man to at­tempt to cross it.

The thought of what might be­fall his child caused Mr. Bish­op to pass a sleep­less night; for al­though he was very strict with his chil­dren, he pos­sessed an af­fec­tion­ate na­ture and loved them dear­ly.

The day dawned; the storm had ceased; the wind was still, and noth­ing was to be heard but the roar of the riv­er.

The rise of the riv­er was even greater than Mr. Bish­op ex­pect­ed, and as soon as it was light enough, for him to see ob­jects across it, he took up a po­si­tion on the bank to watch for the ap­proach of his son.

James ar­rived on the op­po­site shore at the same time, and his horse was be­gin­ning to en­ter the stream.

All his fa­ther's feel­ings were roused in­to ac­tion, for he knew that his son was in fear­ful dan­ger. James had al­ready pro­ceed­ed too far to re­turn--in fact, to go for­ward or back was equal­ly dan­ger­ous.

His horse had ar­rived at the deep­est part of the riv­er, and was strug­gling against the cur­rent. The an­imal was be­ing hur­ried down the stream, and ap­par­ent­ly mak­ing but lit­tle progress to­ward the shore.

James be­came very much alarmed. Rais­ing his eyes to­ward the land­ing-​place, he dis­cov­ered his fa­ther. Al­most fran­tic with fear, he ex­claimed, “O fa­ther, fa­ther! I shall drown! I shall drown!”

“No,” replied his fa­ther, in a stern and res­olute tone of voice, dis­miss­ing for a mo­ment his feel­ings of ten­der­ness; “if you do, I will whip you severe­ly. Cling to your horse! Cling to your horse!”

The son, who feared his fa­ther more than he did the rag­ing riv­er, obeyed the com­mand; and the no­ble an­imal on which he was mount­ed, strug­gling for some time, car­ried him safe to shore.

“My son!” ex­claimed the glad fa­ther, burst­ing in­to tears, "re­mem­ber, here­after, that in dan­ger you must pos­sess courage, and be­ing de­ter­mined to save your life, cling to the last hope!

“If I had replied to you with the ten­der­ness and fear which I felt, you might have lost your life; you would have lost your pres­ence of mind, been car­ried away by the cur­rent, and I should have seen you no more.”

What a no­ble ex­am­ple is this! The hero­ism of this fa­ther and his pres­ence of mind saved the life of his boy.

* * * * *

Di­rec­tions for Read­ing.--In _call­ing tones_, as on pages 237 and 238, no­tice that the falling in­flec­tions on­ly can be used.[14]

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son.--Let pupils make out an _anal­ysis_, and use it in telling the sto­ry in their own words.

[14] See the last six para­graphs.

* * * * *

LES­SON LI.

rug'ged, _full of rough places_.

con cealed', _cov­ered over; hid­den_.

ra vines', _deep and nar­row hol­low places_.

prec'i pice, _a very steep place_.

dis'lo cate ed, _thrown out of joint_.

mis'er y, _great un­hap­pi­ness_.

ev'i dence, _signs; that which is shown_.

de scent', _go­ing down_.

haz'ards, _dan­gers; dif­fi­cul­ties_.

toil, _hard work_.

pro ject'ing, _hang­ing over_.

* * * * *

HAL­BERT AND HIS DOG.

Far up in the High­lands of Scot­land lived Mal­colm, a shep­herd, with his wife and his son Hal­bert.

Their lit­tle cot­tage was far from any vil­lage, and could on­ly be reached by a rugged path through the moun­tains.

One evening Hal­bert's moth­er was tak­en very ill, and Mal­colm made prepa­ra­tions to go to the vil­lage to ob­tain some medicine for her.

“Fa­ther,” said Hal­bert, “I know the path through the dark glen bet­ter than you. Shag will walk be­fore me, and I will be quite safe. Let me go for the doc­tor, and you stay at home and com­fort moth­er.”

Old Shag, the dog, stood by, wag­ging his tail and look­ing up in­to Mal­colm's face as if to say, “Yes, mas­ter, I will take good care of Hal­bert. Let him go.”

Mal­colm did not like to have his boy un­der­take a jour­ney of so much per­il, as the snow was falling in heavy flakes, and it was grow­ing very dark. But the boy again re­peat­ed his re­quest, and Mal­colm gave his con­sent.

Hal­bert had been ac­cus­tomed to the moun­tains from his ear­li­est boy­hood, and Shag set out with his young mas­ter, not seem­ing to care for wind, snow, or storm.

They reached the vil­lage safe­ly. Hal­bert saw the doc­tor, re­ceived some medicine for his moth­er, and then start­ed on his re­turn home with a cheer­ful heart.

Shag trot­ted along be­fore him to see that all was right. Sud­den­ly, how­ev­er, in one of the most dan­ger­ous parts of the rocky path, he stopped and be­gan snuff­ing and smelling about.

“Go on, Shag,” said Hal­bert.

Shag would not stir.

“Shag, go on, sir,” re­peat­ed the boy. “We are near­ly at the top of the glen. Look through the dark, and you can see the can­dle shin­ing through our win­dow.”

Shag dis­obeyed for the first time in his life, and Hal­bert ad­vanced ahead of him, heed­less of the warn­ing growl of his com­pan­ion.

He had pro­ceed­ed but a few steps when he fell over a precipice, the ap­proach to which had been con­cealed by the snow.

It was get­ting late in the night, and Mal­colm be­gan to be alarmed at the long ab­sence of Hal­bert. He placed the can­dle so as to throw the light over his boy's path, piled wood on the great hearth fire, and of­ten went to the door.

But no foot­step sound­ed on the crack­ling ice; no fig­ure dark­ened the wide waste of snow.

“Per­haps the doc­tor is not at home, and he is wait­ing for him,” said Hal­bert's moth­er. She felt so un­easy at her boy's ab­sence, that she al­most for­got her own pain.

It was mid­night when Mal­colm heard the well-​known bark of the faith­ful Shag.

“O there is Hal­bert!” cried both par­ents at the same mo­ment. Mal­colm sprang to the door and opened it, ex­pect­ing to see his son.

But alas! Hal­bert was not there. Shag was alone. The old dog en­tered the door, and be­gan to whine in a piteous man­ner.

“O Mal­colm, Mal­colm, my brave son has per­ished in the snow!” ex­claimed the moth­er.

Mal­colm stood won­der­ing. His heart beat rapid­ly. A fear that the worst had hap­pened al­most over­came him. At that mo­ment he saw a small pack­age around the dog's neck.

Seiz­ing it in his hands, he ex­claimed, "No, wife; look! Our boy lives! Here is the medicine, tied with his hand­ker­chief; he has fall­en in­to one of the deep ravines, but he is safe.

“I will go out, and Shag shall go with me. He will con­duct me safe­ly to the res­cue of my child.”

In an in­stant Shag was again on his feet, and gave ev­idence of great joy as he left the cot­tage with his old mas­ter.

You may imag­ine the mis­ery and grief the poor moth­er suf­fered--alone in her moun­tain dwelling; the cer­tain­ty of her son's dan­ger, and the fear that her hus­band al­so might per­ish.

Shag went on straight and steadi­ly for some dis­tance af­ter he left the cot­tage. Sud­den­ly he turned down a path which led to the foot of the precipice over which Hal­bert had fall­en.

The de­scent was steep and dan­ger­ous, and Mal­colm was fre­quent­ly obliged to sup­port him­self by cling­ing to the frozen branch­es of the trees.

At last Mal­colm stood on the low­er and op­po­site edge of the pit in­to which his son had fall­en. He called to him, “Hal­bert! Hal­bert!” He looked in ev­ery di­rec­tion, but could not see or hear any thing.

Shag was mak­ing his way down a very steep and dan­ger­ous ledge of rocks, and Mal­colm re­solved at all haz­ards to fol­low him.

Af­ter get­ting to the bot­tom, Shag scram­bled to a pro­ject­ing rock, which was cov­ered with snow, and com­menced whin­ing and scratch­ing in a vi­olent man­ner.

Mal­colm fol­lowed, and af­ter some search found what ap­peared to be the dead body of his son. He hasti­ly tore off the jack­et, which was soaked with blood and snow, and wrap­ping Hal­bert in his great cloak, took him up­on his shoul­ders, and with much toil and dif­fi­cul­ty reached the path again, and soon had his boy at home.

Hal­bert was placed in his moth­er's bed, and by us­ing great ex­er­tion, they aroused him from his dan­ger­ous sleep.

He was much bruised and had his an­kle dis­lo­cat­ed, but was not oth­er­wise hurt. When he re­cov­ered his sens­es, he fixed his eyes on his moth­er, and his first words were, “Did you get the medicine, moth­er?”

When he fell, Shag had de­scend­ed af­ter him. The af­fec­tion­ate son used what lit­tle strength he had left to tie the medicine that he had re­ceived from the doc­tor around the dog's neck, and then sent him home with it.

You may be sure that Shag was well tak­en care of af­ter this in­ci­dent. Even af­ter Hal­bert be­came a man Shag was his con­stant com­pan­ion, and he lived to a good old age.

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son--Let pupils add _ship_ to each of the fol­low­ing words, and then give their mean­ing.

friend hard re­la­tion part­ner fel­low

Make out an _anal­ysis_ of the les­son, and use it in telling the sto­ry in your own words.

* * * * *

LES­SON LII.

ebb'ing, _flow­ing out; falling_.

break'ers, _waves break­ing in­to foam against_ the shore_.

main, _the great sea; the ocean_.

reef, _a row or chain of rocks_.

dis mayed', _hav­ing lost courage_.

strand, _beach; shore_.

treach'er ous, _like­ly to do harm_.

vic'tor, _a suc­cess­ful war­rior_.

shroud'ing, _cov­er­ing over_.

murk'y, _gloomy; dark_.

bea'con, _a sig­nal fire or light_.

* * * * *

THE LIGHT-​HOUSE.

The tide comes up, and the tide goes down, Over the rocks, so rugged and brown, And the cru­el sea, with a hun­gry roar, Dash­es its break­ers along the shore; But steady and clear, with a con­stant ray, The star of the light-​house shines al­way.

The ships come sail­ing across the main, But the har­bor mouth is hard to gain, For the treach­er­ous reef lies close be­side, And the rocks are bare at the ebbing tide, And the blind­ing fog comes down at night, Shroud­ing and hid­ing the har­bor light.

The sailors, sail­ing their ships along, Will tell you a tale of the light-​house strong; How once, when the keep­er was far away, A ter­ri­ble storm swept down the bay, And two lit­tle chil­dren were left to keep Their awe­some watch with the an­gry deep.

The fair lit­tle sis­ter wept, dis­mayed, But the broth­er said, “I am not afraid; There's One who ruleth on sea and land, And holds the sea in His mighty hand; For mer­cy's sake I will watch to-​night, And feed, for the sailors, the bea­con light.”

So the sailors heard through the murky shroud The fog-​bell sound­ing its warn­ing loud! While the chil­dren, up in the lone­ly tow­er, Tend­ed the lamp in the mid­night hour, And prayed for any whose souls might be In dead­ly per­il by land or sea.

Ghost­ly and dim, when the storm was o'er, The ships rode safe­ly, far off the shore, And a boat shot out from the town that lay Dusk and pur­ple, across the bay, She touched her keel to the light-​house strand, And the ea­ger keep­er leaped to land.

And swift­ly climb­ing the light-​house stair, He called to his chil­dren, young and fair; But, worn with their toil­some watch, they slept, While slow­ly o'er their fore­heads crept, The gold­en light of the morn­ing sun, Like a vic­tor's crown, when his palm is won.

“God bless you, chil­dren!” the keep­er cried; “God bless thee, fa­ther!” the boy replied. “I dreamed that there stood be­side my bed A beau­ti­ful an­gel, who smiled and said, 'Blessed are they whose love can make Joy of la­bor, for mer­cy's sake!'”

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

* * * * *

Di­rec­tions for Read­ing.--Mark the _in­flec­tion_ of the fol­low­ing lines.

The tide comes up, and the tide goes down.

The fair lit­tle sis­ter wept, dis­mayed, But the broth­er said, “I am not afraid.”

Name the _em­phat­ic words_ in the lines just quot­ed. State whether the em­pha­sis falls up­on words that are in­flect­ed.

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son.--Why is the sea called _cru­el_ and its roar _hun­gry?_ Give two ex­am­ples of a sim­ilar use of words.

* * * * *

LES­SON LI­II.

oc'cu pant, _one who is in pos­ses­sion of a thing_.

ac quired', _gained_.

mi'cro scope, _a glass so formed as to make small_ _ob­jects ap­pear large_.

slug'gish, _slow; stupid_.

in spect'ing, _look­ing at with at­ten­tion_.

com posed', _made up_.

se'ries, _a num­ber of things in or­der_.

stub'bed, _short and thick_.

dis turbed', _in­ter­fered with_.

* * * * *

THE CATER­PIL­LAR AND BUT­TER­FLY.

Last sum­mer, when the trees were cov­ered with green leaves, and when the lit­tle stream was sparkling and danc­ing in the sun, there ap­peared in the gar­den, a large cater­pil­lar of many col­ors, and about as pret­ty as a cater­pil­lar could be.

All day long it was nib­bling the green leaves, and leaf af­ter leaf dis­ap­peared be­fore it with won­der­ful ra­pid­ity. It seemed to live on­ly for eat­ing.

As au­tumn came on, it quite lost its ap­petite; so much so, that even the ten­der­est and most juicy leaves could not tempt it to eat any more. It grew dull and stiff, and lost all in­ter­est in life.

Feel­ing that some change was about to hap­pen, it crawled in­to a lit­tle hole in the old gar­den wall. It wrapped it­self up in a cob­web, and fell in­to a long sleep, dur­ing which it be­came changed from a cater­pil­lar in­to a dried-​up, dead-​look­ing grub or chrysalis.

It re­mained in this state through all the long win­ter, till the snow and frost had gone, and the cold March winds were over.

In April the trees burst forth with their bright green leaves, and the grass looked fresh un­der the pow­er of the warm rains.

In May the many-​tint­ed flow­ers ap­peared, fill­ing the air with their sweet­ness, and bright­en­ing the fields and gar­dens with their gay col­ors.

At this time an­oth­er great change came over the old grub. It showed signs of life again; but it was now no longer a cater­pil­lar--it was some­thing else.

It wrig­gled and turned in its nar­row lit­tle home, and seemed anx­ious to get out and look at the sun­shine and flow­ers. It bumped its head up and down un­til it suc­ceed­ed in push­ing off a lit­tle door.

When the door was off, and the bright sun­light shone in, this lit­tle oc­cu­pant of the chrysalis took a look at it­self.

It saw that dur­ing its long win­ter's nap, it had ac­quired a pair of beau­ti­ful wings, and its legs had grown longer and stronger than they were be­fore.

Crawl­ing out of the chrysalis, and tak­ing a po­si­tion on a branch of the tree, it dis­cov­ered that in­stead of a cater­pil­lar, it was now a beau­ti­ful but­ter­fly.

It was a kind that is called the swal­low-​tail but­ter­fly, be­cause each of its wings ta­pered to a point, some­thing like the tail of a swal­low. We will call the but­ter­fly, Miss Swal­low-​tail, and now let us see what her next move was.

Her wings were damp and heavy, and she stood shiv­er­ing and trem­bling; for al­though she had six legs, they were weak, hav­ing nev­er be­fore borne such a weight.

But fresh air brings strength; so she soon felt like try­ing to walk. At first her move­ments were slug­gish, but she fi­nal­ly reached a sun­ny spot where she dried and warmed her­self, giv­ing her wings a lit­tle shake now and then, un­til they opened grand­ly above her back.

And how beau­ti­ful they were! Dark brown, bor­dered with two rows of yel­low spots; and there were sev­en blue spots on each of the hind wings.

As she stood there in the sun, a lit­tle wind came along and raised Miss Swal­low-​tail off her feet. She spread her wings to keep from falling, and found her­self float­ing in the air.

This proved to be such a de­light­ful way of trav­el­ing, that she lift­ed her wings oc­ca­sion­al­ly, and so kept her­self float­ing; and in a short time she learned to turn in any di­rec­tion she chose.

As she flew along, grow­ing stronger ev­ery minute, she was at­tract­ed by the bright col­ors of a flow­er, and stopped to ad­mire it.

The sweet per­fume tempt­ed her to taste, and un­rolling her long tongue from un­der her chin, where she car­ried it, she put it down in­to the flow­er and drew up the hon­ey hid­den there.

Miss Swal­low-​tail had won­der­ful eyes. All but­ter­flies have won­der­ful eyes. If you will look at them through a mi­cro­scope you will find that each eye is com­posed of a great many small­er ones, that can see in all di­rec­tions.

They have great need of such eyes, be­cause there are so many birds and oth­er hun­gry crea­tures, that want to eat them.

One day a whiff of cel­ery com­ing from a gar­den near by, re­mind­ed Miss Swal­low-​tail of the time when she was a ba­by and liked to eat cel­ery.

So she flew over in­to the gar­den, and fas­tened her eggs to a cel­ery bush with some glue that she car­ried with her. Then she left them, and nev­er thought of them again.

In about ten days the ba­bies that had been grow­ing in­side of the eggs, broke open the shells and crawled out. And what do you think they were? But­ter­flies? like their mam­ma, on­ly very much small­er?

No, in­deed! for you know but­ter­flies nev­er grow any larg­er. They were the small­est green and black worms you ev­er saw!

As soon as they were out of the shells, they be­gan eat­ing the cel­ery, and grew so fast that in a week they were quite large worms.

They were cov­ered with green rings and black rings dot­ted with yel­low. They each had six­teen short legs, and they had a flesh-​col­ored, Y-​shaped horn hid­den away un­der a ring above the head, that they would show when they were dis­turbed.

One morn­ing the gar­den­er dis­cov­ered that some­thing was eat­ing his cel­ery. Search­ing among the leaves he found all but one of the lit­tle worms, and put them where they could do no more mis­chief.

Soon the lit­tle worm that had es­caped his no­tice, had grown so fat that he was too stupid to eat any more; so he crawled away to a dark place on the fence and fas­tened him­self there.

But first he cov­ered a small spot of the fence with a white, silken car­pet, that he wove from a web which he drew from his un­der lip.

He then glued the end of a web to the car­pet, car­ried the rest of it up over his breast, and down on the oth­er side and fas­tened it there.

He then bent his head down un­der it, let­ting it pass over his head, and by bend­ing for­ward and back­ward worked it down near the mid­dle of his back. Af­ter in­spect­ing his work, he bent his head up­on his breast, and leaned against the fence.

Af­ter rest­ing two days, he be­gan a se­ries of twist­ings and turn­ings that burst open his skin from the cor­ners of his mouth down a short way, and worked it all off him­self.

He drew his head in out of sight, and sent out a stubbed horn on each side of it, and lo! no worm was to be seen!--but a chrysalis, like the one his moth­er was sleep­ing in when we first found her.

* * * * *

Di­rec­tions for Read­ing.--Let pupils read the fol­low­ing lines, and then mark the _in­flec­tion_.

“And what do you think they were? But­ter­flies? like their mam­ma, on­ly very much small­er?”

Does the first ques­tion ex­pect the an­swer _yes_ or _no?_

Do the last two ques­tions ex­pect the an­swer _yes_ or _no?_

What would be the in­flec­tions used in the fol­low­ing ques­tions?

What kind of an an­swer is ex­pect­ed to each ques­tion?

“Where are you go­ing?”

“Are you com­ing back again?”

Fill blanks in the fol­low­ing state­ments.

Ques­tions which may be an­swered by _yes_ or _no_, reg­ular­ly re­quire the ---- in­flec­tion.

Ques­tions which can not be an­swered by _yes_ or _no_, reg­ular­ly re­quire the ---- in­flec­tion.

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son. Let pupils copy the fol­low­ing words.

seize chief grief fear beach re­ceive

re­lief be­lieve weary bea­con

Write sen­tences, each con­tain­ing one of the pre­ced­ing words, used in such a way as to show its mean­ing.

* * * * *

LES­SON LIV.

ob'sti nate, _de­ter­mined to have one's own way_.

vi'cious, _not well tamed; giv­en to bad tricks_.

sub dued', _made gen­tle; over­come_.

swerve, _turn from a di­rect line_.

squad'ron, _a num­ber of hors­es drawn up to­geth­er_.

pli'able, _ca­pa­ble of be­ing turned or bent_.

strove, _at­tempt­ed; tried hard_.

ex ceed'ed, _went be­yond_.

thong, _a long strip of leather_.

* * * * *

WILD HORS­ES OF SOUTH AMER­ICA.

At the time of the dis­cov­ery of Amer­ica there were no wild hors­es in any part of the con­ti­nent.

Soon, how­ev­er, some of the hors­es brought over from Eu­rope by the ear­ly set­tlers, wan­dered away, and now wild hors­es are to be met with in large num­bers, in some cas­es as many as a thou­sand at a time.

They ap­pear to be un­der the com­mand of a lead­er, the strongest and bold­est of the herd, whom they obey.

When threat­ened with dan­ger, at some sig­nal, un­der­stood by them all, they ei­ther close to­geth­er and tram­ple their en­emy to death, or form them­selves in­to a cir­cle and wel­come him with their heels.

The lead­er first faces the dan­ger, and when he finds it pru­dent to re­treat, all fol­low his rapid flight.

By­ron thus de­scribes a troop of wild hors­es:

“A tram­pling troop; I see them come! In one vast squadron they ad­vance! I strove to cry--my lips were dumb. The steeds rush on in plung­ing pride; But where are they the reins to guide? A thou­sand horse--and none to ride! With flow­ing tail, and fly­ing mane, Wide nos­trils--nev­er stretch'd by pain, Mouths blood­less to the bit or rein And feet that iron nev­er shod, And flanks un­scarr'd by spur or rod, A thou­sand horse, the wild, the free, Like waves that fol­low o'er the sea. On came the troop.... They stop--they start--they snuff the air, Gal­lop a mo­ment here and there, Ap­proach, re­tire, wheel round and round, Then plung­ing back with sud­den bound, They snort--they foam--neigh--swerve aside, And back­ward to the for­est fly.”

The cap­ture and break­ing in of wild hors­es in Amer­ica are de­scribed by Miers as fol­lows--

"The las­so is used by the na­tives of South Amer­ica. It is a very strong braid­ed thong, half an inch thick, and forty feet long, made of many strips of rawhide, braid­ed like a whip-​thong, and made soft and pli­able by rub­bing with grease.

"It has at one end an iron ring, about an inch and a half in di­am­eter, through which the thong is passed, form­ing a run­ning noose.

"The herds­men--gau­chos, as they are called--are gen­er­al­ly mount­ed on horse­back when they use the las­so. One end of the thong is at­tached to the sad­dle; the re­main­der is coiled in the left hand, ex­cept about twelve feet be­long­ing to the noose end, which is held in a coil in the right hand.

"This long noose is then swung around the head, the weight of the iron ring at the end of the noose as­sist­ing in giv­ing to it, by a con­tin­ued cir­cu­lar mo­tion, a suf­fi­cient force to project it the whole length of the line.

“The gau­chos drive the wild hors­es in­to a cor­ral, which is a cir­cu­lar space sur­round­ed by rough posts firm­ly driv­en in­to the ground. The cor­ral,” re­lates Miers, "was quite full of hors­es, most of which were young ones about two or three years old.

"The chief gau­cho, mount­ed on a strong, steady horse, rode in­to the cor­ral, and threw his las­so over the neck of a young horse and dragged him to the gate.

"For some time he was very un­will­ing to lose his com­pan­ions; but the mo­ment he was forced out of the cor­ral his first idea was to gal­lop away; how­ev­er, a time­ly jerk of the las­so checked him.

"Some of the gau­chos now ran af­ter him on foot, and threw a las­so over his fore legs, and jerk­ing it, they pulled his legs from un­der him so sud­den­ly that I re­al­ly thought the fall had killed him.

"In an in­stant a gau­cho was seat­ed on his head. They then put a piece of hide in his mouth to serve for a bit, and a strong hide hal­ter on his head, and al­lowed him to get on his feet.

"While two men held the horse by his ears, the gau­cho who was to mount him fas­tened on the sad­dle, and then quick­ly sprung in­to it.

"The horse in­stant­ly be­gan to jump in a man­ner which made it very dif­fi­cult for the rid­er to keep his seat; how­ev­er, the gau­cho's spurs soon set him go­ing, and off he gal­loped, do­ing ev­ery thing in his pow­er to throw his rid­er.

"Then an­oth­er horse was brought from the cor­ral; and so quick­ly was ev­ery thing done that twelve gau­chos were mount­ed in less than an hour.

"It was won­der­ful to see the dif­fer­ent man­ner in which dif­fer­ent hors­es be­haved. Some would ac­tu­al­ly scream while the gau­chos were fas­ten­ing the sad­dle up­on their backs, and some would in­stant­ly lie down and roll up­on it.

"Oth­ers would stand with­out be­ing held, their legs stiff and in un­nat­ural po­si­tions, their necks half bent to­wards their tails, and look­ing vi­cious and ob­sti­nate.

"It was now cu­ri­ous to look around and see the gau­chos try­ing to bring their hors­es back to the cor­ral, which is the most dif­fi­cult part of their work, for the poor crea­tures had been so scared there that they were un­will­ing to re­turn to the place.

"At last they brought the hors­es back, ap­par­ent­ly sub­dued and bro­ken in. The sad­dles and bri­dles were tak­en off, and the young hors­es trot­ted off to­wards the cor­ral, neigh­ing to one an­oth­er.

"When a gau­cho wish­es to take a wild horse, he mounts a horse that has been used to the sport, and gal­lops over the plain.

"As soon as he comes near his vic­tim, the las­so is thrown round the two hind-​legs, and as the gau­cho rides a lit­tle on one side, the jerk throws the wild horse with­out do­ing in­jury to his knees or his face.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

"Be­fore the horse can re­cov­er from the shock, the rid­er dis­mounts, and snatch­ing his cloak from his shoul­ders, wraps it round the fall­en an­imal's head.

"He then forces in­to his mouth one of the pow­er­ful bri­dles of the coun­try, fas­tens a sad­dle on his back, and, mount­ing him, re­moves the cloak.

"Up­on this the as­ton­ished horse springs to his feet, and at­tempts to throw off his new mas­ter, who sits calm­ly on his back.

“By a treat­ment which nev­er fails, the gau­cho brings the horse to such com­plete obe­di­ence that he is soon trained to give his whole speed and strength to the cap­ture of his com­pan­ions.”

* * * * *

Di­rec­tions for Read­ing.--Let pupils pro­nounce in con­cert, and singly, the fol­low­ing words: _I, hide, side, rides, flight, wild, finds, re­tire, de­scribe_.

Mark the in­flec­tion of the last six lines of po­et­ry on page 256.[15]

What _in­flec­tion_ is used (1) to keep up the in­ter­est?--(2) to show hes­ita­tion?--(3) to ex­press a de­cid­ed opin­ion?--(4) to give the con­clu­sion of a sto­ry?--(5) to ask a ques­tion that may be an­swered by _yes_ or _no_?--(6) to ask a ques­tion that can not be an­swered by _yes_ or _no_?

Let pupils state the spe­cial us­es of _in­flec­tion_ shown in the fol­low­ing ex­am­ples.

I, I think per­haps you may go.

I know that you may go.

They silent­ly went away.

Yes­ter­day, about three o'clock, just as we were prepar­ing to go home, sud­den­ly we heard a band of mu­sic.

[15] This les­son.

* * * * *

LES­SON LV.

ca­reer', _course of life_.

gen'er­ous, _free in giv­ing aid to oth­ers_.

char'ity, _good­will; de­sire to aid oth­ers_.

in her'it­ed, _came in­to pos­ses­sion of_.

in jus'tice, _wrong-​do­ing_.

ac cused', _charged with a fault_.

hes i ta'tion, _de­lay_.

pre scrip'tion, _an or­der for medicine_.

flor'ins, _pieces of mon­ey, each val­ued at about fifty cents_.

pen'sion, _mon­ey paid for ser­vice in war_.

re stor'ing, _giv­ing back_.

phy si'cian, _doc­tor of medicine_.

* * * * *

AN EM­PER­OR'S KIND­NESS.

Joseph II., Em­per­or of Aus­tria, was a gen­er­ous, warm-​heart­ed man, who took great de­light in do­ing acts of kind­ness and char­ity.

One time, as he was pass­ing through the streets of Vi­en­na, dressed as a pri­vate gen­tle­man, his at­ten­tion was at­tract­ed to a boy about twelve years old, who timid­ly ap­proached, and seemed, anx­ious to speak to him.

“What do you wish, my lit­tle friend?” said the gen­tle­man. His voice was so ten­der, and he had such a kind­ly look in his eyes, that the boy had courage to say:

“O sir, you are very good to speak to me so kind­ly. I be­lieve you will not refuse to do some­thing for me.”

“I should be sor­ry to refuse you,” replied the gen­tle­man; “but why are you beg­ging? You ap­pear to be some­thing bet­ter than a beg­gar; your voice and your man­ner show it.”

“I am not a beg­gar, sir,” replied the boy, as a tear trick­led down his cheek. "My fa­ther was a brave of­fi­cer in the army. Ow­ing to ill­ness, he was obliged to leave the ser­vice, and was grant­ed a pen­sion by the em­per­or.

“With this pen­sion he sup­port­ed our fam­ily; but a few months ago he died, and we are left very poor in­deed.”

“Poor child!” said the gen­tle­man. “Is your moth­er liv­ing?”

“Yes, sir, she is; and I have two broth­ers who are at home with her now. She has been un­able to leave her bed for weeks, and one of us must watch be­side her, while the oth­ers go out to beg.”

Say­ing this, the poor boy tried very hard to keep back the great tears, but they would come in spite of all he could do to stop them.

“Well, well, my boy,” said the gen­tle­man, “do not feel so un­hap­py; I will see what can be done to help you. Is there a physi­cian to be found near you?”

“There are two, sir, on­ly a lit­tle way from where we live.”

“That is well. Now you go at once and have one of them vis­it your moth­er. Here is mon­ey, not on­ly for the physi­cian, but for oth­er things to feed you and make you com­fort­able.”

“O sir,” said the boy, as he looked up­on the gen­tle­man in amaze­ment, “how can I thank you enough? This mon­ey will save my moth­er's life, and keep my broth­ers from want.”

“Nev­er mind, my child; go and get the physi­cian.”

The boy obeyed, and the good em­per­or hav­ing learned the sit­ua­tion of the house where the boy's moth­er lived, bent his steps in that di­rec­tion, and soon ar­rived there.

The room in which he found the poor wom­an gave ev­idence of great mis­ery.

She was ly­ing on a low bed­stead, and though still young, her face was pale and thin from sick­ness and want. Very lit­tle fur­ni­ture of any kind was to be seen, for the moth­er had dis­posed of near­ly all she pos­sessed to ob­tain bread for her chil­dren.

When the em­per­or en­tered the room, the wid­ow and her chil­dren looked at him in as­ton­ish­ment. They did not know he was their em­per­or.

“I am a physi­cian, madam,” said he, bow­ing re­spect­ful­ly; “your neigh­bors have in­formed me of your ill­ness, and I am come to of­fer what ser­vice may be in my pow­er.”

“Alas! sir,” she an­swered with some hes­ita­tion, “I have no means of pay­ing you for your at­ten­tion.”

“Do not dis­tress your­self on that ac­count; I shall be ful­ly re­paid if I have the hap­pi­ness of restor­ing you to health.”

With these words, the em­per­or ap­proached the bed and in­quired all about her ill­ness, af­ter which he wrote a few lines and placed them on the chim­ney-​piece.

“I will leave you this pre­scrip­tion, madam; and on my next vis­it, I hope to find you much bet­ter.” He then with­drew. Al­most im­me­di­ate­ly af­ter this, the el­dest son of the wid­ow came in with a med­ical man.

“O moth­er!” cried the boy, “a kind, good gen­tle­man has giv­en me all this!” and he placed in his moth­er's hand, the mon­ey which the em­per­or had giv­en him. “There now, don't cry, moth­er; this mon­ey will pay the doc­tor and buy ev­ery thing till you are well and strong again.”

“A physi­cian has al­ready been here, my child, and has left his pre­scrip­tion. See, there it is.” and she point­ed to the pa­per on the chim­ney-​piece. The boy took the pa­per, and no soon­er had he glanced at its con­tents, than he ut­tered an ex­cla­ma­tion of joy­ful sur­prise.

"O moth­er! It's the best pre­scrip­tion a physi­cian ev­er wrote; it's an or­der for a pen­sion, moth­er--a pen­sion for you--signed by the em­per­or him­self; lis­ten, moth­er; hear what he says:--

"'_Madam:_--Your son was for­tu­nate enough to meet me in the city, and in­formed me of the fact that the wid­ow of one of my bravest of­fi­cers was suf­fer­ing from pover­ty and sick­ness, with­out any means of as­sis­tance. I had no knowl­edge of this, there­fore I can not be ac­cused of in­jus­tice.

"'It is dif­fi­cult for me to know ev­ery thing that takes place in my em­pire. Now that I do know of your dis­tress, I should in­deed be un­grate­ful, did I not ren­der you all the help in my pow­er. I shall im­me­di­ate­ly place your name on the pen­sion list for the year­ly sum of two thou­sand florins, and trust that you may live many years to en­joy it.

“'_Joseph II_.'”

The wid­ow and her chil­dren were tak­en un­der the es­pe­cial care of the em­per­or, and a bril­liant ca­reer was opened up for the boys, who had in­her­it­ed all their fa­ther's brav­ery as well as their moth­er's gen­tle na­ture.

* * * * *

Di­rec­tions for Read­ing.--Mark the _in­flec­tion_ of the fol­low­ing ques­tions.

Where do you live?

Is your name Har­ry or John?

Why are you beg­ging?

Do you wish to walk?

In such a ques­tion as the last one, if _em­pha­sis_ be giv­en in turn to the words _you, wish, walk_, the an­swer might still be _yes_ or _no_; and yet the mean­ing of the an­swer would be dif­fer­ent in each case.

Do _you_ wish to walk? Yes, I do.

Do you _wish_ to walk? No, I do not _wish_ to walk; but sup­pose I must.

Do you wish to _walk?_ No, I would rather _ride_.

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son.--Let pupils write a let­ter to some friend, us­ing the last para­graph of the les­son as a sub­ject.

* * * * *

LES­SON LVI.

per­sist'ed, _con­tin­ued_.

crip'ples, _those who have lost the use of a limb_.

merged, _unit­ed; joined_.

stal'wart, _strong; pow­er­ful_.

in'no­cent, _harm­less_.

pass'port, _what en­ables one to go in safe­ty_.

gal'lant, _brave; no­ble_.

riv'en, _tak­en away; de­prived_.

* * * * *

UNIT­ED AT LAST.

“O moth­er! What do they mean by blue? And what do they mean by gray?” Was heard from the lips of a lit­tle child As she bound­ed in from play. The moth­er's eyes filled up with tears; She turned to her dar­ling fair, And smoothed away from the sun­ny brow Its trea­sure of gold­en hair.

“Why, moth­er's eyes are blue, my sweet, And grand­pa's hair is gray, And the love we bear our dar­ling child Grows stronger ev­ery day.” “But what did they mean?” per­sist­ed the child; "For I saw two crip­ples to-​day, And one of them said he fought for the blue, The oth­er, he fought for the gray.

"Now he of the blue had lost a leg, And the oth­er had but one arm, And both seemed worn and weary and sad, Yet their greet­ing was kind and warm. They told of the bat­tles in days gone by, Till it made my young blood thrill; The leg was lost in the Wilder­ness fight, And the arm on Malvern Hill.

“They sat on the stone by the farm-​yard gate, And talked for an hour or more, Till their eyes grew bright and their hearts seemed warm With fight­ing their bat­tles o'er; And they part­ed at last with a friend­ly grasp, In a kind­ly, broth­er­ly way, Each call­ing on God to speed the time Unit­ing the blue and the gray.”

Then the moth­er thought of oth­er days-- Two stal­wart boys from her riv­en; How they knelt at her side and lisp­ing­ly prayed, “Our Fa­ther which art in heav­en;” How one wore the gray and the oth­er the blue; How they passed away from sight, And had gone to the land where gray and blue Are merged in col­ors of light.

And she an­swered her dar­ling with gold­en hair, While her heart was sad­ly wrung With the thoughts awak­ened in that sad hour By her in­no­cent, prat­tling tongue: “The blue and the gray are the col­ors of God, They are seen in the sky at even, And many a no­ble, gal­lant soul Has found them a pass­port to heav­en.”

* * * * *

LES­SON LVII.

de­clin'ing, _fail­ing_.

expe'ri­ence, _that which hap­pens to any one_.

re­gard', _look at; con­sid­er_.

ro­bust', _sound in health_.

ben'efit ed, _made bet­ter; helped_.

in­tense', _ex­treme_.

moc'ca sin, _a kind of shoe made of deer-​skin_.

tem'po ra ry, _for a time_.

pe cul'iar, _strange; un­usu­al_.

in tel'li gent, _show­ing good sense_.

* * * * *

A STO­RY OF THE SIOUX WAR.

PART I.

In the sum­mer of 1862, while we were liv­ing in the State of Min­neso­ta, I had an ex­pe­ri­ence which I re­gard as one of the most re­mark­able that I ev­er met with.

We lived at Lac Qui Par­le, or rather quite close to it, for we were about a mile from the place.

There were on­ly three of us--fa­ther, moth­er, and my­self. We had moved to Min­neso­ta three years be­fore, the main ob­ject of my par­ents be­ing to re­store their health; for they were fee­ble and need­ed a change of cli­mate.

The first year, both fa­ther and moth­er were much ben­efit­ed; but not long af­ter, fa­ther be­gan to fail.

I re­mem­ber that he used to take his chair out in front of the house in pleas­ant weath­er and sit there, with his eyes turned to­ward the blue hori­zon, or in­to the depths of the vast wilder­ness which was not more than a stone's throw from our door.

Moth­er would some­times go out and sit be­side fa­ther, and they would talk long and earnest­ly in low tones. I was too young to un­der­stand all this at the time, but it was not long af­ter­ward that I learned the truth.

Fa­ther was steadi­ly and sure­ly de­clin­ing in health; but moth­er had be­come strong and ro­bust, and her dis­ease seemed to have left her al­to­geth­er. She tried to en­cour­age fa­ther, and re­al­ly be­lieved his weak­ness was on­ly tem­po­rary.

Scarce­ly a day passed that I did not see some of the Sioux In­di­ans who were scat­tered through that por­tion of the State. In go­ing to, and com­ing from the agen­cy, they would some­times stop at our house.

Fa­ther was very quick in pick­ing up lan­guages, and he was able to con­verse quite eas­ily with the red men.

How I used to laugh to hear them talk in their odd lan­guage, which sound­ed to me just as if they were grunt­ing at each oth­er.

But the vis­its used to please fa­ther and moth­er, and I was al­ways glad to see some of the rather ragged and not over-​clean war­riors stop at the house.

I re­mem­ber one hot day in June, when fa­ther was sit­ting un­der a tree in front of the house, and I was in­side help­ing moth­er, we heard the pe­cu­liar nois­es which told us that fa­ther had an In­di­an vis­itor. We both went to the door, and I passed out­side to laugh at their queer talk.

Sure enough, an In­di­an was seat­ed in the oth­er chair, and he and fa­ther were talk­ing with great an­ima­tion.

The In­di­an was of a stout build, and wore a straw hat with a broad, red band around it; he had on a fine, black broad-​cloth coat, but his trousers were shab­by and his shoes were pret­ty well worn.

His face was bright and in­tel­li­gent, and I watched it very close­ly as he talked in his earnest way with fa­ther, who was equal­ly an­imat­ed in an­swer­ing him.

The In­di­an car­ried a ri­fle and a re­volver--the lat­ter be­ing in plain sight at his waist--but I nev­er con­nect­ed the thought of dan­ger with him as he sat there talk­ing with fa­ther.

I de­scribe this In­di­an rather close­ly, as he was no oth­er than the well-​known chief, Lit­tle Crow, who was at the head of the fright­ful Sioux war, which broke out with­in six­ty days from that time.

The fa­mous chief­tain staid un­til the sun went down. Then he start­ed up and walked away rapid­ly in the di­rec­tion of Lac Qui Par­le. Fa­ther called good-​by to him, but he did not re­ply and soon dis­ap­peared in the woods.

The sky was cloudy, and it looked as if a storm was com­ing; so, as it was dark and blus­ter­ing, we re­mained with­in doors the rest of the evening. A fine driz­zling rain be­gan to fall, and the dark­ness was in­tense.

The evening was well ad­vanced, and fa­ther was read­ing to us, when there came a rap up­on the door.

It was so gen­tle and timid that it sound­ed like the peck­ing of a bird, and we all looked in the di­rec­tion of the door, un­cer­tain what it meant.

“It is a bird, scared by the storm,” said fa­ther, “and we may as well ad­mit it.”

I sat much near­er the door than ei­ther of my par­ents, and in­stant­ly start­ed up and opened it. As I did so, I looked out in­to the gloom, but sprung back the next mo­ment with a low cry of alarm.

“What's the mat­ter?” asked fa­ther, hasti­ly lay­ing down his book and walk­ing rapid­ly to­ward me.

“It isn't a bird; it's a per­son.” As I spoke, a lit­tle In­di­an girl, about my own age, walked in­to the room, and look­ing in each of our faces, asked in the Sioux lan­guage whether she could stay all night.

I closed the door and we gath­ered around her. She had the pret­ti­est, dain­ti­est moc­casins, but her limbs were bare from the knee down­ward. She wore a large shawl about her shoul­ders, while her coarse, black hair hung loose­ly be­low her waist.

Her face was very pret­ty, and her eyes were as black as coal and seemed to flash fire when­ev­er she looked up­on any one.

Of course, her cloth­ing was drip­ping with mois­ture, and her call filled us all with won­der. She could speak on­ly a few words of En­glish, so her face light­ed up with plea­sure when fa­ther ad­dressed her in the Sioux lan­guage.

As near as we could find out, her name was Chit­to, and she lived with her par­ents at Lac Qui Par­le. She told us that there were sev­er­al fam­ilies in a spot by them­selves, and that day they had se­cured a quan­ti­ty of strong drink, of which they were par­tak­ing very freely.

At such times In­di­ans are dan­ger­ous, and Lit­tle Chit­to was ter­ri­fied al­most out of her sens­es. She fled through the storm and the dark­ness, not car­ing where she went, but on­ly anx­ious to get away from the dread­ful scene.

En­ter­ing, with­out any in­ten­tion on her part, the path in the woods, she fol­lowed it un­til she saw in the dis­tance the glim­mer of the light in our win­dow, when she has­tened to the house and asked for ad­mis­sion.

I need scarce­ly say it was glad­ly grant­ed. My moth­er re­moved the damp clothes from the lit­tle Sioux girl, and re­placed them with some warm, dry ones be­long­ing to me. At the same time she gave her hot, re­fresh­ing tea, and did ev­ery thing to make her com­fort­able.

I re­moved the lit­tle moc­casins from the won­der­ing Chit­to's feet, kissed her dark cheeks, and, as I ut­tered ex­pres­sions of pity, though in an un­known tongue, I am quite sure that they were un­der­stood by Chit­to, who looked the grat­itude she could not ex­press.

She soon be­gan to show signs of drowsi­ness and was put to bed with me, falling asleep as soon as her head touched the pil­low.

I lay awake a lit­tle longer and no­ticed that the storm had ceased. The pat­ter of the rain was heard no more up­on the roof, and the wind blew just as it some­times does late in the fall. At last I sunk in­to a sound sleep.

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son.--Let pupils write a short let­ter to some friend, tak­ing as a sub­ject, “A Vis­it from Lit­tle Crow,” as giv­en on pages 272 and 273.[16]

Let pupils add _y_ to each of the fol­low­ing words, make such oth­er changes as may be nec­es­sary, and then de­fine them.

earth air fire wa­ter sleep

rain rust fun fur stick

What two words dou­ble their fi­nal let­ter be­fore adding _y_? _Fiery_, from _fire_, is ir­reg­ular in spelling.

[16] This les­son.

* * * * *

LES­SON LVI­II.

de'mons, _spir­its; evil spir­its_.

groped, _found one's way by feel­ing with the hands_.

pre'vi ous, _go­ing be­fore in time; pre­ced­ing_.

in clined', _lean­ing to­wards; dis­posed_.

dis tract'ed, _con­fused by grief_.

ex pired', _died_.

stat'ue, _a fig­ure carved to rep­re­sent a liv­ing be­ing_.

stag'gered, _walked with trem­bling steps_.

as cer tained', _found out by in­quir­ing_.

re tain', _keep pos­ses­sion of_.

* * * * *

A STO­RY OF THE SIOUX WAR.

PART II.

I awoke in the morn­ing and saw the rays of the sun en­ter­ing the win­dow. Re­call­ing the in­ci­dents of the pre­vi­ous evening, I turned to speak to my young friend.

To my sur­prise she was gone, and sup­pos­ing she had risen a short time be­fore, I hur­ried­ly dressed my­self and went down stairs to help keep her com­pa­ny.

But she was not there, and fa­ther and moth­er had seen noth­ing of her. She had no doubt risen in the night and gone qui­et­ly away.

There was some­thing cu­ri­ous and touch­ing in the fact that she had groped about in the dark­ness, un­til she found her own cloth­ing, which she put on and de­part­ed with­out tak­ing so much as a pin that be­longed to us.

We all felt a strong in­ter­est in Chit­to, and fa­ther took me with him a few days lat­er when he vis­it­ed Lac Qui Par­le. He made many in­quiries for the lit­tle girl, but could learn noth­ing about her.

I felt very much dis­ap­point­ed, for I had built up strong hopes of tak­ing her out home with me to spend sev­er­al days.

Fa­ther and I went a num­ber of times af­ter­ward, and al­ways made an ef­fort to dis­cov­er Chit­to; but we did not gain any knowl­edge of her.

On the af­ter­noon of Au­gust 19, fa­ther was sit­ting in his ac­cus­tomed seat in front of the house, and moth­er was en­gaged, as usu­al about her house­hold du­ties. I was play­ing and amus­ing my­self as a girl of my age is in­clined to do at all times.

The day was sul­try and close, and I re­mem­ber that fa­ther was un­usu­al­ly pale and weak. He coughed a great deal, and sat for a long time so still that I thought he must be asleep.

“Moth­er,” said I, “what is that smoke yon­der?”

I point­ed in the di­rec­tion of Lac Qui Par­le. She saw a dark col­umn of smoke float­ing off in the hori­zon, its lo­ca­tion be­ing such, that there could be no doubt that it was at the Agen­cy.

“There is a fire of some kind there,” she said, while she shad­ed her eyes with her hand and gazed long and earnest­ly in that di­rec­tion.

“The In­di­ans are com­ing, Ed­ward,” she called to fa­ther; “they will be here in a few min­utes!”

Sud­den­ly, a splen­did black horse came gal­lop­ing from the woods, and with two or three pow­er­ful bounds, halt­ed di­rect­ly in front of me. As it did so, I saw that the bare­back rid­er was a small girl, and she was our lit­tle Sioux friend, Chit­to.

She made a strik­ing pic­ture, with her long, black hair stream­ing over her shoul­ders, and her dress flut­ter­ing in the wind.

“Why, Chit­to,” said I, in amaze­ment, “where did you come from?”

“Must go--must go--must go!” she ex­claimed, in great ex­cite­ment. “In­di­an soon be here!”

So it seemed that, in the few weeks since she had been at our house, she had picked up enough of the En­glish lan­guage to make her­self un­der­stood.

“What do you mean?” asked moth­er, as she and I ad­vanced to the side of the black steed up­on which the lit­tle Sioux sat; “what are the In­di­ans do­ing?”

“They burn build­ings--have killed peo­ple--com­ing this way!”

Chit­to spoke the truth, for the Sioux were rag­ing like demons at that very hour at Lac Qui Par­le.

“What shall we do, Chit­to?” asked my moth­er.

“Get on horse--he car­ry you.”

“But my hus­band; the horse can not car­ry all three of us.”

My poor dis­tract­ed moth­er scarce­ly knew what to do. All this time fa­ther sat like a stat­ue in his chair. A ter­ri­ble sus­pi­cion sud­den­ly en­tered her mind, and she ran to him.

Plac­ing her hand up­on his shoul­der, she ad­dressed him in a low tone, and then ut­tered a fear­ful shriek, as she stag­gered back­ward, say­ing: “He is dead! he is dead!”

Such was the fact. The shock of the news brought by the lit­tle In­di­an girl was too much, and he had ex­pired in his chair with­out a strug­gle. The wild cry which es­caped my moth­er was an­swered by sev­er­al whoops from the woods, and Chit­to be­came fran­tic with ter­ror.

“In­di­an be here in minute!” said she.

Moth­er in­stant­ly helped me up­on the back of the horse and then fol­lowed her­self. She was a skill­ful rid­er, but she al­lowed Chit­to to re­tain the bri­dle, and we start­ed off.

Look­ing back I saw a half-​dozen Sioux horse­men come out of the woods and start on a trot to­ward us.

Just then Chit­to spoke to the horse, and he bound­ed off at a ter­ri­ble rate, nev­er halt­ing un­til he had gone two or three miles.

Then, when we looked back, we saw noth­ing of the In­di­ans, and the horse was brought down to a walk; and fi­nal­ly, when the sun went down, we en­tered a dense wood, where we staid all night.

I shall not at­tempt to de­scribe those fear­ful hours. Not one of us slept a wink. Moth­er sat weep­ing over the loss of fa­ther, while I was heart-​bro­ken, too.

Chit­to, like the In­di­an she was, kept on the move con­tin­ual­ly. Here and there she stole as noise­less­ly through the wood as a shad­ow, while play­ing the part of sen­tinel.

At day­light we all fell in­to a fever­ish slum­ber, which last­ed sev­er­al hours. When we awoke, we were hun­gry and mis­er­able.

See­ing a set­tler's house in the dis­tance, Chit­to of­fered to go to it for food. We were afraid she would get in­to trou­ble, but she was sure there was no dan­ger and went.

In less than an hour she was back again with an abun­dance of bread. She said there was no one in the house, and we sup­posed the peo­ple had be­come alarmed and es­caped.

We staid where we were for three days, dur­ing which time we saw a par­ty of Sioux war­riors burn the house where Chit­to had ob­tained the food for us.

It seemed to moth­er that the In­di­ans would not re­main at Lac Qui Par­le long, and that we would be like­ly to find safe­ty there. Ac­cord­ing­ly, she in­duced Chit­to to start on the re­turn.

When we reached our house noth­ing was to be seen of fa­ther's body; but we soon, dis­cov­ered a new­ly-​made grave, where we had rea­son to be­lieve he was buried.

As was af­ter­ward as­cer­tained, he had been giv­en a de­cent buri­al by or­ders of Lit­tle Crow him­self, who, doubt­less, would have pro­tect­ed us, had we await­ed his com­ing.

We rode care­ful­ly through the woods, and when we came out on the oth­er side, our hearts were made glad by the sight of the white tents of Unit­ed States sol­diers. Colonel Sib­ley was en­camped at Lac Qui Par­le, and we were safe at last.

Chit­to dis­ap­peared from this post in the same sud­den man­ner as be­fore; but I am hap­py to say that I have seen her sev­er­al times since. Moth­er and I were afraid her peo­ple would pun­ish her for the part she took in help­ing us, but they did not.

Prob­ably the friend­ship which Lit­tle Crow showed to­ward our fam­ily, may have had some­thing to do with the gen­tle treat­ment which the In­di­ans showed her.

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son.--Sup­ply the words omit­ted from the fol­low­ing sen­tences.

“Must go! In­di­an soon be here!”

“In­di­an be here in minute!”

Let pupils make out an _anal­ysis_ for the sub­ject--

“Our Sec­ond Vis­it from Chit­to,”

and use it in giv­ing that part of the sto­ry in their own words.

* * * * *

LES­SON LIX.

e mit', _send forth_.

con'trast, _dif­fer­ence in form or ap­pear­ance_.

molt'en, _melt­ed_.

con'ic al, _hav­ing the shape of a cone_.

vol'umes, _quan­ti­ties; mass­es_.

char'ac ter, _kind; for­ma­tion_.

del'uge, _flood; drown_.

com pre hen'sion, _the pow­er of the mind to un­der­stand_.

ap pall'ing, _ter­ri­fy­ing_.

grand'eur, _majesty; vast­ness of size_.

lu'rid, _gloomy; dis­mal_.

tre men'dous, _ter­rif­ic; aw­ful_.

* * * * *

VOL­CA­NOES.

In var­ious parts of the earth, there are moun­tains that send out from their high­est peaks, smoke, ash­es, and fire.

Moun­tains of this class are called vol­ca­noes, and they present a strik­ing con­trast to oth­er moun­tains, on ac­count of their con­ical form and the char­ac­ter of the rocks of which they are com­posed.

All vol­ca­noes have at their sum­mits what are called craters. These are large, hol­low, cir­cu­lar open­ings, from which the smoke and fire es­cape.

Near­ly all vol­ca­noes emit smoke con­stant­ly. This smoke pro­ceeds from fires that are burn­ing far down in the depths of the earth.

Some­times these fires burst forth from the crater of the vol­cano with tremen­dous force. The smoke be­comes thick and black, and lurid flames shoot up to a height of hun­dreds of feet, mak­ing a scene of amaz­ing grandeur.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

With the flames there are thrown out stones, ash­es, and streams of melt­ed rock, called la­va. This la­va flows down the sides of the moun­tain, and, be­ing red-​hot, de­stroys ev­ery thing with which it comes in con­tact. At such times, a vol­cano is said to be in erup­tion.

A vol­canic erup­tion is gen­er­al­ly pre­ced­ed by low, rum­bling sounds, and trem­bling of the earth's sur­face. Then fol­lows greater ac­tiv­ity of the vol­cano, from which dense vol­umes of smoke and steam is­sue, and fire and molten la­va make their ap­pear­ance.

Such is the force of some of these erup­tions, that large rocks have been hurled to great dis­tances from the crater, and towns and cities have been buried un­der a vast cov­er­ing of ash­es and la­va.

The quan­ti­ty of la­va and ash­es which some­times es­capes from vol­ca­noes dur­ing an erup­tion, is al­most be­yond com­pre­hen­sion.

In 1772, a vol­cano in the is­land of Ja­va, threw out ash­es and cin­ders that cov­ered the ground fifty feet deep, for a dis­tance of sev­en miles all around the moun­tain. This erup­tion de­stroyed near­ly forty towns and vil­lages.

In 1783, a vol­cano in Ice­land sent out two streams of la­va; one forty miles long and sev­en miles wide, and the oth­er fifty miles long and fif­teen miles wide. These streams were from one hun­dred to six hun­dred feet deep.

Near the city of Naples, Italy, is sit­uat­ed the vol­cano Mt. Vesu­vius. This fiery mon­ster has prob­ably caused more de­struc­tion than any oth­er vol­cano known.

In the year 79 A.D., it sud­den­ly burst forth in a vi­olent erup­tion, that re­sult­ed in one of the most ap­palling dis­as­ters that ev­er hap­pened.

Such im­mense quan­ti­ties of ash­es, stones, and la­va were poured forth from its crater, that with­in the short space of twen­ty hours, two large cities were com­plete­ly de­stroyed. These cities were Her­cu­la­neum and Pom­peii.

At this erup­tion of Vesu­vius, the stream of la­va flowed di­rect­ly through and over the city of Her­cu­la­neum in­to the sea. The quan­ti­ty was so great that, as it cooled and be­came hard­ened, it grad­ual­ly filled up all the streets and ran over the tops of the hous­es.

While the la­va was thus turn­ing the city in­to a mass of sol­id stone, the in­hab­itants were flee­ing from it along the shore to­ward Naples, and in boats on the sea.

At the same time, too, the wind car­ried the ash­es and cin­ders in such a di­rec­tion as to del­uge the city of Pom­peii.

Slow­ly and steadi­ly the im­mense vol­ume of ash­es and small stones, blocked up the streets and set­tled on the roofs of hous­es.

The light of the flames that burst out from the aw­ful crater, aid­ed the peo­ple in their es­cape; but many who for some rea­son could not get away, per­ished.

Pom­peii was so com­plete­ly cov­ered that, noth­ing could be seen of it. Thus it re­mained buried un­der the ground un­til the year 1748, when it was dis­cov­ered by ac­ci­dent.

Since that time much of the city has been un­cov­ered, and now one can walk along the streets, look in­to the hous­es, and form some idea how the peo­ple lived there eigh­teen hun­dred years ago.

* * * * *

_Lan­guage Les­son_.--Let pupils write an ac­count of a sup­posed jour­ney from their homes to Naples, telling about the route they would take, and the par­tic­ulars as to time and dis­tance. Be very par­tic­ular about hand­writ­ing, spelling, punc­tu­ation, and cap­ital let­ters.

* * * * *

LES­SON LX.

coot, _a wa­ter-​bird_.

hern (her'on), _a wad­ing bird_.

ed'dy­ing, _mov­ing in small cir­cles_.

mal'low, _a kind of plant_.

bick'er, _move quick­ly; quar­rel_.

fal'low, _plowed land_.

gray'ling, _a kind of fish_.

cress'es, _a kind of wa­ter-​plant_.

sal'ly, _a rush­ing or burst­ing forth_.

thorps, _vil­lages_.

bram'bly, _full of rough shrubs_.

* * * * *

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 bank I fret By many a field and fal­low, And many a fairy fore­land set With wil­low-​wood 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 steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel cov­ers; I move the sweet for­get-​me-​nots That grow for hap­py lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skim­ming swal­lows; I make the net­ted sun­beam 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.

* * * * *

Di­rec­tions for Read­ing.--Point out the places in the po­em where two lines should be joined in read­ing.

Mark the _in­flec­tion_ of the fol­low­ing lines.

“I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skim­ming swal­lows.”

“For men may come, and men may go, But I go on for­ev­er.”

Read the last two lines, and state whether the _in­flect­ed words_ are al­so _em­phat­ic words_.

Find a sim­ilar ex­am­ple of _in­flec­tion_ and _em­pha­sis_ up­on the same words in the last stan­za of Les­son XXXVI.

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son.--Let pupils ex­plain the mean­ing of the fol­low­ing ex­pres­sions.

_Join the brim­ming riv­er_.

_Net­ted sun­beam_.

* * * * *

LES­SON LXI.

de terred', _kept from_.

en'ter prise, _an un­der­tak­ing_.

im'ple ments, _ar­ti­cles used in a trade_.

sur vey'ing, _mea­sur­ing land_.

in'di cat­ed, _showed; point­ed out_.

re clin'ing, _part­ly ly­ing down_.

re lease', _let go_.

con clu'sion, _fi­nal de­ci­sion_.

suc ces'sion, _fol­low­ing one af­ter an­oth­er_.

hur'ri cane, _a high wind_.

an'ec dote, _in­ci­dent; sto­ry_.

com pact', _close­ly put to­geth­er_.

* * * * *

ANEC­DOTE OF WASH­ING­TON.

PART I

It was a calm, sun­ny day in the year 1750; the scene, a piece of for­est land in the north of Vir­ginia, near a no­ble stream of wa­ter.

Im­ple­ments of sur­vey­ing were ly­ing about, and sev­er­al men re­clin­ing un­der the trees, in­di­cat­ed by their dress and ap­pear­ance, that they were en­gaged in lay­ing out the wild lands of the coun­try.

These per­sons had just fin­ished their din­ner. Apart from the group walked a young man of a tall and com­pact frame, who moved with the firm and steady tread of one ac­cus­tomed to con­stant ex­er­cise in the open air.

His face wore a look of de­ci­sion and man­li­ness not usu­al­ly found in one so young, for he was but lit­tle over eigh­teen years of age.

Sud­den­ly there was a shriek, then an­oth­er, and then sev­er­al more in rapid suc­ces­sion. The voice was that of a wom­an, and seemed to pro­ceed from the oth­er side of a small piece of wood­ed land.

At the first scream, the youth turned his head in the di­rec­tion of the sound; but when it was re­peat­ed, he pushed aside the un­der­growth and soon dashed in­to an open space on the banks of the stream, where stood a small log-​cab­in.

As the young man broke from the un­der­growth, he saw his com­pan­ions crowd­ed to­geth­er on the banks of the riv­er, while in their midst stood a wom­an, from whom pro­ceed­ed the shrieks he had heard. She was held by two of the men, but was strug­gling to free her­self.

The in­stant the wom­an saw the young man, she ex­claimed, “O sir, you will do some­thing for me! Make them re­lease me. My boy--my poor boy is drown­ing, and they will not let me go!”

“It would be mad­ness; she will jump in­to the riv­er,” said one of the men, “and the rapids would dash her to pieces in a mo­ment!”

The youth had scarce­ly wait­ed for these words; for he re­mem­bered the child, a bold lit­tle boy four years of age, whose beau­ti­ful blue eyes and flax­en ringlets made him a fa­vorite with ev­ery one.

He had been ac­cus­tomed to play in the lit­tle in­clo­sure be­fore the cab­in; but the gate hav­ing been left open, he had stolen out, reached the edge of the bank, and was in the act of look­ing over, when his moth­er saw him.

The shriek she ut­tered on­ly has­tened the ac­ci­dent she feared; for the child, fright­ened at the cry of his moth­er, lost his bal­ance and fell in­to the stream, which here went foam­ing and roar­ing along among rocks and dan­ger­ous rapids.

Sev­er­al of the men ap­proached the edge of the riv­er, and were on the point of spring­ing in af­ter the boy. But the sight of the sharp rocks crowd­ing the chan­nel, the rush and whirl of the wa­ters, and the want of any knowl­edge where to look for the child, de­terred them, and they gave up the en­ter­prise.

Not so with the no­ble youth. His first act was to throw off his coat; next to spring to the edge of the bank. Here he stood for a mo­ment, run­ning his eyes rapid­ly over the scene be­low, tak­ing in with a glance the dif­fer­ent cur­rents and the most dan­ger­ous of the rocks, in or­der to shape his course when in the stream.

He had scarce­ly formed his con­clu­sion, when he saw in the wa­ter a white ob­ject, which he knew was the boy's dress; and then he plunged in­to the wild and roar­ing rapids.

“Thank God, he will save my child!” cried the moth­er; “there he is!--O my boy, my dar­ling boy! How could I leave you!”

Ev­ery one had rushed to the brink of the precipice and were now fol­low­ing with ea­ger eyes the progress of the youth, as the cur­rent bore him on­ward, like a feath­er in the pow­er of a hur­ri­cane.

Now it seemed as if he would be dashed against a pro­ject­ing rock, over which the wa­ter flew in foam, and a whirlpool would drag him in, from whose grasp es­cape would ap­pear im­pos­si­ble.

At times, the cur­rent bore him un­der, and he would be lost to sight; then in a few sec­onds he would come to the sur­face again, though his po­si­tion would be far from where he had dis­ap­peared.

Thus strug­gling amid the rocks and an­gry wa­ters, was the no­ble youth borne on­ward, ea­ger to suc­ceed in his per­ilous un­der­tak­ing. Those on shore looked on with breath­less in­ter­est.

* * * * *

Di­rec­tions for Read­ing.--Point out the _em­phat­ic words_ and mark _in­flec­tion_ in the third para­graph on page 295.[17]

What ef­fect has very strong _em­pha­sis_ up­on _in­flec­tion_? (See _Di­rec­tions for Read­ing_, page 238.)[18]

Should this les­son be read more slow­ly, or some­what faster than con­ver­sa­tion?

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son.--Let pupils fill blanks in the sen­tences giv­en be­low, us­ing in turn, each of the fol­low­ing sets of words:

(1) _saw, knew, was, plunged;_

(2) _sees, knows, is, plunges;_

(3) _per­ceived, thought, was, jumped;_

(4) _per­ceives, thinks, is, jumps;_

(5) _no­ticed, con­clud­ed, was, dived;_

(6) _no­tices, con­cludes, is, dives_.

He ---- in the wa­ter a white ob­ject, which he ---- -- the boy's dress. Then he ---- in­to the roar­ing rapids.

When the first, third, and fifth sets of words are used, the ac­tion is rep­re­sent­ed as some­thing that is past; but when the sec­ond, fourth, and sixth sets are used, the ac­tion is rep­re­sent­ed as go­ing on at the present time.

The forms of _verbs_ (_ac­tion-​words_) which are giv­en in the first, third, and fifth sets are used to in­di­cate past time, and are called _past tens­es_; and the forms giv­en in the sec­ond, fourth, and sixth sets are used to in­di­cate present time, and are called _present tens­es_.

[17] See fifth para­graph from the end of the pas­sage.

[18] See Les­son L.

* * * * *

LES­SON LXII.

e merge', _come out_.

vor'tex, _wa­ter in whirling mo­tion; a whirlpool_.

con fid'ed, _giv­en in­to the care of_.

vis'i ble, _in sight_.

spec ta'tors, _those who look on_.

vent'ured, _dared_.

re ward', _that which is re­ceived in re­turn for one's acts_.

des'ti nies, _lives and for­tunes_.

sup pressed', _kept back_.

re doub'led, _made twice as great_.

* * * * *

ANEC­DOTE OF WASH­ING­TON.

PART II.

O, how that moth­er's strain­ing eyes fol­lowed the strug­gling youth! How her heart sunk when he went un­der, and with what joy she saw him emerge again from the wa­ters, and, fling­ing the waves aside with his strong arms, strug­gle on in pur­suit of her boy!

But it seemed as if his gen­er­ous ef­forts were not to suc­ceed; for, though the cur­rent was bear­ing off the boy be­fore his eyes, scarce­ly ten feet dis­tant, he could not over­take the drown­ing child.

Twice the boy went out of sight; and a sup­pressed shriek es­caped the moth­er's lips; but twice he reap­peared, and then, with hands wrung wild­ly to­geth­er, and breath­less anx­iety, she fol­lowed his progress, as his form was hur­ried on­ward.

The youth now ap­peared to re­dou­ble his ex­er­tions, for they were ap­proach­ing the most dan­ger­ous part of the riv­er.

The rush of wa­ters at this spot was tremen­dous, and no one ven­tured to ap­proach it, even in a ca­noe, lest he should be dashed to pieces.

What, then, would be the youth's fate, un­less he soon over­took the child? He seemed ful­ly sen­si­ble of the in­creas­ing per­il, and now urged his way through the foam­ing cur­rent with a des­per­ate strength. Three times he was on the point of grasp­ing the child, when the wa­ter's whirled the prize from him.

The third ef­fort was made just as they were en­ter­ing with­in the in­flu­ence of the cur­rent above the falls; and when it failed, the moth­er's heart sunk with­in her, and she groaned, ful­ly ex­pect­ing the youth to give up his task.

But no; he on­ly pressed for­ward the more ea­ger­ly; and, as they breath­less­ly watched, amid the boil­ing wa­ters, they saw the form of the youth fol­low­ing close af­ter that of the boy.

And now both pur­suer and pur­sued shot to the brink of the falls. An in­stant they hung there, dis­tinct­ly vis­ible amid the foam­ing wa­ters. Ev­ery brain grew dizzy at the sight.

But a shout burst from the spec­ta­tors, when they saw the child held aloft by the right arm of the youth--a shout that was sud­den­ly changed to a cry of hor­ror, when they both van­ished in­to the rag­ing wa­ters be­low!

The moth­er ran for­ward, and then stood gaz­ing with fixed eyes at the foot of the falls. Sud­den­ly she gave the glad cry, “There they are! See! they are safe! Great God, I thank Thee!”

And, sure enough, there was the youth still un­harmed. He had just emerged from the boil­ing vor­tex be­low the falls. With, one hand he held aloft the child, and with the oth­er he was mak­ing for the shore.

They ran, they shout­ed, they scarce­ly knew what they did, un­til they reached his side, just as he was strug­gling to the bank. They drew him out al­most ex­haust­ed.

The boy was sense­less; but his moth­er de­clared that he still lived, as she pressed him to her bo­som. The youth could scarce­ly stand, so faint was he from his ex­er­tions.

Who can de­scribe the scene that fol­lowed--the moth­er's calm­ness while striv­ing to bring her boy to life, and her wild grat­itude to his pre­serv­er, when the child was out of dan­ger, and sweet­ly sleep­ing in her arms?

“God will give you a re­ward,” said she. “He will do great things for you in re­turn for this day's work, and the bless­ings of thou­sands be­sides mine will at­tend you.”

And so it was: for, to the hero of that hour were af­ter­ward con­fid­ed the des­tinies of a mighty na­tion. Through­out his long ca­reer, what tend­ed to make him hon­ored and re­spect­ed be­yond all men, was the spir­it of self-​sac­ri­fice which, in the res­cue of that moth­er's child, as in the more im­por­tant events of his life, char­ac­ter­ized George Wash­ing­ton.

* * * * *

Di­rec­tions for Read­ing.--Read the first two pages of the les­son qui­et­ly, but not slow­ly. About the mid­dle of page 299, the man­ner of read­ing should be changed, when the feel­ing of anx­iety is turned to that of joy.[19]

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son.--Let pupils rewrite the first para­graph of the les­son, chang­ing _past tens­es_ to _present tens­es_ through­out.

What ef­fect will this change have up­on the mean­ing?

[19] This les­son, sev­enth para­graph from the end.

* * * * *

LES­SON LXI­II

ex ist'ing, _liv­ing_.

mas'sive _large and sol­id_.

hy e'na, _a beast of prey_.

cau'tion, _great care_.

strat'a gem, _a se­cret way; trick_.

de pends', _trusts to_.

mar'vel ous, _won­der­ful_.

jack'al, _a beast of prey_.

pro cure', _ob­tain_.

a dorn', _make beau­ti­ful_.

* * * * *

THE OS­TRICH.

The os­trich is the largest of all birds now ex­ist­ing, and is found chiefly in the sandy deserts of Africa and Ara­bia.

A full-​grown African os­trich stands from sev­en to nine feet in height, to the top of its head, and will weigh from two to three hun­dred pounds.

The body of the os­trich is large and mas­sive; the legs are long, mea­sur­ing four feet or more, and the neck is of about the same length as the legs.

The head is small for so large a bird; but its feet with their two great toes are of good size, and pos­sess as­ton­ish­ing strength.

An os­trich's beak is short and blunt; its neck slen­der and cov­ered with gray down. Its eyes are large and bright, and the sense of sight so keen that it can read­ily see a dis­tance of from four to six miles. It hears and sees equal­ly well, and can on­ly be ap­proached by stratagem.

The feath­ers of the male os­trich are of a glossy black, with the ex­cep­tion of the large plumes of the wing-​feath­ers, which in both the male and fe­male are snowy white.

To pro­cure these beau­ti­ful white plumes is the chief ob­ject in hunt­ing the os­trich. Those plumes when plucked are sent to for­eign coun­tries, and used to adorn ladies' hats, and for var­ious oth­er pur­pos­es.

The os­trich feeds on veg­etable sub­stances; but as an aid to di­ges­tion, it some­times swal­lows stones, glass, pa­per, nails, and pieces of wood.

An in­ci­dent is re­lat­ed of an os­trich on ex­hi­bi­tion in Paris, swal­low­ing a gold watch and chain. A gen­tle­man ap­proached with­in reach of the beak of the bird, and, in the twin­kling of an eye, the watch and chain were snatched from his pock­et and swal­lowed.

Al­though the os­trich has wings, it can not fly--it de­pends up­on its strong legs and feet for speed, and can run much faster than a horse.

The strength of the os­trich is mar­velous. Its on­ly weapon of de­fence is its long and mus­cu­lar leg.

[Il­lus­tra­tion.]

It is ac­cus­tomed to kick di­rect­ly for­ward, and it is said by those who have ob­served this habit, that a sin­gle blow from its gi­gan­tic two-​toed foot is suf­fi­cient to kill a pan­ther, a jack­al, or a hye­na.

No bet­ter idea of its strength can be giv­en than the fact of its be­ing em­ployed for rid­ing. A trav­el­er, writ­ing about two os­trich­es he saw in a vil­lage in Africa, says:

"These gi­gan­tic birds were so tame that two boys mount­ed to­geth­er the larg­er one. The os­trich no soon­er felt their weight, than it start­ed off at full speed and car­ried them sev­er­al times around the vil­lage.

"This tri­al pleased me so much that I wished to have it re­peat­ed; and in or­der to test their strength, I had a full-​grown man mount the small­er bird, and two men the larg­er bird.

“At first, they start­ed with cau­tion; but present­ly they spread their wings and went off at such a speed that they seemed scarce­ly to touch the ground.”

The voice of the os­trich is deep and hol­low, and is said to re­sem­ble at times the roar of the li­on. The bird fre­quent­ly makes a kind of cack­ling noise, and when en­raged at an en­emy, it hiss­es very loud­ly.

Os­trich­es make their nests in the sand. One fe­male will, in a sin­gle sea­son, lay from twen­ty to thir­ty eggs, weigh­ing about three pounds each.

Most of these she places in the nest, stand­ing them on one end; but some of them are left out­side of the nest as food for her young when they are hatched.

The na­tives of Africa are very fond of os­trich eggs, us­ing them for food. In tak­ing the eggs, they ex­er­cise great cau­tion; for should the birds dis­cov­er them, they would break all the eggs and leave the nest.

Young os­trich­es are read­ily tamed. Some fam­ilies in Africa keep them as we do chick­ens. They play with chil­dren, sleep in the hous­es, and when a fam­ily moves, the os­trich­es fol­low the camels, fre­quent­ly car­ry­ing the chil­dren on their backs.

With­in the past few years, os­trich­es have been brought to this coun­try; and places called os­trich farms have been es­tab­lished in Cal­ifor­nia and oth­er States, for the pur­pose of rais­ing them for their feath­ers.

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son.--Let pupils point out any points that are omit­ted from the fol­low­ing

Anal­ysis.--1. Where the os­trich lives. 2. Its size and ap­pear­ance--body, head, neck, eyes, feath­ers, and plumes. 3. Its food. 4. An in­ci­dent. 5. Its speed. 6. Its strength,--leg and foot. 7. Rid­ing os­trich­es. 8. Voice of os­trich. 9. Nests and habits of the birds. 10. Os­trich­es in this coun­try.

Change such points as may be found nec­es­sary, and use the _anal­ysis_ in de­scrib­ing some well-​known bird.

* * * * *

LES­SON LX­IV.

plead, _urge as a rea­son_.

breach, _a break­ing, as of a promise_.

re buke', _call at­ten­tion to wrong-​do­ing_.

strew, _spread; scat­ter_.

chide, _find fault with_.

re sent'nent, _anger on ac­count of an in­jury_.

un a vail'ing, _use­less; not help­ing in any way_.

jus'tice, _hon­esty; what is right_.

* * * * *

TO-​DAY AND TO-​MOR­ROW.

If For­tune, with a smil­ing face, Strew ros­es on our way, When shall we stoop to pick them up?-- To-​day, my friend, to-​day. But should she frown with face of care, And talk of com­ing sor­row, When shall we grieve, if grieve we must?-- To-​mor­row, friend, to-​mor­row.

If those who have wronged us own their fault, And kind­ly pity pray, When shall we lis­ten and for­give?-- To-​day, my friend, to-​day. But if stern jus­tice urge re­buke, And warmth from mem­ory bor­row, When shall we chide, if chide we dare?-- To-​mor­row, friend, to-​mor­row.

If those to whom we owe a debt Are harmed un­less we pay, When shall we strug­gle to be just?-- To-​day, my friend, to-​day. But if our debtor fail our hope, And plead his ru­in thor­ough, When shall we weigh his breach of faith?-- To-​mor­row, friend, to-​mor­row.

For vir­tu­ous acts and harm­less joys The min­utes will not stay;-- We have al­ways time to wel­come them To-​day, my friend, to-​day. But care, re­sent­ment, an­gry words, And un­avail­ing sor­row, Come far too soon, if they ap­pear To-​mor­row, friend, to-​mor­row.

* * * * *

Di­rec­tions for Read­ing.--Let some pupil in the class state the man­ner in which the les­son should be read.

What is the ef­fect of re­peat­ing the words _to-​day_ and _to-​mor­row_, in the fourth and eighth lines of each stan­za?

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son.--Let pupils give the mean­ing of each stan­za in their own words.

_Warmth from mem­ory bor­row_ means be­come more an­gry when we re­mem­ber our own acts of kind­ness to­ward the per­son now do­ing us in­jury.

Ex­plain the mean­ing of the fol­low­ing ex­pres­sions.

_Strew ros­es on our way._

_Breach of faith._

* * * * *

LES­SON LXV.

ref'uge, _a place of safe­ty_.

fo'li age, _leaves and branch­es of trees or shrubs_.

op pressed', _heav­ily bur­dened_.

be tray', _give in­for­ma­tion to an en­emy_.

con trived', _man­aged; ar­ranged_.

rec'og nized, _knew by see­ing_.

ren'der, _give; make_.

im'mi nent, _close by; threat­en­ing_.

com pel', _make one do any thing_.

cav'al ry, _sol­diers mount­ed on hors­es_.

false, _not true; un­re­al_.

re spond'ed, _an­swered; replied_.

* * * * *

AN IN­CI­DENT OF THE REV­OLU­TION.

Dur­ing the Rev­olu­tion­ary War, when the Amer­ican peo­ple were fight­ing for in­de­pen­dence, a gov­er­nor of one of the colonies found him­self in great dan­ger of be­ing cap­tured by British sol­diers.

The gov­er­nor, whose name was Gris­wold, con­trived to reach the house of a rel­ative, and while there, was in­formed that the sol­diers had dis­cov­ered his place of refuge and were then on their way to seize him.

Gris­wold at once re­al­iz­ing that his per­il was im­mi­nent, de­ter­mined, if pos­si­ble, to reach a small stream, where he had left a boat so hid­den, by the fo­liage that it could not be seen from the road.

In great haste and ex­cite­ment, he left the house and pro­ceed­ed in the di­rec­tion of the riv­er. Pass­ing through an or­chard, he en­coun­tered a young girl about twelve years old. She was watch­ing some pieces of linen cloth which were stretched out on the grass for the pur­pose of bleach­ing.

Het­ty--that was the girl's name--was seat­ed un­der a tree with her knit­ting, and had near her a pail of wa­ter, from which she oc­ca­sion­al­ly sprin­kled the cloths to keep them damp.

She start­ed up and was some­what fright­ened when she saw a man leap­ing over the fence; but soon rec­og­nized him to be her cousin.

“O, is it you, cousin!” ex­claimed Het­ty; “you fright­ened me--where are you go­ing?”

“Het­ty,” he replied, “the sol­diers are seek­ing for me, and I shall lose my life, un­less I can reach the boat be­fore they come. I want you to run down to­ward the shore and meet them.”

“They will sure­ly ask for me; and then you must tell them that I have gone up the road to catch the mail-​cart, and they will turn off the oth­er way.”

“But, cousin, how can I say so?--it would not be true. O, why did you tell me which way you were go­ing?”

“Would you be­tray me, Het­ty, and see me put to death? Hark! they are com­ing. I hear the clink of their hors­es' feet. Tell them I have gone up the road and Heav­en will bless you.”

“Those who speak false words will nev­er be hap­py,” said Het­ty. “But they shall not com­pel me to tell which way you go, even if they kill me--so run as fast as you can.”

“I am afraid it is too late to run, Het­ty; where can I hide my­self?”

“Be quick, cousin. Get down and lie un­der this cloth; I will throw it over you and go on sprin­kling the linen.”

“I will do it, for it is my last chance.”

He was soon con­cealed un­der the heavy folds of the long cloth. A few min­utes af­ter­ward, a par­ty of cav­al­ry dashed along the road. An of­fi­cer saw the girl and called out to her in a loud voice--

“Have you seen a man run this way?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Het­ty.

“Which way did he go?”

“I promised not to tell, sir.”

“But you must tell me this in­stant; or it will be worse for you.”

“I will not tell, for I must keep my word.”

“Let me ques­tion her, for I think I know the child,” said a man who was guide to the par­ty. “Is your name Het­ty Mar­vin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Per­haps the man who ran past you was your cousin?”

“Yes, sir, he was.”

“Well, we wish to speak with him. What did he say to you when, he came by?”

“He told me that he had to run to save his life.”

“Just so--that was quite true. I hope he will not have far to run. Where was he go­ing to hide him­self?”

“My cousin said that he would go to the riv­er to find a boat, and he want­ed me to tell the men in search of him that he had gone the oth­er way to meet the mail-​cart.”

“You are a good girl, Het­ty, and we know you speak the truth. What did your cousin say when he heard that you could not tell a lie to save his life?”

“He asked, would I be­tray him and see him put to death?”

“And you said you would not tell, if you were killed for it.”

Poor Het­ty's tears fell fast as she re­spond­ed, “Yes, sir.”

“Those were brave words, and I sup­pose he thanked you and ran down the road as fast as he could?”

“I promised not to tell which way he went, sir.”

“O yes, I for­got; but tell me his last words, and I will not trou­ble you any more.”

“He said, 'I will do it, for it is my last chance.'”

Het­ty was now op­pressed with great fear; she sobbed aloud, and hid her face in her apron. The sol­diers thought they had ob­tained all the in­for­ma­tion they could, and rode off to­ward the riv­er-​side.

While Gris­wold lay hid­den at the farm, he had agreed up­on a sig­nal with his boat­men, that if in trou­ble he would put a white cloth by day, or a light at night, in the at­tic win­dow of his place of con­ceal­ment. When ei­ther sig­nal was seen, the men were to be on the watch, ready to ren­der him as­sis­tance in case of need.

No soon­er had the sol­diers rid­den away, than Gris­wold's friends in the house hung out a white cloth from the win­dow, to warn the boat­men, who then pulled out to sea.

The boat, with two men in it, was near­ly out of sight by the time the sol­diers reached the shore, and this caused them to con­clude that Gris­wold had ef­fect­ed his es­cape.

Mean­time he lay safe and qui­et un­til the time came for Het­ty to go home to sup­per. Then he re­quest­ed her to go and ask her moth­er to put the sig­nal-​lamp in the win­dow as it grew dark, and send him clothes and food. The sig­nal was seen, the boat re­turned, and Gris­wold made his way to it in safe­ty.

In bet­ter days, when the war was over, and peace de­clared, he named one of his daugh­ters Het­ty Mar­vin, that he might dai­ly think of the brave young cousin whose sense and truth-​speak­ing had saved his life.

* * * * *

LES­SON LXVI.

con sume', _use en­tire­ly; ex­haust_.

cul ti va'tion, _at­tend­ing to the growth of plants_.

ex'ports, _the prod­ucts of a coun­try which are sold to oth­er coun­tries_

trans por ta'tion, _car­ry­ing_.

o'val, _shaped like an egg_.

prin'ci pal, _chief; that which is most im­por­tant_.

es'ti mat ed, _stat­ed in re­gard to quan­ti­ty_.

se lect'ed, _cho­sen; picked out_.

ter'mi nates, _comes to an end_.

* * * * *

TROP­ICAL FRUITS.

Those who have not vis­it­ed trop­ical coun­tries, can scarce­ly imag­ine the won­ders of their veg­eta­tion. There is noth­ing in the north­ern half of the Unit­ed States, with which to com­pare the rich­ness of the veg­etable growth of the trop­ics.

In the South­ern States of our Union, as well as in Mex­ico and Cen­tral Amer­ica, there are found many of the same plants and trees that grow in coun­tries ly­ing still near­er the equa­tor.

The var­ious kinds of fruits which grow in these coun­tries, form a very large por­tion of the ex­ports. Among those that are most com­mon­ly sent to us, are ba­nanas, or­anges, lemons, dates, co­coa-​nuts, and figs.

In coun­tries where the ba­nana grows most abun­dant­ly, no ar­ti­cle of food which the na­tives can ob­tain, re­quires so lit­tle trou­ble in its cul­ti­va­tion.

One has on­ly to set out a few ba­nana sprouts, and await the re­sult. In a short time, a juicy stem shoots up to the height of fif­teen or twen­ty feet.

It is formed of noth­ing more than a num­ber of leaf stalks rolled one over the oth­er, and grows some­times to a thick­ness of two feet.

Two gi­gan­tic leaves grow out from the top, ten feet long and two feet broad. They are so very thin and ten­der that a light wind splits them in­to rib­bons.

From the cen­ter of the leaves a very strong stalk ris­es up, which sup­ports the clus­ter of ba­nanas. There are some­times over one hun­dred ba­nanas to a sin­gle stalk.

A clus­ter of ripe ba­nanas will weigh from six­ty to sev­en­ty pounds, and rep­re­sents a large amount of food. When a stalk has pro­duced and ripened its fruit, it be­gins to with­er and soon dies.

In a very short time, how­ev­er, new sprouts spring up from the old root, and ere long the na­tive has an­oth­er clus­ter. So rapid­ly do they fol­low each oth­er, that one clus­ter is scarce­ly con­sumed be­fore an­oth­er one is ready to ripen.

Ba­nanas ripened on the stalk will not bear trans­porta­tion to any great dis­tance; there­fore, when se­lect­ed for ex­port, the clus­ters are cut off while the ba­nanas are very green.

An­oth­er valu­able fruit of the trop­ics is the date. This fruit grows on a tree called the date-​palm, that is found in both Asia and Africa.

The date-​palm is a ma­jes­tic tree, ris­ing to the height of six­ty feet or more, with­out branch­es, and with a trunk of uni­form thick­ness through­out its en­tire length.

It be­gins to bear fruit about eight years af­ter it has been plant­ed, and con­tin­ues to be pro­duc­tive from sev­en­ty to one hun­dred years.

Dates are oval in shape, and have a long sol­id stone. They form the prin­ci­pal food of the in­hab­itants of some of the east­ern coun­tries, and are an im­por­tant ar­ti­cle of com­merce.

When they are per­fect­ly ripe, they pos­sess a de­light­ful per­fume, and are very agree­able to the taste.

In prepar­ing dates to be sent to dis­tant coun­tries, they are gath­ered a short time be­fore they are quite ripe, dried in the sun on mats, and fi­nal­ly packed in box­es or straw sacks.

Trav­el­ers in the deserts of Africa, of­ten car­ry dried dates with them for their chief food, dur­ing a jour­ney of hun­dreds of miles.

The Arabs grind dried dates in­to a pow­der which they call date flour. If this is packed away in a dry place, it will keep for years, and on­ly has to be moist­ened with a lit­tle wa­ter to pre­pare it for eat­ing.

One of the most valu­able and pro­duc­tive of trop­ical trees is the co­coa-​nut palm. It grows large­ly in both the East and West In­dies, and else­where through­out the tor­rid zone.

It ris­es to a height of from six­ty to one hun­dred feet, and ter­mi­nates in a crown, of grace­ful, wav­ing leaves. Some of these leaves reach a length of twen­ty feet, and have the ap­pear­ance of gi­gan­tic feath­ers.

The fruit con­sists of a thick out­ward husk of a fi­brous struc­ture, and with­in this, is the or­di­nary co­coa-​nut of com­merce.

The shell of the nut is hard and woody, and a lit­tle over a quar­ter of an inch in thick­ness. Next to this shell is the ker­nel, which is al­so a shell about half an inch thick, and com­posed of a white sub­stance very pleas­ant to the taste. With­in this white eat­able shell, is a milky liq­uid, called co­coa-​nut milk.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

The co­coa-​nut is very use­ful to the na­tives of the re­gions in which it grows. The nuts sup­ply a large por­tion of their food, and the milky flu­id in­closed with­in, forms a pleas­ant and re­fresh­ing drink.

The shell of the nut is made in­to cups, and from the ker­nel, co­coa-​nut oil is pressed out and large­ly used in mak­ing soap and for oth­er pur­pos­es.

In Cey­lon, the tree is cul­ti­vat­ed ex­ten­sive­ly. It is es­ti­mat­ed that there are twen­ty mil­lion trees in that is­land, and that each tree pro­duces about six­ty nuts year­ly. The wealth of a na­tive is based up­on the num­ber of co­coa-​nut palms he owns.

An­oth­er well-​known trop­ical fruit is the fig, which grows on a bush or small tree about eigh­teen or twen­ty feet high.

The fig-​tree is now cul­ti­vat­ed in all the Mediter­ranean coun­tries, but the larg­er por­tion of the Amer­ican sup­ply comes from west­ern Asia and the south of France.

The va­ri­eties are ex­treme­ly nu­mer­ous, and the fruit is of var­ious col­ors, from deep pur­ple to yel­low, or near­ly white.

The trees usu­al­ly bear two crops--one in the ear­ly sum­mer, the oth­er in the au­tumn.

When ripe, the figs are picked and spread out to dry in the sun. Thus pre­pared, the fruit is packed close­ly in bar­rels, bas­kets, or wood­en box­es, for com­merce.

Or­anges and lemons are cul­ti­vat­ed in near­ly all warm coun­tries. They grow on trees some­what small­er than ap­ple trees, and must be picked for ex­port while they are hard and green.

They ripen dur­ing trans­porta­tion, so that green or­anges put up and sent to us from Sici­ly or oth­er dis­tant points, change to a gold­en yel­low col­or by the time they reach us.

Or­anges are grown large­ly in Flori­da and Louisiana, ex­ten­sive or­ange or­chards be­ing fre­quent­ly met with in trav­el­ing through those States. The or­anges grown there are con­sid­ered very choice, and are gen­er­al­ly sweet­er than those brought from Italy.

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son.--De­fine the fol­low­ing words, giv­ing the mean­ing of each part as in­di­cat­ed by hy­phens: _ex-​port-​ing, un-​com­mon-​ly, dis-​trust-​ful, pro-​vid-​ing, un-​bear-​able, un-​hope-​ful_.

The syl­la­bles _placed be­fore_ a stem are called _pre­fix­es_; those _placed af­ter_ a stem, _suf­fix­es_.

The words _shall_ and _will_ are used to in­di­cate _fu­ture time_; as, I shall go; you will go; he will go.

The three tens­es of an ac­tion may in a gen­er­al way be rep­re­sent­ed by the words _yes­ter­day, to-​day_, and _to-​mor­row_.

Let pupils fill blanks in the fol­low­ing state­ments, and state the tense of each ac­tion.

We ---- go to see them next week.

John ---- last night.

You and I ---- in school at the present time.

* * * * *

LES­SON LXVII.

found'ed, _es­tab­lished; placed_.

gar'ri son, _sol­diers sta­tioned in a fort or town_.

strode, _walked with long steps_.

coun'cil, _a num­ber of men called to­geth­er for ad­vice_.

in cit'ing, _mov­ing to ac­tion_.

de vot'ed, _very much at­tached_.

de feat'ed, _over­come_.

cul'ture, _a high state of knowl­edge_.

or'na ment ed, _adorned_.

wam'pum, _shells used by the In­di­ans as mon­ey or for or­na­ment_.

fan tas'tic, _wild; ir­reg­ular_.

* * * * *

THE STO­RY OF DE­TROIT.

The ear­ly his­to­ry of De­troit is high­ly ro­man­tic. It was found­ed in 1701 as a mil­itary colony.

It soon be­came one of the most im­por­tant of the west­ern out­posts of Cana­da, and as the French and In­di­ans were usu­al­ly on the most friend­ly terms, the colony for a long time ex­ist­ed in a state of hap­pi­ness and con­tent­ment.

At the close of the French War, De­troit con­tained over two thou­sand in­hab­itants. Cana­di­an dwellings with their love­ly gar­dens lined the banks of the riv­er for miles.

With­in the lim­its of the set­tle­ment were sev­er­al In­di­an vil­lages. Here the light-​heart­ed French-​Cana­di­an smoked his pipe and told his sto­ry, and the friend­ly In­di­an sup­plied him with game and joined in his mer­ry-​mak­ing.

In the year 1760, De­troit was tak­en pos­ses­sion of by the En­glish. The In­di­ans hat­ed the En­glish, as much as they had loved the French.

Pon­ti­ac, the rul­ing spir­it of the forests at this time, was a most pow­er­ful and states­man­like chief. When he found that his friends, the French, had lost their pow­er, he sought to unite the In­di­an tribes against the En­glish colonies, and to de­stroy the En­glish gar­ri­son at De­troit by strat­egy.

He was chief of the Ot­tawas, but pos­sessed great in­flu­ence over sev­er­al oth­er tribes. Pon­ti­ac be­lieved, and that tru­ly, that the es­tab­lish­ment of En­glish colonies would be fa­tal to the in­ter­ests of the In­di­an race.

He strode through the forests like a gi­ant, in­cit­ing the tribes to war. He urged a union of all the In­di­an na­tions from the lakes to the Mis­sis­sip­pi for the com­mon de­fense of the race.

There lived near De­troit a beau­ti­ful In­di­an girl, called Catharine. The En­glish com­man­der, Glad­wyn, was pleased with her, and showed her many fa­vors, and she formed a warm friend­ship for him.

One love­ly day in May, this girl came to the fort and brought Glad­wyn a pair of elk-​skin moc­casins. She ap­peared very sad.

“Catharine,” said Glad­wyn, “what trou­bles you to-​day?”

She did not an­swer at once. There was a silent strug­gle go­ing on in her heart. She had formed a strong at­tach­ment for the white peo­ple, and she was al­so de­vot­ed to her own race.

“To-​mor­row,” she said at length, "Pon­ti­ac will come to the fort with six­ty of his chiefs. Each will be armed with a gun, which will be cut short and hid­den un­der his blan­ket. The chief will ask to hold a coun­cil. He will then make a speech, and of­fer a belt of wampum as a peace-​of­fer­ing.

“As soon as he holds up the belt, the chiefs will spring up and shoot the of­fi­cers, and the In­di­ans out­side will at­tack the En­glish. Ev­ery En­glish­man will be killed. The French in­hab­itants will be spared.”

Glad­wyn made im­me­di­ate prepa­ra­tions to avoid the dan­ger which threat­ened them. The sol­diers were put un­der arms. Or­ders were giv­en to have them drawn up in line on the ar­rival of the In­di­ans the fol­low­ing day.

The next morn­ing In­di­an ca­noes ap­proached the fort from the east­ern shores. They con­tained Pon­ti­ac and his six­ty chiefs. At ten o'clock the chiefs marched to the fort, in fan­tas­tic pro­ces­sion. Each wore a col­ored blan­ket, and was paint­ed, plumed, or in some way gai­ly or­na­ment­ed.

As Pon­ti­ac en­tered the fort, a glance showed him that his plot was dis­cov­ered. He passed in amaze­ment through glit­ter­ing rows of steel, he made a speech, ex­press­ing friend­ship; but he did not dare to lift the wampum belt which was to have been the sig­nal for at­tack. He was al­lowed to de­part peace­ably.

When he found that his plot had been dis­cov­ered, his anger knew no bounds. He gath­ered his war­riors from ev­ery hand and laid siege to De­troit. He was de­feat­ed, and with his de­feat end­ed the pow­er of the In­di­an tribes in the re­gion of the Up­per Lakes.

De­troit be­came an En­glish town, and af­ter­ward an Amer­ican city. She has gath­ered to her­self the wealth of the fer­tile re­gions which lie around her, as well as the com­merce of the broad in­land seas on ei­ther hand. To-​day she has more than one hun­dred and twen­ty thou­sand in­hab­itants, and is fa­mous for her wealth and cul­ture.

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son.--Let pupils re­view, as a writ­ten ex­er­cise, the spelling of the fol­low­ing words.

trea­sure rheuma­tism group des­per­ate re­lease mis­chievous cour­tesy sep­arate weary ap­proach re­dou­bled veg­etable stealthy cau­tion mighty stratagem peas­ants ex­haust­ed fort­night spec­ta­tor con­cealed draughts knowl­edge nec­es­sary freight guid­ance flick­er­ing par­tic­ular

In the sen­tences giv­en be­low, change the verbs so as to rep­re­sent the ac­tion as com­plet­ed.

“The chiefs march to the fort in fan­tas­tic pro­ces­sion. They find that their plot is dis­cov­ered. Pon­ti­ac im­me­di­ate­ly gath­ers his war­riors from ev­ery hand, and lays siege to De­troit. He is de­feat­ed, and with his de­feat, the pow­er of the In­di­an tribes is at an end.”

In the last two sen­tences, change the verbs so as to rep­re­sent fu­ture time.

Let pupils make out an _anal­ysis_ and use it in treat­ing the sub­ject--

_The town (or city) that I live in._

_Sug­ges­tion_.--In­clude the lo­ca­tion and ear­ly his­to­ry of the town. Its present pop­ula­tion. Its dif­fer­ent man­ufac­tures. How to get to it. Its chief points of in­ter­est to a stranger. Anec­dotes.

* * * * *

LES­SON LXVI­II.

heave, _raise; lift_.

mack'er el, _a fish spot­ted with blue, and large­ly used for food_.

con geals', _freezes; grows hard from cold_.

ant'lers, _branch­ing horns_.

a main', _sud­den­ly; at once_.

lurks, _lies hid­den_.

reels, _frames for wind­ing fish­ing lines_.

teem'ing, _con­tain­ing in abun­dance_.

car'i bou, _a kind of rein­deer_.

Mick'mack, _a tribe of In­di­ans_.

* * * * *

THE FISH­ER­MEN.

Hur­ra! the sea­ward breezes Sweep down the bay amain; Heave up, my lads, the an­chor! Run up the sail again! Leave to the lub­ber lands­men The rail-​car and the steed; The stars of heav­en shall guide us The breath of heav­en shall speed.

From the hill-​top looks the steeple, And the light-​house from the sand; And the scat­tered pines are wav­ing Their farewell from the land. One glance, my lads, be­hind us, For the homes we leave, one sigh, Ere we take the change and chances Of the ocean and the sky.

Where in mist the rock is hid­ing, And the sharp reef lurks be­low, And the white squall smites in sum­mer, And the au­tumn tem­pests blow; Where, through gray and rolling va­por, From evening un­to morn, A thou­sand boats are hail­ing, Horn an­swer­ing un­to horn.

Hur­ra! for the Red Is­land, With the white cross on its crown! Hur­ra! for Mec­ca­ti­na, And its moun­tains bare and brown! Where the cari­bou's tall antlers O'er the dwarf-​wood freely toss, And the foot­steps of the Mick­mack Have no sound up­on the moss.

There we'll drop our lines, and gath­er Old ocean's trea­sures in, Where'er the mot­tled mack­er­el Turns up a steel-​dark fin. The sea's our field of har­vest, Its scaly tribes our grain; We'll reap the teem­ing wa­ters As at home they reap the plain.

Though the mist up­on our jack­ets In the bit­ter air con­geals, And our lines wind stiff and slow­ly From off the frozen reels; Though the fog be dark around us, And the storm blow high and loud, We will whis­tle down the wild wind, And laugh be­neath the cloud!

Hur­ra!--Hur­ra!--the west wind Comes fresh­en­ing down the bay, The ris­ing sails are fill­ing-- Give way, my lads, give way! Leave the cow­ard lands­man cling­ing To the dull earth like a weed-- The stars of heav­en shall guide us, The breath of heav­en shall speed!

* * * * *

Di­rec­tions for Read­ing.--Let some pupil in the class state in what man­ner the les­son should be read.

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son.--Change the verbs through­out the sixth stan­za so as to rep­re­sent past ac­tion.

Give the time in­di­cat­ed in the fol­low­ing sen­tences.

I _am think­ing_ about it. I _am go­ing_ to-​mor­row.

As _verb-​forms_ do not al­ways de­ter­mine the _time of an ac­tion_, we must call an ac­tion _past, present_, or _fu­ture_, in ac­cor­dance with the mean­ing in­di­cat­ed by the verb.

* * * * *

LES­SON LX­IX.

op er a'tions, _ways of work­ing; deeds_.

e vap'o rat ed, _has the mois­ture tak­en from it_.

au'ger, _a tool used in bor­ing holes_.

shan'ty, _a hut; a poor dwelling_.

e nor'mous, _of very large size_.

su per in tend'ing, _di­rect­ing; tak­ing care of_.

an nounce', _give first no­tice of; make known_.

de li'cious, _af­ford­ing great plea­sure, es­pe­cial­ly to the taste_.

de'tails, _small parts of any thing_.

clar'i fied, _made clear or pure_.

* * * * *

MAK­ING MAPLE SUG­AR.

PART I.

There is no part of farm­ing that a boy en­joys more than the mak­ing of maple sug­ar; it is bet­ter than “black­ber­ry­ing,” and near­ly as good as fish­ing.

And one rea­son he likes this work is that some­body else does the most of it. It is a sort of work in which he can ap­pear to be very ac­tive, and yet not do much.

In my day maple-​sug­ar-​mak­ing used to be some­thing be­tween pic­nick­ing and be­ing ship­wrecked on a fer­tile is­land, where one should save from the wreck, tubs and augers, and great ket­tles and pork, and hen's-​eggs and rye-​and-​in­di­an bread, and be­gin at once to lead the sweet­est life in the world.

I am told that it is some­thing dif­fer­ent nowa­days, and that there is more de­sire to save the sap, and make good, pure sug­ar, and sell it for a large price.

I am told that it is the cus­tom to care­ful­ly col­lect the sap and bring it to the house, where there are built brick arch­es, over which it is evap­orat­ed in shal­low pans, and that pains are tak­en to keep the leaves, sticks, ash­es and coals out of it, and that the sug­ar is clar­ified.

In short, that it is a mon­ey-​mak­ing busi­ness, in which there is very lit­tle fun, and that the boy is not al­lowed to dip his pad­dle in­to the ket­tle of boil­ing sug­ar and lick off the de­li­cious syrup.

As I re­mem­ber, the coun­try boy used to be on the look­out in the spring for the sap to be­gin run­ning. I think he dis­cov­ered it as soon as any­body.

Per­haps he knew it by a feel­ing of some­thing start­ing in his own veins--a sort of spring stir in his legs and arms, which tempt­ed him to stand on his head, or throw a hand­spring, if he could find a spot of ground from which the snow had melt­ed.

The sap stirs ear­ly in the legs of a coun­try boy, and shows it­self in un­easi­ness in the toes, which, get tired of boots, and want to come out and touch the soil just as soon as the sun has warmed it a lit­tle.

The coun­try boy goes bare­foot just as nat­ural­ly as the trees burst their buds, which were packed and var­nished over in the fall to keep the wa­ter and the frost out.

Per­haps the boy has been out dig­ging in­to the maple-​trees with his jack-​knife; at any rate, he is pret­ty sure to an­nounce the dis­cov­ery as he comes run­ning in­to the house in a state of great ex­cite­ment, with “Sap's run­nin'!”

And then, in­deed, the stir and ex­cite­ment be­gin. The sap-​buck­ets, which have been stored in the wood-​house, are brought down and set out on the south side of the house and scald­ed.

The snow is still a foot or more deep in the woods, and the ox-​sled is got out to make a road to the sug­ar camp. The boy is ev­ery-​where present, su­per­in­tend­ing ev­ery thing, ask­ing ques­tions, and filled with a de­sire to help the ex­cite­ment.

It is a great day when the cart is load­ed with the buck­ets, and the pro­ces­sion starts in­to the woods. The sun shines bright­ly; the snow is soft and be­gin­ning to sink down; the snow-​birds are twit­ter­ing about, and the noise of shout­ing and of the blows of the axe echoes far and wide.

In the first place the men go about and tap the trees, drive in the spouts, and hang the buck­ets un­der. The boy watch­es all these op­er­ations with the great­est in­ter­est.

He wish­es that some time when a hole is bored in­to a tree that the sap would spout out in a stream, as it does when a cider-​bar­rel is tapped.

But it nev­er does, it on­ly drops, some­times al­most in a stream, but on the whole slow­ly, and the boy learns that the sweet things of the world have to be pa­tient­ly wait­ed for, and do not usu­al­ly come oth­er­wise than drop by drop.

Then the camp is to be cleared of snow. The shan­ty is re-​cov­ered with boughs. In front of it two enor­mous logs are rolled near­ly to­geth­er, and a fire is built be­tween them.

Forked sticks are set at each end, and a long pole is laid on them, and on this are hung the great iron ket­tles. The huge hogsheads are turned right side up, and cleaned out to re­ceive the sap that is gath­ered.

The great fire that is kin­dled is nev­er al­lowed to go out, night or day, so long as the sea­son lasts. Some­body is al­ways cut­ting wood to feed it; some­body is busy most of the time gath­er­ing in the sap.

Some­body is re­quired to watch the ket­tles that they do not boil over, and to fill them. It is not the boy, how­ev­er; he is too busy with things in gen­er­al to be of any use in de­tails.

He has his own lit­tle sap-​yoke and small pails, with which he gath­ers the sweet liq­uid. He has a lit­tle boil­ing-​place of his own, with small logs and a tiny ket­tle.

* * * * *

Di­rec­tions for Read­ing.--In the sec­ond line of the les­son, af­ter the word _more_, a pause should be made for the pur­pose of giv­ing spe­cial ef­fect to the words which fol­low. This is called a _rhetor­ical pause_.

In the third and fourth lines, point out the _rhetor­ical paus­es_.

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son.--Let some pupil ex­plain the mean­ing of the third para­graph of the les­son.

Change the verbs in the last para­graph so as to in­di­cate _fu­ture time_.

* * * * *

LES­SON LXX.

grim'y, _dirty_.

re al i za'tion, _the act of com­ing true_.

in vent'ed, _found out; con­trived_.

per mit'ted, _al­lowed_.

dis solved', _melt­ed; bro­ken up_.

a vid'i ty, _ea­ger­ness_.

re duced', _made small­er in quan­ti­ty_.

sen sa'tion, _feel­ing_.

crys'tal lize, _change in­to hard par­ti­cles of a reg­ular shape_.

* * * * *

MAK­ING MAPLE SUG­AR.

PART II.

In the great ket­tles the boil­ing of the sap goes on slow­ly, and the liq­uid, as it thick­ens, is dipped from one to an­oth­er, un­til in the end ket­tle it is re­duced to syrup, and is tak­en out to cool and set­tle, un­til enough is made to “sug­ar off.”

To “sug­ar off” is to boil the syrup un­til it is thick enough to crys­tal­lize in­to sug­ar. This is the grand event, and is on­ly done once in two or three days.

But the boy's de­sire is to “sug­ar off” all the time. He boils his ket­tle down as rapid­ly as pos­si­ble; he is not par­tic­ular about chips, scum, or ash­es.

He is apt to burn his sug­ar; but if he can get enough to make a lit­tle wax on the snow, or to scrape from the bot­tom of the ket­tle with his wood­en pad­dle, he is hap­py.

A great deal is wast­ed on his hands, and the out­side of his face, and on his clothes, but he does not care; he is not stingy.

To watch the op­er­ations of the big fire gives him con­stant plea­sure. Some­times he is left to watch the boil­ing ket­tles, with a piece of pork tied on the end of a stick, which he dips in­to the boil­ing mass when it threat­ens to go over.

He is con­stant­ly tast­ing of it, how­ev­er, to see if it is not al­most syrup. He has a long, round stick, whit­tled smooth at one end, which he us­es for this pur­pose, at the con­stant risk of burn­ing his tongue.

The smoke blows in his face; he is grimy with ash­es; he is al­to­geth­er such a mass of dirt, stick­iness, and sweet­ness, that his own moth­er wouldn't know him.

He likes to boil eggs with the hired man in the hot sap; he likes to roast pota­toes in the ash­es, and he would live in the camp day and night if he were per­mit­ted.

To sleep there with the men, and awake in the night and hear the wind in the trees, and see the sparks fly up to the sky, is a per­fect re­al­iza­tion of all the sto­ries of ad­ven­tures he has ev­er read.

He tells the oth­er boys af­ter­ward that he heard some­thing in the night that sound­ed very much like a bear. The hired man says that he was very much scared by the hoot­ing of an owl.

The great oc­ca­sions for the boy, though, are the times of “sug­ar­ing off.” Some­times this used to be done in the evening, and it was made the ex­cuse for a frol­ic in the camp.

The neigh­bors were in­vit­ed; some­times even the pret­ty girls from the vil­lage, who filled all the woods with their sweet voic­es and mer­ry laugh­ter, were there, too.

The tree branch­es all show dis­tinct­ly in the light of the fire, which lights up the bough shan­ty, the hogsheads, the buck­ets on the trees, and the group about the boil­ing ket­tles, un­til the scene is like some­thing tak­en out of a fairy play.

At these sug­ar par­ties ev­ery one was ex­pect­ed to eat as much sug­ar as pos­si­ble; and those who are prac­ticed in it can eat a great deal.

It is a pe­cu­liar fact about eat­ing warm maple sug­ar, that though you may eat so much of it one day as to be sick, you will want it the next day more than ev­er.

At the “sug­ar­ing off” they used to pour the hot sug­ar up­on the snow, where it con­gealed in­to a sort of wax, which I sup­pose is the most de­li­cious sub­stance that was ev­er in­vent­ed. And it takes a great while to eat it.

If you should close your teeth firm­ly on a lump of it, you would be un­able to open your mouth un­til it dis­solved. The sen­sa­tion while it is melt­ing is very pleas­ant, but it will not do to try to talk, for you can not.

The boy used to make a big lump of it and give it to the dog, who seized it with great avid­ity, and closed his jaws on it, as dogs will on any thing.

It was fun­ny the next mo­ment to see the ex­pres­sion of per­fect sur­prise on the dog's face when he found that he could not open his jaws.

He shook his head; he sat down in de­spair; he ran round in a cir­cle; he dashed in­to the woods and back again.

He did ev­ery thing ex­cept climb a tree, and howl. It would have been such a re­lief to him if he could have howled. But that was the one thing he could not do.

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son.--Let pupils change the verbs in the fol­low­ing lines, so that they will in­di­cate _present time_.

“He shook his head; he sat down in de­spair; he ran around in a cir­cle; he dashed in­to the woods and back again.”

Sug­ges­tion.--Let the teach­er, from time to time, se­lect sto­ries, and have them read be­fore the class. Af­ter the read­ing, let pupils make oral _anal­yses_. The sto­ries should be short, and the ex­er­cise con­duct­ed with­out the use of pen­cils or pa­per.

* * * * *

LES­SON LXXI.

en'sign, _flag_.

dis man'tled, _stripped of masts, sails, and guns_.

pa tri ot'ic, _full of love for one's coun­try_.

hulk, _a dis­man­tled ship_.

frig'ate, _a ship of war_.

tat'tered, _torn_.

me'te or, _a fiery body in the heav­ens_.

van'quished, _con­quered; over­come_.

har'pies, _de­stroy­ers_.

manned, _sup­plied with men_.

* * * * *

OLD IRON­SIDES.

Dur­ing our sec­ond war with Great Britain, which be­gan in the year 1812, many bat­tles were fought both on land and sea.

Among the ships of war be­long­ing to the Unit­ed States Gov­ern­ment, was a frigate named the Con­sti­tu­tion. She was built about the be­gin­ning of the present cen­tu­ry, and ow­ing to her good for­tune in many en­gage­ments, her sea­men gave her the name of “Old Iron­sides.”

She was in ac­tive ser­vice through­out the en­tire war, and cap­tured five ships of war from the British, two of which were frigates.

In all her ser­vice, her suc­cess was re­mark­able. She nev­er lost her masts, nev­er went ashore, and though so of­ten in bat­tle, no very se­ri­ous loss of life ev­er oc­curred on her decks. Her en­tire ca­reer was that of what is called in the navy “a lucky ship.”

Per­haps this may be ex­plained by the fact that she al­ways had ex­cel­lent com­man­ders, and that she prob­ably pos­sessed as fine a ship's com­pa­ny as ev­er manned a frigate.

In 1829, the Gov­ern­ment or­dered the Con­sti­tu­tion to be dis­man­tled and tak­en to pieces, be­cause she had be­come un­fit for ser­vice.

At that time, Oliv­er Wen­dell Holmes, who has since be­come fa­mous as a writ­er, was a young man twen­ty years of age, about com­plet­ing his stud­ies at Har­vard Col­lege.

When he heard of the in­tend­ed de­struc­tion of “Old Iron­sides,” he went di­rect­ly to his room, and, in­spired by pa­tri­ot­ic feel­ings, wrote the fol­low­ing po­em.

OLD IRON­SIDES.

Ay, tear her tat­tered en­sign down! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That ban­ner in the sky; Be­neath it rung the bat­tle shout And burst the can­nons' roar: The me­te­or of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more.

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, Where knelt the van­quished foe, When winds were hur­ry­ing o'er the flood And waves were white be­low, No more shall feel the vic­tors' tread, Or know the con­quered knee: The harpies of the shore shall pluck The ea­gle of the sea!

O, bet­ter that her shat­tered hulk Should sink be­neath the wave!-- Her thun­ders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave. Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set ev­ery thread­bare sail, And give her to the god of storms, The light­ning, and the gale!

The ef­fect of this po­em up­on the peo­ple was so great that a gen­er­al out­cry arose against the de­struc­tion of the gal­lant old ship.

The Gov­ern­ment was in­duced to re­con­sid­er its de­ter­mi­na­tion. The old ship was saved, re­paired, and for many years has de­light­ed the eyes of thou­sands of peo­ple who have vis­it­ed her.

At present, she is used as a re­ceiv­ing-​ship at the Unit­ed States Navy Yard, Portsmouth, New Hamp­shire.

* * * * *

Di­rec­tions for Read­ing.--With what tone of voice should the prose part of the les­son be read?

Read the po­et­ry--first, slow­ly and qui­et­ly; then, in a loud tone of voice, ex­press­ing the feel­ing of anger.

Which method of read­ing the po­em do the pupils pre­fer?

Which do they think rep­re­sents the po­et's feel­ings?

Let pupils pro­nounce in con­cert, and singly, the fol­low­ing words: _hero, year, peo­ple, deep, ea­gle, knee, se­ri­ous, me­te­or, com­plete, pieces_.

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son.--Let pupils point out and ex­plain the un­usu­al ex­pres­sions found in the first two stan­zas, writ­ing out a list of the changes made.

* * * * *

LES­SON LXXII.

ver'tic al, _up­right_.

cat'a ract, _a great fall of wa­ter over a precipice_.

pro vis'ions, _stock of food_.

con struct'ed, _made; formed_.

in cred'i ble, _not eas­ily be­lieved_.

sta'tion a ry, _not mov­ing; fixed_.

ex tinct', _in­ac­tive; dead_.

de pos'it, _that which is laid or thrown down_.

ap'er ture, _an open­ing_.

di am'e ter, _dis­tance across or through_.

com pris'es, _in­cludes; con­tains_.

* * * * *

NAT­URAL WON­DERS OF AMER­ICA.

PART I.

With­in the vast ex­tent of ter­ri­to­ry be­long­ing to the Unit­ed States, there are many won­der­ful nat­ural cu­riosi­ties which at­tract vis­itors from all parts of the world.

A short de­scrip­tion of some of the prin­ci­pal at­trac­tions is here giv­en, with the hope that many who read this les­son, may at some time vis­it a part or all that are no­ticed.

GEY­SERS OF THE YEL­LOW­STONE PARK.

The Yel­low­stone Park is a tract of coun­try fifty-​five by six­ty-​five miles in ex­tent, ly­ing main­ly in the north­west cor­ner of the Ter­ri­to­ry of Wyoming, but in­clud­ing a nar­row belt in south­ern Mon­tana. It con­tains near­ly thir­ty-​six hun­dred square miles, and is near­ly three times as large as the State of Rhode Is­land. No equal ex­tent of coun­try on the globe com­pris­es such a union of grand and won­der­ful scenery.

Nu­mer­ous hot springs, steam jets, and ex­tinct geyser cones ex­ist in the Yel­low­stone basin. Just be­yond the west­ern rim of the basin, lies the grand geyser re­gion of Fire-​Hole Riv­er.

Scat­tered along both banks of this stream are boil­ing springs from two to twelve feet across, all in ac­tive op­er­ation.

One of the most not­ed gey­sers of this dis­trict is “Old Faith­ful.” It stands on a mound thir­ty feet high, the crater ris­ing some six feet high­er still.

The erup­tions take place about once an hour, and con­tin­ue fif­teen or twen­ty min­utes, the col­umn of wa­ter shoot­ing up­ward with ter­rif­ic force, from one hun­dred to one hun­dred and fifty feet.

The great mass of wa­ter falls di­rect­ly back in­to the basin, flow­ing over the edges and down the sides in large streams. When the ac­tion ceas­es, the wa­ter re­cedes from sight, and noth­ing is heard but an oc­ca­sion­al es­cape of steam un­til an­oth­er erup­tion oc­curs.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

Just across the riv­er and close to the mar­gin, a small con­ical mound is ob­served, about three feet high, and five feet in di­am­eter at the base.

No one would sus­pect it to be an ac­tive geyser. But in 1871, a col­umn of wa­ter en­tire­ly fill­ing the crater shot from it, which by ac­tu­al mea­sure­ment was found to be two hun­dred and nine­teen feet high.

Not more than a hun­dred yards from the riv­er, there is a large oval aper­ture eigh­teen feet wide and twen­ty-​five feet long. The sides are cov­ered with a gray­ish-​white de­posit which is dis­tinct­ly vis­ible at a depth of a hun­dred feet be­low the sur­face.

This geyser is known as the “Gi­ant­ess,” and a vis­itor in de­scrib­ing it states that "no wa­ter could be dis­cov­ered on the first ap­proach, but it could be dis­tinct­ly heard gur­gling and boil­ing at a great dis­tance be­low. Sud­den­ly it be­gan to rise, splut­ter­ing and send­ing out huge vol­umes of steam, caus­ing a gen­er­al scat­ter­ing of our com­pa­ny.

"When with­in about forty feet of the sur­face, it be­came sta­tion­ary, and we re­turned to look up­on it. All at once it rose with in­cred­ible ra­pid­ity, the hot wa­ter burst­ing from the open­ing with ter­rif­ic force, ris­ing in a col­umn the full size of this im­mense aper­ture to the height of six­ty feet.

“Through, and out of the top of this mass, five or six less­er jets or round columns of wa­ter, vary­ing in size from six to fif­teen inch­es in di­am­eter, were pro­ject­ed to the mar­velous height of two hun­dred and fifty feet.”

[Il­lus­tra­tion: View in the Grand Canon]

THE CANONS OF THE COL­ORADO RIV­ER.

The length of the Col­orado Riv­er, from the sources of the Green Riv­er, is about two thou­sand miles.

For five hun­dred miles of this dis­tance, the riv­er has worn deep cuts or gorges through the soft rock, called canons.

The rocky sides of these canons form lofty ver­ti­cal walls, which, in some places, rise to a height of more than a mile above the sur­face of the wa­ter.

The largest and most not­ed of these vast gorges is the Grand Canon, which ex­tends a dis­tance of more than two hun­dred miles. The height of the walls of this canon varies from four thou­sand to sev­en thou­sand feet.

The riv­er, as it runs through it, is from fifty to three hun­dred feet wide. So swift is the cur­rent, that it is al­most im­pos­si­ble to float a boat down the stream with­out hav­ing it dashed to pieces against the rocky walls on ei­ther side.

The first de­scent through these canons was made in 1867, from a point on Grand Riv­er, about thir­ty miles above its junc­tion with Green Riv­er.

Three men were prospect­ing for gold, and be­ing at­tacked by In­di­ans and one of their num­ber killed, the oth­er two de­cid­ed to at­tempt the de­scent of the riv­er, rather than re­trace their steps through a coun­try where In­di­ans were nu­mer­ous.

They con­struct­ed a raft of a few pieces of drift-​wood, and hav­ing se­cured their arms and pro­vi­sions, com­menced their jour­ney down the stream.

A few days af­ter­ward, while the raft was de­scend­ing a cataract, one of the men was drowned and all the pro­vi­sions were washed over­board.

The third man, hemmed in by the walls of the canon, con­tin­ued the jour­ney alone amid great per­ils from cataracts, rocks, and whirlpools.

For ten days he pur­sued, his lone­ly way, tast­ing food but twice dur­ing the whole time. Once he ob­tained a few green pods and leaves from bush­es grow­ing along the stream, and the sec­ond time from some friend­ly In­di­ans.

At last he suc­ceed­ed in reach­ing Cal­lville in safe­ty, af­ter hav­ing float­ed sev­er­al hun­dred miles.

* * * * *

LES­SON LXXI­II.

pro por'tions, _re­la­tions of parts to each oth­er_.

in te'ri or, _the in­side_.

al a bas'ter, _a kind of whitish stone_.

chasm, _a deep open­ing_.

a're a, _any sur­face, as the floor of a room_.

an'cient, _be­long­ing to past ages_.

un ex am'pled, _with­out a sim­ilar case_.

co los'sal, _of great size_.

feat'ure, _any thing wor­thy of no­tice_.

dra'per y, _hang­ings of any kind_.

o ver awed', _held in a state of fear_.

sur pass'ing, _ex­ceed­ing oth­ers_.

* * * * *

NAT­URAL WON­DERS OF AMER­ICA.

PART II.

THE MAM­MOTH CAVE.

In the year 1809, a hunter named Hutchins, while pur­su­ing a bear in Ed­mond­son Coun­ty, Ken­tucky, was sur­prised to see the an­imal dis­ap­pear in­to a small open­ing in the side of a hill.

Up­on ex­am­in­ing the spot, Hutchins found that the open­ing led in­to a cave. Fol­low­ing up the ex­am­ina­tion soon af­ter, it was dis­cov­ered that the cave was im­mense in its pro­por­tions.

On ac­count of its great size, it was named Mam­moth Cave. It has an area of sev­er­al hun­dred square miles, and two hun­dred and twen­ty-​three known and num­bered av­enues, with a unit­ed length of from one hun­dred and fifty to two hun­dred miles.

The in­te­ri­or of this cave is di­vid­ed by huge columns and walls of stone in­to cham­bers of var­ious shapes and sizes. Some of these are large enough to af­ford stand­ing room for thou­sands of peo­ple.

One of the largest of these cham­bers is called Mam­moth Dome. This room is four hun­dred feet long, one hun­dred and fifty feet wide, and two hun­dred and fifty feet in height.

The walls of this grand room are cur­tained by al­abaster drap­ery in ver­ti­cal folds and present to the eye a scene of un­ex­am­pled beau­ty and grandeur.

A large gate­way at one end of this room opens in­to an­oth­er room, in which the po­si­tion of the huge stone pil­lars, re­minds one of the ru­ins of some an­cient tem­ple.

Six colos­sal columns, or pil­lars, eighty feet high and twen­ty-​five feet in di­am­eter, stand­ing in a half cir­cle, are among the im­pos­ing at­trac­tions of this won­der­ful room.

An­oth­er strik­ing fea­ture of Mam­moth Cave is what is called the Dead Sea. This body of wa­ter is four hun­dred feet long, forty feet wide, and very deep.

A cu­ri­ous fish is found in this dark lake. It is with­out eyes, and, in form and col­or, is dif­fer­ent from any fish found out­side the cave.

There are found al­so a blind grasshop­per, with­out wings, and a blind cray­fish of a whitish col­or, both of which are very cu­ri­ous and in­ter­est­ing.

The fact that these liv­ing crea­tures are blind would seem to in­di­cate that na­ture had pro­duced them for the dis­tinct pur­pose of in­hab­it­ing this dark cave.

NI­AGARA FALLS.

Of all the sights to be seen on this con­ti­nent, there is none that equals the great Falls of Ni­agara Riv­er, sit­uat­ed about twelve miles north of Buf­fa­lo, in the State of New York.

On first be­hold­ing this most won­der­ful of all known cataracts, one is over­awed by its sur­pass­ing grandeur, “and stunned by the sound of the falling wa­ters as by a roar of thun­der.”

For quite a dis­tance above the falls, the Ni­agara Riv­er is about one mile wide, and flows with great swift­ness.

Just at the edge of the cataract stands Goat Is­land, which di­vides the wa­ters of the riv­er, and makes two dis­tinct cataracts; one on the Cana­di­an side, and one on the Amer­ican side of the riv­er.

The one on the Cana­di­an side, called from its shape the Horse-​shoe Fall, is eigh­teen hun­dred feet wide, and one hun­dred, and fifty-​eight feet high. The oth­er, called the Amer­ican Fall, is six hun­dred feet wide, and one hun­dred and six­ty-​four feet high.

As the im­mense body of wa­ter leaps over this vast precipice, it breaks in­to a soft spray, which waves like a plume in the wind. At times, when the rays of the sun strike this spray, a rain­bow is formed which stretch­es it­self across the deep chasm, and pro­duces a beau­ti­ful ef­fect.

Dur­ing the win­ter, much of the wa­ter and spray freezes, and as each mo­ment adds to the frozen mass, some cu­ri­ous and won­der­ful ice for­ma­tions are pro­duced.

Some­times, dur­ing a very cold win­ter, the ice at the foot of the falls forms a com­plete bridge from one shore to the oth­er.

An in­ter­est­ing fea­ture of a vis­it to these falls is a de­scent to the lev­el of the foot of the cataract be­hind the great sheet of wa­ter.

A long flight of steps leads down to a se­cure foot­ing be­tween the rocky precipice and the falling tor­rent. By a nar­row foot­path, it is pos­si­ble for the vis­itor to pass be­tween this col­umn of wa­ter and the wall of rock.

Once be­hind the sheet of wa­ter, the roar is deaf­en­ing. One can on­ly cling to the nar­row rail­ing or his guide, as he picks his way for more than a hun­dred feet be­hind the roar­ing tor­rent.

A sin­gle mis­step, a slip, or a fall, and noth­ing re­mains but a hor­ri­ble death by be­ing dashed to pieces up­on the jagged rocks be­low.

* * * * *

Di­rec­tions for Read­ing.--Point out four places in the les­son where words would like­ly be run to­geth­er by a care­less read­er.

The word _canon_ is pro­nounced _can'yon_.

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son.--Give rules for marks of punc­tu­ation and cap­ital let­ters used in the first para­graph of the ac­count of Ni­agara Falls.

Let pupils make out an _anal­ysis_ in five or six parts, treat­ing some well-​known scene.

* * * * *

LES­SON LXXIV.

vo ra'cious, _greedy; very hun­gry_.

o ver whelmed', _over­come by force of num­bers_.

a bound'ing, _ex­ist­ing in large num­bers_.

as cend'ing, _go­ing up_.

her'ald ed, _gave no­tice of_.

im pet'u ous, _fu­ri­ous; with­out care for what hap­pens_.

crim'i nals, _those who have bro­ken the law_.

con'cen trate, _gath­er in a large mass_.

in tol'er a ble, _not to be borne_.

ir re sist'i ble, _can not be op­posed_.

* * * * *

AFRICAN ANTS.

A strange kind of ant is very abun­dant in the whole re­gion I have trav­eled over in Africa, and is the most vo­ra­cious crea­ture I ev­er met. It is the dread of all liv­ing an­imals, from the leop­ard to the small­est in­sect.

I do not think that these ants build nests or homes of any kind. At any rate they car­ry noth­ing away, but eat all their prey on the spot. It is their habit to march through the forests in a long, reg­ular line--a line about two inch­es broad and of­ten sev­er­al miles in length. All along this line are larg­er ants, who act as of­fi­cers, stand out­side the ranks, and keep this sin­gu­lar army in or­der.

If they come to a place where there are no trees to shel­ter them from the sun, whose heat they can not bear, they im­me­di­ate­ly build un­der­ground tun­nels, through which the whole army pass­es in columns to the for­est be­yond. These tun­nels are four or five feet un­der­ground, and are used on­ly in the heat of the day, or dur­ing a storm.

When, they grow hun­gry the long file spreads it­self through the for­est in a front line, and at­tacks and de­vours all it over­takes with a fury which is quite ir­re­sistible. The ele­phant and go­ril­la fly be­fore this at­tack. The black men run for their lives. Ev­ery an­imal that lives in their line of march is chased.

They seem to un­der­stand and act up­on the tac­tics of Napoleon, and con­cen­trate with great speed their heav­iest forces up­on the point of at­tack. In an in­cred­ibly short space of time the mouse, or dog, or leop­ard, or deer, is over­whelmed, killed, eat­en, and the bare skele­ton on­ly re­mains.

They seem to trav­el night and day. Many a time have I been awak­ened out of a sleep, and obliged to rush from the hut and in­to the wa­ter to save my life, and af­ter all suf­fered in­tol­er­able agony from the bites of the ad­vance-​guard, that had got in­to my clothes.

When they en­ter a house they clear it of all liv­ing things. Cock­roach­es are de­voured in an in­stant. Rats and mice spring round the room in vain. An over­whelm­ing force of ants kill a strong rat in less than a minute, in spite of the most fran­tic strug­gles, and in less than an­oth­er minute its bones are stripped. Ev­ery liv­ing thing in the house is de­voured.

They will not touch veg­etable mat­ter. Thus they are in re­al­ity very use­ful, as well as dan­ger­ous, to the na­tives, who have their huts cleaned of all the abound­ing ver­min, such as im­mense cock­roach­es and cen­tipedes, at least sev­er­al times a year.

When on their march the in­sect world flies be­fore them, and I have of­ten had the ap­proach of an ant-​army her­ald­ed to me by this means. Wher­ev­er they go they make a clean sweep, even as­cend­ing to the tops of the high­est trees in pur­suit of their prey.

Their man­ner of at­tack is an im­petu­ous leap. In­stant­ly the strong pin­cers are fas­tened, and they let go on­ly when the piece gives way.

At such times this lit­tle an­imal seems an­imat­ed by a kind of fury which caus­es it to dis­re­gard en­tire­ly its own safe­ty, and to seek on­ly the con­quest of its prey. The bite of these ants is very painful.

The na­tives re­late that in for­mer times it was the cus­tom to ex­pose crim­inals in the path of these ants, as the most cru­el way that was known of putting them to death.

* * * * *

Di­rec­tions for Read­ing.--Name the _em­phat­ic words_ in the last para­graph of the les­son, and mark the _in­flec­tions_.

In de­ter­min­ing up­on the _em­pha­sis_ to be giv­en to the words of a sen­tence, the on­ly guide we have to fol­low is the _mean­ing_. We must ask our­selves, “Which, words are of spe­cial im­por­tance to the mean­ing?”

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son.--Change each of the sen­tences giv­en be­low to _state­ments_, ex­press­ing as near­ly as pos­si­ble the same mean­ing.

“What trou­bles you to-​day?”

“Tell me at once what the mat­ter is!”

“Let us shout for Mec­ca­ti­na, and its moun­tains bare and brown!”

Mod­el.--“What is your name?” changed to the form of a _state­ment_, be­comes--“I wish you to tell me your name.”

Let pupils write four _ques­tions_, and then change them to _state­ments_, ex­press­ing as near­ly as pos­si­ble the same mean­ing.

* * * * *

LES­SON LXXV.

plun'dered, _stripped of their goods by force_.

surge, _a rolling swell of wa­ter; bil­lows_.

verge, _ex­treme side or edge_.

sheer, _straight up and down_.

frag'ments, _pieces; small por­tions_.

vis'ion _scene; imag­inary pic­ture_.

a byss', _chasm; deep space_.

phan'tom, _ghost; airy spir­it_.

* * * * *

THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG.

Mount­ed on Kyrat strong and fleet, His chest­nut steed with four white feet, Roushan Beg, called Kur­roglou, Son of the road and ban­dit chief, Seek­ing refuge and re­lief, Up the moun­tain path­way flew.

Such was Kyrat's won­drous speed, Nev­er yet could any steed Reach the dust-​cloud in his course. More than maid­en, more than wife, More than gold, and next to life, Roushan the Rob­ber loved his horse.

In the land that lies be­yond Erze­roum and Tre­bi­zond, Gar­den-​girt his fortress stood. Plun­dered khan, or car­avan Jour­ney­ing north from Ko­ordis­tan, Gave him wealth and wine and food.

Sev­en hun­dred and fourscore Men at arms his liv­ery wore, Did his bid­ding night and day. Now, through re­gions all un­known, He was wan­der­ing, lost, alone, Seek­ing with­out guide his way.

Sud­den­ly the path­way ends, Sheer the precipice de­scends, Loud the tor­rent roars un­seen; Thir­ty feet from side to side Yawns the chasm; on air must ride He who cross­es this ravine.

Fol­low­ing close in his pur­suit, At the precipice's foot, Rey­han the Arab of Or­fah Halt­ed with his hun­dred men, Shout­ing up­ward from the glen, “La Il­lah'il­la Al­lah'!”

Gen­tly Roushan Beg ca­ressed Kyrat's fore­head, neck, and breast; Kissed him up­on both his eyes; Sang to him in his wild way, As up­on the top­most spray Sings a bird be­fore it flies.

"O my Kyrat, O my steed, Round and slen­der as a reed, Car­ry me this per­il through! Satin hous­ings shall be thine, Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine, O thou soul of Kur­roglou!

“Soft thy skin as silken skein, Soft as wom­an's hair thy mane, Ten­der are thine eyes and true; All thy hoofs like ivory shine, Pol­ished bright; O, life of mine, Leap and res­cue Kur­roglou!”

Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet, Drew to­geth­er his four white feet, Paused a mo­ment on the verge, Mea­sured with his eye the space, And in­to the air's em­brace Leaped as leaps the ocean surge.

As the ocean surge o'er sand Bears a swim­mer safe to land, Kyrat safe his rid­er bore; Rat­tling down the deep abyss, Frag­ments of the precipice Rolled like peb­bles on a shore.

Roushan's tassled cap of red Trem­bled not up­on his head, Care­less sat he and up­right; Nei­ther hand nor bri­dle shook, Nor his head he turned to look, As he gal­loped out of sight.

Flash of har­ness in the air, Seen a mo­ment, like the glare Of a sword drawn from its sheath; Thus the phan­tom horse­man passed, And the shad­ow that he cast Leaped the cataract un­der­neath.

Rey­han the Arab held his breath While this vi­sion of life and death Passed above him. “Al­lahu!” Cried he. “In all Ko­ordis­tan Lives there not so brave a man As this Rob­ber Kur­roglou!”

* * * * *

Di­rec­tions for Read­ing.--Let pupils point out where changes in tone of voice oc­cur in read­ing this les­son.

What lines in the last two stan­zas are to be joined in read­ing?

Keep the lungs suf­fi­cient­ly full of air to avoid stop­ping to breathe at such places as would in­jure the sense.

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son.--Let pupils se­lect a sub­ject, and then make out an _anal­ysis_ to use in treat­ing it.

* * * * *

LES­SON LXXVI

mu se'um, _a place where cu­riosi­ties are ex­hib­it­ed_.

ban'daged, _bound with strips of cloth_.

dy'nas ties, _gov­ern­ments; fam­ilies of kings_.

ex plored', _searched; ex­am­ined_.

pop'u lat ed, _peo­pled; filled with peo­ple_.

gen era' tions, _suc­ces­sion of fam­ilies or peo­ples_.

e rect'ed, _raised; built_.

cal'cu lat ed, _es­ti­mat­ed_.

flour'ished, _pros­pered; thrived_.

* * * * *

EGYPT AND ITS RU­INS.

PART I.

Egypt em­braces that part of Africa oc­cu­pied by the val­ley of the Riv­er Nile. For many cen­turies, it was a thick­ly pop­ulat­ed coun­try, and at one time pos­sessed great in­flu­ence and wealth, and had reached an ad­vanced state of civ­iliza­tion.

The his­to­ry of Egypt ex­tends through a pe­ri­od of about six thou­sand years. Dur­ing this time great cities were built which flour­ished for hun­dreds of years.

Ow­ing to wars and changes of gov­ern­ment many of these cities were de­stroyed, and noth­ing of them now re­mains but mas­sive and ex­ten­sive ru­ins.

Pyra­mids were built, obelisks erect­ed, canals pro­ject­ed, and many oth­er vast en­ter­pris­es were car­ried out.

Re­mains of these are to be seen to-​day, some in ru­ins, some fair­ly pre­served, and, al­to­geth­er, they give present gen­er­ations an idea of the wealth and pow­er of the dif­fer­ent dy­nas­ties un­der which they were built.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

Not far from Cairo, which is now the prin­ci­pal city of Egypt, are the fa­mous pyra­mids. These are of such im­mense pro­por­tions, that from a dis­tance their tops seem to reach the clouds.

They are con­struct­ed of blocks of stone. Some of these blocks are of great size, and how the builders ev­er put them in­to their places, is a ques­tion we can not an­swer.

It is sup­posed that the con­struc­tion of one of these pyra­mids re­quired more than twen­ty years' la­bor from thou­sands of men.

The largest pyra­mid is four hun­dred and six­ty-​one feet high, sev­en hun­dred and forty-​six feet long at the base, and cov­ers more than twelve acres of ground. In all, six­ty-​sev­en of these pyra­mids have been dis­cov­ered and ex­plored.

They are the tombs in which the an­cient kings and their fam­ilies were buried. In the in­te­ri­or of these pyra­mids, many cham­bers were con­struct­ed to con­tain their stone coffins.

It has been cal­cu­lat­ed that one of the prin­ci­pal pyra­mids could con­tain three thou­sand sev­en hun­dred rooms of large size.

The bod­ies of those who were buried in the pyra­mids were pre­served from de­cay by a se­cret pro­cess, known on­ly to the priests.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

Af­ter the bod­ies were pre­pared, they were wrapped in bands of fine linen, and on the in­side of these was spread a pe­cu­liar kind of gum. There were some­times a thou­sand yards of these bands on a sin­gle body.

Af­ter they were thus pre­pared, a soft sub­stance was placed around the ban­daged body. This cov­er­ing, when it hard­ened, kept the body in a com­plete state of preser­va­tion.

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

These cov­er­ings are now called mum­my-​cas­es, and the bod­ies they in­close, mum­mies.

These bod­ies were fi­nal­ly placed, in huge stone coffins, many of which were cov­ered with cu­ri­ous carv­ings.

Some of these mum­mies have been found, that are said to be over three thou­sand years old. How­ev­er, when the wrap­pings are re­moved from them, many of the bod­ies have been so well pre­served, as to ex­hib­it the ap­pear­ance of the fea­tures as in life.

Large num­bers of these mum­mies have been car­ried to oth­er coun­tries and placed on ex­hi­bi­tion in mu­se­ums.

Among the mum­mies brought to this coun­try, are some of the best spec­imens which have yet been dis­cov­ered.

* * * * *

Di­rec­tions for Read­ing.--Let pupils mark the _in­flec­tion_ and point out _em­phat­ic words_ in the first two para­graphs of the les­son.

Show po­si­tions of the _rhetor­ical paus­es_ in the first para­graph on page 363.[20]

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son.--Let pupils re­view, as a writ­ten ex­er­cise, the spelling of the fol­low­ing words.

re­ced­ing prin­ci­pal rub­bish punc­tu­al precipice coun­cil or­phan mi­cro­scope jus­tice civ­ilized thresh­old mus­cles pre­cious mer­chan­dise es­pe­cial­ly trav­el­er physi­cian rec­og­nize anec­dote mar­velous suf­fi­cient apol­ogize char­ac­ter ben­efit­ed vi­cious poi­sonous tremen­dous in­tel­li­gent

Let pupils se­lect a sub­ject and make out an _anal­ysis_ for its treat­ment.

Each point in the _anal­ysis_ will re­quire a sep­arate para­graph for its treat­ment.

Be care­ful to use cap­ital let­ters and marks of punc­tu­ation cor­rect­ly.

[20] Para­graph be­gin­ning, “Re­mains of these are to be seen to-​day....”

* * * * *

LES­SON LXXVII.

de vic'es, _cu­ri­ous marks or shapes_.

in scrip'tion, _any thing cut or writ­ten on a sol­id sub­stance_.

trans lat'ing, _ex­press­ing in an­oth­er lan­guage_.

mem'o ra ble, _wor­thy of be­ing re­mem­bered_.

spec'i mens, _small por­tions of things_.

in ge nu'i ty, _skill in in­vent­ing_.

tour'ists, _trav­el­ers; sight-​seers_.

ded'i cat ed, _set apart for a spe­cial pur­pose_.

cer'e mo nies, _forms; spe­cial cus­toms_.

site, _the place where any thing is fixed_.

mon'o lith, _a col­umn con­sist­ing of a sin­gle stone_.

o rig'i nal ly, _in the first place_.

* * * * *

EGYPT AND ITS RU­INS.

PART II.

The an­cient Egyp­tians erect­ed many obelisks in var­ious parts of their coun­try. These were mon­uments made from sin­gle pieces of hard stone, and in some cas­es reached a height of more than a hun­dred feet.

They were placed be­fore gate­ways lead­ing to the prin­ci­pal tem­ples and palaces, and were cov­ered with cu­ri­ous carv­ings in the stone, which rep­re­sent­ed the lan­guage of the peo­ple at that time.

It thus ap­pears that their writ­ten lan­guage was not com­posed of let­ters and words alone, like our own; but that they used pic­tures of an­imals, in­clud­ing birds, hu­man fig­ures, and oth­er de­vices of a sin­gu­lar na­ture, to ex­press their thoughts and ideas.

Un­til the year 1799, it was im­pos­si­ble for the schol­ars of mod­ern na­tions to read this strange lan­guage. In that year, how­ev­er, a stone tablet was dis­cov­ered by a French en­gi­neer, con­tain­ing an in­scrip­tion writ­ten in three lan­guages.

One of these was in the char­ac­ters of the an­cient Egyp­tian and an­oth­er in those of the Greek. Up­on trans­lat­ing the Greek writ­ing, it was dis­cov­ered to be a copy of the in­scrip­tion in the Egyp­tian lan­guage.

By com­par­ing the words of these in­scrip­tions with many oth­ers, the for­ma­tion of this pe­cu­liar lan­guage was as­cer­tained. It was then learned that the in­scrip­tions on these obelisks were the records of mem­orable events, and the hero­ic deeds of their kings and heroes.

Many of these obelisks have been tak­en from their po­si­tions in Egypt and trans­port­ed with great la­bor to oth­er coun­tries. Near­ly two thou­sand years ago the Ro­man em­per­ors be­gan to car­ry them to the city of Rome. Al­to­geth­er, near­ly fifty of these re­mark­able mon­uments were tak­en away and set up in that city. They were then, as now, re­gard­ed as cu­ri­ous ex­am­ples of the in­ge­nu­ity of the an­cients who first made them.

[Il­lus­tra­tion: The Obelisk in Cen­tral Park, New York, and as it ap­peared in Egypt.]

In lat­er years, spec­imens were tak­en to Paris and Lon­don, and more re­cent­ly one was brought to Amer­ica, and set up in the Cen­tral Park, New York City.

This one be­longs to the largest class, be­ing near­ly sev­en­ty feet high and about eight feet square at the base.

The ac­com­pa­ny­ing cut shows the po­si­tion of this obelisk as it ap­peared when stand­ing near the city of Alexan­dria, Egypt.

The dif­fi­cul­ty of trans­port­ing one of these huge stone columns is so great, that for a long time it was thought im­pos­si­ble to re­move it from Egypt to this coun­try.

In their large cities, the Egyp­tians built mas­sive tem­ples which were ded­icat­ed to re­li­gious cer­emonies. Some of them, al­though now in ru­ins, are con­sid­ered to be among the most re­mark­able pro­duc­tions of the an­cients.

Tourists who nowa­days sail up the Riv­er Nile and vis­it the site of the city of Thebes, the an­cient cap­ital of Egypt, are struck with amaze­ment at the vast ru­ins sur­round­ing them.

On the east­ern side of the Nile lies what is left of the tem­ple of Kar­nak.

Imag­ine a long line of courts, gate­ways, and halls; here and there an obelisk ris­ing above the ru­ins, and shut­ting off the view of the for­est of columns!

This mass of ru­ins, some ly­ing in huge heaps of stone, oth­ers per­fect and point­ed as when they were first built, is ap­proached on ev­ery side by av­enues and gate­ways of colos­sal grandeur.

The tem­ple orig­inal­ly cov­ered an area of two hun­dred and sev­en­ty acres, in­closed with­in a wall of brick. Parts of this wall are still vis­ible, while the rest lies crum­bled and bro­ken.

It is dif­fi­cult to re­al­ize the grand ap­pear­ance of the thir­ty rows of stone columns stand­ing with­in the wall. Some of them that are still per­fect, are capped with enor­mous mono­lith cap­itals, and it is said that one hun­dred men could stand on one of them with­out crowd­ing.

The hall it­self is four hun­dred and twen­ty-​two feet long by one hun­dred and six­ty-​five feet broad. The stones of the ceil­ing are sup­port­ed by one hun­dred and thir­ty-​four columns, which are still stand­ing, and of which the largest mea­sures ten feet in di­am­eter, and more than sev­en­ty-​two feet in height. They are cov­ered with carv­ings and paint­ings whose col­ors are still bright, even af­ter a lapse of forty cen­turies.

Gaz­ing on what he sees around, the trav­el­er be­comes lost in an ef­fort to form some idea of the grandeur and vast­ness of the orig­inal.

* * * * *

Di­rec­tions for Read­ing.--Let pupils read one or more of the para­graphs in a whis­per, so as to im­prove _ar­tic­ula­tion_.

Mark _rhetor­ical paus­es_ in the last para­graph of the les­son.

Name _em­phat­ic words_ in the same para­graph, and state whether the _rhetor­ical paus­es _oc­cur be­fore or af­ter these words.

* * * * *

Lan­guage Les­son.--Let pupils write _state­ments_, each con­tain­ing one of the fol­low­ing words, used in such a man­ner as to show its prop­er mean­ing: _haul, hall; site, sight; piece, peace; our, hour; sum, some_.

Rules for the Anal­ysis of a Sub­ject.--Se­lect such points as are nec­es­sary to make the treat­ment of the sub­ject com­plete.

Add such points as will in­crease the in­ter­est felt in the sub­ject.

Ar­range the points in a nat­ural and easy or­der.

Note.--In treat­ing an his­tor­ical sub­ject, it is nec­es­sary to ar­range the points in the or­der in which they oc­curred. In de­scrip­tion, it is best to adopt some plan of treat­ment, and ar­range the points ac­cord­ing to the plan de­cid­ed up­on.

* * * * *

DEF­INI­TIONS

OF NEW WORDS USED IN THIS BOOK, THAT DO NOT AP­PEAR AT THE HEADS OF THE LESSONS.

_A_

a board', _on board of_. ac cept', _take; re­ceive_. ac'ci dents, _ef­fects; un­usu­al re­sults_. ac cord'ing ly, _agree­ably to a plan_. ac count', _state­ment of facts; bill_. ad mit'tance, _per­mis­sion to en­ter; en­trance_. ad vice', _opin­ion wor­thy to be fol­lowed; coun­sel_. af ford', _give; pro­duce_. a'gen cy, _of­fice of an agent; ac­tion_. aid, _help; as­sis­tance_. al to geth'er, _with unit­ed ac­tion; com­plete­ly_. a mid', _in the midst of; sur­round­ed by_. anxi' e ty (ang zi'e ty), _con­cern re­spect­ing some fu­ture event_. ap plause', _praise_. ap ply', _suit; agree_. arch'es, _places made of stone, brick, etc_. art, _skill_. a shamed', _af­fect­ed by a feel­ing of shame_. as sist'ing, _help­ing; aid­ing_. as sure', _tell tru­ly; make sure or cer­tain_. at tempt', _try; make an ef­fort_. at ten'tion, _care; no­tice_. av'e nues, _broad streets; open­ings_. a wait'ed, _wait­ed for_. a ware', _in­formed_. awk'ward, _clum­sy; un­grace­ful_. ay, _yes_.

_B_

bade, _said_. ban'dit, _rob­ber_. ban'ner, _flag_. base, _low­er part_. bid'ding, _com­mand; or­der_. bil'lows, _large waves_. bon'ny, _hand­some; beau­ti­ful_. bor'row, _to re­ceive from an­oth­er with the in­ten­tion of re­turn­ing_. bore, _car­ried_. bor'ders, _edges; out­er parts_. braced, _took a firm stand_. braid'ed, _wo­ven or twined to­geth­er_ brick, _a body made of clay and wa­ter and hard­ened by fire_. bri'er, _a prick­ly plant or shrub_. brig, _a ves­sel with two masts, square-​rigged_. brill'iant, _splen­did; shin­ing_. brim'ming, _full; near­ly over­flow­ing_. bris'tling, _stand­ing erect_. bul'let, _small ball of lead_. bur'den, _that which is car­ried_. but'ter fly, _a winged in­sect of many col­ors_.

_C_

cack'ling, _sharp and bro­ken in sounds_. ca nals', _wa­ter-​cours­es made by man_. ca'per ing, _play­ing; danc­ing_. capped, _cov­ered over at the top_. cap tiv'ity, _state of be­ing a pris­on­er_. car'go, _bur­den; load_. cas'ters, _rollers or small wheels_. ceil'ing, _the up­per sur­face of a room_. cen'ter, _the mid­dle point of any thing_. cen'ti pedes, _a kind of in­sect hav­ing a great num­ber of feet_. cent'u ry, _one hun­dred years_. chan'nel, _the reg­ular course of a riv­er_. cheat'ed, _tak­en un­fair ad­van­tage of; robbed_. chose, _wished; de­sired_. cin'ders, _small pieces of coal or wood part­ly burned_. cir'cu lar, _round; shaped like a cir­cle_. cli'mate, _state or con­di­tion of the air as re­gards heat, cold, and mois­ture_. clink, _sharp ring­ing sound_. clum'sy, _awk­ward; un­grace­ful_. clus'ter, _num­ber of things of the same kind grow­ing to­geth­er_. cock'roach es, _in­sects with long, flat­tish bod­ies_. cof'fins, _cas­es in which dead bod­ies are placed_. coin, _piece of stamped met­al used for mon­ey_. col'umn, _a dark cloud of reg­ular shape; a shaft of stone_. com mand'ed, _had charge of; or­dered_. com plaint', _ex­pres­sion of anger_. com plete', _en­tire; per­fect_. con clude', _make up one's mind_. con'duct, _man­ner of ac­tion_. con fined', _kept with­in lim­its_. con nect'ed, _joined_. con'quered, _sub­dued; over­come_. con'quest, _act of tak­ing by force_. con sid'er a bly, _in a man­ner wor­thy of no­tice_. con sid'er ing, _think­ing; re­gard­ing_. con'stant ly, _all the time_. con'tact, _touch­ing; meet­ing_. con tained', _held_. con'ti nent, _a great ex­tent of land un­bro­ken by wa­ter_. con tin'u al­ly, _all the time_. con verse', _talk_. cour' age, _bold­ness_. cow'ard, _one who lacks courage_. crack'ling, _sharp nois­es_. creek, _a small riv­er or brook; a bay_. crew (kru), _the sailors who man a ship_. croak'ing, _mak­ing a hoarse noise_. crook'ed, _not straight_. crop, _what grows in a sea­son_. cured, _made well_. cu ri os'i ty, _ea­ger de­sire to find out some­thing_. cur'rent, _mo­tion of a riv­er_. cus'tom, _way of act­ing; habit_. cut'ter, _small boat used by ships of war_.

_D_

dames, _wom­en_. debt, _that which is owed_. de'cent, _fit; suit­able_. de clare', _say with firm­ness_. deed, _act; that which is done_. de fence', _pro­tec­tion_. dense, _thick; close_. de scrip'tion, _an ac­count_. de sert'ed, _left; giv­en up_. de struc'tion, _ru­in_. de ter'mine, _de­cid­ed; re­solved_. di'et, _what is eat­en or drunk_. di rect'ly, _in­stant­ly; im­me­di­ate­ly_. dis ap point'ed, _grieved; filled with re­gret_. dis as'ters, _un­for­tu­nate events_. dis ease', _ill­ness; sick­ness_. dis hon'est, _not hon­est; faith­less_. dis miss' ing, _putting or send­ing away_. dis o beyed', _went con­trary to or­ders_. dis pose', _sell; part with_. dis re gard', _lose sight of_. dis'trict, _part of a coun­try; re­gion_. di vide', _sep­arate in­to equal shares or parts_. dome, _very high and broad roof_. drag, _pull; draw_. drays, _kinds of carts_. dread'ful, _full of ter­ror_. drift, _borne along by the cur­rent of a riv­er_. driz'zling, _falling in very small drops_. drowned, _de­prived of life by wa­ter_. duck'ing, _plung­ing in­to wa­ter_.

_E_

earth'quake, _a shak­ing or trem­bling of the earth_. ech'oes, _is heard_. ef fects', _re­sults_. ef'fort (furt), _strug­gle; at­tempt_. em brace', _clasp; grasp_. em'pire, _the coun­try of an em­per­or_. en'e my, _one who hates an­oth­er_. en gaged', _oc­cu­pied; tak­en_. en'gines, _ma­chines used for ap­ply­ing force_. en raged', _made very an­gry_. en tire', _whole_. ere, _be­fore_. er'rand, _short jour­neys on busi­ness_. ex am'ple, _a pat­tern; a copy_. ex'cel lent (ek), _very good_. ex cep'tion, _that which is left out or omit­ted_. ex cite'ment, _in­tense feel­ing_. ex cla ma'tion, _a cry; that which is cried out_. ex'er cise, _bod­ily ex­er­tion_. ex hi bi'tion, _show; dis­play_. ex pla na'tion, _that which makes clear_. ex ten'sive ly, _wide­ly; large­ly_. ex'tra, _more than usu­al_.

_F_

fac'to ries, _places where things are made_. fare well', _good-​by_. fa'vors, _kind acts_. fear'less ly, _with­out fear_. feast, _a joy­ous meal_. feat, _a dif­fi­cult act_. fee'ble, _weak; sick­ly_. fer'ry, _a place to cross a riv­er_. fig'ured, _or­na­ment­ed with marks_. file, _a row of sol­diers ranged be­hind one an­oth­er_. flanks, _the fleshy parts of the sides of an­imals_. flee, _to run away_. flood, _great flow of wa­ter_. flour, _ground wheat_. flu'id, _wa­ter, or any liq­uid_. foot'men, _male ser­vants_. for ma'tions, _things of cer­tain shape or form_. for'tress, _a fort; a cas­tle_. fort'une, _chance; luck_. frol'ic some, _mer­ry; play­ful_. fu'el, _ma­te­ri­al for fire_.

_G_

gal'lop, _a rapid move­ment, as of hors­es_. gar'ret, _the up­per room of a house_. gems, _pre­cious stones_. gen'er­al ly, _usu­al­ly; com­mon­ly_. gleam'ing, _shin­ing bright­ly_. glee, _joy; hap­pi­ness_. glim'mer, _a faint light_. glis'ten ing, _sparkling; shin­ing_. globe, _the earth; a round body_. glo'ri ous, _grand; splen­did_. glos'sy, _smooth; shin­ing_. gor'ges, _nar­row pas­sages_. gos'sip, _fool­ish talk_. gov'ern ment, _the pow­er that con­trols a peo­ple_. grand, _large; im­pos­ing_. grum'bled, _com­plained; found fault with_. guard, _that which pro­tects_. guests, _vis­itors_. gur'gling, _flow­ing in a noisy cur­rent_.

_H_

hatch, _the cov­er for an open­ing in a ves­sel's deck_. heath, _a mead­ow; cheer­less tract of coun­try_. hedg'es, _thick­ets of bush­es_. hemmed, _shut in; sur­round­ed_. hence forth', _here­after_. he'ro, _a brave man_. high'way, _a pub­lic road_. hint, _some­thing in­tend­ed to give no­tice_. hitched, _tied; fas­tened_. hith'er, _in this di­rec­tion_. hogs'head, _a large cask_. hoot'ing, _cry­ing; shout­ing_. hor'ri ble, _dread­ful; ter­ri­ble_. howl'ing, _cry­ing like a dog or wolf_. hub'bub, _a great noise; up­roar_. husk, _the out­side cov­er­ing of cer­tain fruits_. hust'le, _shake; push rough­ly_.

_I_

i de'a, _thought_. ill'-nat ured, _cross; bad-​tem­pered_. im ag'ine, _think; con­sid­er_. im me'di ate ly, _with­out de­lay_. im pos'si ble, _not pos­si­ble_. in de pend'ence, _the state of be­ing free_. in for ma'tion, _news; knowl­edge_. in formed', _told; gave no­tice of_. in hab'i tants, _per­sons liv­ing in a place_. in'ju­red, _hurt; harmed_. in'stant ly, _at once; with­out loss of time_. in tent', _ea­ger; anx­ious_. in vi ta'tions, _re­quests for one's com­pa­ny_. is'sue, _come forth; flow out_.

_J_

jag'ged, _hav­ing sharp points_. jew'els (ju'els), _pre­cious stones_. jin'gling, _giv­ing forth fine, sharp sounds_.

_K_

kern'el, _the eat­able part of a nut; a lit­tle grain or corn_.

_L_

la'bor, _work; toil_. lapse, _pass­ing away_. las'sie, _a young girl; a lass_. lat'ter, _last-​named; near­er_. launched, _put in­to the wa­ter_ laws, _rules of ac­tion_. leath'er, _the skins of an­imals pre­pared for use_. ledge, _shelf of rocks_. lee'ward, _that part to­ward which the wind blows_. leop'ard, _a large an­imal of the cat kind_. lest, _for fear that_. lev'el, _smooth and flat; of equal height_. lin'ing, _in­side cov­er­ing_. lint, _linen scraped in­to a soft sub­stance_. liq'uid, _any flu­id, like wa­ter_. lisp'ing ly, _with a lisp_. liv'er y, _a pe­cu­liar dress_. load'stone, _a kind of mag­net­ic ore_. loft'y, _very high_. low'ered, _let down_. lub'ber, _a heavy, clum­sy fel­low_. luck'y, _for­tu­nate; meet­ing with good suc­cess_. lum'ber, _tim­ber sawed or split for use; boards_.

_M_

main'ly, _most­ly; chiefly_. mam'moth, _of great size_. man'aged, _con­trolled; brought to do one's wish­es_. mane, _the long hair on a horse's neck_. man'tel, _a nar­row shelf over a fire-​place, with its sup­port_. mar'gin, _edge; bor­der_. mark'et, _a place where things are sold_. mark'in­gs, _marks; stamped places_. mean'time, _dur­ing the in­ter­val; mean­while_. mel'low ing, _ripen­ing; grow­ing soft_. melt'ed, _changed to a liq­uid form by the ac­tion of heat_. mem'o ry, _the pow­er of re­call­ing past events_. mer'chants, _those who buy goods to sell again_. mil'i ta ry, _be­long­ing to sol­diers, to arms, or to war_. mis'er y, _great un­hap­pi­ness; ex­treme pain_. mod'ern, _of re­cent date; be­long­ing to the present time_. mon'ster, _some­thing of un­usu­al size, shape, or qual­ity_. mon'u ments, _those things which stand to re­mind us of the past_. mound, _a small hill, nat­ural or ar­ti­fi­cial_. mo'tion, _move­ment; change of po­si­tion_. must'y, _spoiled by age; of a sour smell_.

_N_

neigh'bor, _a per­son who lives near one_. nerved, _strength­ened; sup­plied with force_. night'-mare, _an un­pleas­ant sen­sa­tion dur­ing sleep_. nim'bly, _ac­tive­ly; in a nim­ble man­ner_.

_O_

o be'di ence, _will­ing­ness to sub­mit to com­mands_. o bliged', _forced; com­pelled_. oc'cu pied, _tak­en pos­ses­sion of; em­ployed_. of'fi cer, _one who holds an of­fice_. off'ing, _a part of the sea at a dis­tance from the shore_. om'ni bus es, _large, four-​wheeled car­riages_. on'ion (un'yun), _a root much used for food_. out'posts, _ad­vanced sta­tions, as of an army_. o ver come', _af­fect­ed; over­pow­ered by force_.

_P_

pace, _rate of move­ment_. pal'ace, _a splen­did dwelling, as of a king_. par take', _share; take part in_. patch, _small piece of any thing, as of ground_. paus'es, _short stops; rests_. pave'ments, _cov­er­ings for streets, of stone or sol­id ma­te­ri­als_. peb'bles, _small, roundish stones, worn by the ac­tion of wa­ter_. per cus'sion, _re­quir­ing to be struck; the act of strik­ing_. per'fume, _scent or odor of sweet-​smelling sub­stances_. pe'ri od, _por­tion of time; an in­ter­val_. per'ished, _died; were de­stroyed_. per mis'sion, _the act of al­low­ing; con­sent_. pic'nick ing, _hav­ing an out­door par­ty_. pier, _a land­ing-​place for ves­sels_. pierce, _force a way in­to or through an ob­ject_. pil'lars, _columns; huge mass­es_. pin'cers, _jaws; pinch­ers_. pit'e ous, _fit­ted to ex­cite pity; sor­row­ful_. pit'falls, _pits slight­ly cov­ered for con­ceal­ment_. plan ta'tions, _farms of great ex­tent_. plots, _small pieces of ground, as gar­den plots_. plucked, _pulled out or off_. plunged, _dove; fell_. po'et, _a mak­er of vers­es_. pol'ished, _made bright and smooth by rub­bing_. po lite', _oblig­ing; pleas­ant in man­ner_. por'tion, _a part; that which is di­vid­ed off_. prat'tling, _child­ish; talk­ing like a child_. preach'ing, _speak­ing in pub­lic up­on a re­li­gious sub­ject_. pres'ent ly, _soon; in a short time_. prey, _any thing tak­en by force from an en­emy_. pri'vate, _not pub­licly known; pe­cu­liar to one's self_. pro ces'sion, _reg­ular move­ment, as of sol­diers_. prod'ucts, _fruits; that which is brought forth_. proved, _turned out; showed the truth of_. pro vid'ed, _fur­nished; sup­plied with nec­es­sary ar­ti­cles_. puff'ing, _swelling with air; blow­ing in short, sud­den whiffs_. pure, _clear; free from oth­er mat­ter_.

_Q_

quilt'ed, _stitched to­geth­er with some soft sub­stance be­tween_. quo ta'tions, _por­tions of writ­ings_.

_R_

range, _reach, as of a gun_. ranks, _reg­ular rows or lines, as of sol­diers_. ray, _light; a line of light or heat pro­ceed­ing from a cer­tain point_. read'i ly, _with­out trou­ble or dif­fi­cul­ty; eas­ily_. reap, _gath­er by cut­ting, as a har­vest_. re call'ing, _think­ing of; bring­ing back to mind_. re con sid'er, _think of again; change one's mind_. rec'ords, _sto­ries; de­scrip­tions of events_. re gard'ed, _con­sid­ered; looked at earnest­ly_. re late', _tell_. re lig'ious, _re­lat­ing to re­li­gion_. re main'der, _the rest; what is left_. re mind', _call at­ten­tion to for a sec­ond time_. re moved', _moved away; took off_. rent'ed, _gave pos­ses­sion of for pay_. re paired', _mend­ed_. re placed', _put in place of an­oth­er_. rep re sent', _pic­ture; tell about in an ef­fec­tive man­ner_. re quire', _need; de­mand_. re sist', _stand against; op­pose with force_. re spect', _re­gard_. re tire', _with­draw; turn back_. re volv'er, _a fire-​arm with sev­er­al cham­bers or bar­rels_. rid, _free_. ridg'es, _a long range of hills; steep places_. ri'fle, _a gun hav­ing the in­side of the bar­rel grooved_. rind, _the out­side coat, as of fruit_. risk, _dan­ger; per­il_. riv'u let, _a small riv­er or brook_. rob'ber, _one who com­mits a rob­bery_. ro man'tic, _strange and in­ter­est­ing, as a ro­man­tic sto­ry_. rouse, _awake; ex­cite_. ru'in, _that change of any thing which de­stroys it_. rust'y, _cov­ered with rust on ac­count of long dis­use_.

_S_

sake, _pur­pose; rea­son_. sap, _the juice of plants_. sat'in, _a glossy cloth made of silk_. scene, _pic­ture; view_. schol'ars, _men of learn­ing; those who at­tend school_. scorch'ing, _burn­ing slight­ly; af­fect­ing by heat_. scoured, _made clean and bright_. scram'bled, _moved with dif­fi­cul­ty_. scum, _that which ris­es to the sur­face; worth­less mat­ter_. se'ri ous, _se­vere; sad in ap­pear­ance_. serv'ice, _du­ty, as of a sol­dier_. se vere', _vi­olent; hard_. shab'by, _worn to rags; poor in ap­pear­ance_. shag'gy, _rough_. shal'lows, _places where the wa­ter is not deep_. shat'tered, _bro­ken; bro­ken at once in­to many pieces_. sheath, _a cov­er­ing for a sword_. shep'herd, _one who has the care of sheep_. shield, _a broad piece of ar­mor car­ried on the arm_. shock, _a sud­den strik­ing against_. shriek, _a sharp, shrill cry on ac­count of sur­prise or pain_. siege, _a clos­ing in on all sides of a for­ti­fied place_. sighs, _sti­fled groans; long breaths_. skein, _a num­ber of threads of silk or yarn_. skel'e ton, _bony frame-​work of the body_. skull, _the bony case which en­clos­es the brain_. sleet, _frozen mist_. slopes, _de­clines by de­grees_. slum'ber, _sleep_. sly'ness, _cun­ning; art­ful­ness_. smites, _strikes, as with a weapon_. snort'ing, _forc­ing the air through the nose with a loud noise_. soaked, _moist­ened through­out_. soar, _fly high_. sought (sawt), _tried; went in search of_. spared, _saved from death or pun­ish­ment_. splut'ter ing, _boil­ing nois­ily; speak­ing hasti­ly_. spout, _run out with force_. sprained, _in­jured by strain­ing_. spurred, _urged; en­cour­aged_. stale, _not new; not fresh_. stee'ples, _high tow­ers end­ing in a point_. stern, _hind part of a boat_. stock, _sup­ply on hand_. stout, _large; broad_. strain'ing, _ex­ert­ing to the ut­most_. strict, _se­vere; ex­act_. stub'by, _short and thick_. sub'stan ces, _bod­ies; mat­ters_. suc ceed'ed, _ob­tained the ob­ject de­sired_. suf'fered, _felt pain_. sul'try, _very hot; burn­ing_. sup port', _prop; pil­lar_. sus pect'ed, _thought; con­sid­ered quite prob­able_. sus pi'cious, _in­di­cat­ing fear; in­clined to sus­pect_.

_T_

tab'let, _a flat piece of stone_. tac'tics, _dis­ci­plined move­ments_. tem'per, _way of act­ing_. tem'ple, _a place for wor­ship_. ten'drils, _ten­der branch­es of plants_. ter'ri fied, _filled with fear_. ter'ri to ry, _a large tract of land_. ter'ror, _fear; dread_. thieves _per­sons who steal_. thirst, _strong de­sire for drink_. thith'er, _to that place_. thorns, _woody points on some trees and shrubs_. thor'ough, _com­plete; per­fect_. thread'bare, _worn out_. thrives, _pros­pers; flour­ish­es_. till'er, _the bar used to turn the rud­der of a boat_. ti'tle, _a name_. tor'rid, _vi­olent­ly hot_. trace, _mark; ap­pear­ance_. tract, _a re­gion_. treb'les, _the high­er parts in mu­sic_. trick'led, _flowed in drops_. trop'ic al, _be­long­ing to the trop­ics_. tuft, _a clus­ter or bunch_. tun'nels, _pas­sages; open­ings_. twinge, _a sud­den, sharp pain_. twink'ling, _a quick move­ment_. twit'ter ing, _a trem­bling noise_.

_U_

un­com'for­ta ble, _caus­ing un­easi­ness; not pleas­ant_. un der neath', _be­low; be­neath_. un der take', _at­tempt_. un ea'si ness, _want of ease_. un grate'ful, _not thank­ful_. u nit'ed, _joined; com­bined_. un man'ly, _not wor­thy of a man_. un ru'ly, _not sub­mis­sive_. un scarred', _not marked_. urg'ing, _en­cour­ag­ing_. ut'most, _to the fur­thest point_.

_V_

val'u a ble, _of great val­ue_. vel'vet, _a soft ma­te­ri­al wo­ven from silk_. ver'min, _lit­tle an­imals or in­sects_. vic'tims, _per­sons de­stroyed in pur­suit of an ob­ject_. vic'tor, _one who con­quers_. vi'o lence, _force; pow­er_. virt'u ous, _in­clined to do right_.

_W_

wa'ges, _what is paid for ser­vices_. wa'ter break (break­wa­ter), _that which breaks the force of wa­ter_. weap'on, _any thing to be used against an en­emy_. whence, _from which or what place_. whiff, _a quick puff of air_. whith'er, _to what place_. wig, _a cov­er­ing for the head, made of hair_. wine, _a liquor made from grapes_. wits, _pow­ers of the mind_. wrig'gled, _moved or twist­ed_. wrung, _dis­tressed; twist­ed about_.

_Y_

yawns, _opens wide_. youth'ful, _young; be­long­ing to ear­ly life_.

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