Tutor-Term6.Pdf

The Home Educator's Tutor and The Tutor published by The Erskine Family PO Box 1187 Canmer, KY 42722

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

HOW TO USE THE TUTOR ______7 NATURE ______10 MUSIC OPERA ______32 CLASSICAL COMPOSER ______36 FOLK SONGS ______47 HYMNS______50 FINE ART ARTIST ______55 COPYWORK ______60 GEOGRAPHY______64 LITERATURE POETRY ______91 LAMB’S TALES OF SHAKESPEARE ______101 HERO STORIES FROM AMERICAN HISTORY______109 PLUTARCH ______115 ELOCUTION ______130 BEGINNER ______133 INTERMEDIATE ______139 ADVANCED ______152 ORATIONS ______166 CHARACTER ______174 BIBLE VERSES ______187 BIBLE READING PLAN ______192 LESSON PLANS ______194 INDEX______198

How to Use The Tutor

We thank you for purchasing The Tutor. The Tutor is not for every family but for those seeking a richer and fuller educational experience for their children. The Tutor is unlike any other education tool on the market; it is for customers who see education differently. We have designed The Tutor to be as flexible in use as it is diverse in subjects covered. The Tutor is not a curriculum. It is designed to complement any curriculum you may be using. We know that education is much more than the Three R’s. True, the basics are vital, but they are just the beginning of developing a full education. A richer education includes understanding about the things that make civilization, knowledge about the world and the arts, and the ability to express oneself. This is the motivation for The Tutor: to help families and teachers give children these additional skills that may not be acquired in any other way. The Tutor can be effectively used in several ways and while we understand that the teacher’s usage will be tailored to the individual situation, we wanted to provide a few ideas that you may find useful. The Tutor could be used as a stand-alone addition to your curriculum. The stories are captivating; the music is among the best ever composed, and the totality of the material would benefit anyone exposed to it. If this approach best meets your needs, you will undoubtedly give your student benefits not easily available anywhere else. However, we believe that there are more benefits to be gained if The Tutor is used in conjunction with your larger curriculum. Since The Tutor is not time sensitive or dated, one volume can be used repeatedly to supplement a curriculum as the student progresses through various subjects. An example may be that the student is studying reptiles for science and the first sections of this volume may be a nice way to supplement the study. Other sections may be all you require for certain studies. The introduction to Haydn and his music can stand alone or be part of a larger study of classical music; however, it could also supplement a study on the culture and history of Europe. The possibilities of how to use each volume and each section within a volume are limitless. The written and spoken word may be man’s greatest invention and we emphasize it in The Tutor. Since words are the way we transmit ideas to each other, it is essential that a student master their use. When we think of great men, we usually think of two legacies they leave: their deeds and their words. While deeds are vital it is often words that change the world more—their words; writings, speeches, and letters. “In the beginning God created,” “Romeo, Romeo, where for art thou Romeo?” “Give me liberty or give me death!” “Four score and seven years ago,” “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall,” these are words that shaped and changed the world. One of our goals is to help the student develop a mastery of words. People with great ideas must be able to express them. With this in mind, each volume contains a poetry section, a child-friendly version of a Shakespearean work, a section on great orations, and a collection of other writings. These can be used to supplement studies in history or when studying the topic the speaker or writer addresses. They also make great subject matter for memorization exercises and copy work. You will notice that our section entitled Copy work comes from George Washington. In addition to the examples of great words, we also include a three-level elocution section which the helps the student develop a mastery of words. These sections focused on the written and spoken word may be the most valuable sections to the teacher and the student. History is replete with memorable

7 figures who were self-taught by reading and learning from the great writers that preceded them. This can be true with your students as well. We end each volume with a character section. It is our philosophy that education is not complete if it does not build the student into an honorable individual. Honesty, responsibility, trustworthiness, and so forth are slipping from today’s society. We seem to live in a coarser world, and while we know many have said that in earlier times, it does not mean our assessment is incorrect. The only way to address this development is to train our students in proper behavior and instill in them an admirable character. You may notice some wordings and grammatical usages that are different from what is considered acceptable nowadays. This is because we are reprinting public domain works as they were originally printed. We strive to stay true to the original source as much as possible. In some respects, our book is helping you to teach things that were part of a good education years ago. Our society suffers from too much data and not enough education, and we hope that our volumes fill in some gaps and complement your efforts for years to come.

Nature Studies

Insects

A SWARM OF WILD BEES By Albert W. Tolman

"How many bridges have I driven rivets on?" repeated the watchman, reflectively. "Let me see—just forty-seven—no, forty-eight! I forgot the Mogung cantilever. Never in Burma were you? Well, it's the only time I ever went abroad. It was something of a compliment for a young fellow of twenty-two to be sent on his company's first job abroad. I should have liked the trip first rate if Harry Lancy hadn't been going as foreman.”

Harry had risen from the ranks, and at twenty-five was considered one of the company's best men. I'd never worked under him, but I judged he'd be uppish and arbitrary, and knew I shouldn't like him. You notice such things when you've just come of age. As you get older, you begin to think less of your own feelings, and more of doing your work right.

We landed at Rangoon about May 1, went by rail to Mandalay, and from there travelled slowly up-country by construction-train to the Mogung Gorge. During the whole journey I didn't speak a hundred words to Lancy. Still, I don't think he suspected I had any grudge against him. If he did, he never let on, but treated me just like the others.

The gorge was an awful hole, two hundred and fifty feet wide and two hundred deep, with the river dashing white over the ledges at its bottom. It was to be spanned by a cantilever bridge with an intermediate truss.

We found our work all cut out for us. Every beam and girder was on the ground, numbered and ready. There were plenty of coolies for the ordinary labor. So we got busy at once. A temporary wire suspension bridge was thrown across above the site of the cantilever, and work begun from both sides at the same time.

From the outset I had determined to give Lancy no chance for faultfinding, but to have as little to do with him as I possibly could.

Little by little our beam-trusses pushed out from each bank, and the gap between them grew narrower.

One thing that interested me especially at first was the wild bees. For miles back into the hills their nests lined the walls of the gorge. Millions of them made it their thoroughfare to and from the flower-covered plains below us. Particularly at morning and night their hum, echoing through the ravine and mingling with the murmur of the river, sounded like the drone of distant machinery.

These bees were black and small; but they made up in fierceness for what they lacked in size. Their stings were far more painful and poisonous than those of our bees here. Some of us, myself included, learned this by experience; and we didn't need more than one lesson.

By the middle of June the ends of the opposite beams were about fifty feet apart.

One hot morning, between ten and eleven, I was reaming out a rivet-hole in the tip of the last beam. I was feeling out of sorts that forenoon. Lancy had given his orders to me gruff and short, though, as a matter of fact, he was probably just as gruff with everybody else. But when you're looking for trouble, you know, you don't have much trouble finding it.

I straddled the beam, my feet almost touching under it. It was hot in the unclouded sun, and the air was full of tropical scents. Insects hummed round me. Bright-colored butterflies floated by. Now and then a flock of shrieking birds swept up the gorge. On the steel behind me a dozen men were busy.

I had almost finished the hole, when my ears caught a humming, gradually growing louder. I looked down. Several yards below hung a black mass about as big as a nail-keg. It was a nest of wild bees swarming.

At first I felt curious, interested. Then I noticed that the bunch was rising directly toward me, and I began to feel alarmed, as I remembered their fearful stings. If they attacked me I should be in a bad fix.

Slowly, with a revolving motion and an intense, spiteful sszzzzz-ing, the irregular mass kept rising. Its center seemed so solid that I wondered how the wings had room to beat. Its outside frayed off into separate bees, drawn inward by a common attraction.

It was not a yard under me now. I dared not move, for I knew what concentrated misery the swarm held for the man who angered it. As I watched it floating nearer, my skin crept and my; brain was fascinated by that monotonous buzzing. Perhaps, if I sat perfectly quiet, it would pass and leave me unharmed.

For a moment, apparently undecided, the ball hovered under me. Then with a quickened motion, up it came, straight for my feet.

I grew hot and cold. My flesh quivered with the imaginary stings of thousands of poisoned needles, as the fearful mass melted apart and settled in thick clusters on my shoes and legs!

As I watched the crawling thousands come to rest, I simply choked with terror. What could I do? If I made the slightest motion to get up, they would swarm over me like lightning, and sting me to death.

Twenty feet behind me one of my mates began to hammer, shaking the beam with his blows. I was afraid the jar might anger the bees into an attack.

“Stop that pounding, Jim!” I begged huskily, as he ceased for a moment. The hammering stopped.

Then exclamations of alarm and sympathy fell upon my ears, and presently all work on the steel was suspended. I could hear feet shuffling quietly back to the bank. Soon I was left alone on the truss, threatened with a death ten times more horrible than any tiger or snake could inflict.

Not daring to move a muscle, not even to turn my head, I sat, as it seemed to me, for hours, perfectly rigid, staring straight forward at the red-painted end of the opposite beam, wavering in the heat fifty feet away. My brain was clear as glass, my senses keen. Low, excited voices babbled behind me. I could smell onions boiling in the cook's quarters, and hear his pans and dishes rattling.

Every little while I turned my eyes downward, hoping to see the bees getting ready to leave. But my shoes and trousers were still buried inches deep under the sluggishly clinging black bodies.

The brassy alarm clock in the mess tent clanged out eleven. I had been sitting there only half an hour.

The sun struck fiercely down on my head, scantily protected by my thin cap. A filmy white feather from some passing bird dropped before my face. I followed it past the hideous furry swelling on my feet, straight down through the breezeless air, till it dwindled to a white speck above the ledges two hundred feet below. That was where I should strike if I fell; but what torments I should suffer before I struck!

The beam was hard and hot. I could not sit quiet forever. I stirred uneasily. An angry hum rose, and I stiffened. Some of the bees were above my knees. Suppose I should crush one between my leg and the steel! Suppose they should creep up and cover my body and head!

A banging of pans began on the bank. Somebody had borrowed the cook's tin ware in the hope of starting the swarm. A wave of unrest ran over the insects; but soon they settled into quiet again.

The heat was affecting my head. I felt fretful, irritable. Why didn't somebody do something to help me? But what? My teeth chattered, a nervous chill shook me, and the bees buzzed at my shaking.

The voices behind me stopped. Something was about to happen. I listened. Feet came stealing cautiously along the beam. What was going on? 12

“Sit perfectly still.”

It was Lance’s voice. What was he trying to do? I felt a consuming curiosity, but dared not turn my head. His voice came again:

“Take a full breath; then shut your mouth.”

What in the world had my mouth got to do with it? But I obeyed.

A penetrating sulphurous scent stole through the thick air. Then right under my bee-swollen feet swung a small black kettle, suspended by a chain round its bail, and filled with a yellowish substance, burning bluely. It was brimstone, of which we had a supply for fastening bolts in the rocks. Lancy was trying to smoke the bees off.

Back oscillated the kettle out of my sight. But the swarm had got the benefit of its contents and didn't like them. An ominous buzzing rose. Their wings lifted, then settled back. The scent was not strong enough to start them.

I took another full breath. To me the strangling fumes had been sweet for the relief they promised. Once more the kettle swung under me, this time remaining a little longer. The smell was strong; with difficulty I repressed a coughing that threatened to shake me.

This time the outer layer of bees rose slightly and hovered over the others. Some flew wildly and angrily about. A few dropped, stupefied. It would evidently take but little more to start the whole swarm. Lancy moved up close behind me.

Again he swung the kettle under the bees. They had had enough. The entire mass left my legs. The greater number dropped down and hung a few feet below, but stray skirmishers flew confusedly about.

So far, however, not a single bee had touched either of us. It looked as if we were to escape unharmed.

Suddenly an unexpected disaster happened. One end of the bail pulled out, allowing the kettle to tilt down sidewise. Out fell the sulphur in a blue-burning, smoky stream. A moment later the chain slipped entirely off the bail; the kettle shot downward, leaving only a vanishing scent and a swarm of infuriated bees.

Lancy grabbed my shoulder.

“Quick! For your life!”

I didn't need any urging; but I was stiff and slightly dizzy from the fumes, and it took me several seconds to get to my feet on the beam. Unfortunately, too, I crushed three or four bees that were crawling stupidly on the steel.

Then it seemed as if the whole swarm struck me at once. The sulphur may have half-stupefied them, but they hadn't forgotten how to sting.

I'll never forget my walk along that narrow beam to the bank. The bees were all over me in a moment. My hands and face felt as if they were being punctured with red-hot splinters. Before I'd gone ten steps my eyes were closed so tight I couldn't see.

I'd have gone off the beam headfirst if it hadn't been for Lancy. He had on gloves and mosquito netting over his head. But they crawled up his sleeves and down his neck, and stung him bad. Yet he didn't falter. With one hand stretched back and grasping mine, he walked cool and straight for the bank, as if he'd been on solid ground, instead of two hundred feet in the air.

Blind and almost crazy from the stings, I stumbled along behind him. Every step was agony. I was almost tempted to jump from the beam and go down to be crushed to pulp on the boulders. The only thing that saved me was Lancy's hand, cool, firm and strong.

“Steady! Steady!” he kept saying. I heard him through the shooting, burning pains, and it saved my reason. At last it didn't seem as if I could take another step.

“Let go!” I cried, trying to get my hand loose; but he dragged me on.

“In a minute,” said he; and all at once I felt the earth under my feet.

I wasn't so far gone but I gave the hand I'd been holding a grip that squeezed the fingers together. It was all the thanks I could offer just then. Lancy squeezed back. Then everybody turned to and helped fight the bees off us.

It was weeks before I got over those stings. Lancy had suffered, too, but of course not so badly. I don't know that he ever knew why I gripped his hand so hard. I was too much ashamed to tell him of the grudge I'd held. But I do know that after that I looked on him as one of my best friends. He'd saved my life, and a friend can't do much more for you than that.

THE INTELLIGENCE OF ANTS By Sir John Lubbock

The subject of ants is a wide one, for there are at least a thousand species of ants, no two of which have the same habits. In this country (England) we have rather more than thirty, most of which I have kept in confinement. Their life is comparatively long: I have had working ants which were seven years old, and a queen ant lived in one of my nests for fifteen years. The community consists, in addition to the young, of males, which do no work, of wingless workers, and one or more queen mothers, who have at first wings, which, however, after one marriage flight, they throw off, as they never leave the nest again, and in it wings would of course be useless. The workers do not, except occasionally, lay eggs, but carry on all the affairs of the community. Some of them, and especially the younger ones, remain in the nest, excavate chambers and tunnels, and tend the young, which are sorted up according to age, so that my nests often had the appearance of a school, with the children arranged in classes. In our English ants the workers in each species are all similar except in size, but among foreign species there are some in which there are two or even more classes of workers, differing greatly not only in size, but also in form. The differences are not the result of age nor of race, but are adaptations to different functions, the nature of which, however, is not yet well understood. Among the Termites, those of one class certainly seem to act as soldiers, and among the true ants also some have comparatively immense heads and powerful jaws. It is doubtful, however, whether they form a real army. Bates observed that on a foraging expedition the large-headed individuals did not walk in the regular ranks, nor on the return did they carry any of the booty, but marched along at the side, and at tolerably regular intervals, "like subaltern officers in a marching regiment."

Solomon was, so far as we yet know, quite correct in describing ants as having "neither guide, overseer, nor ruler." The so-called queens are really mothers. Nevertheless it is true, and it is curious, that the working ants and bees always turn their heads towards the queen. It seems as if the sight of her gives them pleasure. On one occasion, while moving some ants from one nest into another for exhibition at the Royal Institution, I unfortunately crushed the queen and killed her. The others, however, did not desert her, or draw her out as they do dead workers, but on the contrary carried her into the new nest, and subsequently into a larger one with which I supplied them, congregating round her for weeks just as if she had been alive. One could hardly help fancying that they were mourning her loss, or hoping anxiously for her recovery.

The communities of ants are sometimes very large, numbering even up to 500,000 individuals; and it is a lesson to us, that no one has ever yet seen a quarrel between any two ants belonging to the same community. On the other hand, it must be admitted that they are in hostility, not only with most other insects, including ants of different species, but even with those of the same species if belonging to different communities. I have over and over again introduced ants from one of my nests into another nest of the same species, and they were invariably attacked, seized by a leg or an antenna, and dragged out.

It is evident therefore that the ants of each community all recognize one another, which is very remarkable. But more than this, I several times divided a nest into two halves, and found that even after a separation of a year and nine

14 months they recognized one another, and were perfectly friendly, while they at once attacked ants from a different nest, although of the same species.

It has been suggested that the ants of each nest have some sign or password by which they recognize one another. To test this I made some insensible. First I tried chloroform, but this was fatal to them; and as therefore they were practically dead, I did not consider the test satisfactory. I decided therefore to intoxicate them. This was less easy than I had expected. None of my ants would voluntarily degrade themselves by getting drunk. However, I got over the difficulty by putting them into whisky for a few moments. I took fifty specimens, twenty-five from one nest and twenty- five from another, made them dead drunk, marked each with a spot of paint, and put them on a table close to where the other ants from one of the nests were feeding. The table was surrounded as usual with a moat of water to prevent them from straying. The ants which were feeding soon noticed those which I had made drunk. They seemed quite astonished to find their comrades in such disgraceful condition, and as much at a loss to know what to do with their drunkards as we are. After a while, however, to cut my story short, they carried them all away: the strangers they took to edge of the moat and dropped into the water, while they bore their friends home into the nest, where by degrees they slept off the effects of the spirit. Thus it is evident that they know their friends even when incapable of giving any sign or password.

This little experiment also shows that they help comrades in distress. If a wolf or a rook be ill or injured, we are told that it is driven away or even killed by its comrades. Not so with ants. For instance, in one of my nests an unfortunate ant, in emerging from the chrysalis skin, injured her legs so much that she lay on her back quite helpless. For three months, however, she was carefully fed and tended by the other ants. In another case an ant in the same manner had injured her antennae. I watched her also carefully to see what would happen. For some days she did not leave the nest. At last one day she ventured outside, and after a while met a stranger ant of the same species, but belonging to another nest, by whom she was at once attacked. I tried to separate them, but whether by her enemy, or perhaps by my well-meant but clumsy kindness, she was evidently much hurt and lay helplessly on her side. Several others passed her without taking any notice, but soon one came up, examined her carefully with her antennae, and carried her off tenderly to the nest. No one, I think, who saw it could have denied to that ant one attribute of humanity, the quality of kindness.

The existence of such communities as those of ants or bees implies, no doubt, some power of communication, but the amount is still a matter of doubt. It is well known that if one bee or ant discovers a store of food, others soon find their way to it. This, however, does not prove much. It makes all the difference whether they are brought or sent. If they merely accompany on her return a companion who has brought a store of food, it does not imply much. To test this, therefore, I made several experiments. For instance, one cold day my ants were almost all in their nests. One only was out hunting and about six feet from home. I took a dead bluebottle fly, pinned it on to a piece of cork, and put it down just in front of her. She at once tried to carry off the fly, but to her surprise found it immovable. She tugged and tugged, first one way and then another for about twenty minutes, and then went straight off to the nest. During that time not a single ant had come out; in fact she was the only ant of that nest out at the time. She went straight in, but in a few seconds--less than half a minute--came out again with no less than twelve friends, who trooped off with her, and eventually tore up the dead fly, carrying it off in triumph.

Now the first ant took nothing home with her; she must therefore somehow have made her friends understand that she had found some food, and wanted them to come and help her to secure it. In all such cases, however, so far as my experience goes, the ants brought their friends, and some of my experiments indicated that they are unable to send them.

Certain species of ants, again, make slaves of others, as Huber first observed. If a colony of the slave-making ants is changing the nest, a matter which is left to the discretion of the slaves, the latter carry their mistresses to their new home. Again, if I uncovered one of my nests of the Fuscous ant (Formica fusca), they all began running about in search of some place of refuge. If now I covered over one small part of the nest, after a while some ant discovered it. In such a case, however, the brave little insect never remained there, she came out in search of her friends, and the first one she met she took up in her jaws, threw over her shoulder (their way of carrying friends), and took into the covered part; then both came out again, found two more friends and brought them in, the same maneuver being repeated until the whole community was in a place of safety. This I think says much for their public spirit, but it seems to prove that, in F. fusca at least, the powers of communication are but limited.

One kind of slave-making ant has become so completely dependent on their slaves that even if provided with food they will die of hunger, unless there is a slave to put it into their mouths, I found, however, that they would thrive very well if supplied with a slave for an hour or so once a week to clean and feed them. 15

But in many cases the community does not consist of ants only. They have domestic animals, and indeed it is not going too far to say that they have domesticated more animals than we have. Of these the most important are Aphides on trees and bushes; others collect root-feeding Aphides into their nests. They serve as cows to the ants, which feed on the honeydew secreted by the Aphides. Not only do the ants protect the Aphides themselves, but collect their eggs in autumn, and tend them carefully through the winter, ready for the next spring. Many other insects are also domesticated by ants, and some of them, from living constantly underground, have completely lost their eyes and become quite blind.

When we see a community of ants working together in perfect harmony, it is impossible not to ask ourselves how far they are mere exquisite automatons, how far they are conscious beings. When we watch an ant-hill tenanted by thousands of industrious inhabitants, excavating chambers, forming tunnels, making roads, guarding their home, gathering food, feeding the young, tending their domestic animals--each one fulfilling its duties industriously, and without confusion--it is difficult; altogether to deny to them the gift of reason; and all our recent observations tend to confirm the opinion that their mental powers differ from those of men, not so much in kind as in degree.

THE KATY-DID'S PARTY By Harriet Beecher Stowe

Miss Katy-did sat on the branch of a flowering azalea, in her best suit of fine green and silver, with wings of point-lace from Mother Nature's finest web.

Miss Katy was in the very highest possible spirits, because her gallant cousin, Colonel Katy-did, had looked in to make her a morning visit. It was a fine morning, too, which goes for as much among the Katy-dids as among men and women. It was, in fact, a morning that Miss Katy thought must have been made on purpose for her to enjoy herself in. There had been a patter of rain the night before, which had kept the leaves awake talking to each other till nearly morning, but by dawn the small winds had blown brisk little puffs, and whisked the heavens clear and bright with their tiny wings, as you have seen Susan clear away the cobwebs in your mamma's parlor; and so now there were only left a thousand blinking, burning water drops, hanging like convex mirrors at the end of each leaf, and Miss Katy admired herself in each one.

"Certainly I am a pretty creature," she said to herself; and when the gallant Colonel said something about being dazzled by her beauty, she only tossed her head and took it as quite a matter of course.

"The fact is, my dear Colonel," she said, "I am thinking of giving a party, and you must help me make out the lists."

"My dear, you make me the happiest of Katy-dids."

"Now," said Miss Katy-did, drawing an azalea-leaf towards her, "let us see,--whom shall we have? The Fireflies, of course; everybody wants them, they are so brilliant; a little unsteady, to be sure, but quite in the higher circles."

"Yes, we must have the Fireflies," echoed the Colonel.

"Well, then,--and the Butterflies and the Moths. Now, there's a trouble. There's such an everlasting tribe of those Moths; and if you invite dull people they're always sure all to come, every one of them. Still, if you have the Butterflies, you can't leave out the Moths."

"Old Mrs. Moth has been laid up lately with a gastric fever, and that may keep two or three of the Misses Moth at home," said the Colonel.

"What ever could give the old lady such a turn?" said Miss Katy. "I thought she never was sick."

"I suspect it's high living. I understand she and her family ate up a whole ermine cape last month, and it disagreed with them."

"For my part, I can't conceive how the Moths can live as they do,” said Miss Katy with a face of disgust. "Why, I could no more eat worsted and fur, as they do--"

"That is quite evident from the fairy-like delicacy of your appearance," said the Colonel. "One can see that nothing so gross and material has ever entered into your system."

"I'm sure," said Miss Katy, "mamma says she don't know what does keep me alive; half a dew-drop and a little hit of the nicest part of a rose-leaf, I assure you, often last me for a day. But we are forgetting our list. Let's see,--the Fireflies, Butterflies, Moths. The Bees must come, I suppose."

"The Bees are a worthy family," said the Colonel.

"Worthy enough, but dreadfully hum-drum" said Miss Katy. "They never talk about anything but honey and housekeeping; still they are a class of people one cannot neglect."

"Well, then, there are the Bumble-bees."

"Oh, I dote on them! General Bumble is one of the most dashing, brilliant fellows of the day.”

"I think he is shockingly corpulent," said Colonel Katy-did, not at all pleased to hear him praised, "don't you?"

"I don't know but he is a little stout," said Miss Katy, "but so distinguished and elegant in his manners, something martial and breezy about him."

"Well, if you invite the Bumble-bees you must have the Hornets."

"Those spiteful Hornets,--I detest them!"

"Nevertheless, dear Miss Katy, one does not like to offend the Hornets."

"No, one can't. There are those five Misses Hornet,--dreadful old maids! As full of spite as they can live. You may be sure they will every one come, and be looking about to make spiteful remarks. Put down the Hornets, though."

"How about the Mosquitoes?" said the Colonel.

"Those horrid Mosquitoes,--they are dreadfully common! Can't one cut them?"

"Well, dear Miss Katy," said the Colonel, "if you ask my candid opinion as a friend, I should say not. there's young Mosquito, who graduated last year, has gone into literature, and is connected with some of our leading papers, and they say he carries the sharpest pen of all the writers. It won't do to offend him."

"And so I suppose we must have his old aunts, and all six of his sisters, and all his dreadfully common relations."

"It is a pity," said the Colonel, "but one must pay one's tax to society."

Just at this moment the conference was interrupted by a visitor, Miss Keziah Cricket, who came in with her workbag on her arm to ask a subscription for a poor family of Ants who had just had their house hoed up in clearing the garden- walks.

"How stupid of them," said Katy, "not to know better than to put their house in the garden-walk; that's just like those ants!"

"Well, they are in great trouble; all their stores destroyed, and their father killed,--cut in two by a hoe."

"How very shocking! I don't like to hear of such disagreeable things, it affects my nerves terribly. Well, I'm sure I haven't anything to give. Mamma said yesterday she was sure she didn't know how our bills were to be paid,--and there's my green satin with point-lace yet to come home." And Miss Katy-did shrugged her shoulders and affected to be very 17 busy with Colonel Katy-did, in just the way that young ladies sometimes do when they wish to signify to visitors that they had better leave.

Little Miss Cricket perceived how the case stood, and so hopped briskly off, without giving herself even time to be offended. "Poor extravagant little thing!" said she to herself, "it was hardly worth while to ask her."

"Pray, shall you invite the Crickets?" said Colonel Katy-did.

"Who? I? Why, Colonel, what a question! Invite the Crickets? Of what can you be thinking?"

"And shall you not ask the Locusts, or the Grasshoppers?"

"Certainly, The Locusts, of course, a very old and distinguished family; and the Grasshoppers are pretty well, and ought to be asked. But we must draw the line somewhere—and the Crickets! Why it's shocking even to think of!"

"I thought they were nice, respectable people."

"O, perfectly nice and respectable, very good people, in fact, so far as that goes. But then you must see the difficulty."

"My dear cousin, I am afraid you must explain."

"Why, their color, to be sure. Don't you see?"

"Oh!" said the Colonel. "That's it, is it? Excuse me, but I have been living in France, where these distinctions are wholly unknown, and I have not yet got myself in the train of fashionable ideas here."

"Well, then, let me teach you," said Miss Katy. "You know we go for no distinctions except those created by Nature herself, and we found our rank upon color, because that is clearly a thing that none has any hand in but our Maker. You see?"

"Yes; but who decides what color shall be the reigning color?"

"I'm surprised to hear the question! The only true color--the only proper one--is our color, to be sure. A lovely pea-green is the precise shade on which to found aristocratic distinction. But then we are liberal; we associate with the Moths, who are gray; with the Butterflies, who are blue-and-gold colored; with the Grasshoppers, yellow and brown;--and society would become dreadfully mixed if it were not fortunately ordered that the Crickets are black as jet. The fact is, that a class to be looked down upon is necessary to all elegant society, and if the Crickets were not black, we could not keep them down, because, as everybody knows, they are often a great deal cleverer than we are. They have a vast talent for music and dancing; they are very quick at learning, and would be getting to the very top of the ladder if we once allowed them to climb. But being black is a convenience, because, as long as we are green and they are black, we have a superiority that can never be taken from us. Don't you see now?"

"Oh, yes, I see exactly," said the Colonel.

"Now that Keziah Cricket, who just came in here, is quite a musician, and her old father plays the violin beautifully; by the way, we might engage him for our orchestra."

And so Miss Katy's ball came off, and the performers kept it up from sundown till daybreak, so that it seemed as if every leaf in the forest were alive. The Katy-dids, and the Mosquitoes, and the Locusts, and a full orchestra of Crickets made the air perfectly vibrate, insomuch that old Parson Too-whit, who was preaching a Thursday evening lecture to a very small audience, announced to his hearers that he should certainly write a discourse against dancing, for the next weekly occasion.

The good Doctor was as good as his word in the matter, and gave out some very sonorous discourses, without in the least stopping the round of gayeties kept up by these dissipated Katy-dids, which ran on, night after night, till the celebrated Jack Frost epidemic, which occurred somewhere about the first of September.

Poor Miss Katy, with her flimsy green satin and point lace, was one of the first victims, and fell from the bough in company with a sad shower of last year's leaves. The worthy Cricket family, however, avoided Jack Frost by emigrating in time to the chimney corner of a nice little cottage that had been built in the wood that summer.

There good old Mr. and Mrs. Cricket, with sprightly Miss Keziah and her brothers and sisters, found a warm and welcome home; and when the storm howled without, and lashed the poor naked trees, the Cricket on the warm hearth would chirp out cheery welcome to papa as he came in from the snowy path, or mamma as she sat at her work-basket.

"Cheep, cheep, cheep!" little Freddy would say. "Mamma, who is it says 'cheep'?"

"Dear Freddy, it is our own dear little cricket, who loves us and comes to sing to us when the snow is on the ground."

So when poor Miss Katy-did's satin and lace were all swept away, the warm home-talents of the Crickets made for them a welcome refuge.

POWDER-POST By C. A. Stephens

There is a tiny borer which eats seasoned oak wood, boring thousands of minute holes through it till it becomes a mere shell, and turning out a fine white powder known among country folk as "powder-post." When a shovel or a pitchfork- handle snaps suddenly, or an axe-helve or a rake's tail breaks off under no great strain, the farmer says, "'Twas powder- post."

If this small pest obtains lodgment in a barn, or in the oak finish or furniture of a house, it is likely to do a vexatious amount of damage, and no practicable method of checking its ravages has been found. Varnishes do not exclude it. Boiling will kill the borer, but furniture and wainscotings are not easily boiled.

From the frames of old buildings, when of oak, powder-post will sometimes run in streams when a beam or brace is struck.

But everything has its virtues, if only they can be found out; and long ago, in New England, some rustic Æsculapius discovered that powder-post was a sovereign balm for all flesh wounds, causing them to heal rapidly, without "proud flesh." And if proud flesh appeared, the wound would still heal if it were opened and dressed with powder-post.

What modern medical science would predicate concerning this panacea, I know not, but thousands of cuts in rural districts treated with powder-post did very well, and faith in it waxed strong. So when Sam Eastman cut his foot over in the "east woods," all the wiseacres in the neighborhood declared that that foot must be done up in powder-post. "If it isn't," they said, "proud flesh will get into it, and that boy will be lame all winter."

It was a bad cut. Sam and Willis Murch had been splitting four-foot logs, when Sam's axe, glancing from a log, had buried the blade in his instep; the very bones were cut. There were four of us boys at work together. We ran to him, tied a handkerchief round his ankle, and twisted it tight with a stick; but blood flowed profusely. We did not know how to apply a tourniquet.

When at last we had helped Sam home, night was at hand; and although we went to all the neighbors, we could not collect enough powder-post to dress the cut. Several people said, however, that plenty of it could be obtained at the old Plancher barn, for the braces of that barn had been made of cleft red oak, and were "all powder-posted." But the Plancher barn was four miles distant, in the clearing in the "great woods." A settler bearing the name had cleared a farm there forty years before, and had lived there for over twenty years. Ill fortune beset him, however. His children died, his house burned on a winter night, and he moved away in discouragement, abandoning the property.

The clearing was known to all the boys of the locality as a favorite haunt of foxes.

The next morning Sam's younger brother, John, Willis Murch and I went up to the old barn to get powder-post. John had a small axe with which to split the timbers, four old newspapers in which to gather up the precious dust, and a bottle in which to put it.

It was Thanksgiving morning. The sun rose in a clear, straw-colored sky. It was cold; the ground was frozen, and there was skating on the small ponds.

Red squirrels were scolding on the borders of the wood lots, and blue jays came squalling into the orchards.

"This is a weather-breeder," grandmother remarked at breakfast.

Low down on the southern horizon, scarcely visible above the hilltops, was a line of slate-gray clouds.

Willis and I were not sorry of an excuse for a jaunt through the woods, for Willis owned a gun--an old army rifle bored out smooth for shot. Our only anxiety was to get back in good season for dinner. Thanksgiving dinner was always at three o'clock.

We set off immediately after breakfast. There was no need for haste on Sam's account, for John told us that the cut foot was no longer very painful, and Sam had slept well. The distance was about four miles, but there was neither road nor path through the forest.

It was a good time for hunting, for the swamps were frozen and the foliage was off the trees. The leaves were sodden and no longer rustled underfoot. Red and gray squirrels scampered across our path, but Willis disdained to fire at them. He was loaded for deer; besides he had but three extra charges. Powder and shot were usually scarce with us.

At length we heard a deer run, and followed it for an hour or more. Then John espied a hedgehog in a poplar-tree, and Willis shot it. The long black-pointed quills were a curiosity to us, but we did not deem such game worth carrying home.

It was near noon when we reached the clearing, and the sky had become overcast, but as we crossed the Plancher brook a new diversion presented itself. The pools were frozen over, but the ice was so transparent that the bottom was plainly visible, and we could see trout lying sluggishly in the deep water. Several of them were fine fish, that looked as if they might weigh a pound or more.

I had heard older boys say that if a gun is fired with the muzzle held just through the ice of a frozen pool, the concussion will so stun the fish beneath that they will float up to the under side of the ice. Willis was afraid that this would burst his gun, but the trout looked so alluring that at last he ventured the experiment. John cut a small hole with the axe, and then Willis, lying down, thrust the muzzle of the gun about six inches beneath the ice.

Then he edged away, and stretching out his arm at full length, pulled the trigger. The gun recoiled, but no apparent damage was done.

For a few moments the water was turbid with the smoke, but when it cleared, there, sure enough, were five or six of the very largest trout floating, belly upward, against the ice. We had but to cut through and take them out, but John was so slow with his axe that two of the trout recovered and darted away.

We had four fine fish to show for the charge of powder, and immediately searched for another pool. We soon came to one much deeper and better stocked with trout, and Willis fired under the ice again. Eight fish were secured here; and going on up the brook, we found still another pool. This time Willis thrust the gun deeper into the water, with the result that about a foot of the muzzle was split open!

We had angry words about this accident, for Willis, much chapfallen over the mishap, blamed me, and declared that I ought to buy him a new gun. As I had but fifty cents in the world, there was no other way for me but to scoff at Willis's claim. He then seized all the trout. This did not altogether please John Eastman, and he and I turned our backs on Willis, and hit upon a stratagem for capturing trout on our own account. Knowing that it was the concussion of the shot that stunned the trout, we went up to the old barn and procured a long, sweeping board. Using this like a flail, we could strike the ice a blow that made a noise well nigh as loud as a gun. When we gave just the right sort of blow, the

20 trout below would turn on their backs and float up to the ice. John and I soon secured two good strings of trout; and by this time Willis, who had followed us, thought it best to make peace.

"Come on, boys!" he exclaimed. "We had better be going. It's two o'clock, and beginning to snow."

We had become so engrossed in our novel method of fishing that we had not heeded the weather. Fine snow was falling.

"But I must get the powder-post for Sam's foot!" exclaimed John. Willis and I had forgotten that.

"Hurry, then," said Willis, "or we shall be late to Thanksgiving dinner! I'm hungry now!"

We ran to the barn. The lean-to door was off its hinges, but wooden pins held the oak braces of the frame in position. We knocked out the pins, and prying out two of the braces, split them, and then beat the pieces on the newspapers. The white powder ran from the perforated wood in tiny streams. The bottle filled slowly, however, and it needed much splitting and hammering to obtain even a teaspoonful of powder-post. Then, at the last moment, Willis spilled nearly all that he had collected, and another brace had to be taken out and split.

By this time our newspapers were torn in pieces, and altogether we had much trouble in collecting half a bottleful. When at last we corked up the bottle and hurried out of the barn, a heavy snowstorm had set in. We could not even see the forest across the clearing. But we ran as fast as we could, and for fifteen minutes scarcely slackened our pace.

The whole forest had taken on a wintry aspect. The snow rattled on the bare twigs and sodden leaves, and the rising gusts of wind sighed drearily.

"It seems to me we ought to come to that little hollow where the muck-holes are," John said.

"So I think," replied Willis, stopping to look about.

"I think we're heading off too far toward Stoss Pond," said I.

"Oh no, we're not!" cried Willis. "Come on!"

Gripping our strings of fish, we ran on again, but presently we were perplexed to discern the side of a mountain looking up directly ahead.

"There, now, what did I tell you?" said I. "That's Stoss Pond Mountain."

Thereupon we tacked again, and ran on.

The storm thickened and the forest darkened, but on we went through brush and thicket till we came to the bank of a large brook.

"We didn't cross any such brook as this on our way up!" John exclaimed.

"We're away down on Stoss Pond brook," said Willis. "We've come wrong! If you both think you know more than I, keep on; I'm going in this other direction," and Willis set off to run again. John and I followed him. In the course of five minutes we came suddenly out into cleared land.

"There! What did I tell you?" cried Willis. "This is Wilbur's pasture. We're almost home now."

John and I were too much gratified to question Willis's superior wisdom and followed after him, intent only on getting home to dinner. The storm was now driving thick and fast. We could not see a hundred yards ahead, but we seemed to be on level ground, such as I had never seen in Neighbor Wilbur's pasture. Soon we came to another large brook.

"There's no brook in Wilbur's pasture!" exclaimed John, stopping short.

"I don't care!" cried Willis. "This must be Wilbur's pasture!" He crossed the brook.

"Of course it is!" he shouted back to us, "for there's Wilbur's barn—right ahead of us!"

We hastened after Willis, plodding through dry, snowy grass, and came to a barn about which the storm eddied in snowy gusts.

"But where's Wilbur's house?" asked John.

We looked round in perplexity. There was no house in sight; but here was a barn, and the door was ajar. We went in. It was empty of hay or cattle. The barn looked curiously familiar; but it was not till we perceived the torn newspapers and the pieces of split oak brace on the floor that the full truth dawned on us. It was the old Plancher barn!

We had run five miles through the woods, only to reach the place from which we had started.

John looked at me, and I looked at Willis. A sense of utter bewilderment fell on us. John and I did not even think to revile Willis. In fact, we were terrified. All hope of dinner, or of reaching home at all that night, deserted us. The storm was increasing; the late November day was at an end.

For a while we scarcely spoke. John Eastman, who was the youngest, began to cry. The old barn creaked dismally as each gust of wind racked it, and loose boards rattled and banged. No created place can be more dreary than an old and empty barn.

After our exertions we soon felt very chilly. We should not have dared build a fire in the barn, even if we had had matches. Willis groped about in the old hay bay and gathered a few handfuls of musty hay, which we spread on the barn floor, and then lay down as snugly together as we could nestle, but nothing that we could do sufficed to warm us, and we lay shivering for what seemed hours.

John and I finally fell asleep, and perhaps Willis did also, although he always denied it. At last he waked us, shaking us violently.

"You mustn't sleep!" he exclaimed. "You'll freeze to death and never wake up!"

"It's getting terribly cold," he continued. "We'd better get up and jump round."

But John and I did not wish to stir from that one small slightly warmed spot. Our toes and fingers ached. A fine dust of snow sifted down on our faces, and how that old barn did creak! A gale was raging.

"I guess it would be warmer under the barn floor," Willis said, at last. "There's almost always old dry stuff under a barn floor. If we can only lift up a plank or two, we'll get down there."

"Yes, let's do it!" quavered John. "If we get under the floor the barn won't kill us, maybe, if it blows down."

Willis crept to the ends of the floor planks, next the lean-to, and tried first one and then another. Soon he found one that could be raised and tipped it over, making an aperture large enough to descend through. It was pokerish moving about in the dark; but we thrust down our legs, found that there was dry chaff, and hay there. Willis let himself down and felt around, and then bade us get down beside him. We snuggled together under the floor, and with our hands banked the old stuff about our shivering bodies.

It seemed safer down there, and we felt the wind less, but lay listening to the gusts—expecting with every one to hear the barn fall over us.

Probably we fell asleep after a while; for my next recollection is of coughing chaff, and then noticing that it had grown slightly light. The wind appeared to have lulled. John, who was in the middle, felt warm as a kitten. I was but half awake, and so cold that I selfishly crept over between him and Willis. That waked John; he began to crawl back over me into the warm spot, but bumped his head against a sleeper of the barn floor and landed on Willis, who waked in a bad temper. 22

"What you doing!" he snarled. "Getting the warm chaff all away from my back!"

John thrust out a hand and grasped what he supposed to be Willis's hair.

"Where is your old head, anyway!" he exclaimed. "Is that it? Your mouth isn't with it, is it?" Willis did not reply; he was falling asleep again.

"Say, Willis, has your mouth got strayed away from your head?" said John.

"Is that your head?" he exclaimed a moment after, speaking to me.

"Keep still, can't you?" I growled. "You've been in the middle all night! I want to go to sleep now."

"Well, by gummy, it isn't his head either!" cried John. "Whose head is that over there?"

"You lie down, John," said Willis.

"But there's somebody else here!" cried John, with a queer note in his voice, and with that, he scrambled back over us both. The space was all too narrow for such a maneuver, and his knees felt hard. "Now look here," said Willis. "You quit that!"

But John was climbing through the hole to the barn floor above. "You must get out of there!" he cried. "There is something down there."

By this time Willis was fully waked up. He reached over with his hand, on the side where John had been, and then he, too, gave a spring and climbed out on the floor! That alarmed me in turn, and I followed them, bumping my head in my haste. "What is it?" I exclaimed.

"I don't know," said Willis, his voice shaking from excitement.

"He's got an awful thick head of hair," said John; "but he felt warm! Seemed to be all hair!"

"I'll bet it's a bear!" cried Willis. "Denned up, under the floor!"

With that John and I made for the door; but Willis said he did not believe it would come out, if it was asleep for the winter.

For some time we stood near the door, prepared for flight. It was growing light, and with the daylight our courage revived. First Willis, then John and I, went back to the hole in the floor and peeped down; but it was too dark to distinguish any object.

Growing bolder, Willis ventured slowly to lift another floor plank over where our hairy bedfellow lay; and even now I seem to see John's dilated eyes, as we looked down on a great round mat of shaggy black hair!

We had now no doubt that it was, indeed, a bear. Willis lowered the plank gently into its place; and going outside, we discovered that there was a hole at the far end of the barn where the old stonework under the sill had fallen out.

The discovery excited us so that we forgot our miseries. The bear's skin and the state bounty would be worth sixteen dollars. As Willis's gun was useless, we concluded that the thing for us to do was to run home--if we could find the way and get assistance.

We had scarcely left the barn when we saw two men come out of the woods. One of them had a gun. As they drew nearer, we perceived that the foremost was Willis's older brother, Ben Murch, and the other John's father.

"They're hunting for us! Now don't you tell them we got lost!" said Willis, with the guile so apt to develop in a boy who has older brothers who tease him. 23

"But we did," said John.

"If you tell them I'll lick you!" exclaimed Willis. "Make them believe we've been guarding this bear!"

John and I did not know what to think of so glaring a deception; but Willis did the talking; and when Ben called out to demand why in the world we had not come home, Willis shouted:

"We've got a big bear under the barn! He's ours, and we are afraid he'll get away!"

Neither Ben nor Mr. Eastman asked us another question, but hastened to see the bear. A plank was pulled up, and then Ben shot the beast at short range. It did not even growl.

They made a rude sled of saplings, of the kind known to hunters as a scoot, and drew the bear home; and from the vainglorious talk of Willis one might have thought us the three most valiant lads that ever ranged the forest! John and I said little. It was rather fine to be considered heroes, who would not leave a bear even to go home to a Thanksgiving dinner; but I am glad to remember that we did not feel quite right about it; and soon afterward John and I revealed the true state of things to our folks at home.

The Murches claimed the lion's share of the spoils, but gave John and me a dollar apiece; and I recollect that I had a very bad cold for a week. Sam's cut foot healed promptly. It was dressed three times with powder-post, and showed no sign or symptoms of "proud flesh."

—excerpt from The Junior Classics Volume 8 Animal and Nature Stores by William Patten

THE FUSSY QUEEN BEE In a sheltered corner of the farmyard, where the hedge kept off the cold winds and the trees shaded from hot summer sunshine, there were many hives of Bees. One could not say much for the Drones, but the others were the busiest of all the farmyard people, and they had so much to do that they did not often stop to visit with their neighbors. In each hive, or home, there were many thousand Bees, and each had his own work. First of all, there was the Queen. You might think that being a Queen meant playing all the time, but that is not so, for to be a really good Queen, even in a Beehive, one must know a great deal and keep at work all the time. The Queen Bee is the mother of all the Bee Babies, and she spends her days in laying eggs. She is so very precious and important a person that the first duty of the rest is to take care of her. The Drones are the stoutest and finest looking of all the Bees, but they are lazy, very, very lazy. There are never many of them in a hive, and like most lazy people, they spend much of their time in telling the others how to work. They do not make wax or store honey, and as the Worker Bees do not wish them to eat what has been put away for winter, they do not live very long. Most of the Bees are Workers. They are smaller than either the Queen Mother or the Drones, and they gather all the honey, make all the wax, build the comb, and feed the babies. They keep the hive clean, and when the weather is very warm, some of them fan the air with their wings to cool it. They guard the doorway of the hive, too, and turn away the robbers who sometimes come to steal their honey. In these busy homes, nobody can live long just for himself. Everybody helps somebody else, and that makes life pleasant. The Queen Mother often lays as many as two thousand eggs in a day. Most of these are Worker eggs, and are laid in the small cells of the brood comb, which is the nursery of the hive. A few are Drone eggs and are laid in large

24 cells. She never lays any Queen eggs, for she does not want more Queens growing up. It is a law among the Bees that there can be only one grown Queen living in each home. The Workers, however, know that something might happen to their old Queen Mother, so, after she has gone away, they sometimes go into a cell where she has laid a Worker egg, and take down the waxen walls between it and the ones on either side to make a very large royal cell. They bite away the wax with their strong jaws and press the rough edges into shape with their feet. When this egg hatches, they do not feed the baby, or Larva, with tasteless bread made of flower-dust, honey, and water, as they would if they intended it to grow up a Worker or a Drone. Instead, they make what is called royal jelly, which is quite sour, and tuck this all around the Larva, who now looks like a little white worm. The royal jelly makes her grow fast, and in five days she is so large as to nearly fill the cell. Then she stops eating, spins a cocoon, and lies in it for about two and a half days more. When she comes out of this, she is called a Pupa. Sixteen days after the laying of the egg, the young Queen is ready to come out of her cell. It takes twenty-one days for a Worker to become fully grown and twenty-five for a Drone. In the hive by the cedar tree, the Queen Mother was growing restless and fussy. She knew that the Workers were raising some young Queens, and she tried to get to the royal cells. She knew that if she could only do that, the young Queens would never live to come out. The Workers knew this, too, and whenever she came near there, they made her go away. The Queen Larva and Pup were of different ages, and one of them was now ready to leave her cell. They could hear her crying to be let out, but they knew that if she and the Queen Mother should meet now, one of them would die. So instead of letting her out, they built a thick wall of wax over the door and left only an opening through which they could feed her. When she was hungry she ran her tongue out and they put honey on it. She wondered why the Workers did not let her out, when she wanted so much to be free. She did not yet know that Queen Mothers do not get along well with young Queens. The Workers talked it over by themselves. One of them was very tenderhearted. "It does seem too bad," said she, "to keep the poor young Queen shut up in her cell. I don't see how you can stand it to hear her piping so pitifully all the time. I am sure she must be beautiful. I never saw a finer tongue than the one she runs out for honey." "Humph!" said a sensible old Worker, who had seen many Queens, hatched and many swarms fly away, "you'd be a good deal more sorry if we did let her out now. It would not do at all." The tenderhearted Worker did not answer this, but she talked it over with the Drones. "I declare," said she, wiping her eyes with her forefeet, "I can hardly gather a mouthful of honey for thinking of her." "Suppose you hang yourself up and make wax then," said one Drone. "It is a rather sunshiny day, but you ought to be doing something, and if you cannot gather honey you might do that." This was just like a Drone. He never gathered honey or made wax, yet he could not bear to see a Worker lose any time. The Worker did not hang herself up and make wax, however. She never did that except on cloudy days, and she was one of those Bees who seem to think that nothing will come out right unless they stop working to see about it. There was plenty waiting to be done, but she was too sad and anxious to do it. She might have known that since her friends were only minding the law, it was right to keep the new Queen in her cell. The Queen Mother was restless and fussy. She could not think of her work, and half the time she did not know whether she was laying a Drone egg or a Worker egg. In spite of that, she did not make any mistake, or put one into the wrong kind of cell. "I cannot stay here with a young Queen," said she. "I will not stay here. I will take my friends with me and fly away." Whenever she met a Worker, she struck her feelers on those of her friend, and then this friend knew exactly how she felt about it. In this way the news was passed around, and soon many of the Workers were as restless as their Queen Mother. They were so excited over it at times that the air of the hive grew very hot. After a while they would become quiet and gather honey once more. They whispered often to each other. "Do you know where we are going?" one said. "Shh!" was the answer. "The guides are looking for a good place now." "I wish the Queen Mother knew where we are going," said the first. "How could she?" replied the second. "You know very well that she has not left the hive since she began to lay eggs. Here she comes now." "Oh dear!" exclaimed the Queen Mother. "I can never stand this. I certainly cannot. To think I am not allowed to rule in my own hive! The Workers who are guarding the royal cells drive me away whenever I go near them. I will not stay any longer."

"Then," said a Drone, as though he had thought of it for the first time, "why don't you go away?" "I shall," said she. "Will you go with me?" "No," said the Drone. "I hate moving and furnishing a new house. Besides, somebody must stay here to take care of the Workers and the young Queen." The Queen Mother walked away. "When we were both young," she said to herself, "he would have gone anywhere with me." And the Drone said to himself, "Now, isn't that just like a Queen Mother! She has known all the time that there would be young Queens coming on, and that she would have to leave, yet here she is, making the biggest kind of fuss about it. She ought to remember that it is the law." Indeed she should have remembered that it was the law, for everything is done by law in the hive, and no one person should find fault. The law looks after them all, and will not let any one have more than his rightful share. That same afternoon there was a sudden quiet in their home. The Workers, who had been outside, returned and visited with the rest. While they were waiting, a few who were to be their guides came to the door of the hive, struck their wings together, and gave the signal for starting. Then all who were going with the Queen Mother hurried out of the door and flew with her in circles overhead. "Good-bye!" they called. "Raise all the young Queens you wish. We shall never come back. We are going far, far away, and we shall not tell you where. It is a lovely place, a very lovely place." "Let them go," said the Drones who stayed behind. "Now, isn't it time to let out the young Queen?" "Not yet," answered a Worker, who stood near the door. "Not one feeler shall she put outside her cell until that swarm is out of sight." The tenderhearted Worker came up wiping her eyes. "Oh, that poor Queen Mother!" said she. "I am so sorry for her. I positively cannot gather honey to-day, I feel so badly about her going." "Better keep on working," said her friend. "It's the best thing in the world for that sad feeling. Besides, you should try to keep strong." "Oh, I will try to eat something from the comb," was the answer, "but I don't feel like working." "Zzzt!" said the other Worker. "I think if you can eat, you can hunt your food outside, and not take honey we have laid up for winter or food that will be needed for the children." The Drones chuckled. It was all right for them to be lazy, they thought, but they never could bear to see a Worker waste time. "Ah," cried one of them suddenly, "what is the new swarm doing now?" The words were hardly out of his mouth when the Queen Mother crawled into the hive again. "Such dreadful luck!" said she. "A cloud passed over the sun just as we were alighting on a tree to rest." "I wouldn't have come back for that," said a Drone. "No," said she, in her airiest way, "I dare say you wouldn't, but I would. I dare not go to a new home after a cloud has passed over the sun. I think it is a sign of bad luck. I should never expect a single egg to hatch if I went on. We shall try it again to-morrow." All the others came back with her, and the hive was once more crowded and hot. "Oh dear!" said the tender-hearted Worker, "isn't it too bad to think they couldn't go?" The next morning they started again and were quite as excited over it as before. The Queen Mother had fussed and fidgeted all the time, although she had laid nine hundred and seventy-three eggs while waiting, and that in spite of interruptions. "Being busy keeps me from thinking," said she, "and I must do something." This time the Queen Mother lighted on an apple-tree branch, and the others clung to her until all who had left the hive were in a great mass on the branch,—a mass as large as a small cabbage. They meant to rest a little while and then fly away to the new home chosen by their guides. While they were hanging here, the farmer came under the tree, carrying a long pole with a wire basket fastened to the upper end. He shook the clustered Bees gently into it, and then changed them into an empty hive that stood beside their old home. "Now," said the Workers who had stayed in the old hive, "we will let out the new Queen, for the Queen Mother will never return."

It did not take long to bite away the waxen wall and let her out. Then they gathered around and caressed her, and touched their feelers to her and waited upon her, and explained why they could not let her out sooner. She was still a soft gray color, like all young Bees when they first come from the cell, but this soon changed to the black worn by her people. The Workers flew in and out, and brought news from the hive next door. They could not go there, for the law does not allow a Bee who lives in one home to visit in another, but they met their old friends in the air or when they were sipping honey. They found that the Queen Mother had quite given up the idea of living elsewhere and was as busy as ever. The farmer had put a piece of comb into the new hive so that she could begin housekeeping at once. The new Queen was petted and kept at home until she was strong and used to moving about. That was not long. Then she said she wanted to see the world outside. "We will go with you," said the Drones, who were always glad of an excuse for flying away in pleasant weather. They said there was so much noise and hurrying around in the hive that they could never get any real rest there during the daytime. So the young Queen flew far away and saw the beautiful world for the first time. Such a blue sky! Such green grass! Such fine trees covered with sweet-smelling blossoms! She loved it all as soon as she saw it. "Ah," she cried, "what a wonderful thing it is to live and see all this! I am so glad that I was hatched. But now I must hurry home, for there is so much to be done." She was a fine young Queen, and the Bees were all proud of her. They let her do anything she wished as long as she kept away from the royal cells. She soon began to work as the old Queen Mother had done, and was very happy in her own way. She would have liked to open the royal cells and prevent more Queens from hatching, and when they told her it was the law which made them keep her away, she still wanted to bite into them. "That poor young Queen Mother!" sighed the tenderhearted Worker. "I am so sorry for her when she is kept away from the royal cells. This is a sad, sad world!" But this isn't a sad world by any means. It is a beautiful, sunshiny, happy world, and neither Queen Bees nor anybody else should think it hard if they cannot do every single thing they wish. The law looks after great and small, and there is no use in pouting because we cannot do one certain thing, when there is any amount of delightful work and play awaiting us. And the young Queen Mother knew this. —excerpt from Among the Farmyard People by Clara Dillingham Pierson, E.P. Dutton and Company, Copyright 1899

A TEMPERANCE LESSON FOR THE HORNETS Last spring a hornet, one of those long brown double chaps that boys call mud-wasps, crept out of his mud shell at the top of my window casing, and buzzed in the sunshine till I opened the window and let him go. Perhaps he remembered his warm quarters, or told a companion; for when the last sunny days of October were come, there was a hornet, buzzing persistently at the same window till it opened and let him in.

It was a rather rickety old room, though sunny and very pleasant, which had been used as a study by generations of theological students. Moreover, it was considered clean all over, like a boy with his face washed, when the floor was swept; and no storm of general house cleaning ever disturbed its peace. So overhead, where the ceiling sagged from the walls, and in dusty chinks about doors and windows that no broom ever harried, a family of spiders, some mice, a daddy-long-legs, two crickets, and a bluebottle fly, besides the hornet, found snug quarters in their season, and a welcome. The hornet stayed about, contentedly enough, for a week or more, crawling over the windowpanes till they were thoroughly explored, and occasionally taking a look through the scattered papers on the table. Once he sauntered up to the end of the penholder I was using, and stayed there, balancing himself, spreading his wings, and looking interested while the greater part of a letter was finished. Then he crawled down over my fingers till he wet his feet in the ink, whereupon he buzzed off in high dudgeon to dry them in the sun. At first he was sociable enough, and peaceable as one could wish; but one night, when it was chilly, he stowed himself away to sleep under the pillow. When I laid my head upon it, he objected to the extra weight, and drove me ignominiously from my own bed. Another time he crawled into a handkerchief. When I picked it up to use it, after the light was out, he stung me on the nose, not understanding the situation. In whacking him off I broke one of his legs, and made his wings all awry. After that he would have nothing more to do with me, but kept to his own window as long as the fine weather lasted. When the November storms came, he went up to a big crack in the window casing, whence he had emerged in the spring, crept in, and went to sleep. It was pleasant there, and at noontime, on days when the sun shone, it streamed 27 brightly into his doorway, waking him out of his winter sleep. As late as December he would come out occasionally at midday to walk about and spread his wings in the sun. Then a snowstorm came, and he disappeared for two weeks.

One day, when a student was sick, a tumbler of medicine had been carelessly left on the broad windowsill. It contained a few lumps of sugar, over which a mixture of whiskey and glycerin had been poured. The sugar melted gradually in the sun, and a strong odor of alcohol rose from the sticky stuff. That and the sunshine must have roused my hornet guest, for when I came back to the room, there he lay by the tumbler, dead drunk. He was stretched out on his side, one wing doubled under him, a forward leg curled over his head, a sleepy, boozy, perfectly ludicrous expression on his pointed face. I poked him a bit with my finger, to see how the alcohol affected his temper. He rose unsteadily, staggered about, and knocked his head against the tumbler, at which fancied insult he raised his wings in a limp kind of dignity and defiance, buzzing a challenge. But he lost his legs, and fell down; and presently, in spite of poking, went off into a drunken sleep again. All the afternoon he lay there. As it grew cooler he stirred about uneasily. At dusk he started up for his nest. It was a hard pull to get there. His head was heavy, and his legs shaky. Half way up, he stopped on top of the lower sash to lie down awhile. He had a terrible headache, evidently; he kept rubbing his head with his fore legs as if to relieve the pain. After a fall or two on the second sash, he reached the top, and tumbled into his warm nest to sleep off the effects of his spree. One such lesson should have been enough; but it wasn't. Perhaps, also, I should have put temptation out of his way; for I knew that all hornets, especially yellow-jackets, are hopeless topers when they get a chance; that when a wasp discovers a fermenting apple, it is all up with his steady habits; that when a nest of them discover a cider mill, all work, even the care of the young, is neglected. They take to drinking, and get utterly demoralized. But in the interest of a new experiment I forgot true kindness, and left the tumbler where it was. The next day, at noon, he was stretched out on the sill, drunk again. For three days he kept up his tippling, coming out when the sun shone warmly, and going straight to the fatal tumbler. On the fourth day he paid the penalty of his intemperance. The morning was very bright, and the janitor had left the hornet's window slightly open. At noon he was lying on the windowsill, drunk as usual. I was in a hurry to take a train, and neglected to close the window. Late at night, when I 28 came back to my room, he was gone. He was not on the sill, nor on the floor, nor under the window cushions. His nest in the casing, where I had so often watched him asleep, was empty. Taking a candle, I went out to search under the window. There I found him in the snow, his legs curled up close to his body, frozen stiff with the drip of the eaves. I carried him in and warmed him at the fire, but it was too late. He had been drunk once too often. When I saw that he was dead, I stowed him away in the nest he had been seeking when he fell out into the snow. I tried to read; but the book seemed dull. Every little while I got up to look at him, lying there with his little pointed face, still dead. At last I wrapped him up, and pushed him farther in, out of sight. All the while the empty tumbler seemed to look at me reproachfully from the windowsill. —excerpt from Ways of Wood Folk by William J. Long, Ginn & Company Publishers, Copyright 1899

Music

The CDs that comes with this volume includes the following pieces of music:

Disc 1 Madama Butterfly * Act I Dovunque al mondo Act I Viene la sera Act II Humming Chorus Act II Un bel di vedremo Act III Con onor muore

Folksongs (performed by Trishia Baugus) Oh My Darling, Clementine Oh! Susanna My Bonnie

Mozart G Minor Symphony no. 40 (Fulda Symphonic Orchestra recorded March 18, 2001 in Fulda, Germany) Molto Allegro Andante Menuetto: Allegretto Allegro assai

Disc 2 Mozart Symphony in E-flat no. 39 * Adagio – Allegro Andante con moto Menuetto: Allegretto Finale: Allegro

Hymns (performed by Trishia Baugus) Come, thou Almighty King All People That on Earth do Dwell Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing

Mozart Jupiter Symphony no. 41 * Allegro vivace Andante cantabile Menuetto: Allegretto Molto Allegro

* Musical recordings under the license from Naxos of America, Inc. www.Naxos.com (P) 2007 HNH International Ltd. All rights reserved. Unlawful duplication, broadcast or performance of this disc is prohibited by applicable law.

OPERA – Madama Butterfly

In 1900 one of the popular Broadway plays was Madame Butterfly, written by David Belasco and based on a story by John Luther Long. The same year the play was taken to London. Puccini saw it there and made plans to set the story to music. His opera was first performed in Milan on February 17, 1904. It was a total failure. Puccini rewrote the score. The second performance, in Brescia on May 28, 1904, was a success. Madame Butterfly takes place in Japan early in the twentieth century. The setting is a house with a terrace and garden high on a hill overlooking Nagasaki. Goro, a marriage broker, and Lieutenant B. F. Pinkerton of the United States Navy, are on the terrace. The young American has just taken the house for himself and his Japanese bride. Besides arranging the marriage and locating the house, the marriage broker has also provided three servants. One of them he introduces as Suzuki, who will be the maidservant of Pinkerton’s bride. Sharpless, the United States consul, arrives for the wedding. He and Pinkerton wait in the garden for the other guests. The lieutenant talks of the beauty and charm of the girl he has chosen. Her name is Cho-ChoSan, but she is known as Butterfly. Sharpless knows how little the marriage means to the young man and how much it means to the girl. He warns Pinkerton against the step he is about to take. Pinkerton only laughs and lifts his glass in a toast to the day when he is really married to an American wife. Butterfly and a party of women come up the hill and into the garden. With great ceremony she introduces Pinkerton.

Sharpless speaks to her kindly and she tells him about herself. Her family was once wealthy. When their wealth was gone, she became a public entertainer—a geisha—to earn her living. Her age is fifteen. She says, “I am old, am I not?” Her relations begin to arrive. The imperial commissioner and the official registrar take their places. Butterfly shows Pinkerton her sleeves stuffed with possessions she has brought from home. She takes out handkerchiefs, a few trinkets, and a knife in a sheath. The knife is sacred, she says. Coro whispers to Pinkerton that the emperor of Japan sent the knife to her father, who obediently committed suicide with it. Butterfly tells Pinkerton that she has given up the religion of her ancestors. From now on she will worship as he does. The commissioner reads the marriage contract, and it is signed. The bride’s friends crowd about her, addressing her as Madame Butterfly “No,” she corrects them “Madame B F Pinkerton” Sharpless and the other officials leave. While Pinkerton is wondering how to get rid of the other wedding guests, Butterfly’s uncle comes storming into the garden. He knows that Butterfly has turned from her religion. "You have renounced us all!" he cries, and some of the other relatives turn on her, crying, “And we renounce you!" Pinkerton orders them all to go, and they leave, shouting curses as they file down the hill Butterfly is weeping. Pinkerton comforts her. Night falls. They watch the stars for a while, then they go into the house together. The scene of Act II is Butterfly’s house. The time is three years later. Suzuki is praying before the image of Buddha. Butterfly asks her, “How soon shall we be starving?” The maid goes to a cabinet and takes out the few coins that are left. Unless Lieutenant Pinkerton comes back quickly, she says, the situation is desperate. He will come back, says Butterfly. “I never knew of a foreign husband who did,” says Suzuki. Butterfly repeats what Pinkerton promised before he went away: “I’ll come back when the robins are nesting.” She tells the maid how it will be. One fine day they will see a thread of smoke rising out at sea, and his ship will come in sight. It will sail into the harbor. A man will come from the city, a speck in the distance, climbing the hill. When he reaches the top, he will call, “Butterfly!” and she will be in Pinkerton’s arms again. Suzuki is not convinced. Butterfly sends her away. Goro and Sharpless come into the garden. The marriage broker stays outside, and the consul calls on Butterfly. He has brought news of Pinkerton, but before he can deliver it, she asks a question. At what time of the year do robins build their nests in America? “Why?” asks Sharpless. “My husband promised to come back in the season when robins build their nests,” she answers. “Here they have built them three times already. I thought that there they might not build so often.” Goro has been listening outside. He laughs out loud. She turns and sees him. He comes forward and bows. She tells the consul, “He is a wicked fellow. B. F. Pinkerton was hardly gone before this man came here urging me to marry again. Now—” Goro intervenes. Now, he says, he wants her to marry Prince Yamadori, a wealthy man. The prince comes to the door, followed by two servants carrying flowers. Butterfly greets him with scorn. She is not interested in him, she says. She has a husband already. Yamadori goes sadly away. Goro goes with him. Sharpless tries to prepare Butterfly for the news he has brought—that Pinkerton will soon be back in Nagasaki, but does not want to see her again. 33

“What would you do,” he begins, “if he were never to come back? She answers that she might become an entertainer again—either that, or die. Sharpless gently tries to persuade her to marry Prince Yamadori. She is shocked. Does he think Pinkerton has forgotten his love for her? She runs out of the room and comes back with a child in her arms. “Look! Could such as he be forgotten?” Sharpless is startled. He asks, “Does Pinkerton know he has a son?” “No,” she answers. The child was born while his father was far away. She asks Sharpless to write to Pinkerton and tell him of the fine son waiting for him. Then he will surely come back. The child’s name is Trouble, she says. On the day of Pinkerton’s return the name shall be changed to Joy. The consul cannot bear to tell Butterfly the news he has brought. He leaves, after promising that Pinkerton shall be told of his child. Suzuki catches Goro still skulking about. She drags him into the house. Butterfly threatens his life with her father’s dagger and drives him away. There is a cannon shot in the harbor—the signal that a ship is coming into port. Butterfly takes a telescope and goes out upon the terrace. She reads the name of the ship: Abraham Lincoln. It is Pinkerton’s ship! “Now do you see how foolish it is to doubt?” she cries. She and Suzuki decorate the house with flowers. Butterfly puts on her wedding robe, and Suzuki dresses the baby. Butterfly makes three small holes in the screen so they may each look out toward the harbor to watch for Pinkerton. The house grows dark. The baby sinks down on his cushion and falls asleep. Suzuki, crouching beside him, falls asleep, too. Only Butterfly remains at her post. The closing scene takes place the following morning. Suzuki and the child are still sleeping. Butterfly is still looking out through the screen. Suzuki wakes. She persuades Butterfly to rest. “When he is here, I will call you," she says. Butterfly takes the child and goes away. Sharpless and Pinkerton come to the door, and Suzuki lets them in. She tells Pinkerton how Butterfly has waited. “I’ll call her,” she says, and Pinkerton says, “Not yet." She sees a strange American woman in the garden. “Who is that?” she asks. It is Sharpless who answers. The woman is Pinkerton’s wife. Suzuki breaks into a wild lament. Sharpless quiets her. They must think of the child’s future, he says. The lady outside will take the baby and give him a mother’s care. Pinkerton sees the flowers that have been brought to honor his coming. He sees his own picture in a prominent place, and he is filled with shame. He had not realized that Butterfly would remain faithful. Unable to face the situation, he goes away. Suzuki brings Kate Pinkerton in from the garden. Butterfly has heard voices. She comes running into the room. Seeing the consul, she thinks Pinkerton, too, must be there. Excitedly she looks for him. She sees Kate Pinkerton. “Who is this woman?” she asks. No one answers. She asks Suzuki, “Why are you weeping?” Still no one answers, but now Butterfly has begun to understand. "He will come to me no more," she says. Kate asks if Pinkerton may have his son. Yes, says Butterfly, if he will climb the hill half an hour from now.

Sharpless takes Kate Pinkerton away. Butterfly orders Suzuki to darken the room. The maid closes the door and covers the windows. “Where is the child?” asks Butterfly. “At play,” says Suzuki. “Go and play with him,” says Butterfly, and Suzuki goes. Butterfly lights the lamp before the image of Buddha. She takes the knife from the wall and reads the words written on the blade: “Death with honor is better than life with dishonor.” Suzuki pushes the child into the room. Butterfly catches him in her arms and bids him farewell. She gives him a small American flag and a doll, turns his face from her, and gently bandages his eyes. With the knife in her hand, she goes behind a screen. There is a silence. The knife falls heavily to the floor. Butterfly comes from behind the screen with a white veil wrapped about her throat. She drags herself toward the child. From outside, Pinkerton calls, “Butterfly!” He and Sharpless burst into the room. Butterfly points to the child and dies. Sobbing, Pinkerton drops to his knees beside her, while Sharpless takes the child in his arms. Giacomo Puccini was born in Lucca, Italy, on December 22, 1858. He was a student at the Milan Conservatory. Almost all his compositions were operas. He died in Brussels on November 29, 1924. —excerpt from Stories of Favorite Operas by Clyde Robert Bulla, Thomas Y. Crowell Company, Copyright 1959

Classical Composer – Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, who lived only from January, 1756 to December, 1791, proved in those few years that he was perhaps the greatest natural genius that music has ever know. (Please pronounce the z in his name as if it were ts. The o is long, as in “mole.”) When he was only three years old, the little Mozart, instead of just banging on the keyboard, like so many other children, had found out for himself how to make pleasant sounds on the harpsichord (which was the piano of its day), and his father, Leopold Mozart, himself a fine musician, began to give him lessons immediately. At the age of four the boy was already able to play the violin and harpsichord well, and at six he had composed and published a whole set violin sonatas. He was still only six years old when his father took Wolfgang and his sister Marianne on a concert tour which was a sensational success. The little boy must have been very lovable and charming, and he remained that way all his life, even when things turned out badly for him. Mozart wrote his first symphonies when he was eight, and at fourteen his opera, Mitridate, was produced successfully in Milan. He took some lessons from Haydn, to whom he first gave the nickname of “Papa,” but soon Haydn was learning more from Mozart than he could ever have taught him. For about twenty years Mozart produced a steady flow of operas, symphonies, songs, and chamber music (sonatas, quartets, etc.), living mostly in Vienna, but also visiting Paris, Munich and other cities, including his native Salzburg, in Austria. He was handicapped by poverty and the jealousy of people who should have been his friends, and, like so many geniuses, he was not at all a practical man. He died in Vienna when he was only thirty-five years old, leaving an unfinished Requiem which had been ordered by a mysterious stranger, and at which he worked until his health failed him. Mozart wrote more than forty symphonies in his short life, and of these the three greatest were all composed within a single year (1788). Two of them are known only by their keys (E-flat and G minor) and the last (and perhaps the finest) is called Jupiter. Probably the most popular of these three great Mozart symphonies, however, is the one in G minor, and this is certainly the easiest with which to become acquainted. MOZART’S G MINOR SYMPHONY (No. 40) This symphony is full of melody of the most delightful sort, and it also has some excellent dramatic touches, for Mozart loved the theatre, and was at his best in the operatic style of music; so it is natural that he should also put drama into his best symphonies. You will immediately notice an important difference between this Mozart symphony and any of those by Haydn. Mozart uses no Introduction at all. He starts right in with one measure of accompaniment that leads immediately into his first tune. It is a very happy tune, full of laughter and fun:

This begins to repeat itself at once, but changes quickly, to go into a new melody, like this:

After a full measure’s pause, Mozart gives us his real second theme, which has a slower effect, and in a different key: (It is still necessary to sing an octave below the original.)

Mozart now experiments with the notes that carry the words “with a laugh and a smile,” playing two of them very slowly against the repeated pattern of three. A lot of fast work by the strings leads to a chord which brings back the minor key of the start, and everything is repeated right up to the same chord. But the second time it leads to a series of chords in the wood—wind, and the real development begins. This development deals chiefly with the opening tune, turning it over to various instruments and getting all sorts of surprising effects with its few notes. A series of questions and answers in the woodwinds finally arrives at a complete reminder of this important theme, in its original key (recapitulation). There is a return also of the little connecting melody (change tunes) but in a new key, and after this has been discussed by the whole orchestra, we also hear the second theme again (number two), this time in a minor instead of a major key. Mozart goes through some of the same tricks that he had used before, but with fresh details, and when the strings make one more attempt to bring back the

37 whole first tune, the orchestra puts its foot down hard and says “No.” After that it takes only three loud chords to finish the movement. The second movement (Andante) of Mozart’s symphony in G minor begins with a slow theme which is really two melodies overlapping. The top voice stays on one note in each measure (six times), gradually getting higher, while a lower voice has a counter-melody that keeps this effect from growing monotonous. But Mozart keeps on reminding you of that regular beat of six eighth notes to a measure, and in time you get the impression of people walking, which is what Andante really means. It might be expressed like this in words:

This idea is carried on until a short second melody appears, which might be considered a series of echoes, based on the first, and with a similar meaning.

The development of this movement starts with the rhythmic walking effect, which is gradually decorated more and more by little two-note figures that have already been prominent. Soon there is a reminder of the whole theme as it was at the start of the movement (recapitulation), and in due time the little second theme is also heard again, with everything ending quietly and beautifully. Now comes a Minuet (Menuetto) of the sort that Mozart was especially good at writing. It starts robustly in G minor (the key of the symphony) and its first part could be sung thus, although the instruments carry the melody an octave higher after the sixth measure:

The second section of the Minuet imitates the first, again with the effect of two melodies harmonizing with each other. For the Trio Mozart goes quietly into G major, with a fascinating dance tune like this:

There is an imitation of this also, with bass and treble voices answering each other, and making interesting contrasts between the strings and the wind instruments.

Finally the whole movement goes back to the start and runs through the Menuetto, as usual. In the Finale, Mozart introduces a new dance rhythm, so light and dainty that it seems no human feet could keep time to it. Beethoven admitted that he used this tune for the third movement of his fifth symphony but by a change of rhythm and key he 39 made it sound entirely different. We shall have to depend upon tra-la-las for the fast notes of Mozart’s dancing Finale, and try to remember it this way:

This tune is developed in a noisy, cheerful fashion, until a gentler, contrasting melody is introduced by the strings: (This is transposed from B-flat to E-flat.)

This also receives some noisy comments from the whole orchestra, and after a while a section of development begins, using mostly the first seven notes of the opening tune (“With fairy footsteps dancing”). This gives Mozart a chance for further dialogues between the strings and the wind instruments, and it is remarkable how much he does with those few tones. The whole melody finally returns, in its original key (G minor), and we also hear the second tune again, but with distinct alterations. There are some heated arguments in the orchestra, which insists on staying in the minor key, and that is exactly what happens, with two quick chords and a good, solid G in octaves at the finish.

MOZART’S SYMPHONY IN E-FLAT No. 39

This symphony has been called Mozart’s “swan song.” It is by no means close to his actual death, but its lyric qualities make it more of a real song than either the G minor or the Jupiter. It differs from the others of this group of three also in having an Introduction, which was a regular habit with Haydn, but much less so with Mozart and Beethoven. This Introduction, in E-flat, begins with big chords, suggesting the words:

The first real melody comes after twenty-five measures have been played. It is in triple time, and still in E-flat, although this key has to be put down to B-flat if you want to sing it easily:

The nearest thing to a second melody is a little passage that stands out like this: (Now the key of B-flat has to be changed to F.)

You hear it imitated in the development of this movement, along with some little two-note figures that remind you of the first movement of Mozart’s G minor symphony. But the main melody comes back soon and the movement ends cheerfully on E-flat chords. The slow movement (Andante) starts with a beautiful melody in A-flat, which might be sung thus:

There is a second half to this melody, with a slightly different ending, and then the entire eight measures are repeated. A second section varies the same tune, with decorative tones running in pairs, as in the slow movement of the G minor symphony, and after this has been repeated there is a transition, by way of the woodwinds, to a new melody of a more cheerful character:

There is a short development of the first theme, which finally returns in its complete form, but without repetition. Then the second tune also comes back, this time in a new key, and after much interesting treatment of all this material, the movement ends abruptly with two very loud chords. The third movement of Mozart’s symphony in E-flat is, as usual, a Minuet, and this time it is close to the style and pace of the actual dance of that name. It is even more sturdy and robust than the Minuet of the G minor symphony, and it would be impossible to find a flaw in its perfect melodic line. The only trouble is it covers such a wide range that you simply have to transpose some of the tones an octave down if you want to sing it. But it really seems worth bothering to that extent, and it is not at all a difficult tune to remember.

This is only the first section of the Minuet, which repeats in the regular way, and then goes into a second section that imitates the first and then literally echoes it, with a different ending. But the Trio is in quite a different mood, very gentle and sweet, as though a gentleman were apologizing to a lady for having been slightly rude to her. You will find a very similar melody at the start of the slow movement in Mozart’s Jupiter symphony and you may also notice the influence of this tune on Beethoven, in his fifth symphony.

The second half of this Trio is just as lovely as the first, bringing in a dulcet connecting melody. Finally the gentle mood disappears, and the robust Minuet returns for its closing reminder. The last movement of Mozart’s E-flat symphony, Allegro, is almost too fast to sing. It rushes along like a brook, and if you have a lively tongue perhaps you can keep up with it. In any case, the spirit is right. (The notes are an octave lower than Mozart wrote them.)

This rushing theme soon goes into a regular country dance, with the fiddlers playing furiously over a heavy bass. There is no real second theme, although snatches of a counter-melody pop up here and there, and after a general repetition, Mozart begins a development of the first tune, paying attention mostly to the fast scale passages (“like the running of a brook”). He then reminds us of the entire melody, along with the counter-snatches, and by that time you should really know the running of that brook by heart. The end of the symphony is quite funny, for the brook seems to have been silenced by very loud broken chords, played by the full orchestra; but the little scale passage pokes its head in once more in the treble and once in the bass, as if saying “I told you so,” and you have to laugh because you would never think that such a big symphony could be over so suddenly.

MOZART’S JUPITER SYMPHONY No. 41

This is the third and last, and perhaps the greatest, of the three symphonies that Mozart wrote in the year 1788, just three years before his untimely death. (Actually these three great symphonies were written within a period of six weeks, between June 26 and August 10, an amazing proof of the speed and ease with which this unique genius composed his music.) The name of Jupiter was given to this symphony by an admirer, not by Mozart himself. But it fits fairly well, because of the nobility and grandeur of its ideas, which might easily refer to Olympian Jove himself. The key of the Jupiter symphony is C major, the boldest, most uncompromising of them all, needing no sharps or flats for its regular progression. Perhaps Beethoven paid Mozart a compliment by writing his own first symphony in the same key, and using it also for the triumphant Finale of his fifth. (Brahms later put the big marching melody of his first symphony into C major, so it seems a favorite for expressing the sublime in music.) There is even a suggestion of the Jupiter opening in Beethoven’s first Allegro theme. Mozart starts right in with a solid announcement of the key by the full orchestra, as though a crowd of worshippers were calling on Jupiter himself, in an ancient ceremony. This confident, courageous call is balanced by two pleading measures, as if the supplicants to Jove were not at all sure of their ground. The whole theme might be sung like this:

There is much noisy comment on this, with Jupiter seemingly undecided whether to throw a thunderbolt or to receive his mortal visitors. In time the opening theme is repeated softly, with a counter-melody above it, in the woodwinds, and soon this counter-melody, which is little more than a scale, receives attention from the full orchestra. Some more blustering chords lead to the second theme of the movement, which sounds as though Jupiter were answering in com- forting tones, encouraging mortals to approach his throne. At the same time it is a charming tune.

This leads to various comments by the orchestra, which gradually turn into a chattering little tune, as though the people themselves were discussing Jupiter’s attitude. Perhaps they are saying things like this:

The development, which begins shortly, deals first with this chattering motive, but later also takes up the opening theme and its counter-melody. By the time Mozart is ready to remind us of the entire tune (recapitulation), he is back in the original key of C major, but this time he puts the counter-melody of the downward scale into C minor. The real second tune also returns, but now it is in C major instead of G, as before. Finally we hear even the chattering motive in C, and the movement ends with plenty of scales and chords in the same unforgettable key. The opening melody of the slow movement is closely related to the Trio of the Minuet in the E-flat symphony, as indicated above. But there it was a gentle, good-natured tune, while here it has a portentous sound, as if the people were beginning to wonder whether Jupiter is as great, after all, as they had believed him to be. There is an expression of doubt in the opening notes, followed by a definite exclamation, and this occurs twice, thus:

There is much orchestral comment on this too, but after a while we hear some reassuring tones that make up a second melody, like this:

The development is mostly ornamental, and you are hardly aware of the melodic undercurrents until the first slow tune comes back, this time with running decorations added. The reassuring strain is also heard again (“Then doubt no longer,” etc.), this time in F major, the key in which the movement started. When the whole thing is almost over, Mozart seems to remember a bit of the first melody that he had almost forgotten, and then closes very simply and softly, with nothing more to say. The Minuet of the Jupiter symphony starts with a reminiscent little tune, and if you listen carefully you realize that you heard something very much like it in the second theme of the G minor symphony. Perhaps that is the best way to remember it.

The second section of this Minuet seems satisfied with breaking up this opening tune and imitating it in various ways, rather different from the conventional style. The Trio seems to say “Amen” four times, but with cheerful violin passages in between, to remind you that you are not in church after all. It carries this idea still further with chords over a lively accompaniment, and finally admits that it is time to repeat the actual Minuet. Mozart’s Jupiter symphony has a Finale that is practically unique in music of this kind. It is mathematically as complicated as anything outside of Bach, but its materials are so vivid and real that it never sounds like a mere problem of musical arithmetic. The whole movement can be considered a great mixed chorus in praise of Jupiter, and by this time we are ready to believe that this god is something more than a pagan Jove, perhaps with the religious significance of the great Jehovah Himself. So we can give Mozart’s opening theme the words:

After that it is hard to pick out a distinctive melody. But a little phrase of three notes stands out, to which the words “Mighty Jove” could be fitted, and later, where you would expect a second tune, three different notes suggest the words 45

“We praise him.” These two patterns fill out the movement until it is time for the development, which takes up the first melody, but soon adds the other materials.

It is still some time before you hear the opening theme as it was in the beginning, and even then it is extended in various directions. The three-tone figures, “Mighty Jove” and “We praise him,” are also heard again in several ways. But it is the Coda, or tailpiece, that is really the most remarkable portion of this entire Jupiter symphony. A fascinating series of harmonies leads up to what is actually a five-part fugue. (A fugue is literally a flight of tunes, one chasing the other, all harmonizing in what is known as counterpoint.) Mozart uses not only the main theme and the subordinate three-tone patterns, but adds two other melodic lines that have scarcely been noticeable so far. The effect is astonishing, and even if you are unaware of the technical mastery that is being displayed, you cannot help feeling that this is truly a chorus of praise, worthy to stand beside the great vocal choruses of Bach, Handel and Beethoven at their best. So with triumphant chords in C major the Jupiter Symphony ends, leaving us to wonder what Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart genius might not have accomplished if he had lived beyond his middle thirties. These three symphonies alone are a monument to his command of absolute music. His like will not be seen again. —excerpt from Great Symphonies How to Recognize and Remember Them by Sigmund Spaeth, Garden City Publishing Co., Inc. Copyright, 1936

Folk Songs

Oh My Darling, Clementine Oh My Darling, Clementine is an American western folk ballad usually credited to Percy Montrose (1884), though sometimes to Barker Bradford. The song is believed to have been based on another called Down by the River Liv'd a Maiden by H. S. Thompson (1863). The words are those of a bereaved lover singing about his darling, the daughter of a "49er,” (a miner in the 1849 California Gold Rush). He loses her in a drowning accident. Oh My Darling, Clementine has become popular, especially with Scouts and other groups of young people, as a campfire and excursion song, and there are several different versions of the words. (There is even a Scottish version, the Climbing Clementine, which begins "In a crevice, high on Nevis...")

In the centre of a golden valley, She led her duck down to the river, Dwelt a maiden all divine, The weather it was fine, A pretty creature a miner's daughter Stubbed her toe against a sliver, And her name was Clementine. Fell into the raging brine. Her noble father was the foreman He heard her calling, calling father, Of ev'ry valued mine, Her voice was like a chime, And ev'ry miner and ranchman But alas he was no swimmer, Was a brother to Clementine. So he lost his Clementine. Refrain Refrain Oh my darling, oh my darling, Oh my darling, oh my darling, My darling Clementine, My darling Clementine, You art lost for me forever, You art lost for me forever, Dreadful sorry, Clementine. Dreadful sorry, Clementine.

The foreman miner, an old forty-niner, In dreams and thoughts sublime, Lived in comfort with his daughter, His pretty child Clementine. When far away, he would often pray That in his sunny clime No harm might overtake her, His favorite nugget, Clementine.

When the day was done and the setting sun Its rays they ceased to shine, Homeward came the brawny miner To caress his Clementine. None was nearer, none was dearer, Since the days of forty-nine When, in youth, he had another Who was then his Clementine.

Refrain Oh my darling, oh my darling, My darling Clementine, Thou art lost for me forever, Dreadful sorry, Clementine.

Oh! Susanna By Stephen Foster "Oh! Susanna" is a song written by Stephen Foster in 1847. Popularly associated with the California Gold Rush, the song is occasionally (incorrectly) called "Banjo on My Knee.” In 1843, the year Dan Emmett established The Virginia Minstrels as the first blackface troupe in New York, Foster, 16, was working as a bookkeeper for his brother Morrison's business in Pittsburgh. Morrison was a friend of the early circus blackface clown, Dan Rice, and the young Stephen came under his influence. Foster also became aware of the new fad of "Ethiopian" songs. He also met a member of the minstrel troupe, The Sable Harmonists, who performed his first attempt, "Old Uncle Ned." A contest in 1847 given by The Eagle Saloon stimulated the song called "Away Down South." His next attempt was titled "Susanna," advertised at "A Grand Gala Concert" as "A new song, never before given to the public." A local music store, Peters & Field bought the song for $100, but before they could publish it, it was pirated by a New York publisher who printed it with the name of E. P. Christy as author. Christy's Minstrels were rapidly becoming the most popular group in the Bowery theater district of Manhattan, and were to be the chief performers of Foster's minstrel songs in the 1850s. Probably by fortuitous coincidence rather than design, the song appeared in the public eye at the same time as the new polka fad was arriving from Europe. While minstrel songs prior to this time were considered uncouth, "Oh! Susanna!" thus provided an entree to the middle-class market. I come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee; I'm goin' to Lou'siana my true love for to see. It rained all night the day I left, the weather it was dry; The sun so hot I froze to death, Susanna don't you cry.

Oh! Susanna, oh don't you cry for me; I come from Alabama, with a banjo on my knee.

I had a dream the other night, When everything was still; I dreamed I saw Susanna, A-coming down the hill. The buckwheat cake was in her mouth, The tear was in her eye, Says I, I'm coming from the south, Susanna don't you cry.

Oh! Susanna, oh don't you cry for me; For I come from Alabama, with a banjo on my knee. The following verse is not included on the CD but we are including it here because it was part of the original lyrics. I soon will be in New Orleans, And then I’ll look all ‘round, And when I find Susanna, I’ll fall upon the ground. But if I do not find her, This darkey’ll surely die, And when I’m dead and buried, Susanna don’t you cry.

My Bonnie "My Bonnie is over the Ocean" is a traditional Scottish folk song. It may have its origin in the history of Charles Edward Stuart, commonly known as Bonnie Prince Charlie, the grandson of the deposed Stuart monarch James II. Many Highland Scots supported Bonnie Prince Charlie's attempt to restore the Stuarts to the English throne in 1745-46 by invading Scotland and England. My Bonnie is over the ocean, My Bonnie is over the sea, My Bonnie is over the ocean, O bring back my Bonnie to me. CHORUS Bring back, bring back, Bring back my Bonnie to me, to me Bring back, bring back O bring back my Bonnie to me O blow, ye winds, over the ocean, O blow, ye winds, over the sea, O blow, ye winds, over the ocean, And bring back my Bonnie to me. CHORUS Bring back, bring back, Bring back my Bonnie to me, to me Bring back, bring back O bring back my Bonnie to me Last night as I lay on my pillow, Last night as I lay on my bed, Last night as I lay on my pillow, I dreamed that my Bonnie was dead. CHORUS Bring back, bring back, Bring back my Bonnie to me, to me Bring back, bring back O bring back my Bonnie to me The winds have blown over the ocean, The winds have blown over the sea, The winds have blown over the ocean, And bro't back my Bonnie to me. CHORUS Bring back, bring back, Bring back my Bonnie to me, to me Bring back, bring back O bring back my Bonnie to me

Hymns

We are pleased to include a section on Christian hymns. These are played and sung by Tricia Baugus, who plays each one through once before singing the verses. This gives the student and teacher an opportunity to hear the melody without the lyrics. Many of the older hymns have melodies that are familiar to us as other hymns or even other songs, several classical pieces have been adapted for hymns over the years. It may seem that a hymn section is somewhat out of place in The Tutor, but we include this section because Christian hymns are a vital part of Western heritage. While Mozart and Beethoven tower as historical figures it is hymns, sung in every church by people everywhere had everyday influence on people. Long before the Top 40 Countdowns, Amazing Grace was a top hit and it still may be the best-known song in the world. At a time when electronic devices were non- existent and large numbers were illiterate people learned and sang hymns that stayed with them all their lives. From hymns people learned theology, music, and vocabulary. They had something in common with people a continent away and thus hymns became an integral part of our culture.

All People That on Earth do Dwell Words: From Fourscore and Seven Psalm of David (Geneva, Switzerland: 1561); attributed to William Kethe. Music: Old 100th, attributed to Louis Bourgeois, in Four Score and Seven Psalm of David (Geneva, Switzerland: 1551)

All people that on earth do dwell, Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice; Him serve with fear, his praise forth-tell, Come ye before him and rejoice.

The Lord ye know is God indeed; Without our aid he did us make; We are his folk, he doth us feed, And for his sheep he doth us take.

O enter then his gates with praise, Approach with joy his courts unto; Praise, laud, and bless his name always, For it is seemly so to do.

For why? the Lord our God is good, His mercy is forever sure; His truth at all times firmly stood, And shall from age to age endure.

Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing This hymn of Reverend Robert Robinson was almost always heard in the tune of “Nettleton,” composed by John Wyeth, about 1812. The more wavy melody of “Sicily” (or “Sicilian Hymn”) sometimes carried the verses, but never with the same sympathetic unction. The singsong movement and accent of old “Nettleton” made it the country favorite. Robert Robinson, born in Norfolk, England, September 27, 1735, was a poor boy, left fatherless at eight years of age, and apprenticed to a barber. He was converted by the preaching of George Whitefield and studied till he obtained a good education, and was ordained to the Methodist ministry. He is supposed to have written his well-known hymn in 1758. A certain unsteadiness of mind, however, caused him to revise his religious beliefs frequently. After preaching as a Methodist, a Baptist, and an Independent, he finally became a Socinian (an early form of Unitarianism). On a stage-coach journey, when a lady fellow-passenger began singing “Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing,” to relieve the monotony of the ride, he said to her, “Madam, I am the unhappy man who wrote that hymn many years ago; and I would give a thousand worlds, if I had them, if I could feel as I felt then.” Robinson died June 9, 1790. John Wyeth was born in Cambridge, Mass., 1792, and died at Harrisburg, Pa., 1858. He was a musician and publisher, and issued a Music Book, Wyeth's Repository of Sacred Music. —excerpt from The Story of the Hymns and Tunes by Theron Brown and Hezekiah Butterworth, New York, 1906

Come, thou Fount of ev'ry blessing Tune my heart to sing thy grace; Streams of mercy, never ceasing, Call for songs of loudest praise, Teach me some melodious sonnet, Sung by flaming tongues above; Praise the mount! I'm fixed upon it, Mount of God's unchanging love. Here I raise my Ebenezer; Hither by thy help I'm come; And I hope, by thy good pleasure, Safely to arrive at home. Jesus sought me when a stranger, Wand'ring from the fold of God: He, to rescue me from danger, Interposed his precious blood.

O to grace how great a debtor Daily I'm constrained to be; Let that grace now, like a fetter, Bind my wand'ring heart to thee. Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it, Prone to leave the God I love; Here's my heart, O take and seal it, Seal it for thy courts above.

Come, thou Almighty King Words: Some sources show the author as “anonymous.” Others credit Charles Wesley, 1757. The words appeared in George White- field’s Collection of Hymns for Social Worship, 1757. Music: Italian Hymn, Felice de Giardini, in The Collection of Psalm and Hymn Tunes Sung at the Chapel of the Lock Hospital, 1769. De Giar- dini wrote the music specifically for this hymn. Alternate tune: America, Thesaurus Musicus, 1744

Come, thou Almighty King, Help us thy name to sing, Help us to praise: Father, all glorious, O'er all victorious, Come, and reign over us, Ancient of days.

Come, thou Incarnate Word, Gird on thy mighty sword, Our prayer attend: Come and thy people bless, And give thy Word success; Spirit of holiness, On us descend. Come, Holy Comforter, Thy sacred witness bear In this glad hour: Thou who almighty art, Now rule in every heart, And ne'er from us depart, Spirit of power.

To the great One in Three Eternal praises be, Hence evermore. His sovereign majesty May we in glory see, And to eternity Love and adore.

Fine Art

Andrea del Sarto

Pronounced Ahn'dray-ah del Sar'to Florentine School 1486–1531 Pupil of Piero di Cosimo

Italian painters received their names in peculiar ways. This man's father was a tailor; and the artist was named after his father's profession. He was in fact the Tailor's Andrea, and his father's name was Angelo.

One story of this brilliant painter which reads from first to last like a romance has been told by the poet, Robert Browning, who dresses up fact so as to smother it a little, but there is truth at the bottom.

Andrea had a wife whom he loved tenderly. She had a beautiful face that seemed full of spirituality and feeling, and Andrea painted it over and over again. The artist loved his work and dreamed always of the great things that he should do; but he was so much in love with his wife that he was dependent on her smile for all that he did which was well done, and her frown plunged him into despair.

Andrea's wife cared nothing for his genius, painting did not interest her, and she had no worthy ambition for her husband, but she loved fine clothes and good living, and so encouraged him enough to keep him earning these things for her. As soon as some money was made she would persuade him to work no more till it was spent; and even when he had made agreements to paint certain pictures for which he was paid in advance she would torment him till he gave all of his time to her whims, neglected his duty and spent the money for which he had rendered no service. Thus in time he became dishonest, as we shall see. It is a sad sort of story to tell of so brilliant a young man.

Andrea was born in the Gualfonda quarter of Florence, and there is some record of his ancestors for a hundred years before his birth. Andrea was one of four children, and as usual with Italians of artistic temperament, he was set to work under the eye of a goldsmith. This craftsmanship of a fine order was as near to art as a man could get with any certainty of making his living. It was a time when the Italian world bedecked itself with rare golden trinkets, wreaths for women's hair, girdles, brooches, and the like, and the finest skill was needed to satisfy the taste. Thus it required talent of no mean order for a man to become a successful goldsmith.

Andrea did not like the work, and instead of fashioning ornaments from his master's models he made original drawings which did not do at all in a shop where an apprentice was expected to earn his salt. Certain fashions had to be followed and people did not welcome fantastic or new designs. Because of this, Andrea was early put out of his master's shop and set to learn the only business that he could he got to learn, painting. This meant for him a very different teacher from the goldsmith.

The artist may be said to have been his own master, because, even when he was apprenticed to a painter he was taught less than he already knew.

That first teacher was Barile, a coarse and unpleasing man, as well as an incapable one; but he was fair minded, after a fashion, and put Andrea into the way of finding better help. After a few years under the direction of Piero di Cosimo, Andrea and a friend, Francia Bigio, decided to set up shop for themselves.

The two devoted friends pitched their tent in the Piazza del Grano, and made a meager beginning out of which great things were to grow. They began a series of pictures which was to lead at least one of them to fame. It was in the little Piazza del Grano studio that the "Baptism of Christ" was painted, a partnership work that had been planned in the Campagnia dello Scalzo.

"The Baptism" was not much of a picture as great pictures go, but it was a beginning and it was looked at and talked about, which was something at a time when Titian and Leonardo had set the standard of great work. In the Piazza del 55

Grano, Andrea and his friend lived in the stables of the Tuscan Grand Dukes, with a host of other fine artists, and they had good times together.

Andrea was a shy youth, a little timid, and by no means vain of his own work, but he painted with surprising swiftness and sureness, and had a very brilliant imagination. It was his main trouble that he had more imagination than true manhood; he sacrificed everything good to his imagination.

After the partnership with his friend, he undertook to paint some frescoes independently, and that work earned for him the name of "Andrea senza Errori," Andrea the Unerring. Then, as now, each artist had his own way of working, and Andrea's was perhaps the most difficult of all, yet the most genius-like. There were those, Michael Angelo for example, who laid in backgrounds for their paintings; but Andrea painted his subject upon the wet plaster, precisely as he meant it to be when finished.

He was unlike the moody Michael Angelo; unlike the gentle Raphael; unlike the fastidious Van Dyck who came long afterward; he was hail-fellow-well-met among his associates, though often given over to dreaminess. He belonged to a jolly club named the "Kettle Club," literally, the Company of the Kettle; and to another called "The Trowel," both suggesting an all around good time and much good fellowship. The members of these clubs were expected to contribute to their wonderful suppers, and Andrea on one occasion made a great temple, an imitation of the Baptistry, of jelly with columns of sausages, white birds and pigeons represented the choir and priests. Besides being "Andrea the Unerring," and a "Merry Andrea," he was also the "Tailor's Andrea," a man in short upon whom a nickname sat comfortably. He helped to make the history of the "Company of the Kettle," for he recited and probably composed a touching ballad called "The Battle of the Mice and the Frogs," which doubtless had its origin in a poem of Homer's. But all at once, in the midst of his gay careless life came his tragedy; he fell in love with a hatter's wife. This was quite bad enough, but worse was to come, for the hatter shortly died, and the widow was free to marry Andrea.

After his marriage Andrea began painting a series of Madonnas, seemingly for no better purpose than to exhibit his wife's beauty over and over again. He lost his ambition and forgot everything but his love for this unworthy woman. She was entirely commonplace, incapable of inspiring true genius or honesty of purpose.

A great art critic, Vasari, who was Andrea's pupil during this time, has written that the wife, Lucretia, was abominable in every way. A vixen, she tormented Andrea from morning till night with her bitter tongue. She did not love him in the least, but only what his money could buy for her, for she was extravagant, and drove the sensitive artist to his grave while she outlived him forty years.

About the time of the artist's marriage he painted one fresco, "The Procession of the Magi," in which he placed a very splendid substitute for his wife, namely himself. Afterward he painted the Dead Christ which found its way to France and it laid the foundation for Andrea's wrongdoing. This picture was greatly admired by the King of France who above all else was a lover of art. Francis I asked Andrea to go to his court, as he had commissions for him. He made Andrea a money offer and to court he went.

He took a pupil with him, but he left his wife at home. At the court of Francis I he was received with great honors, and amid those new and gracious surroundings, away from the tantalizing charms of his wife and her shrewish tongue, he began to have an honest ambition to do great things. His work for France was undertaken with enthusiasm, but no sooner was he settled and at peace, than his irrepressible wife began to torment him with letters to return. Each letter distracted him more and more, till he told the King in his despair, that he must return home, but that he would come back to France and continue his work, almost at once. Francis I, little suspecting the cause of Andrea's uneasiness, gave him permission to go, and also a large sum of money to spend upon certain fine works of art which he was to bring back to France.

We can well believe that Andrea started back to his home with every good intention; that he meant to appease his wife and also his own longing to see her; to buy the King his pictures with the money entrusted to him, and to return to France and finish his work; but, alas, he no sooner got back to his wife than his virtuous purpose fled. She wanted this; she wanted that--and especially she wanted a fine house which could just about be built for the sum of money which the King of France had entrusted to Andrea.

Andrea is a pitiable figure, but he was also a vagabond, if we are to believe Vasari. He took the King's money, built his wretched wife a mansion, and never again dared return to France, where his dishonesty made him forever despised. 56

Afterward he was overwhelmed with despair for what he had done, and he tried to make his peace with Francis; but while that monarch did not punish him directly for his knavery; he would have no more to do with him, and this was the worst punishment the artist could have had. However, his genius was so great that other than French people forgot his dishonesty and he began life anew in his native place.

Almost all his pictures were on sacred subjects; and finally, when driven from Florence to Luco by the plague, taking with him his wife and stepdaughter, he began a picture called the "Madonna del Sacco" (the Madonna of the Sack).

This fresco was to adorn the convent of the Servi, and the sketches for it were probably made in Luco. When the plague passed and the artist was able to return to Florence, he began to paint it upon the cloister walls.

Andrea, like Leonardo, painted a famous "Last Supper," although the two pictures cannot be compared. In Andrea's picture it is said that all the faces are portraits.

Just before the plague sent him and his family from Florence a most remarkable incident took place. Raphael had painted a celebrated portrait of Pope Leo X in a group, and the picture belonged to Ottaviano de Medici. Duke Frederick II, of Mantua, longed to own this picture, and at last requested the Medici to give it to him. The Duke could not well be refused, but Ottaviano wanted to keep so great a work for himself. What was to be done? He was in great trouble over the affair. The situation seemed hopeless. It seemed certain that he must part with his beloved picture to the Duke of Mantua; but one day Andrea del Sarto declared that he could make a copy of it that even Raphael himself could not tell from his original. Ottaviano could scarcely believe this, but he begged Andrea to set about it, hoping that it might be true.

Going at the work in good earnest, Andrea painted a copy so exact that the pupil of Raphael, who had more or less to do with the original picture, could not tell which was which when he was asked to choose. This pupil, Giulio Romano, was so familiar with every stroke of Raphael's that if he were deceived surely any one might be; so the replica was given to the Duke of Mantua, who never found out the difference.

Years afterward Giulio Romano showed the picture to Vasari, believing it to be the original Raphael, neither Andrea nor the Medici having told Romano the truth. But Vasari, who knew the whole story, declared to Romano that what he showed him was but a copy. Romano would not believe it, but Vasari told him that he would find upon the canvas a certain mark, known to be Andrea's. Romano looked, and behold, the original Raphael became a del Sarto! The original picture hangs in the Pitti Palace, while the copy made by Andrea is in the Naples Gallery.

The introduction of Andrea to Vasari was one of the few gracious things that Michael Angelo ever did. About Andrea he said to Raphael at the time: "There is a little fellow in Florence who will bring sweat to your brows if ever he is engaged in great works." Raphael, would certainly have agreed, with him had he known what was to happen in regard to the Leo X picture.

Notwithstanding Andrea's unfortunate temperament, which caused him to be guided mostly by circumstances instead of guiding them, he was said to be improving all the time in his art. He had a great many pupils, but none of them could tolerate his wife for long, so they were always changing.

Throughout his life the artist longed for tenderness and encouragement from his wife, and finally, without ever receiving it, he died in a desolate way, untended even by her. After the siege of Florence there came a pestilence, and Andrea was overtaken by it. His wife, afraid that she too would become ill, would have nothing to do with him. She kept away and he died quite alone, few caring that he was dead and no one taking the trouble to follow him to his grave. Thus one of the greatest of Florentine painters lived and died. Years after his death, the artist Jacopo da Empoli, was copying Andrea's "Birth of the Virgin" when an old woman of about eighty years on her way to mass stopped to speak with him. She pointed to the beautiful Virgin's face in the picture and said: "I am that woman." And so she was--the widow of the great Andrea. Though she had treated him so cruelly, she was glad to have it known that she was the widow of the dead genius.

This picture is a fresco in the cloister of the Annunziata at Florence, and it is called "of the sack" because Joseph is posed leaning against a sack, a book open upon his knees.

Doubtless the model for this Madonna is Andrea del Sarto's abominable wife, but she looks very sweet and simple in the picture. The folds of Mary's garments are beautifully painted, so are the poise of her head, and all the details of the picture except the figure of the child. There is a line of stiffness there and it lacks the softness of many other pictures of the Infant Jesus.

In this picture in the Pitti Palace, Florence, Andrea del Sarto represents all the characters in a serious mood. There are St. John and Elizabeth, Mary and the Infant Jesus, and there is no touch of playfulness such as may be found in similar groups by other artists of the time. Attention is concentrated upon Jesus who seems to be learning from his young cousin. The left hand, resting upon Mary's arm is badly drawn and in character does not seem to belong to the figure of the child. A full, overhanging upper lip is a dominant feature in each face.

Other works of Andrea del Sarto are "Charity," which is in the Louvre; "Madonna dell' Arpie," "A Head of Christ," The Dead Christ," "Four Saints," "Joseph in Egypt," his own portrait, and "Joseph's Dream."

—excerpt from Pictures Every Child Should Know by Dolores Bacon

Copywork

Washington’s Rules of Civility

In 1745, George Washington he was attending school in Fredericksburg, Virginia. The first church (St. George's) of the infant town was just then finished, and the clergyman was the Rev. James Marye, a native of France. It is also stated in the municipal records of the town that its first school was taught by French people, and it is tolerably certain that Rev. Marye founded the school soon after his settlement there as Rector, which was in 1735, eight years after the foundation of Fredericksburg.

Here then are rules of conduct, taught by a French protestant pilgrim, unknown to fame, in the New World. They were taught to a small school of girls and boys, in a town of hardly a hundred inhabitants. They are maxims partly ethical, but mainly relate to manners and civility; they are wise, gentle, and true. A character built on them would be virtuous, and probably great. The publisher of the English version (1665) says that “Mr. Pinchester, a learned scholar of Oxford,” bought 250 copies for a great school he was about to open in London. Probably the school founded by James Marye was the first in the New World in which good manners were seriously taught. Nay, where is there any such school to day?

[It is probable that Mr. Marye’s fine precedent was followed, to some extent, in the Fredericksburg Academy. The present writer, who entered it just a hundred years after George Washington recorded the “Rules,” recalls, as his first clear remembrance of the school, some words of the worthy Principal, Thomas Hanson, on gentlemanly behavior. Alluding to some former pupil, who had become distinguished, he said, “I remember, on one occasion, in a room where all were gathered around the fire—the weather being very cold—that some one entered, and this boy promptly arose and gave the new-comer his seat at the fire. It made an impression on me which I have never forgotten.” And how long have lasted in the memory of the writer hereof the very words of our teacher’s homage to the considerate boy who obeyed Washington’s eighth Rule!

Just this one colonial school, by the good fortune of having for its master or superintendent an ex-Jesuit French scholar, we may suppose instructed in civility; and out of that school, in what was little more than a village, came an exceptionally large number of eminent men. In that school three American Presidents received their early education,-- Washington, Madison, and Monroe.

—excerpt from George Washington's Rules of Civility Traced to their Sources and Restored by Moncure D. Conway, Copyright 1890

1st Every action done in company ought to be with some sign of respect to those who are present.

2nd When in company, put not your hands to any part of the body, not usually discovered.

3rd Show nothing to your friend that may affright him.

4th In the presence of others sing not to yourself with a humming voice, nor drum with your fingers or feet.

5th If you cough, sneeze, sigh, or yawn, do it not loud but privately; and speak not in your yawning. Put your handkerchief or hand before your face and turn aside.

6th Speak not when others speak, sit not when others stand, speak not when you should hold your peace, walk not when others stop.

7th Put not off your clothes in the presence of others, nor go out of your chamber half dressed.

8th At play and at fire it is good manners to give place to the last comer and affect not speak louder than what is ordinary.

9th Spit not on the fire, nor stoop low before it. Neither put your hands into the flames to warm them nor set your feet upon the fire, especially if there is meat before it.

10th When you sit down keep your feet firm and even without putting one on the other nor crossing them

11th Shift not yourself in the sight of others nor gnaw your nails.

12th Shake not the head, feet, or legs; roll not the eyes; lift not one eyebrow higher than the other; wry not the mouth: and bedew no mans face with your spittle by approaching too near him when you speak.

13th Kill no vermin as fleas, lice, ticks in the sight of others. If you see any filth or thick spittle, put your foot dexterously upon it; if it be upon the clothes of your companions, put it off privately; and if it be upon your own clothes, return thanks to him who puts it off.

14th Turn not your back to others especially in speaking; jog not the table or desk on which another reads or writes; lean not upon anyone.

15th Keep your nails clean and short, also your hands and teeth clean, yet without showing any great concern for them.

16th Do not puff up the checks, loll not out the tongue, rub the hands, or beard, thrust out the lips, or bite them, keep the lips too open or close.

17th Be no flatterer, neither play with any that delights not to be played with.

18th Read no letters, books, or papers in company; but when there is a necessity for the doing of it, you must ask leave. Come not near the books or writings of another to read them or give your opinion of them unasked; also look not nigh when another is writing a letter.

19th Let your countenance be pleasant, but in serious matters somewhat grave.

20th The gestures of the body must be suited to the discourse you are upon.

21st Reproach none for the infirmities of nature, nor delight to put them that have in mind of thereof.

22nd Show not yourself glad at the misfortune of another, though he was your enemy.

23rd When you see a crime punished, you may be inwardly pleased, but always show pity to the suffering offender.

24th Do not laugh too much or too loud in public.

25th Superfluous compliments and all affectation of ceremony are to be avoided, yet where due, they are not to be neglected.

26th In pulling off your hat to persons of distinction, as noblemen, justices, churchmen, etc, make a reverence, bowing more or less according to the custom of the better bred and quality of the person. Among your equals, expect not always that they should begin with you first, but to pull off your hat when there is no need is affectation in the matter of saluting and resulting in words, keep to the most usual custom.

27th If anyone comes to speak to you while you are sitting, stand up, though he be your inferior; and when you present seats, let it be to everyone according to his degree.

Geography

China

A Letter from China

MY DEAR CHILDREN, Three weeks have gone by since I last wrote to you. I have made my voyage safely, and I am now in a great city of China called Canton.

Ask mother to show you China on the globe. You see at once that it is a vast country. It is larger than the whole of Europe. One-fourth of all the people in the world live in China.

All round this city of Canton there is a high wall. From the wall the city seems to be a beautiful place. When, however, you enter it, you soon find that it is dirty and full of foul smells. The streets are very narrow, and are always crowded with people. Many of them are roofed in to keep them cool. Most of them are so narrow that no carriage can pass along them. People who wish to ride must be carried in a kind of box on the shoulders of two or more men.

I am sure you would like to see the signboards that hang down in front of the shops. The strange letters on them are painted in gold and in bright colors. They look very gay indeed.

The shops sell all sorts of things—silk, books, drugs, flowers, china, and birds. Some of the shops only sell gold and silver paper. The Chinese burn this paper at the graves of their friends. When they do this they think that they are sending money for their dead friends to spend in the other world.

Many things are also sold in the streets. The street traders carry a bamboo pole across the shoulder. From the ends of this pole they sling the baskets in which they carry their wares. Many workmen ply their trades in the open street, and you are sure to see quack doctors, letter-writers, and moneychangers.

The Chinese do in the open street many things which we do inside our houses. A Chinaman likes to eat his meals where everyone can see him.

Sometimes he will sit in front of his house and wash his feet. Yesterday I saw a man having his tooth drawn out of doors. A crowd stood round him, watching to see how it was done.

How should you like to go for a ride in a wheelbarrow? In China the wheelbarrow is often used for carrying people or goods from place to place. It has a large wheel in the middle. Round the wheel there is a platform for people or goods.

A broad river runs through the city. It is crowded with boats, in which live many thousands of people. Many of these people never go ashore at all.

Over the sterns of the boats there are long baskets. These are the backyards of the floating city. Hens, ducks, geese, and sometimes pigs, are kept in these baskets.

The little boys who live on the boats have a log of wood fastened to their waists. This keeps them afloat if they fall overboard. The little girls have no such lifebelts. In China nobody troubles about the girls.

Nearly all the boats have an eye painted on their bows. Perhaps this seems strange to you. The Chinese, however, say: “S’pose no got eye, no can see; S’pose no can see, no can walkee”

Review Questions

1. Old cities have walls round them. Why were these walls built? Why are they of no use now?

2. Copy this drawing of a Chinese wheelbarrow.

3. Why do the Chinese paint an eye on the bows of their boats?

Chinese Boys and Girls

Chinese fathers and mothers are very glad when their children are boys. In China the boys are much petted. Their mothers give way to them, and let them do as they please.

Girls, however, are not welcome. Sometimes they are called “Not-wanted” or “Ought-to-have-been-a-boy.”

A Chinese boy has always two names, sometimes four. He has one name when he is a child, and another when he goes to school. He has a third name when he begins to earn money. When he dies he has a fourth name.

Chinese boys are very fond of flying kites, which are shaped like fish or butterflies or dragons. Old gentlemen are just as fond of kite flying as boys.

In China you will often see boys playing hopscotch or spinning peg-tops. They also play shuttlecock, but they have no battledore. They kick the shuttlecock with the sides of their feet.

Chinese boys love to set off fireworks, such as crackers, wheels, and rockets. If the fireworks make a loud noise, so much the better.

Chinese children are taught to show very great respect to their parents. They all bow and kneel to their fathers and mothers. A boy who is not kind and good to his parents is thought to be a wicked wretch.

A few days ago I went to see a Chinese school. The boys sit on stools at tiny tables. In front of them they have a stone slab, a stick of Chinese ink, and some brushes with which they write.

There is always a great din in a Chinese schoolroom. The boys shout at the top of their voices. If they do not make a noise, the teacher thinks that they are not learning.

When a boy knows his lesson he goes up to his master to say it. He turns his back to his master, and does not face him as you do.

A Chinese boy becomes a man at sixteen years of age. He chooses his work in life when he is quite a baby. Let me tell you how he does it.

When he is one year old he is seated in the middle of such things as money, books, and pens. Then the parents watch him to see what he will play with.

If he takes up the money, they say that he must be a trader or a banker. If he takes up a book or a pen, they say that he must be a writer or a teacher or a scholar.

Review Questions

1. Say what you know about a Chinese school.

2. How can you tell a Chinaman when you see him?

Hair, Finger and Toes

Chinese men shave their heads, all but a small patch of hair. This is allowed to grow very long, and is plaited into a pigtail. I have seen Chinamen with colored ribbons woven into their pigtails.

When men are at work they twine their pigtails round their heads. When they wish to show respect to any person they let down their pigtails. A man who has a long, thick pigtail is very proud of it.

Sometimes men who are sent to prison have their pigtails cut off. This is thought to be a great disgrace. When they leave prison they buy false pigtails to wear.

When Chinamen fight they pull each other about by the pigtail. Sometimes a schoolmaster punishes bad boys with his pigtail.

Rich women are very proud of their tiny feet. Chinese ladies can wear shoes about four inches long. Fancy mother wearing a doll’s shoes!

Girls have their feet bound up tightly when they are five years of age. The bandages are made tighter every week, until the foot stops growing. Of course, the poor girls suffer very much. The Chinese have a saying: “Every pair of bound feet costs a bath of tears.”

When the girls grow up they cannot walk. They can only totter along, and they have to lean on the arm of a maid to keep themselves from falling.

I am glad to say that many parents do not now bind the feet of their girls. They have learnt that it is both wicked and foolish to do so. At one school in China all the girls have their feet unbound. They skip and play about almost as well as Kate and May.

You and I think that only dirty, untidy people let their nails grow long. Rich people in China never cut their nails. They let them grow so long that they have to wear shields to keep them from being broken.

The dress of a Chinaman is very simple. He wears trousers and several cotton or silk tunics. The outside tunic has very long, wide sleeves; these are used as pockets.

The trousers are loose, and are covered up to the knee by white stockings. When a Chinaman is in full dress he wears a long gown. The Chinese boy wears the same kind of clothes as his father. Every man, woman, and child carries a fan.

Chinese boots are made of cloth or satin, never of leather. The soles are made of rags or paper. We blacken the uppers of our boots. Chinamen whiten the soles of theirs.

Now I must end this letter. When I come home you must ask me to tell you about the rice fields and the silk farms and the Great Wall. I have a hundred more things to tell you about this wonderful land. ~ Your loving FATHER.

Review Questions

1. In what ways do Chinese girls differ from British girls?

2. Write out the following: “The Great Wall of China is the longest wall in the world. It was built about two thousand years ago, and was meant to shut out the wild tribes which were then trying to conquer China. The wall is more than twice as long as the island of Great Britain. It is built of stone and earth, and is so broad that four horses can be driven on it abreast. The wall is now in ruins.”

—expert from Highroads of Geography, Introductory Book-Round the World with Father, Copyright, 1916

The Republic of China, the Great Peninsula of Eastern Asia

China is a very large country. It has a circumference of 8000 miles, a distance about equal to the diameter of the globe, and it is larger than the whole European continent.

The Chinese people form fully one-fifth of the total population of our planet and they knew how to use gunpowder and how to write letters at a time when our ancestors still painted their faces a pale blue and hunted the wild boar with a stone axe. To give an adequate description of such a country in a few pages is out of the question. All I can give you is a sketch, an outline. The details (if you are interested) you can afterwards fill in by yourself, for there is enough literature on China to upholster two or three libraries.

China, like India, is a peninsula, but a semi-circular peninsula, not a triangular one. In another very important way it is different from India. No obliging mountain range cuts it off from the rest of the world. On the contrary, the mountains of China resemble the fingers of a hand stretching out westward. In consequence thereof, the rich Chinese plains bordering upon the Yellow Sea have at all times been wide open to the hardy pioneers of central Asia.

In order to overcome this handicap, the Chinese emperors of the third century before our era (the period during which Rome and Carthage fought for the mastery of the Mediterranean) constructed a gigantic wall, 1500 miles long and 20 feet wide and more than 30 feet high, which ran all the way from the Gulf of Liao-tung to Kiayu-Kwan, just west of Su- chow on the borders of the Gobi Desert.

This granite barrier has done its duty well and honorably. In the seventeenth century it fell before the onslaughts of the Manchus. All the same, a fortification which has held its own for almost twenty centuries is no mere trifle. Those we build nowadays are useless after ten years and have then got to be renewed at enormous cost.

As for China proper, not counting in Mongolia and Manchuria (which at the time of writing this chapter seems to be rapidly falling into the hands of the Japanese) and Tibet and Turkestan, it is a vast circle nearly divided into three almost equal parts by the Yangtze—Kiang in the south and the Hwang-Ho in the north. The northern part, in which Peking is situated, has very cold winters and moderately hot summers, as a result of which the people eat millet and no rice. The central part, protected against the winds from the north by the Tsing-ling-shan range, has a much warmer climate and a much denser population which eats rice and does not know the sight or taste of grain. The third part, south China, has warm winters and very hot and moist summers and raises everything that will grow in the tropics.

Northern China is again divided into two parts, the mountain regions of the west and the plains of the east. These mountain regions of the west are the famous loess country. Loess is a very fine sort of loam, looking a yellowish gray, and it is very porous, as a result of which the rain of Heaven disappears as fast as it touches the earth, while rivers and brooks cut themselves deep ravines which makes travel from one part of the country to the other as difficult as it is in Spain.

The plain of the east is situated on the Gulf of Chih-li which is so rapidly being filled up with the deposits carried down by the Hwang-Ho that it is almost not navigable and has no good harbor. A little further towards the north there is another river, much smaller than the Hwang-Ho but quite as useless from the point of view of navigation. That is the Pei-Ho, which has the distinction of being the Chicago River of Peking, the great drainage canal which looks after the sewage disposal of the Chinese capital. As conditions in China change from hour to hour I will merely say that Peking has been the capital of the Celestial Empire for nine centuries, or ever since the days when William the Bastard conquered England, but that I have no idea whether at the time this book goes to press it will be the Chinese capital, a mere Chinese city or the temporary or definite residence of a Japanese general.

It is however a very ancient town and it has seen a great many ups and downs. In 986 it was conquered by the Tartars who re-baptised it Nanking or the “southern capital.” In the twelfth century the Chinese recaptured it but did not care to retain it as their capital and made it a second-rate provincial center, called Yen-shan Fu. Half a century later it was once more taken by another Tartar tribe who now called it Chung-tu or the central capital. Another century later it was occupied by Genghis Khan, who however refused to come and live there in fatuous ease but remained faithful to his tent in the heart of the Mongolian Desert. One of his successors, the famous Kublai Khan, felt differently. He rebuilt the ruins of Peking and baptized them Yen-king or the great court, although at that time they were better known by their Mongolian name of Cambaluc or the city of the Khan.

Finally these Tartars were expelled too, and a king of Chinese origin, the first one of the famous Ming dynasty, mounted the throne. Yenking or the great court then became Peking or the north court. As Peking it has ever since remained the center of the Chinese government, but so far removed from the rest of the world that it was not until the year 1860 that a European ambassador was allowed to visit the capital in his official capacity and with all the pomp and circumstance befitting a man whose father had given the British Museum the Elgin marbles.

The city in the hey-day of its power must have been tremendously strong. The walls were sixty feet thick and almost fifty feet high and defended by square towers and gateways which were fortresses in themselves. On the inside, the city was like a Chinese puzzle, containing a number of smaller cities, the one inside of the other, an imperial city, and a Manchu city and a Chinese city and, after the middle of the nineteenth century, a foreign city.

Until the Boxer outbreak of 1900 the foreign diplomatic representatives lived in a small square of their own just between the Manchu city and the Chinese city. After the siege, this diplomatic ghetto was strongly fortified and heavily garrisoned with troops of the different countries to prevent a recurrence of this most unfortunate incident. Peking, of course, contains a number of palaces and temples. But here I would like to draw attention to a very interesting difference between the temperaments of the people of China and those of India which explains to a certain degree why these two countries have practically nothing in common except that they are both of them hopelessly overpopulated.

The Hindus have always taken their gods very seriously and when they built them a temple it must be the biggest, the most expensive and the showiest temple the money of the poor sweating peasants could buy. “Not a cent for public improvements, but millions for the gods!” was the slogan of the Brahmans. The Chinese are nominally Buddhists but every Chinaman from the humblest laundry-man in Mott Street to the most powerful of the old Mandarins had fallen under the influence of that shrewd old sage, Kung-fu-tsze or Confucius, who during the second half of the sixth century had preached his gospel of common, everyday horse-sense without wasting much time upon vague discussions about the Life Hereafter. And it was completely in keeping with the Confucian notions about the sensible thing to do that the Chinese rulers spent the greater part of their revenue upon public improvements, upon canals and irrigation dams and Chinese walls and river improvements, but just enough upon their temples and shrines not to make the Gods feel that they were in any way being slighted.

As the ancient Chinese were a people of tremendous artistic ability, they could achieve much more satisfactory results and at a much smaller cost than the natives of the Ganges valley. It is true that nowhere in China does the traveler find anything at all comparable to the vast structures of India. A few gigantic statues of animals guarding the gardens of the Ming rulers, some sixty miles north of Peking, and here and there a large Buddha. That is all. The rest is of modest dimensions, albeit of excellent proportions. But curiously enough, the art of China appeals to the people of the west much more than does the art of India. Chinese paintings and sculptures and pottery and lacquer-work fit into a

European or American home, whereas their Indian counterparts disturb the harmony and are slightly upsetting, even when seen in a museum.

To the modern business world China is important because it has very large coal deposits and the second largest iron deposits in the world. When the English, German, and American mines get exhausted, we can still go to the province of Shan-si to keep warm.

To the southeast of the province of Chih-li lies the province of Shan-tung with the peninsula of that name which separates the Gulf of Chih-li from the Yellow Sea. This part of China is very mountainous, except for the valley of the Hwang-Ho, which formerly ran due south into the Yellow Sea. But it changed its course suddenly in 1852, and that little affair showed us that a flood in China really meant a flood. In order to find a parallel for the Hwang-Ho’s behavior we would have to imagine the Rhine suddenly making up its mind to flow into the Baltic or the Seine deciding to run into the North Sea instead of the Gulf of Biscay. As the Hwang-Ho has changed its mouth ten times since the end of the seventeenth century we are by no means certain that the present channel will be definite. Dikes and dams which in other parts of the world are apt to keep a river within bounds are of no avail against such rivers as the Hwang-Ho and the Yang-tsze, for the dikes through which the river broke in the year 1852 were fifty feet high and they tore apart like tissue paper.

And then there is something else that makes these rivers such a nuisance. You must have heard the Chinese referred to as the yellow race and you must have seen articles in the newspapers about the Yellow Peril, etc. As a rule we associate the idea of yellow and Chinese with the color of a Chinaman’s face. But when the emperors of China called themselves Hwang-ti, which meant Lord of the Yellow Earth, they were not thinking of their subjects but of the land inhabited by these subjects. The yellow loess mud carried down by the Hwang-Ho turns everything in northern China yellow—the water of the river, the water of the sea, the roads, the houses, the fields, the clothes of the men and women. And it is that yellow dust which has given its name to a race which for the rest is really not much more yellow than the average city dweller of the west.

In order to permit his subjects to proceed from northern China to central and southern China without running the risk of a long sea voyage, one of the Chinese emperors who lived during the thirteenth century ordered a canal to be built that should connect the Hwang-Ho with the Yangtze-Kiang. It was more than a thousand miles long and fulfilled its purpose faithfully until the year 1852 when the Hwang-Ho moved from the Yellow Sea to the Gulf of Chih-li and the canal was destroyed together with the old riverbed. But this Grand Canal, the longest in the world, shows that the ancient rulers of the land were men of enlightened views.

But to return to the peninsula of Shan-tung. Its hard granite coast has been responsible for the formation of several very important harbors. One of those, Wei-hai-wei, just east of Chi-fu, was until recently in English hands. The British had “rented” it from China when Russia occupied Port Arthur on the other side of the Gulf of Chih-li to use it as a naval base and a station of their Trans-Siberian railroad. The “renting contract” stipulated that England should withdraw as soon as the Russians had disappeared from the Liao-tung peninsula. But when Japan took Port Arthur in 1905, the English remained. The Germans, not to be outdone, must then occupy the bay of Kiao-Chow, further towards the south, and the city of Tsing-tao, both of them also parts of the Shan-tung peninsula This meant that the Great War also had its reverberations in the Far East. Germans and Britons fought for the possession of something which belonged to neither of them and, as usually happens in such cases, a third party, the Japanese, got away with the stolen goods.

In order to regain a little of the goodwill of the Chinese, Wei-hai-wei and Kiao-Chow have since been returned to China. But if Japan succeeds in taking Manchuria, the old game will probably begin all over again.

In the east central China consists of a wide and fertile plain which is really the continuation of the plain of northern China, but the interior is mountainous. Through these mountains the Yangtze-Kiang wends its tortuous way until at last it reaches the East China Sea. It takes its origin in the province of Szechuan, a region almost as large as France, but supporting a much larger population as the red soil is exceedingly fertile. Several mountain ranges running from south to north cut it almost completely off from the rest of the world. As a result it has suffered but little from the visitation of the White Man and, is distinctly more Chinese than the rest of China.

Continuing its course towards the sea, the Yangtze next traverses the province of Hu-peh where the famous city of Han-kow is situated. This was the center of the revolution of 1911 which upset the last emperor of the Manchu dynasty and turned the oldest monarchy in the world into a republic. Up to Han-kow the Yangtze is navigable for sea-going 71 vessels with a displacement of not more than 1000 tons. Below Han-kow, the river is the main artery of commerce for central China until it reaches Shanghai, the center of China’s foreign trade and one of the first Chinese harbors which was opened to foreign commerce at the conclusion of the so-called “opium war” between England and China in the year 1840-1842.

To the south of the Yangtze delta lays Hang-chow, which Marco Polo knew as Kinsai, and in the east Su-chow, the name of which suggests tea. The suggestion is correct. The lower part of the Yangtze valley is very fertile and it was for this reason that Nanking, which is situated where the Yangtze begins its delta, was for a long time not only the most important city of central China but also the residence of its emperor.

Partly on account of its historical past and partly on account of its strategic position, half-way between Canton and Peking, and partly because it is not directly menaced by the guns of foreign warships, the city of Nanking was chosen as the center of that government which at the moment of writing (Jan. 2, 1932, seven minutes past midnight) seems to be the official government of China.

As for southern China, it is a mountainous country and, although it raises tea and silk and cotton, it has always been a comparatively poor region. Once upon a time it was covered with forests, but the forests were cut down and the soil was washed away by the rain, and the bare rocks remained. Hence wholesale emigration to all parts of the world which have not yet passed laws restricting the number of Chinese visitors.

The most important city in southern China is Canton, which is the main harbor of import into China just as Shanghai is the most important center for export to Europe. At the mouth of the Canton River (the city itself is a few miles inland) lie two foreign possessions. On the right bank, Macao, all that remains of the Portuguese possessions in China and now merely a sort of oriental Monte Carlo, and Hong-Kong, a city which the English took during the opium war and have kept ever since.

Of the two islands off the coast of southern China, Hai-nan is still Chinese, but Formosa, an old Dutch colony, has belonged to Japan since the Chinese-Japanese War of 1894–1895.

Ninety percent of the Chinese are, always have been and probably always will be farmers who live on their own products and starve when there is a bad season. But forty-eight harbors have been opened up for the foreign trade and their main exports are silk and tea and cotton. Curiously enough, there is no export of opium. The Chinese emperors have always tried to protect their people against this unfortunate habit-forming drug and gradually the old poppy fields have been changed into cotton fields.

As for railroads, the Chinese fought the idea longer than any other nation because, with their respect for the memory of their parents and ancestors, they feared to upset the peaceful slumbers of these departed worthies when the engines should come thundering down the roads of iron. The few miles built in 1875 between Shanghai and Wu Sung, its harbor, caused such a storm of protest that they were immediately discontinued. And even today the Chinese railroads describe wide circles around all cemeteries. Still, there are now over 10,000 miles of railroad in actual use and the bridge across the Hwang-Ho near Tsi-nan is the biggest railroad bridge in the world.

As for China’s foreign trade, almost 6o% is still in the hands of England and her colonies and that probably explains why England has been obliged to discontinue her old ruthless policy towards the inhabitants of the Celestial Empire. A boycott of English goods by these industrious Celestials would mean a loss of millions of dollars a day. It is good policy to keep on friendly terms with a customer who happens to represent the interests of one-fifth of the entire human race.

When the earliest ancestors of the Chinese dimly emerged from the nebulous realm of the past, they were already living on the Yellow Earth along the banks of the Hwang-Ho, north-west from the heart of the present China. The fertile loess fields must have been very desirable in the eyes of an agricultural people. Furthermore it also settled the housing problem, for it allowed a man to dig himself a comfortable little home in the side of a convenient hill and not bother about draughty walls or a roof that leaked.

According to reliable accounts of travelers who are familiar with that part of the world, there are spots which are known to be densely populated but where one fails to see a single vestige of human habitation until the first rays of light tell of the coming of another day. Then, like so many rabbits who swarm out of their holes to enjoy the sun, those men, women and children begin their endless tasks of gathering food until eventide, when they disappear once more into the bowels of the earth.

Having occupied the mountains, the Chinese then spread eastward. The turbulent Hwang-Ho carried millions of tons of mountain loess into the plains and thereby fertilized them until they were fit to support further millions of human beings. The Chinese followed in the wake of the river and twenty centuries before the beginning of our era (1500 years before the founding of Rome) the Chinese had wandered as far as the Yangtze and the center of their empire had been moved from the Hwang-Ho region to the great plain of central China.

During the fifth and fourth centuries before the birth of Christ, three great moral teachers arose among them, Kung- futsze or Confucius, Mang-tsze or Mencius, and Lao-tsze, whose name has not been Latinized. What the religious conceptions of the Chinaman were at the time these three prophets made their appearance, we do not know. Nature apparently was worshipped as the forces of Nature will always be worshipped by those who depend upon them for their living, and not Confucius nor Mencius nor Lao-tsze were religious founders in the sense of the word as applied to Christ or Buddha or Mohammed.

They merely taught a moral code based upon the acceptance of man as a pretty inferior and not very brilliant product of creation but capable of great development provided be fell into good hands and was willing to listen to the precepts of his elders and betters. From our own Christian point of view, these three can of course be accused of preaching a very worldly and decidedly materialistic doctrine. None of them said much about humility and meekness or preached that we must return good for evil. They knew that the average man was not capable of such noble and elevated deeds, and furthermore they seem to have doubted whether such a rule of conduct was really for the ultimate good of the community at large. Wherefore they suggested such things as that evil should be answered with justice and that one should pay one’s bills and keep contracts and honor the memory of honorable ancestors.

These three Chinese philosophers spread their morality pretty thin but everyone got at least a smear of it. I don’t say that this was a better system than ours or a worse one. But it was a system not devoid of certain very definite advantages. It gave a people consisting of 400,000,000 different individuals, speaking a couple of dozen different dialects (a Chinaman from the north finds it just as hard to understand a brother Chinaman from the south as a Swede trying to make conversation with an Italian) and living under entirely different circumstances, at least one thing in common—a

73 decidedly Chinese attitude towards the ups and downs of life, a practical philosophy of existence which will pull the humblest of coolies through hardships that would either kill the average European or American or would drive him to commit suicide.

And these ideas were sufficiently simple to be understood by almost every one. As a proof whereof I refer you to the miracles of assimilation performed by the Chinese during the 4000 years of their history. They are preposterous and at the same time fabulous. During the tenth century China became part of the greatest empire that ever existed, that Mongolian commonwealth that reached from the Baltic to the Pacific. But all those Mongolian rulers were like Kublai Khan. They ended by becoming Chinamen. After the Mongolians came the Mings (1368-1644), the last purely Chinese dynasty to rule the country. They were succeeded by a Tartar prince who came from Manchuria and who was the founder of the Manchu dynasty. But although the Chinese, as a token of submission to their Manchu masters, were forced to grow their hair long and wear a pig-tail and shave the rest of their heads, the Manchus soon became even more Chinese than the Chinamen themselves.

After the last Manchu invasion the Chinese were left completely to themselves and by merely guarding their harbors against all foreign visitors from the west, the civilization of China had a chance to settle down for a little rest. But the moment it did this, it petrified more completely than any other country of which we have ever heard. Its political system became even more rigid than that of the old Russia of pre-revolutionary days. Literature froze, even their incomparable art became as stereotyped as that of the Byzantine mosaic makers of ancient Constantinople. Science no longer made any progress. If by chance someone still happened to invent something new it was at once discarded as foolish and undesirable, just as the medical department of our own army tried to discourage the use of chloroform because it was both new and foolish. Because they were cut off so completely from the rest of the world and never had a chance of finding out what other nations were doing, it was easy for the Chinese to convince themselves that their own methods were best, that their own army was invincible, that their own art was the most sublime art ever wrought by the hands of human beings and that their own customs and habits were so superior to those of all other nations that it was ridiculous to compare the two. Many other countries have in a mild way tried such a policy of exclusion but it has always ended in disaster.

Since the early half of the sixteenth century the Chinese had allowed a few foreign devils, hailing from Portugal and England and Holland, to settle in two or three of their Pacific ports for the sake of the profits that were to be derived from the trade with Europe. But the social status of those unfortunate foreigners had been most unsatisfactory. They were treated like a respectable colored doctor who by chance is obliged to travel on the same boat with a delegation of the descendants of Virginia’s first settlers.

When England in 1816 sent Lord Amherst (nephew of Jeffrey and the man who interviewed Napoleon on St. Helena in 1817) to ask the Son of Heaven to mitigate the hardships from which the English merchants suffered in Canton, he was told that an interview with the Celestial Majesty depended upon his willingness to kow-tow before the imperial throne. The kow-tow, which literally meant “knocking the head three times upon the ground before the sacred throne” was something which a Dutch sea-captain could afford to do, for once he had kow-towed himself out of the reception room he knew that he could take home enough tea or spices to be comfortable for the rest of his life. But the representative of His British Majesty was somewhat differently placed. Lord Amherst curtly refused and as a result was not even allowed to enter the gates of Peking.

Meanwhile Europe, growing rich in consequence of the invention of James Watt and the application of steam for the purpose of exploiting our little planet, was clamoring for new worlds to conquer. China of course was No. 1 on the list. The direct excuse for the outbreak of hostilities was not exactly flattering to the pride of the white race, least of all for that part of it which ever since 1807, when Dr. Morrison had reached Canton as the first European missionary, had been telling the Chinese what a fine thing Christianity really was and why they should give it a chance. Even those pedantic and narrow-minded Mandarins (merely a Chinese title for administrator) who then ruled China were still sufficiently steeped in the teachings of Confucius to refuse to let their people be exposed to the unlimited importation of opium. But the British India Company was making millions of pounds out of the sale of poppy-seed to the people of the Yangtze and the Hwang-Ho. The British India Company insisted upon importing opium into China and the Chinese authorities refused to let the stuff be landed. Opium and hurt feelings then led to the war of 1840 in which the Chinese, to their dumbfounded surprise, discovered that they were absolutely no match for the despised foreigners and that during the centuries of voluntary seclusion they had dropped so far behind the rest of humanity that it was doubtful whether they would ever be able to catch up.

This fear bids fair to come true. Ever since the disastrous days of the Opium War, China has been completely at the mercy of the westerner. The Chinese people, who are apt to go on plowing and harvesting, no matter who is fighting in the adjacent fields, have at times given evidence of the fact that they are beginning to realize that something is wrong with their country. The first outbreak of discontent occurred about eighty years ago. The Chinese then blamed the disasters of their hapless land upon the “foreign” Manchu dynasty and rose up in rebellion to set themselves free.

While the Manchus were engaged in a war with England and France, southern China started the so-called Tai-ping rebellion. They ceased to shave their heads and they cut off their pigtails, but the imperial armies, led at first by an American engineer named Ward and afterwards by an Englishman, a certain Charles George Gordon, a sincere Christian and a profound mystic, were much too powerful for the poor misguided revolutionists. The “Emperor” whom they had elected to replace the Manchus burned himself alive with all his wives and concubines in his residence in the city of Nanking. Hundreds of thousands of people were executed and Gordon returned to England to devote himself to acts of charity and piety, performed in his leisure hours when he was not drilling troops, and to prepare for his tragic end.

Then in 1875 there was a slight difference of opinion between the Manchus and Germany, and Germany sent a squadron to purify the Chinese coast of pirates. During 1884 and 1885 there was a war with France which cost the Chinese Anam and Tong-king, and in 1894 there was a war with Japan, now thoroughly Europeanized, which ended with the cession of the island of Formosa.

Then began the great European rush for armaments and strategic points. The Russians took Port Arthur, the English took Wei-hai-wei, the Germans took Kiao-Chow and the French took Kiang Hung on the left bank of the Mekong River. America, which has thus far always mixed sentiment (and often, alas, sentimentality) with its foreign policies, talked vaguely about ‘maintaining the open door” and the European nations were turning the territory they had stolen into impregnable fortresses and closed the door whenever their uncle from across the ocean was not looking.

The Chinese people, patient and plodding though they are by nature, began to grasp the fact that they were being cheated right and left. Once more holding the foreign Manchu dynasty responsible for all their humiliations and misery, they started the unfortunate Boxer rebellion of the year 1901. They began their operations by murdering the German ambassador (their plausible excuse was that he had first struck a Chinaman) and then besieged the foreign legations in Peking. As a result an army of Russians, Japanese, Englishmen, Austrians, Germans, Italians, French and Americans marched to the relief of the sorely beset foreign quarter, saved the ministers and their families from an untimely end, and then by way of retribution plundered Peking as that rich city had never been looted before. The Forbidden City, the heart of the imperial residence, was broken into. Nothing was spared, no matter how holy it might be to the Chinese, and the German commander-in-chief, who arrived with an extra 20,000 men (when the shooting was already over but the plundering still in full swing) had been instructed by his imperial master to follow in the footsteps of the Huns—an unfortunate expression which came home to roost a little over a dozen years later and which was one of the worst boomerangs old Wilhelm ever sent forth during the days when he indulged in that sport in preference to his present craze for chopping wood.

Condemned to pay enormous indemnities and humiliated in every possible way by their ever more aggressive European neighbors, the Chinese people once more rose in rebellion in the year 1911 and this time they were successful, for the Manchu dynasty was abolished and China was turned into a republic.

But this time, however, the Chinese had learned the lesson that the nations of the west are not primarily interested in chapters from the writings of Confucius, but care much more for coal concessions and iron concessions and oil concessions and that therefore those possessed of these valuable raw materials must either know how to defend their property or sink it to the bottom of the ocean if they want it to be absolutely safe. In short, China began to recognize the necessity of following the example of Japan by taking a short course in westernization. Foreign teachers were engaged from all over the world, but principally from Japan, which was nearby and handy.

In the meantime, Russia had started upon its ambitious plan to convert one-sixth of the world into an industrial state, administered according to the Gospel of Saint Marx; and Russia, being a very close neighbor of China could whisper strange words into the ears of the long-suffering coolies who had been born to sweat and work, no matter who ruled them or whether they were being exploited by the English or the French or the Japanese.

The result of all these conflicting ideas, plans and emotions is the chaos which has descended upon China since the end of the Great War, during which it was forced to take the side of the Allies in a quarrel in which as usual it had nothing to gain and a great deal to lose.

I am no prophet. I don’t know what will happen during the next ten or fifteen years. Conditions probably won’t change very much, for poor China tried too late to catch up with the procession. But may the good Lord have mercy upon us if she ever does, for oh, what a bill we shall have to pay then! What a bill!

—excerpt from Van Loon’s Geography The Story of the World We Live In by Hendrik Willem van Loon Copyright, 1932

Israel

THE ENCHANTED TEMPLE What was the most exciting adventure you ever had—the adventure you’ll longest remember? Was it your first airplane ride, when the pilot looped-the-loop? Was it the time your automobile stalled in a snowdrift, and you had to spend the night in a deserted cabin? Or the time you walked to the summit of Pike’s Peak? Or the day you met the President? My own adventure which I’ll longest remember was a visit to an enchanted city. The city of which I speak is hidden in the mountain fastnesses of Arabia. I look forward with delight to visiting this enchanted place again. And this time I shall take you with me. But before we set out, let me tell you an Arabian fairy tale. The tale is about the secret city and its magic spell: Once upon a time, in the far-off ancient days, there lived in Arabia a king who wore upon his finger a magic ring. Whoever wore it (and knew the secret words that gave the ring its power) could hold enslaved the jinns who, in those days, dwelt in the land. With the aid of these jinns the King built for himself a capital that became one of the wonders of the Arab world. He called it Petra, which means stone. Now in no way was Petra like other cities. It was located in the wildest mountains in the middle of a barren wilderness south of the Dead Sea. A traveler looking for Petra would not have found it, unless he knew the country well, for the chief gateway was just a crack in the mountain wall. This crack led into a deep and sunless canyon, a thousand feet deep, and this canyon led into the city. But once the traveler had reached Petra itself, no sight could have been more wonderful. All about were beautiful palaces and noble tombs, all carved with hammer and chisel right out of the solid stone cliffs that rose on every side. The King did not spend all his time building these great rock monuments. Besides being the Lord of the jinns, he was also the most dreaded robber in Arabia. Riding forth from the canyon in the rock, his robber bands would drive the passing caravans into the hidden fortress. Nor could any vengeful army pursue the robbers, for so narrow was the canyon-corridor that four men could block it against 4000. Petra became a huge fortified storehouse where dazzling piles of stolen gold and pearls and silk were guarded by the citizens. With so much wealth and power in their hands, the people of Petra were able to conquer all the neighboring nations. To the city they dragged captive artists and sculptors from Athens. Grander and grander grew their palaces, marvelously carved by the gifted Greeks . . . all in the sandstone cliffs. Proud as they were in life, the Petrans became prouder still in death. They spent fortunes on their own tombs. Each noble tried to plan one grander than his neighbor’s. It took the strength of the jinns to hew the great rooms in the solid rock, but only the graceful hands of the Greeks could carve the columns and statues. Soon the very gods themselves grew jealous of the splendid temple-tombs being built at Petra to bury mere mortals.

They thought of a plan to subdue these bold builders . . . they would fill the soul of the King (who held the key to Petra’s power) with the poison of vanity and pride. This, surely, would bring about his downfall. And, just as the gods planned, this poison did destroy him. Burning with envy, he saw the tombs of his nobles rising higher and more splendid every day . . . and there was not even a little tomb for the King—the King whose magic ring made all these wonders possible. More and more jealous he became, until, in a violent mood, he commanded his enslaved jinns and his Greek artists to carve for him a temple-tomb such as the world had never seen—a temple that must overshadow the temples of the nobles as the moon outshines the stars. So the King commanded, and at once he was obeyed. Roaring in anger at their hated enslavement, the jinns fell to work, hacking out tons upon tons of sandstone from the cliffs. Then the captive Greeks took their hammers and chisels and began to carve the rough rock into a sculptured temple. Slowly it took form, in one marvelous piece, massive and yet delicate, a poem in rose-red stone. The King looked at this glowing masterpiece—and worshiped its beauty. Then, fearful lest a rival try to build a fairer monument than this, he commanded that the architect who built it be blinded. 77

All the people of the surrounding nations flocked to Petra to see the royal mausoleum. It became the city’s crowning glory. But, just as the gods had planned, it soon proved to be the downfall of the King. The nobles, jealous, in turn, of their ruler’s over towering monument, plotted against him, and murdered him. What madness was in this act! With the King, the power of the Petrans over the jinns departed. He alone had known how to use the ring he wore—the power that kept the jinns enslaved. When his last heartbeat had ceased, the jinns found themselves free. No longer slaves, these terrible spirits burst the bonds that held them to their hated masters, and with a single magic word they enchanted the whole of the glorious rock city they had helped to build. That was centuries ago. But Petra is enchanted still, unchanged in all this time. Its tombs, its monuments, the proud and lovely burial palace of the jealous King, are all still standing as on the day when the jinns, seeking revenge, cast their magic spell. The Arab shepherds who tend their flocks in the neighborhood of Petra insist that this is a true story. And I half-believe it is, because I’ve seen Petra with my own eyes. From Mecca, Petra is not far away—not for our airplane. Our Mecca “pilgrimage” over, we ride our lurching camels back to Jedda, and once more climb aboard the plane. Our route this time is right up the eastern shore of the Red Sea—500 miles. If you’ll look at a map you’ll note that the northern end of the Red Sea is forked. The left fork makes the Gulf of Suez (and leads to the Suez Canal). The right fork makes the Gulf of Akaba. We fly up the Akaba fork to the very end, and fifty miles on inland. This fifty-mile stretch seems, from above, to be only a wilderness of barren mountains and rocky canyons. But in the middle of this wilderness we’ll find the magic city. We see, presently, far below, a little oasis, surrounded by grim hills. This is our goal, for Petra lies close by. No use to hunt for Petra from our plane. Nothing can be seen of it from the air. We must go on foot. Two Bedouins, who say they have no fear of jinns, offer themselves as guides. At dawn next morning we stand before the hidden entrance of the secret canyon-corridor. Without our guides we could have passed by the canyon and never noticed it. Following the Bedouins into the corridor, we find ourselves at the bottom of a tremendous split in the rock, overhung on either side by black precipices, hundreds of feet high, that shut out the sky and the sun. These fearsome cliffs seem only to be waiting for a human being to pass below in order to close in upon the ribbon of space and grind to bits their helpless victim. More and more uneasy, we move deeper into this dimly lighted crack. We can stretch forth our arms and touch both walls. Bats fly about our heads. At times the daylight almost disappears. expect, any moment, to meet demons from the lower realms, for this is a corridor not for the passage of humans but for the goblins who hide from the sunshine. We seem to be walking in a world deserted by all living things ages and ages ago. But you can see for yourselves that it has not always been like this, for, here and there, the canyon-floor is still paved with well-worn blocks of quarried stone. Along this corridor the wealth of Arabia once ebbed and flowed. Here the caravans, laden with silk and ivory, passed, musical with hells, in never-ending streams. And the followers of a king, returning from Jerusalem, once filled this living canyon with the clatter of their cavalry. But that was before the days of the enchantment. We creep on, for over a mile, along the bottom of the gorge. Gloomier and gloomier it grows, more overhanging, darker and more fearful. And then we turn a corner of the canyon, and suddenly, out of the gloom, a glorious vision springs from a cliff straight ahead of us. The cliff is carved into a gleaming, rose-colored temple, towering but delicately made. And down upon the temple’s face, the sun, in a blaze of light, is pouring from an opening in the rocks above. For the first few minutes we make no effort to understand this wondrous sight. And then we realize that this great jewel must be the temple-tomb built by the Greek artists, aided by the power of the jinns, at the order of the King of ancient

Petra . . . “a temple-tomb that was to overshadow the finest monuments of the nobles, a temple such as the world had never seen before.” So the King had commanded, and the artists and the jinns had obeyed. If we are not too bedazzled, some of us may also judge the temple by workaday standards. It’s as tall as a ten-story 78 building, and a hundred feet broad. Inside we find a great rock hall, forty feet square and forty high. Across the front there is a row of graceful columns. And spread over everything is the most delicate and wonderful carving—garlands and flowers and goddesses—all in the solid rock. And in this same lovely, gleaming form, this temple has stood for nearly 2000 years—ever since the day when the jinns cast their magic spell. We move on past the temple-tomb, and soon emerge into the great basin in which the city itself was built. The walls, all around, rise up more than a thousand feet, and are so steep that no enemy could possibly climb down. And these cliffs are lined with temples, treasuries, tombs, in endless procession, all cut from the solid rock, all huge in size and beautifully carved. The finest ones, we can be sure, are the tombs of the nobles. No wonder the King needed all his riches and power to surpass them! There is no corner of the city we do not explore. But all the time the supreme tomb is in our thoughts. And so, when night comes and the desert stars shine down upon this stone wonderland, we wander back to visit again the temple of the King. How changed it is! -yet not less beautiful. We had thought that nothing could be lovelier than its coral color glowing in the sun. We now see that there is something lovelier—its coral color softened by the starlight. We lean against the cliff wall opposite. Standing there in the silver shadows, before this vision of beauty, we find it easy to believe, almost, the shepherd’s fairy tale of jinns and magic spells. It must be true—for, otherwise, what would have kept this carved stone poem from crumbling into dust a thousand years ago? Yes, I’m sure, now that I’m here again, with you, in Petra, that the adventure I’ll longest remember was my first visit to this very place. And it may be that you, too, in the years to come, when the memory of the other wonders you have seen has grown dim—that you, too, will still recall, clearly, as one of the truly magic moments of your life, the sight of the starlit temple—eternal, silent, beautiful, and alone—guarding the enchanted city.

THE DEAD SEA Soon after we leave Petra, our pilot, flying on north over more arid, wilderness, points ahead to a large lake. We all agree it’s the bluest lake we have ever seen—the bluest and the most brilliant. Melted sapphires could not shine with a richer, deeper blue. It’s set deep in a barren valley and looks to be about ten miles wide and fifty miles long. Enclosing it, the valley walls, dull-gold, lonely, and lifeless, soar upward more than 4000 feet. We are quite close to the lake now, and our pilot begins to glide our plane downward toward the dazzling water. Lower and lower we drift. Then the pilot says, Look at the altimeter. We notice that the needle points to zero—to sea-level—and we are still high in the sky; the lake is hundreds of feet beneath us. We keep going down. The altimeter now says we are 500 feet below the level of the sea . . . 800 feet . . . 1000 feet . . . down, down we go . . . 1200 feet . . . is the pilot going to land on the water? 1300 feet . . . then the plane straightens out, just in time, and we skim along only a yard or two above the dancing waves. At this same moment, a few miles to the east, great ships are sailing over the surface of the Mediterranean, one quarter of a mile above our heads. But of course you know the explanation. This is the Dead Sea. This sea—the lowest point on the surface of the earth—we must certainly include among the wonders of the Orient. This famous body of water is wonderful in many ways. First of all it has an in-flow but no out-flow. The in-flow is the Jordan River. (We can see it quite clearly now, emptying into the blue lake from the north). For thousands and thousands of years this river has been pouring 6,000,000 tons of water every day into the vast sink. Naturally there can be no outlet, for how, indeed, can water flow 1300 feet uphill to reach the ocean? Then why, you ask, doesn’t the Sea fill up and flood the whole valley? This very thing would happen, were it not for the fact that this valley is one of the driest spots in the world—so dry that 6,000,000 tons of Dead Sea water evaporates every day. This evaporation keeps the surface at the same level all the time. If the Jordan were blocked off, and its flow stopped, the Sea, in time, would dry up completely, and leave a great hole fifty miles long, ten miles wide, and 1100 feet deeper than it is now. The bottom of this hole would then be 2400 feet below the surface of the Mediterranean. But why is this curious lake called Dead? I’ll explain. The Jordan River has a tiny fraction of salt in it. (So has all other river water, though you can’t possibly taste the salt.) As the river pours into the lake, the desert sun and heat evaporate the water, but do not evaporate the salt, which has no way of escaping. For this reason, the water that remains has become saltier and saltier, until it is the saltiest 79 water in the world. The ocean is five per cent salt—one gallon to every twenty gallons of water. The Dead Sea is twenty- five per cent salt—one gallon to every four gallons of water. The Dead Sea, therefore, is five times saltier than the ocean. This of course, makes it much heavier. If you try to swim in it—well, you’ll see for yourselves, before long, what happens. Because of the salt no form of life can live in this strange lake. Fish, snails, waterweeds, washed down with the river, all die the moment they strike the blue and beautiful—but deadly— brine. This deadliness, centuries ago, gave rise to legends which told that even the air above the Sea was so poisonous that birds fell stricken and lifeless when they tried to fly across. Such a story was invented by some fanciful traveler, but it was believed until modern times. It is legends like this that have given the lake a bad name. One always expects to find it dismal and depressing. What a surprise it is then for us to find that the Dead Sea has a wild and glorious beauty, and a color brighter than anybody of fresh water we ever saw. Such a wonderful Sea, you say, must have a wonderful history. Indeed it has. We flew over a part of the water, near the southern shore, beneath which lie the ruined cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, of Bible fame. At least scientists believe that the ruins are still there, sunk below the briny waves. Up which of those steep barren mountain-walls, we wonder, did Lot climb, fleeing from the fire and brimstone that rained down? We know that Lot escaped. But his wife, failing to obey the Lord’s commands, looked back at the flaming city, and was turned to a pillar of salt. We wonder which of those rocky spires below is Lot’s wife? I’ve asked the pilot to circle over that stump of a hill rising close beside the western shore. On top this hill once stood the fortress of Masada. Here, seventy years after the birth of Christ, some 4000 Hebrews, surrounded by the Romans and seeing no hope of escape, slew themselves rather than submit to slavery. Look there, at the bottom of the hill. Do you see what seem to be streets without houses? That’s the Roman military camp built at the time of the siege of Masada. This camp has been preserved nearly nineteen hundred years by the extreme dryness of the air. Two more “sights” and I’ll let the pilot land. Yonder, to the north, up the Jordan Valley, you’ll notice another lake, smaller than the Dead Sea. That’s the Sea of Galilee. Close by this lake, at Nazareth, Jesus spent His boyhood. He often preached along its shores, and sailed upon its waters. Since the Sea of Galilee has an outlet—the Jordan—its water is fresh.

Now, one last look. To the west, on that low ridge—there’s a city with domes and towers, and gray walls all around it. That’s Jerusalem. Early next morning, having stored our plane at an airport in the neighborhood, we’re back beside the Dead Sea. And we’re in our bathing suits, ready for a swim. But please take warning. You will float like a cork. Unless you watch sharp you’ll float upside down. Your head is the heaviest part of your body, and it will want to topple over and go down and send your feet up. You can drown with the greatest ease. It will help if you’ll tie a rock to one ankle with a handkerchief. And remember not to get any water in your mouth. The taste is simply awful, and will certainly make you sick. And if you get this brine in your hair, it‘s as hard to wash out as furniture glue. Of course no diving is allowed. In this dense water you would quite likely break your neck. So we’re all set for a jolly swim. We wade out till the lukewarm water is up to our knees—our waists. When it reaches our chests we go floating merrily away, with our shoulders, arms and necks high and dry. Try floating on your back—but watch that head. With a little practice you can learn to keep right side up. Then, when you become a really expert floater you can just relax in the water and read the newspaper, eat lunch, or take a nap. We can’t do any of these things now, though, because we haven’t time. I want you to go on a special trip with me this morning, and it will take all day. You say you don’t want to go on a trip? You say you would rather keep on floating around in the Dead Sea? All right— the lazy ones can stay behind. But I’m going—to the top of that mountain-wall farther down the eastern shore. On top there’s something that I think is vastly interesting. I shan’t tell you what’s there. You’ll just have to trust me. The climb is 4000 feet—and very hard. The weak sisters can’t make it . . . we may get hungry and thirsty and cold and— oh, you all want to go? Very well. Let’s get this glue washed off us first at the bathhouse. I’ve already hired a motorboat to take us down the lake to our mountain. 80

We find the climb difficult indeed. Leaving the boat, we follow, first, a narrow ravine, and then start up a rocky path on a side of the mountain hidden from the Dead Sea. We climb and climb all day. Our shoes are ripped to shreds. Our hands are torn by thorns. I know you’re wondering what on earth can be at the summit of this wild mountain. But there’s no use asking me—yet. Toward sunset we reach a level spot near the top, and find ourselves clambering over the ruins of an ancient palace. Broken building-stones lie about. Fallen columns are half-hidden by grass and sand. Just beyond is the summit itself. And right on the tiptop we find more ruins—ruins of a fort or citadel, this time. I lead you (since I’ve been here before) to what was once a terrace of the fort—and you gasp at the sudden picture that unfolds. We are looking into the dark pit of the Dead Sea, 4000 feet below. In Arabic this spot is called El Mashnaka. It means the Hanging Place. This name fits perfectly, for our terrace is poised on the edge of a chasm almost as deep, and fully as awesome, as the Grand Canyon. The entire map of the Holy Land is unrolled. The towers of Jerusalem, twenty-five miles away on a ridge beyond the chasm, rise up black and sharp against the sunset sky. To the north, the River Jordan winds down from the Sea of Galilee. The great sink, far below, is paved in that matchless blue—a blue that changes to black as the twilight deepens and fills the chasm with darkness. When the last red rays of the sunset have faded behind Jerusalem’s towers, a cold and biting wind springs up. To escape it, we seek shelter in a cavern beneath the ruins of the citadel. This cavern has been cut out of the solid rock. It’s sometimes used as a shelter for sheep, nowadays. But you can see that once it must have been a kind of dungeon. For why else, except to chain prisoners, would these crumbling iron rings have been set into the rock? We build a fire in the cavern, and eat a supper of cheese and unleavened bread given to us by the shepherds. Now, at last, I tell you why we’ve come to visit this ruined citadel on this wild mountaintop, and why we’re sitting in this prison in the rock. Do you remember, from the Bible, the name of Herod? It was Herod who ordered all the babies in Bethlehem killed, in his effort to destroy the newborn Christ. This infamous King had a son named Herod Antipas. The son, during the years when Christ was growing into manhood, was King of Moab, the country we’re in now. Having many enemies, he looked about for a site where he could build a fortress, and live secure from all attack. He finally chose the peak-top of the highest and steepest mountain he could find along the Dead Sea’s eastern wall. He chose El Mashnaka—the Hanging Place—this place. And then he built his citadel, with towers 200 feet high. We stood on the citadel’s terrace at sunset. The rest of the fortress is gone. In the rock foundation, he hewed a big dungeon for his prisoners—this dungeon. Not far away he built a palace. We climbed over the ruins of Herod’s palace this afternoon. Herod loved his grim citadel. From its terrace he could look across the blue void that fell away from him—on across the ridge-top on the other side—and at sunset see the domes and towers of Jerusalem, just as we saw them an hour ago. And no matter how many enemies he might have there, here he felt safe. To this stronghold Herod brought, in time, a wife named Herodias. She had been the wife of Herod’s half-brother, Philip, and deserted him to marry Herod. While she was Philip’s wife, she had a beautiful young daughter named Salome. And Salome came with her mother to Herod’s mountaintop. But no sooner was Herod home with his new bride than a holy hermit called John the Baptist came from his cave in the wilderness to cry out against Herod’s marriage. It was unlawful and sinful, John said, to marry the wife of one’s half- brother. Among the people of Moab, John stirred up so much feeling against both Herod and Herodias that the King had John seized and thrust into this very dungeon. Of course we can’t be certain it was this dungeon, but historians think it is. It was used, as we can see, for a prison, and it’s the only dungeon dug underneath Herod’s citadel. This was the state of things here at El Mashnaka when, in the year A.D. 29, Herod to celebrate his birthday, gave a banquet for his ministers and army officers. The banquet was probably held in one of the great halls of the ruined palace just below us. All evening Herod’s guests had been feasting and drinking. Outside, the stars—the same stars that shine now, on us— formed a bright covering over the mountaintop. Down from the walls of this Hanging Place the world fell away into bottomless darkness, into the black depths of the Dead Sea chasm—just as the world falls tonight into the same black depths. About midnight, the feasting over, the musicians come in bringing their harps and drums. With them comes Herodias’ daughter, Salome, to dance for the King in honor of his birthday. In rhythm with the music, this beautiful girl glides and whirls around the center of the hall. And when the music ends with a crash of all the instruments, Salome falls to her

81 knees at the King’s feet. Herod is dazzled by her beauty and her dancing. He bids Salome stand beside him, and he offers, on his oath, before all his guests, to give her whatever present she may ask for “Ask of me,” he said, “whatsoever thou wilt, unto the half of my kingdom, and I will give it thee” Salome did not know what to ask for, so “she went,” the Bible tells, “and said unto her mother, What shall I ask?” and Herodias said, “The head of John the Baptist.” The Queen has been waiting for just such a chance as this to get rid of the trouble-making hermit! And Salome returns to the hall to ask Herod to give her, on a silver tray, the head of John the Baptist. Herod is exceeding sorry—he does not hate John that much—and he is also a little afraid of the wild preacher, because the people all say John is a man of God. But Herod has no choice . . . all his guests have heard him promise on his oath. He calls for his executioner, and gives the fatal order. Holding a torch, the swordsman leaves the palace and follows the short winding path up to our citadel here on top the Hanging Place. The guards unlock the dungeon door. John, unafraid, kneels—perhaps here where the fire is burning— and the sword falls. Back in the banquet hail, Herod, troubled and silent, sits slumped in his chair. Salome, unhappy too, and trembling, waits by his side. Then the swordsman returns and hands to Salome the present she has asked for. It has become very dark in our cavern, and very cold, for the fire is low and a cold wind is blowing across our dungeon door. To keep warm, we must wrap up in blankets the shepherds have lent us. Did I hear somebody ask me what happened to Salome? No one knows. After that one famous evening on this mountaintop—an evening men have talked about for almost two thousand years—Salome disappears from the pages of history. Herod? Well, all the time and treasure he spent to build his palace and fortress were wasted. He was not allowed to live here very long after the death of John. He lost the friendship of the Roman emperor, and was sent away—along with Herodias—to far-off Gaul. But please don’t ask me any more questions. Our fire is nearly out and there’s no more wood. I’d like to go to sleep— I’m nearly dead from that climb. Tomorrow morning you’ll probably have to carry me home. You say you’re glad you cut short your Dead Sea swim to make this pilgrimage? I thought you’d be. . . . Good night.

THE ROCK OF ABRAHAM

Jerusalem! We saw it first from high in the air while flying above the Dead Sea. It was then some twenty miles away. Before we landed, that morning, we flew right over the city, and could look down straight upon its domes and towers and crooked streets below. We noticed a great open space taking up one-sixth of all the room within the walls. Near the center of this cleared space we saw a broad platform paved with white stones . . . and on this platform a curious eight- sided building with a dome.

I asked you to pay special attention to this court because more chapters in history have been written about it than about any other place on earth.

And now that we have returned safely from El Mashnaka, we are ready to explore Jerusalem on foot.

Entering the city at the Jaffa Gate, we walk down David Street. Soon we come upon the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Legend tells that this is the spot upon which Christ was crucified. For hundreds of years a church has stood here. It encloses the place where the cross was raised and the rock-sepulcher where His body lay three days. All about us we see pilgrims who have come from every Christian country to pray at this sacred shrine.

Not far beyond this church we arrive at an enormous gate which leads us into the great open court we had noticed from the air.

Before us, in the center of the court, rises the eight-sided building with the dome. This building is called the Dome of the Rock. It's a Moslem mosque, and almost as sacred a place to all Moslems as the Church of the Holy Sepulcher is to all Christians.

We walk inside. What loveliness lies about us! It is hard to believe that so delicate and well preserved a building can be so old. The Moslems built it in 698 A.D.

Nearly a hundred feet above soars the dome, supported by a circle of marble columns. On the floor directly below the dome we see, growing out of the bare ground, a rough outcropping of rock, sixty feet long, forty feet across, and four to seven feet high. To shelter this rough granite rock, this beautiful mosque was built.

In the hushed shadows we see a few Muslims kneeling on the thick carpets and saying their prayers. Let’s find a quiet corner for ourselves, where we’ll not disturb the worshipers. I want to tell you about this rock.

You remember Abraham who built the Kaaba in Mecca? This was the same Abraham who was commanded by Jehovah to sacrifice his young son Isaac. Jehovah told him—in the first book of the Bible: "Get thee into the land of Moriah, and offer Isaac there for a burnt offering upon one of the mountains which I will tell thee of."

Abraham came to this very rock here before us. This rock is on the top of the hill still called Mount Moriah.

Following the Lord's commands, Abraham bound little Isaac, and was about to make a sacrifice of him when the angel of the Lord called to Abraham out of heaven, commanding him not to slay the lad, saying, "for now I know thou fearest God, seeing thou hast not withheld thine only son from me "

Many years later, when Solomon had become king of Israel, he filled in the slopes of Mount Moriah in order to build his famous temple here. Over the Rock itself Solomon placed the Altar for Burnt Offerings. Into the Holy of Holies he moved the Ark of the Covenant, and surrounded it with his greatest treasures.

Let's go outside now, and look at the ground where the temple stood. But before we go, notice the hollow places in the Rock— hollows that look like the footprint of a huge horse. I'll want to tell you about these later.

We walk across the court to the outer wall. We climb to the top of it. From here we can look down on the other side. Sharply below drops a valley, called the Valley of Kedron.

Now, if you'll turn, you'll see the entire court spread before you. How enormous Solomon's temple must have been to cover all this space! How splendid it was, too! It was made of shining white limestone; and vast quantities of gold were used to gild the roof.

This marvelous building stood for 400 years. Then the Babylonians captured Jerusalem, destroyed the temple, burned the city to the ground, and dragged the Jewish population to Babylon as captives.

Later the Jews were allowed to return. In time, under King Herod, they raised here another temple—larger even than Solomon's. This temple was standing all during Jesus' lifetime. Here Mary, His mother, found Him when He was twelve years old, talking to the wise men.

But forty years after the crucifixion this temple, too, was destroyed—by the Romans.

More centuries passed. First one conqueror and then another held possession of the Rock of Abraham. And then, about the year 650, the Mohammedans, inspired by their new religion, swept down upon Palestine. The Mohammedans felt they should rule Jerusalem, since their Prophet Mohammed, himself, always thought Jerusalem as the holiest place on earth - even holier than Mecca, his hometown. One Moslem legend tells how Mohammed, in a single night, was swiftly carried by the Angel Gabriel on a winged steed from Mecca here to Abraham’s Rock. He dismounted on the Rock . . . and there is the footprint of the winged horse still showing—I pointed it out to you before we left the mosque.

When the Moslems had seized the entire Holy Land for themselves, they at once began to build, over the sacred Rock, the beautiful building we just visited. More than 1200 years ago they placed their Crescent at the summit of the dome, to show that the religion taught by Mohammed ruled in Jerusalem.

Today, as you see, that Crescent is still there.

Before we climb down from this wall, let me tell you a story about the Rock of Abraham - a modern story, and, I think, an amazing story:

You remember my saying that King Solomon placed the Ark of the Covenant and other sacred treasures inside his wonderful temple the temple built over the Rock?

These things remained safe until the Babylonians captured Jerusalem, destroyed the temple, and dragged the people into captivity. At that time the Ark and the treasures mysteriously disappeared. Many guesses have been made as to what happened to them. The most popular guess is that the Ark is still underneath the Rock of Abraham, buried there by the temple-priests just before the city fell.

And it is true that there are caverns beneath the Rock. You can strike the Rock itself, and a hollow booming sound comes from somewhere below. Is it possible that the Ark and all of Solomon's treasures are buried in these caverns— buried there for 2500 years? Is it possible that the building of the later temples did not disturb the secret caves? If these treasures are there, and if they could be recovered, it would be one of the most exciting and important finds in the history of archeology.

Knowing this, a group of English adventurers, some years ago when the Holy Land was still a part of Turkey, came to Jerusalem with a daring idea. It was their plan to dig for the treasure, in secret, right under the noses of the Moslem priests. To help them escape with the treasure (in case they found it) they had a yacht anchored in the harbor of Jaffa, the port of Jerusalem— and the yacht was kept ready to flee at a moment s notice.

Then one dark night the leader of the band went to the Turkish night watchman who stood guard over the Dome of the Rock. A large sum of money was offered him if he would let the "archeologists" enter the mosque at two o'clock in the morning, every night for the next month, and dig there till dawn. The leader explained their plan: It was to remove a big flagstone from the mosque floor close beside the Rock, dig a shaft straight down, and carry the loose earth away in baskets. Each dawn they would put the big stone back in place, and clean up all traces of their digging. If they found Solomon's treasure which they were sure they would find—the Turkish guard would receive a present that would make him rich the rest of his life. The guard, to whom nothing was sacred, agreed.

Choosing a dark night when all Jerusalem was sleeping, the Englishmen crept into the deserted court with their picks and shovels and baskets. In the darkness, the faithless guard unlocked the doors of the mosque and watched the robbers go to work.

For seven nights this dangerous, secret exploration continued. Deeper and deeper went the shaft. No one suspected, for every morning, just before sunup, the flagstone and rugs were put carefully in place again.

But on the eighth morning one of the Moslem priests, living in a house overlooking the temple enclosure, happened to wake up as the first light was coming into the sky. For a breath of fresh air he went to his balcony, facing the mosque. He noticed dim figures moving in the great courtyard . . . the figures seemed to be carrying heavy baskets from the mosque to the outer wall, and back to the mosque again. Suspicious, he went to find out who these people were, and what they were doing at such an hour in this forbidden place.

As the priest hurried across the court, the guilty Turkish guard saw him coming and gave the alarm to the robbers. At the same time the priest dimly guessed what was happening. He began to cry out, "Thieves, thieves in the holy mosque!" His cries woke up the other priests. People, with daggers drawn, came running and shouting into the court.

The Englishmen knew, instantly, that they must flee. If they were caught digging away the very foundations of the sacred shrine, they would be torn to pieces by the outraged Moslems They dropped every spades, picks, baskets,

84 flagstones, rugs and ran for their lives. A motorcar, always ready, dashed with them down the Jaffa road. From the harbor, on their yacht, they escaped to England, followed by the curses of every Mohammedan in the Holy Land. But the Turkish guard, who had helped the Christian robbers, did not get away in time. As he fled, too late, across the enclosure here before us, he was caught by the mob and stoned to death.

Do you believe the adventurers were on the track of untold treasure? Or were they just on a wild goose chase?

Perhaps we can find out. I think I know another, secret way to reach the caverns beneath the Rock of Abraham.

To get there we'll have to do a little exploring on our own. Even if we fail to find the Ark, I promise you (if you're willing to go with me), an adventure even better than our visit to Salome’s castle.

Everybody willing to take part, say I.

Good! Please follow me . . .

TREASURE HUNTERS

First of all, let’s go back to the market place.

We cross the great court, pass through the gate, and move on into a street lined with Arab shops. There we find a lumber merchant, and buy from him wooden poles and planks, long enough and strong enough to make a thirty-foot ladder. We also buy hammer and nails, rope, picks and shovels, buckets, candles, and flashlights.

These things we pile into a cart. Then we drag the cart outside the city, and down into the Kedron Valley. We can look back and see the malls of Jerusalem high above us.

We come to the brick-lined entrance of a cave in the valley floor. Through this entrance we can see stone steps leading downward through a tunnel deep into the ground. Up the steps come Arab women carrying water in gasoline tins.

At the bottom of these steps is a spring, called the Fount of the Virgins. We are going to explore this spring . . . it may lead to the caverns beneath Abraham's Rock, and to Solomon's treasures.

I'll tell you why:

If we had lived 3000 years ago, and had come to visit this spring, we would have found the landscape around us very different from the landscape now. The spring, then, was on the top of the ground. Today it's fifty feet below the surface, buried under silt and trash that have been filling up the valley floor for long centuries. In the ancient days, just above the spring there rose a rock cliff. It, too, is now buried in sand. On top of this cliff stood a walled city called the City of the Jebusites. Not a trace of it remains. It was the original Jerusalem, though the place where it stood is now well outside the present walls, as you can see.

This Jebusite citadel, alone of all the cities in this part of the country, defied King David when, about the year 1000 B.C., he sought to unite them into one nation. He tried to conquer it with his army. But the natural rock walls were too steep. The Jebusites drove back every attack, and mocked David from their strong rock battlements.

One thing puzzled the King more than anything else . . . where did the Jebusites get their water? He was sure there was no water on the top of their rock island. As for his own soldiers, they were well supplied, for at the bottom of the Jebusite wall was a spring—this spring—flowing out from a low grotto in the rocks.

Then one night, during the siege, a most surprising thing happened. About midnight one of David's officers, named Joab, went to the spring to drink. As he leaned down close to the water he heard the clink of copper buckets inside the grotto . . . Jebusite buckets, without doubt. Joab felt sure that the Jebusites had a shaft bored through the rock right down to an inner cavern of the spring, and were lowering their buckets by ropes into some pool which he could not see. 85

Acting quickly, he took off his clothes, slipped into the water, and began to explore the cave. And sure enough, after squeezing through a crack in the rocks, he came upon an inner cavity. Slanting down from above was a shaft, lighted by lamps, and down this shaft buckets were being lowered on ropes.

Greatly excited, he hurried at once to David's tent, reported the discovery and asked for a few brave companions to join him in a dangerous adventure. Joab's plan was to climb the shaft with a small company of soldiers, creep out at the upper end in the dead of night, kill the Jebusite guards, and throw open the gates to David's army. Joab realized he might fail, that he and all his brave comrades might be trapped and slain, but there seemed to be no other way of conquering the stubborn city.

Drawing their swords through the water, Joab, leading his men, reached the shaft about three o’clock in the morning. Stealthily they climbed up, aided by the cracks and ledges. At the top of the shaft they found a tunnel (fortunately deserted at such an hour) which wound upward through the rock. On tiptoe, scarcely breathing, they crept to the open upper entrance of the passage came out into the citadel.

Except for the guards on the walls all the Jebusites were sleeping soundly. Not even the watchdogs gave the alarm. Joab rushed upon the guards and killed them before they could cry out. The gates were flung open, and David's army poured upon the helpless city. From that night to this, Jerusalem - the City of the Jebusites - has been the capital of Israel.

I heard this story on a previous visit to Jerusalem. (Most of it is in the Bible.)

I also heard that, in 1907, German archeologists, working without the knowledge of the Turks, had crawled into Joab's spring, and found the Jebusite bucket-shaft up which Joab climbed. But before the Germans could find out where the shaft led, the Turks learned what was happening, and drove the explorers away. Since then no one had been near this mysterious passage.

Then I heard still another legend which said there was a secret tunnel (dug right through the rock on which Jerusalem stands) that joined the Jebusite shaft with the treasure-caverns beneath the Rock of Abraham -nearly a quarter of a mile away. This tunnel, people said, was built by King Solomon at the same time he built his great temple. In case he wanted to leave Jerusalem secretly, or had to flee from his enemies, he could climb down into the treasure-caverns beneath the Rock, pass through the tunnel as it wound underneath the city walls, reach the Jebusite shaft, descend this by a ladder, wade through Joab's spring, and come out into the open air, well down the Kedron Valley.

The more I heard about the caverns and tunnel and shaft, the more curious I became about them. How exciting it would be if someone could explore the entire passage, the passage lost all these centuries. If someone found the tunnel, it would lead—if the legend turned out to be true - right into the treasure-caverns from underneath. The reward of such an adventure might be the long lost Ark of the Covenant, or the mummy of Israel’s greatest King.

I resolved to be that someone myself.

There was certainly no hope of reaching the treasure-caverns by digging underneath Abraham's Rock! That had been tried with disastrous results.

Perhaps I could find the upper entrance of the Jebusite shaft— the place where Joab and his men crawled out to kill the Jebusite guards. But I soon learned that this upper entrance was buried under sand, trees, and houses.

The only possible entrance to the passage lay through Joab's spring.

And so, late one night, I found my way to this spring, to this very spot where we are now, ready for a great adventure. With me came my friend Moye Stephens. We chose the night because the spring-grotto would be deserted. We went down these steps.... If you'll follow me I'll show you the way. Lend a hand here and we'll carry our ladder-lumber with us, and the hammer and nails. We must build the ladder in the grotto. The shaft is thirty feet high, and we'll never be able to drag a ladder that long through the entrance. Careful now, these old steps are slippery.

We come to the spring, fifty feet belong the surface of the grotto. Here, Joab knelt down to drink on that famous night. Ten feet across the pool is a low and narrow crack in the rock. Through that crack Joab reached the Jebusite shaft. And through it we must follow.

We jump into the spring. The cold, clear water reaches up to our waists. Carrying our lumber and hammers and flashlights we wade across the pool, and find the historic crack. The crack leads us to the inner cave at the bottom of the Jebusite shaft. There it is, exactly as it was when Joab climbed it 3000 years ago! When I was here before, I had to go on alone beyond the crack, because Stephens, being a very big fellow, couldn't squeeze through.

It's pitch dark now. But with our flashlights we can look up the shaft for thirty feet and see the rock shelf from which the Jebusites lowered their buckets.

On my first visit here I had no ladder. But I was able, by going barefooted, to climb the shaft, using the same ledges Joab used. This system, for us, is needlessly dangerous and difficult. We'll use the ladder.

In half an hour our ladder is finished, and reaches to the top of the shaft. I'd best go first, since I'm the heaviest. If the ladder supports me, it's doubly safe for you.... Hold tight to the rungs, and don't drop those flashlights!

We reach the shelf, and climb out onto a level rock floor. Before us opens a great rock room, twenty-five feet across and domed high overhead. We wonder why the Jebusites went to so much trouble to dig this room so far down in the rock. Perhaps they stored grain here.

When I came to this room before, I had only a kerosene lantern for light. I was scared, too. I had no idea what lay up that winding rock tunnel there ahead. What would I find deeper in this ancient and forgotten gallery? Nobody had been here for perhaps 2000 years . . . yet through all these centuries the legend had lived, saying that secret tunnels led from Joab's shaft to the treasure-caverns beneath the Rock of Abraham. I had found the shaft—and the tunnel, too, leading somewhere. If I followed it, would a secret turning bring me to Solomon's tomb, or the Ark of the Covenant, as the legend said? Was I about to make one of the greatest discoveries in Bible history?

With my heart pounding I crept forward, holding my lantern before me.

But before I had gone very far—only around the curve in the tunnel there, just ahead—something very terrifying happened. Suddenly, from way down the black shaft here, there came a faint, far-off cry. It seemed to come from the other side of the world. In terror I started backward, slipped on the wet rock (you can see it's still wet), and fell with a crash. And as I fell the lantern struck against the wall and went out.

The cry was only Stephens' cry, asking me to hurry back. (He was still standing in the spring with water up to his waist—and had no lantern.) I soon realized who it was, shouting at me. Even so, I sat there in the darkness in complete panic.

I now had only one desire - to escape from this terrible place. I tried to re-light the lantern. I couldn't. Stephens had all the matches. And he could never crawl through the crack to bring them to me. I must get out by myself as best I could.

I turned about, and on hands and knees felt my way back to this shelf.

You call imagine how hard it was to climb down the pit again, in the blackness. In fact I found it impossible. So I lowered myself over the edge, right here, kicked away from the rock wall—and dropped.

It didn't take more than two seconds for me to fall twenty-five feet, but that blank instant in which I could neither see nor feel was one of the longest monuments I've ever lived.

You noticed the mud and water at the bottom. I landed in that, and sprained an ankle. Luckily, I wasn't hurt worse.

Several days later, when my ankle had healed, I had to hurry off to Egypt, and never had a chance to come here again.

Until today, with you.

What's around the curve in the rock gallery yonder - on past the place where I slipped and turned back? I don't know. I doubt if there is one person in Jerusalem today who does know. If we locate the tunnel that leads underneath Abraham's Rock, and if we find Solomon's mummy there, or the Ark of the Covenant what shall we do with them?

You suggest less talking and more exploring?

Right!

We move forward again. The gallery winds upward. On the walls are the marks of the Jebusite picks, marks 3000 years old.

By the light of our flashlights we march 400 feet up the curving gallery. Then, abruptly, only a hundred feet on the other side of the place where I came to such grief before, we find our tunnel completely blockaded. The tunnel has turned sharply up a steep staircase and is filled with sand.

We are prepared for this. With our shovels we dig away at the blockade. All afternoon we work—all next day. We have removed several tons of earth from the rock staircase . . . the passage behind is filling up. But as fast as we dig, more sand and gravel slide down on top of us, from above. After sixteen hours of labor we have not moved forward one inch.

We give up, and decide to let the Ark of the Covenant rest in peace.

But some day I'm coming back to Jerusalem with a million dollars, and a hundred workmen, and months of free time, and tackle this tunnel again, and keep on digging and digging away until I find out where it goes, and what marvelous secrets it may guard.

And when I return for the next attack—will you come, too?

Literature

Poetry

THE ARROW AND THE SONG HE PRAYETH BEST I shot an arrow into the air, These two stanzas, the very heart of that great poem, It fell to earth, I knew not where; "The Ancient Mariner," by Samuel Taylor Coleridge For, so swiftly it flew, the sight (1772–1834), sum up the lesson of this masterpiece-- Could not follow it in its flight. "Insensibility is a crime."

I breathed a song into the air, Farewell, farewell! but this I tell It fell to earth, I knew not where; To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! For who has sight so keen and strong He prayeth well who loveth well That it can follow the flight of song? Both man and bird and beast.

Long, long afterward, in an oak He prayeth best who loveth best I found the arrow, still unbroken; All things, both great and small: And the song, from beginning to end, For the dear God who loveth us, I found again in the heart of a friend. He made and loveth all.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE

LET DOGS DELIGHT TO BARK AND BITE TWINKLE, TWINKLE, LITTLE STAR

"Let Dogs Delight to Bark and Bite," by Isaac Watts Twinkle, twinkle, little star! (1674–1748), and "Little Drops of Water," by Ebenezer How I wonder what you are, Cobham Brewer (1810–97), are poems that the world Up above the world so high, cannot outgrow. Once in the mind, they fasten. They Like a diamond in the sky. were not born to die. When the glorious sun is set, Let dogs delight to bark and bite, When the grass with dew is wet, For God hath made them so; Then you show your little light, Let bears and lions growl and fight, Twinkle, twinkle all the night. For 'tis their nature too. In the dark-blue sky you keep, But, children, you should never let And often through my curtains peep, Such angry passions rise; For you never shut your eye, Your little hands were never made Till the sun is in the sky. To tear each other's eyes. As your bright and tiny spark ISAAC WATTS Guides the traveler in the dark, Though I know not what you are, Twinkle, twinkle, little star! LITTLE THINGS

Little drops of water, Little grains of sand, Make the mighty ocean And the pleasant land.

Thus the little minutes, Humble though they be, Make the mighty ages Of eternity.

EBENEZER COBHAM BREWER 91

PIPPA "Spring's at the Morn," from "Pippa Passes," by Robert He went to the windows of those who slept, Browning (1812-89), has become a very popular stanza And over each pane, like a fairy, crept; with little folks. "All’s right with the world" is a cheerful Wherever he breathed, wherever he slept, motto for the nursery and schoolroom. By the light of the moon were seen Most beautiful things—there were flowers and trees; The year's at the spring, There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees; The day's at the morn; There were cities with temples and towers, and these Morning's at seven; All pictured in silver sheen! The hillside's dew pearled; But he did one thing that was hardly fair; The lark's on the wing; He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there The snail's on the thorn; That all had forgotten for him to prepare-- God's in His heaven— "Now just to set them a-thinking, All's right with the world! I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he, "This costly pitcher I'll burst in three, ROBERT BROWNING And the glass of water they've left for me Shall 'tchich!' to tell them I'm drinking."

THE DAYS OF THE MONTH HANNAH FLAGG GOULD "The Days of the Month" is a useful bit of doggerel that we need all through life. It is anonymous. THE OWL Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November; When cats run home and light is come, February has twenty-eight alone. And dew is cold upon the ground, All the rest have thirty-one, And the far-off stream is dumb, Excepting leap year—that's the time And the whirring sail goes round, When February's days are twenty-nine. And the whirring sail goes round; Alone and warming his five wits, OLD SONG The white owl in the belfry sits.

THE FROST When merry milkmaids click the latch, "Jack Frost," by Hannah Flagg Gould (1789-1865), is And rarely smells the new-mown hay, perhaps a hundred years old, but he is the same And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch rollicking fellow to-day as of yore. The poem puts his Twice or thrice his roundelay, merry pranks to the front and prepares the way for Twice or thrice his roundelay; science to give him a true analysis. Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night, And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight; ALFRED TENNYSON So through the valley and over the height, In silence I'll take my way: I will not go on with that blustering train, The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, LITTLE BILLEE Who make so much bustle and noise in vain, But I'll be as busy as they." "Little Billee," by William Makepeace Thackeray (1811– 63), finds a place here because it carries a good lesson Then he flew to the mountain and powdered its crest; good-naturedly rendered. An accomplished teacher He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed recommends it, and I recollect two young children in In diamond beads—and over the breast Chicago who sang it frequently for years without Of the quivering lake he spread getting tired of it. A coat of mail, that it need not fear The downward point of many a spear There were three sailors of Bristol city That hung on its margin far and near, Who took a boat and went to sea. Where a rock could rear its head. But first with beef and captain's biscuits And pickled pork they loaded she. 92

There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy, "Are all beneath my care. And the youngest he was little Billee. Now when they got so far as the Equator "Content I toil from morn to eve, They'd nothing left but one split pea. And scorning idleness, To tribes of gaudy sloth I leave Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, The vanity of dress." "I am extremely hungaree." To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES "We've nothing left, us must eat we."

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, AN INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP "With one another, we shouldn't agree! There's little Bill, he's young and tender, "An Incident of the French Camp," by Robert We're old and tough, so let's eat he." Browning (1812-89), is included out of regard to a boy of eight years who did not care for many poems, but "Oh! Billy, we're going to kill and eat you, this one stirred his heart to its depths. So undo the button of your chemie." When Bill received this information You know, we French storm'd Ratisbon: He used his pocket handkerchie. A mile or so away On a little mound, Napoleon "First let me say my catechism, Stood on our storming-day; Which my poor mammy taught to me." With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, "Make haste, make haste," says guzzling Jimmy Legs wide, arms lock'd behind, While Jack pulled out his snickersnee. As if to balance the prone brow Oppressive with its mind. So Billy went up to the main-topgallant mast, And down he fell on his bended knee. Just as perhaps he mus'd "My plans He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment That soar, to earth may fall, When up he jumps, "There's land I see. Let once my army leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall," "Jerusalem and Madagascar, Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew And North and South Amerikee: A rider, bound on bound There's the British flag a-riding at anchor, Full-galloping; nor bridle drew With Admiral Napier, K.C.B." Until he reach'd the mound.

So when they got aboard of the Admiral's Then off there flung in smiling joy, He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee; And held himself erect But as for little Bill, he made him By just his horse's mane, a boy: The Captain of a Seventy-three. You hardly could suspect— (So tight he kept his lips compress'd, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY Scarce any blood came through) You look'd twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two. THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE "Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace "The Butterfly and the Bee," by William Lisle Bowles We've got you Ratisbon! (1762-1850), is recommended by some schoolgirls. It The Marshal's in the market place, carries a lesson in favor of the worker. And you'll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Methought I heard a butterfly Where I, to heart's desire, Say to a laboring bee: Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans "Thou hast no colors of the sky Soared up again like fire. On painted wings like me." The chief's eye flashed; but presently "Poor child of vanity! those dyes, Softened itself, as sheathes And colors bright and rare," A film the mother-eagle's eye With mild reproof, the bee replies, When her bruised eaglet breathes; 93

"You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said: Six white eggs on a bed of hay, "I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight: Smiling the boy fell dead. There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might, ROBERT BROWNING Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, ROBERT OF LINCOLN Nice good wife that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about. "Robert of Lincoln," by William Cullen Bryant (1794– Chee, chee, chee. 1878), is one of the finest bird poems ever written. It finds a place here because I have seen it used Soon as the little ones chip the shell, effectively as a memory gem in the Cook County Six wide mouths are open for food; Normal School (Colonel Parker's school), year after Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, year, and because my own pupils invariably like to Gathering seeds for the hungry brood: commit it to memory. With the child of six to the Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, student of twenty years it stands a source of delight. Spink, spank, spink, This new life is likely to be Merrily swinging on brier and weed, Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Near to the nest of his little dame, Chee, chee, chee. Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name. Robert of Lincoln at length is made Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Sober with work, and silent with care, Spink, spank, spink, Off is his holiday garment laid, Snug and safe is this nest of ours, Half forgotten that merry air, Hidden among the summer flowers. Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Chee, chee, chee. Spink, spank, spink, Nobody knows but my mate and I, Robert of Lincoln is gaily dressed, Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Wearing a bright, black wedding-coat; Chee, chee, chee. White are his shoulders, and white his crest, Hear him call in his merry note, Summer wanes; the children are grown; Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Fun and frolic no more he knows; Spink, spank, spink, Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum drone; Look what a nice, new coat is mine; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes, Sure there was never a bird so fine. Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Chee, chee, chee. Spink, spank, spink, When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Chee, chee, chee. Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings, WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, OLD GRIMES Brood, kind creature, you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. "Old Grimes" is an heirloom, an antique gem. We learn Chee, chee, chee. it as a matter of course for its sparkle and glow.

Modest and shy as a nun is she; Old Grimes is dead; that good old man, One weak chirp is her only note; We ne'er shall see him more; Braggart, and prince of braggarts is he, He used to wear a long, black coat, Pouring boasts from his little throat, All buttoned down before. Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, His heart was open as the day, Never was I afraid of man, His feelings all were true; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. His hair was some inclined to gray, Chee, chee, chee. He wore it in a queue. 94

He passed again; and lo! the well, He lived at peace with all mankind, By summer never dried, In friendship he was true; Had cooled ten thousand parched tongues, His coat had pocket-holes behind, And saved a life beside. His pantaloons were blue.

He modest merit sought to find, A nameless man, amid the crowd And pay it its desert; That thronged the daily mart, He had no malice in his mind, Let fall a word of hope and love, No ruffles on his shirt. Unstudied from the heart, A whisper on the tumult thrown, His neighbors he did not abuse, A transitory breath, Was sociable and gay; It raised a brother from the dust, He wore large buckles on his shoes, It saved a soul from death. And changed them every day. O germ! O fount! O word of love! O thought at random cast! His knowledge, hid from public gaze, Ye were but little at the first, He did not bring to view, But mighty at the last. Nor make a noise town-meeting days, As many people do. CHARLES MACKAY

His worldly goods he never threw LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER In trust to fortune's chances, But lived (as all his brothers do) A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, In easy circumstances. Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound, Thus undisturbed by anxious cares To row us o'er the ferry." His peaceful moments ran; And everybody said he was "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, A fine old gentleman. This dark and stormy water?" "O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, ALBERT GORTON GREENE And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men SONG OF LIFE Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen, A traveler on a dusty road My blood would stain the heather. Strewed acorns on the lea; And one took root and sprouted up, "His horsemen hard behind us ride; And grew into a tree. Should they our steps discover, Love sought its shade at evening-time, Then who will cheer my bonny bride To breathe its early vows; When they have slain her lover?" And Age was pleased, in heights of noon, To bask beneath its boughs. Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, "I'll go, my chief--I'm ready; The bird’s sweet music bore— It is not for your silver bright, It stood a glory in its place, But for your winsome lady: A blessing evermore. "And by my word! the bonny bird A little spring had lost its way In danger shall not tarry; Amid the grass and fern; So though the waves are raging white, A passing stranger scooped a well I'll row you o'er the ferry." Where weary men might turn. He walled it in, and hung with care By this the storm grew loud apace, A ladle on the brink; The water-wraith was shrieking; He thought not of the deed he did, And in the scowl of heaven each face But judged that Toil might drink. Grew dark as they were speaking. 95

"Forward, the Light Brigade!" But still as wilder blew the wind, Was there a man dismay'd? And as the night grew drearer, Not tho' the soldier knew Adown the glen rode armed men, Some one had blunder'd: Their trampling sounded nearer. Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why. "O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, Theirs but to do and die: "Though tempests round us gather; Into the valley of Death I'll meet the raging of the skies, Rode the six hundred. But not an angry father." Cannon to right of them, The boat has left a stormy land, Cannon to left of them, A stormy sea before her, Cannon in front of them When, oh! too strong for human hand, Volley'd and thunder'd; The tempest gathered o'er her. Storm'd at with shot and shell Boldly they rode and well, And still they row'd amid the roar Into the jaws of Death, Of waters fast prevailing: Into the mouth of Hell Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore, Rode the six hundred. His wrath was changed to wailing. Flash'd all their sabers bare, For sore dismay'd through storm and shade, Flash'd as they turn'd in air His child he did discover: Sab'ring the gunners there, One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, Charging an army, while And one was round her lover. All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke "Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, Right thro' the line they broke; "Across this stormy water: Cossack and Russian And I'll forgive your Highland chief, Reel'd from the saber-stroke My daughter! oh my daughter!" Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not 'Twas vain the loud waves lashed the shore, Not the six hundred. Return or aid preventing; The waters wild went o'er his child, Cannon to right of them, And he was left lamenting. Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them THOMAS CAMPBELL Volleyed and thundered: Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE Came through the jaws of death Back from the mouth of hell, "The Charge of the Light Brigade" (1809–92) unlike All that was left of them— "Casablanca" shows obedience under stern necessity. Left of six hundred. Obedience is the salvation of any army. John Burroughs says: "I never hear that poem but what it When can their glory fade? thrills me through and through." Oh, the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Half a league, half a league, Honor the charge they made! Half a league onward, Honor the Light Brigade— All in the valley of Death Noble six hundred! Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade! ALFRED TENNYSON Charge for the guns!" he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

THE TOURNAMENT You stare In the air There are several of Sidney Lanier's (1842–81) poems Like a ghost in a chair, that children love to learn. "Tampa Robins," "The Always looking what I am about-- Tournament" (Joust 1.), "Barnacles,""The Song of the I hate to be watched; I'll blow you out." Chattahoochee," and "The First Steamboat Up the Alabama" are among them. At our "poetry contests" The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon. the children have plainly demonstrated that this great So, deep poet has reached his hand down to the youngest. The On a heap time will doubtless come when it will be a part of Of clouds to sleep, education to be acquainted with Lanier, as it is now to Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon, be acquainted with Longfellow or Tennyson. Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon."

Bright shone the lists, blue bent the skies, He turned in his bed; she was there again! And the knights still hurried amain On high To the tournament under the ladies' eyes, In the sky, Where the jousters were Heart and Brain. With her one ghost eye, The Moon shone white and alive and plain. Flourished the trumpets, entered Heart, Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again." A youth in crimson and gold; Flourished again; Brain stood apart, The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim. Steel-armored, dark and cold. "With my sledge, And my wedge, Heart's palfrey caracoled gaily round, I have knocked off her edge! Heart tra-li-ra'd merrily; If only I blow right fierce and grim, But Brain sat still, with never a sound, The creature will soon be dimmer than dim." So cynical-calm was he. He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread. Heart's helmet-crest bore favors three "One puff From his lady's white hand caught; More's enough While Brain wore a plumeless casque; not he To blow her to snuff! Or favor gave or sought. One good puff more where the last was bred, And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread." The trumpet blew; Heart shot a glance To catch his lady's eye. He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone But Brain gazed straight ahead, his lance In the air To aim more faithfully. Nowhere Was a moonbeam bare; They charged, they struck; both fell, both bled; Far off and harmless the shy stars shone-- Brain rose again, ungloved; Sure and certain the Moon was gone! Heart, dying, smiled and faintly said, "My love to my beloved." The Wind he took to his revels once more; On down, SIDNEY LANIER In town, Like a merry-mad clown, THE WIND AND THE MOON He leaped and hallooed with whistle and roar— "What's that?" The glimmering thread once more! Little Laddie, do you remember learning "The Wind and the Moon"? You were eight or nine years old, and He flew in a rage--he danced and blew; you shut your eyes and puffed out your cheeks when But in vain you came to the line "He blew and He blew." The saucy Was the pain wind made a great racket and the calm moon never Of his bursting brain; noticed it. That gave you a great deal of pleasure, didn't For still the broader the Moon-scrap grew, it? We did not care much for the noisy, conceited wind. The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew. (1824-.) Slowly she grew—till she filled the night, Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out, And shone 97

On her throne So I comes right away by myself, with the book, In the sky alone, And I turns the old pages and has a good look A matchless, wonderful silvery light, For the text as I've found, as tells me as He Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night. Were the same trade as me.

Said the Wind: "What a marvel of power am I Why don't I mark it? Ah, many say so, With my breath, But I think I'd as life, with your leaves, let it go: Good faith! It do seem that nice when I fall on it sudden— I blew her to death-- Unexpected, you know! First blew her away right out of the sky-- Then blew her in; what strength have I!" CATHERINE C. LIDDELL

But the Moon she knew nothing about the affair; For high In the sky, LETTY'S GLOBE With her one white eye, Motionless, miles above the air, "Letty's Globe" gives us the picture of a little golden- She had never heard the great Wind blare. haired girl who covers all Europe with her dainty hands and tresses while giving a kiss to England, her own dear GEORGE MACDONALD native land. (1808–79.)

JESUS THE CARPENTER When Letty had scarce pass'd her third glad year, And her young, artless words began to flow, "Jesus the Carpenter"—"same trade as me"—strikes a One day we gave the child a color'd sphere high note in favor of honest toil. Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know, By tint and outline, all its sea and land. "Isn't this Joseph's son?" ay, it is He; She patted all the world; old empires peep'd Joseph the carpenter--same trade as me— Between her baby fingers; her soft hand I thought as I'd find it—I knew it was here— Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leap'd, But my sight's getting queer. And laugh'd and prattled in her worldwide bliss! But when we turn'd her sweet unlearned eye I don't know right where as His shed must ha' stood- On our own isle, she rais'd a joyous cry, But often, as I've been a-planing my wood, "Oh! Yes, I see it! Letty's home is there!" I've took off my hat, just with thinking of He And, while she hid all England with a kiss, At the same work as me. Bright over Europe fell her golden hair!

He warn't that set up that He couldn't stoop down CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER And work in the country for folks in the town; And I'll warrant He felt a bit pride, like I've done, At a good job begun.

The parson he knows that I'll not make too free, But on Sunday I feels as pleased as can be, When I wears my clean smock, and sits in a pew, And has taught a few.

I think of as how not the parson hissen, As is teacher and father and shepherd o' men, Not he knows as much of the Lord in that shed, Where He earned His own bread.

And when I goes home to my missus, says she, "Are ye wanting your key?" For she knows my queer ways, and my love for the shed (We've been forty years wed).

A DREAM

Once a dream did wave a shade O'er my angel-guarded bed, That an Emmet lost its way When on grass methought I lay.

Troubled, 'wildered, and forlorn, Dark, benighted, travel-worn, Over many a tangled spray, All heart-broke, I heard her say:

"Oh, my children! Do they cry? Do they hear their father sigh? Now they look abroad to see. Now return and weep for me."

Pitying, I dropped a tear; But I saw a glow-worm near, Who replied, "What wailing wight Calls the watchman of the night?

"I am set to light the ground While the beetle goes his round. Follow now the beetle's hum— Little wanderer, hie thee home!"

WILLIAM BLAKE.

LOCHINVAR

"Lochinvar" and "Lord Ullin's Daughter," the first by Scott (1771–1832) and the second by Campbell (1777–1844), are companions in sentiment and equally popular with boys who love to win anything desirable by heroic effort.

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west. Through all the wide Border his steed was the best, And save his good broadsword he weapons had none; He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske River where ford there was none; But ere he alighted at Netherby gate The bride had consented, the gallant came late: For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among brides men and kinsmen and brothers and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), "Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"

"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up; He quaffed of the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar, “Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, And the bride maidens whispered, "'Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

SIR WALTER SCOTT

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Lamb’s Tales of Shakespeare

The following Tales are meant to be submitted to the young reader as an introduction to the study of Shakespeare, for which purpose his words are used whenever it seemed possible to bring them in; and in whatever has been added to give them the regular form of a connected story, diligent care has been taken to select such words as might least interrupt the effect of the beautiful English tongue in which he wrote: therefore, words introduced into our language since his time have been as far as possible avoided.

In those tales which have been taken from the Tragedies, the young readers will perceive, when they come to see the source from which these stories are derived, that Shakespeare's own words, with little alteration, recur very frequently in the narrative as well as in the dialogue; but in those made from the Comedies the writers found themselves scarcely ever able to turn his words into the narrative form: therefore it is feared that, in them, dialogue has been made use of too frequently for young people not accustomed to the dramatic form of writing. But this fault, if it be a fault, has been caused by an earnest wish to give as much of Shakespeare's own words as possible: and if the 'He said,' and 'She said,' the question and the reply, should sometimes seem tedious to their young ears, they must pardon it, because it was the only way in which could be given to them a few hints and little foretastes of the great pleasure which awaits them in their elder years, when they come to the rich treasures from which these small and valueless coins are extracted; pretending to no other merit than as faint and imperfect stamps of Shakespeare's matchless image. Faint and imperfect images they must be called, because the beauty of his language is too frequently destroyed by the necessity of changing many of his excellent words into words far less expressive of his true sense, to make it read something like prose; and even in some few places, where his blank verse is given unaltered, as hoping from its simple plainness to cheat the young reader into the belief that they are reading prose, yet still his language being transplanted from its own natural soil and wild poetic garden, it must want much of its native beauty.

It has been wished to make these Tales easy reading for very young children. To the utmost of their ability the writers have constantly kept this in mind; but the subjects of most of them made this a very difficult task. It was no easy matter to give the histories of men and women in terms familiar to the apprehension of a very young mind. For young ladies too, it has been the intention chiefly to write; because boys being generally permitted the use of their fathers' libraries at a much earlier age than girls are, they frequently have the best scenes of Shakespeare by heart, before their sisters are permitted to look into this manly book; and, therefore, instead of recommending these Tales to the perusal of young gentlemen who can read them so much better in the originals, their kind assistance is rather requested in explaining to their sisters such parts as are hardest for them to understand: and when they have helped them to get over the difficulties, then perhaps they will read to them (carefully selecting what is proper for a young sister's ear) some passage which has pleased them in one of these stories, in the very words of the scene from which it is taken; and it is hoped they will find that the beautiful extracts, the select passages, they may choose to give their sisters in this way will be much better relished and understood from their having some notion of the general story from one of these imperfect abridgments; which if they be fortunately so done as to prove delightful to any of the young readers, it is hoped that no worse effect will result than to make them wish themselves a little older, that they may be allowed to read the Plays at full length (such a wish will be neither peevish nor irrational). When time and leave of judicious friends shall put them into their hands, they will discover in such of them as are here abridged (not to mention almost as many more, which are left untouched) many surprising events and turns of fortune, which for their infinite variety could not be contained in this little book, besides a world of sprightly and cheerful characters, both men and women, the humor of which it was feared would be lost if it were attempted to reduce the length of them.

What these Tales shall have been to the young readers, that and much more it is the writers' wish that the true Plays of Shakespeare may prove to them in older years - enriches of the fancy, strengtheners of virtue, a withdrawing from all selfish and mercenary thoughts, a lesson of all sweet and honorable thoughts and actions, to teach courtesy, benignity, generosity, humanity: for of examples, teaching these virtues, his pages are full.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

There was a law in the city of Athens which gave to its citizens the power of compelling their daughters to marry whomsoever they pleased; for upon a daughter's refusing to marry the man her father had chosen to be her husband, the father was empowered by this law to cause her to be put to death; but as fathers do not often desire the death of their own daughters, even though they do happen to prove a little refractory, this law was seldom or never put in execution, though perhaps the young ladies of that city were not infrequently threatened by their parents with the terrors of it.

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There was one instance, however, of an old man, whose name was Egeus, who actually did come before Theseus (at that time the reigning Duke of Athens), to complain that his daughter whom he had commanded to marry Demetrius, a young man of a noble Athenian family, refused to obey him, because she loved another young Athenian, named Lysander. Egeus demanded justice of Theseus, and desired that this cruel law might be put in force against his daughter.

Hermia pleaded in excuse for her disobedience that Demetrius had formerly professed love for her dear friend Helena, and that Helena loved Demetrius to distraction; but this honorable reason, which Hermia gave for not obeying her father's command, moved not the stern Egeus.

Theseus, though a great and merciful prince, had no power to alter the laws of his country; therefore he could only give Hermia four days to consider of it: and at the end of that time, if she still refused to marry Demetrius, she was to be put to death.

When Hermia was dismissed from the presence of the duke, she went to her lover Lysander and told him the peril she was in, and that she must either give him up and marry Demetrius or lose her life in four days.

Lysander was in great affliction at hearing these evil tidings; but, recollecting that be had an aunt who lived at some distance from Athens, and that at the place where she lived the cruel law could not be put in force against Hermia (this law not extending beyond the boundaries of the city), he proposed to Hermia that she should steal out of her father's house that night, and go with him to his aunt's house, where he would marry her. "I will meet you," said Lysander, "in the wood a few miles without the city, in that delightful wood where we have so often walked with Helena in the pleasant month of May."

To this proposal Hermia joyfully agreed; and she told no one of her intended flight but her friend Helena. Helena (as maidens will do foolish things for love) very ungenerously resolved to go and tell this to Demetrius, though she could hope no benefit from betraying her friend's secret but the poor pleasure of following her faithless lover to the wood; for she well knew that Demetrius would go thither in pursuit of Hermia.

The wood in which Lysander and Hermia proposed to meet was the favorite haunt of those little beings known by the name of "fairies."

Oberon the king, and Titania the queen of the fairies, with all their tiny train of followers, in this wood held their midnight revels.

Between this little king and queen of sprites there happened, at this time, a sad disagreement; they never met by moonlight in the shady walk of this pleasant wood but they were quarreling, till all their fairy elves would creep into acorn-cups and hide themselves for fear.

The cause of this unhappy disagreement was Titania's refusing give Oberon a little changeling boy, whose mother had been Titania's friend; and upon her death the fairy queen stole the child from its nurse and brought him up in the woods.

The night on which the lovers were to meet in this wood, as Titania was walking with some of her maids of honor, she met Oberon attended by his train of fairy courtiers.

"Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania," said the fairy king.

The queen replied, "What, jealous Oberon, is it you? Fairies, skip hence; I have forsworn his company."

"Tarry, rash fairy," said Oberon. "Am I not thy lord? Why does Titania cross her Oberon? Give me your little changeling boy to be my page." 102

"Set your heart at rest," answered the queen; "your whole fairy kingdom buys not the boy of me." She then left her lord in great anger.

"Well, go your way," said Oberon, "before the morning dawns I will torment you for this injury."

Oberon then sent for Puck, his chief favorite and privy counselor. Puck (or, as he was sometimes called, Robin Goodfellow) was a shrewd and knavish sprite, that used to play comical pranks in the neighboring villages; sometimes getting into the dairies and skimming the milk, sometimes plunging his light and airy form into the butter-churn, and while he was dancing his fantastic shape in the churn, in vain the dairymaid would labor to change her cream into butter. Nor had the village swains any better success; whenever Puck chose to play his freaks in the brewing copper, the ale was sure to be spoiled. When a few good neighbors were met to drink some comfortable ale together, Puck would jump into the bowl of ale in the likeness of a roasted crab, and when some old goody was going to drink he would bob against her lips, and spill the ale over her withered chin; and presently after, when the same old dame was gravely seating herself to tell her neighbors a sad and melancholy story, Puck would slip her three-legged stool from under her, and down toppled the poor old woman, and then the old gossips would hold their sides and laugh at her, and swear they never wasted a merrier hour.

"Come hither, Puck," said Oberon to this little merry wanderer of the night; "fetch me the flower which maids call 'Love in, Idleness'; the juice of that little purple flower laid on the eyelids of those who sleep will make them, when they awake, dote on the first thing they see. Some of the juice of that flower I will drop on the eyelids of my Titania when she is asleep; and the first thing she looks upon when she opens her eyes she will fall in love with, even though it be a lion or a bear, a meddling monkey or a busy ape; and before I will take this charm from off her sight, which I can do with another charm I know of, I will make her give me that boy to be my page."

Puck, who loved mischief to his heart, was highly diverted with this intended frolic of his master, and ran to seek the flower; and while Oberon was waiting the return of Puck he observed Demetrius and Helena enter the wood: he overheard Demetrius reproaching Helena for following him, and after many unkind words on his part, and gentle expostulations from Helena, reminding him of his former love and professions of true faith to her, he left her (as he said) to the mercy of the wild beasts, and she ran after him as swiftly as she could.

The fairy king, who was always friendly to true lovers, felt great compassion for Helena; and perhaps, as Lysander said they used to walk by moonlight in this pleasant wood, Oberon might have seen Helena in those happy times when she was beloved by Demetrius. However that might be, when Puck returned with the little purple flower, Oberon said to his favorite: "Take a part of this flower; there has been a sweet Athenian lady here, who is in love with a disdainful youth; if you find him sleeping, drop some of the love-juice in his eyes, but contrive to do it when she is near him, that the first thing he sees when he awakes may be this despised lady. You will know the man by the Athenian garments which be wears."

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Puck promised to manage this matter very dexterously: and then Oberon went, unperceived by Titania, to her bower, where she was preparing to go to rest. Her fairy bower was a bank, where grew wild thyme, cowslips, and sweet violets, under a canopy of woodbine, musk roses, and eglantine. There Titania always slept some part of the night; her coverlet the enameled skin of a snake, which, though a small mantle, was wide enough to wrap a fairy in.

He found Titania giving orders to her fairies, how they were to employ themselves while she slept. "Some of you," said her Majesty, "must kill cankers in the musk-rose buds, and some wage war with the bats for their leathern wings, to make my small elves coats; and some of you keep watch that the clamorous owl, that nightly hoots, come not near me: but first sing me to sleep." Then they began to sing this song:

"You spotted snakes, with double tongue, Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; Newts and blindworms do no wrong; Come not near our fairy queen:

"Philomel, with melody, Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby; Never harm, nor spell, nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So, good night, with lullaby."

When the fairies had sung their queen asleep with this pretty lullaby, they left her to perform the important services she had enjoined them. Oberon then softly drew near his Titania and dropped some of the love-juice on her eyelids, saying:

"What thou seest when thou dost wake, Do it for thy true-love take."

But to return to Hermia, who made her escape out of her father's house that night, to avoid the death she was doomed to for refusing to marry Demetrius. When she entered the wood, she found her dear Lysander waiting for her, to conduct her to his aunt's house; but before they had passed half through the wood Hermia was so much fatigued that Lysander, who was very careful of this dear lady, who had proved her affection for him even by hazarding her life for his sake, persuaded her to rest till morning on a bank of soft moss, and, lying down himself on the ground at some little distance, they soon fell fast asleep. Here they were found by Puck, who, seeing a handsome young man asleep, and perceiving that his clothes were made in the Athenian fashion, and that a pretty lady was sleeping near him, concluded that this must be the Athenian maid and her disdainful lover whom Oberon had sent him to seek; and he naturally enough conjectured that, as they were alone together, she must be the first thing he would see when he awoke; so, without more ado, he proceeded to pour some of the juice of the little purple flower into his eyes. But it so fell out that Helena came that way, and, instead of Hermia, was the first object Lysander beheld when he opened his eyes; and strange to relate, so powerful was the love-charm, all his love for Hermia vanished away and Lysander fell in love with Helena.

Had he first seen Hermia when he awoke, the blunder Puck committed would have been of no consequence, for he could not love that faithful lady too well; but for poor Lysander to be forced by a fairy love-charm to forget his own true Hermia, and to run after another lady, and leave Hermia asleep quite alone in a wood at midnight, was a sad chance indeed.

Thus this misfortune happened. Helena, as has been before related, endeavored to keep pace with Demetrius when he ran away so rudely from her; but she could not continue this unequal race long, men being always better runners in a long race than ladies. Helena soon lost sight of Demetrius; and as she was wandering about, dejected and forlorn, she arrived at the place where Lysander was sleeping. "Ah!" said she, "this is Lysander lying on the ground. Is he dead or asleep?" Then, gently touching him, she said, "Good sir, if you are alive, awake." Upon this Lysander opened his eyes, and, the love-charm beginning to work, immediately addressed her in terms of extravagant love and admiration, telling her she as much excelled Hermia in beauty as a dove does a raven, and that be would run through fire for her sweet sake; and many more such lover-like speeches. Helena, knowing Lysander was her friend Hermia's lover, and that he was solemnly engaged to marry her, was in the utmost rage when she heard herself addressed in this manner; for she 104 thought (as well she might) that Lysander was making a jest of her. "Oh!" said she, "why was I born to be mocked and scorned by every one? Is it not enough, is it not enough, young man, that I can never get a sweet look or a kind word from Demetrius; but you, sir, must pretend in this disdainful manner to court me? I thought, Lysander, you were a lord of more true gentleness." Saying these words in great anger, she ran away; and Lysander followed her, quite forgetful of his own Hermia, who was still asleep.

When Hermia awoke she was in a sad fright at finding herself alone. She wandered about the wood, not knowing what was become of Lysander, or which way to go to seek for him. In the mean time Demetrius, not being able to find Hermia and his rival Lysander, and fatigued with his fruitless search, was observed by Oberon fast asleep. Oberon had learned by some questions he had asked of Puck that he had applied the love charm to the wrong person's eyes; and now, having found the person first intended, he touched the eyelids of the sleeping Demetrius with the love-juice, and he instantly awoke; and the first thing he saw being Helena, he, as Lysander had done before, began to address love- speeches to her; and just at that moment Lysander, followed by Hermia (for through Puck's unlucky mistake it was now become Hermia's turn to run after her lover), made his appearance; and then Lysander and Demetrius, both speaking together, made love to Helena, they being each one under the influence of the same potent charm.

The astonished Helena thought that Demetrius, Lysander, and her once dear friend Hermia were all in a plot together to make a jest of her.

Hermia was as much surprised as Helena; she knew not why Lysander and Demetrius, who both before loved her, were now become the lovers of Helena, and to Hermia the matter seemed to be no jest.

The ladies, who before had always been the dearest of friends, now fell to high words together.

"Unkind. Hermia," said Helena, "it is you have set Lysander on to vex me with mock praises; and your other lover, Demetrius, who used almost to spurn me with his foot, have you not bid him call me goddess, nymph, rare, precious, and celestial? He would not speak thus to me, whom he hates, if you did not set him on to make a jest of me. Unkind Hermia, to join with men in scorning your poor friend. Have you forgotten our school day friendship? How often, Hermia, have we two, sitting on one cushion, both singing one song, with our needles working the same flower, both on the same sampler wrought; growing up together in fashion of a double cherry, scarcely seeming parted! Hermia, it is not friendly in you, it is not maidenly to join with men in scorning your poor friend."

"I am amazed at your passionate words," said Hermia: "I scorn you not; it seems you scorn me."

"Aye, do," returned Helena, "persevere, counterfeit serious looks, and make mouths at me when I turn my back; then wink at each other, and hold the sweet jest up. If you had any pity, grace, or manners, you would not use me thus."

While Helena and Hermia were speaking these angry words to each other, Demetrius and Lysander left them, to fight together in the wood for the love of Helena.

When they found the gentlemen had left them, they departed, and once more wandered weary in the wood in search of their lovers.

As soon as they were gone the fairy king, who with little Puck had been listening to their quarrels, said to him, "This is your negligence, Puck; or did you do this willfully?"

"Believe me, king of shadows," answered Puck, "it was a mistake. Did not you tell me I should know the man by his Athenian garments? However, I am not sorry this has happened, for I think their jangling makes excellent sport."

"You heard," said Oberon, "that Demetrius and Lysander are gone to seek a convenient place to fight in. I command you to overhang the night with a thick fog, and lead these quarrelsome lovers so astray in the dark that they shall not be able to find each other. Counterfeit each of their voices to the other, and with bitter taunts provoke them to follow you, while they think it is their rival's tongue they hear. See you do this, till they are so weary they can go no farther; and when you find they are asleep, drop the juice of this other flower into Lysander's eyes, and when he awakes he will forget his new love for Helena, and return to his old passion for Hermia; and then the two fair ladies may each one be happy with the man she loves and they will think all that has passed a vexatious dream. About this quickly, Puck, and I will go and see what sweet love my Titania has found." 105

Titania was still sleeping, and Oberon, seeing a clown near her who had lost his way in the wood and was likewise asleep, "This fellow," said he, "shall be my Titania's true love"; and clapping an ass's head over the clown's, it seemed to fit him as well as if it had grown upon his own shoulders. Though Oberon fixed the ass's head on very gently, it awakened him, and, rising up, unconscious of what Oberon had done to him, he went toward the bower where the fairy queen slept.

"Ah! What angel is that I see?" said Titania, opening her eyes, and the juice of the little purple flower beginning to take effect. "Are you as wise as you are beautiful?"

"Why, mistress," said the foolish clown, "if I have wit enough to find the way out of this wood, I have enough to serve my turn."

"Out of the wood do not desire to go," said the enamored queen. "I am a spirit of no common rate. I love you. Go with me, and I will give you fairies to attend upon you."

She then called four of her fairies. Their names were Peas-blossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustard-seed.

"Attend," said the queen, "upon this sweet gentleman. Hop in his walks and gambol in his sight; feed him with grapes and apricots, and steal for him the honey-bags from the bees. Come, sit with me," said she to the clown., "and let me play with your amiable hairy cheeks, my beautiful ass! And kiss your fair large ears, my gentle joy."

"Where is Peas-blossom?" said the ass-headed clown, not much regarding the fairy queen's courtship, but very proud of his new attendants.

"Here, sir," said little Peas-blossom.

"Scratch my head," said the clown. "Where is Cobweb?"

"Here, sir," said Cobweb.

"Good Mr. Cobweb," said the foolish clown, "kill me the red bumblebee on the top of that thistle yonder; and, good Mr. Cobweb, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much in the action, Mr. Cobweb, and take care the honey-bag break not; I should be sorry to have you overflown with a honey-bag. Where is Mustard-seed?"

"Here, sir, " said Mustard-seed. "What is your will?"

"Nothing," said the clown, "good Mr. Mustard-seed, but to help Mr. Peas-blossom to scratch; I must go to a barber's, Mr. Mustard-seed, for methinks I am marvelous hairy about the face."

"My sweet love," said the queen, "what will you have to eat? I have a venturous fairy shall seek the squirrel's hoard, and fetch you some new nuts."

"I had rather have a handful of dried peas,"' said the clown, who with his ass's head had got an ass's appetite. "But, I pray, let none of your people disturb me, for I have a mind to sleep."

"Sleep, then," said the queen, "and I will wind you in my arms. Oh, how I love you! How I dote upon you!"

When the fairy king saw the clown sleeping in the arms of his queen, he advanced within her sight, and reproached her with having lavished her favors upon an ass.

This she could not deny, as the clown was then sleeping within her arms, with his ass's head crowned by her with flowers.

When Oberon had teased her for some time, he again demanded the changeling boy, which she, ashamed of being discovered by her lord with her new favorite, did not dare to refuse him.

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Oberon, having thus obtained the little boy he had so long wished for to be his page, took pity on the disgraceful situation into which, by his merry contrivance, he had brought his Titania, and threw some of the juice of the other flower into her eyes; and the fairy queen immediately recovered her senses, and wondered at her late dotage, saying how she now loathed the sight of the strange monster.

Oberon likewise took the ass's head from off the clown, and left him to finish his nap with his own fool's head upon his shoulders.

Oberon and his Titania being now perfectly reconciled, he related to her the history of the lovers and their midnight quarrels, and she agreed to go with him and see the end of their adventures.

The fairy king and queen found the lovers and their fair ladies, at no great distance from one another, sleeping on a grass-plot; for Puck, to make amends for his former mistake, had contrived with the utmost diligence to bring them all to the same spot, unknown to one another; and he had carefully removed the charm from off the eyes of Lysander with the antidote the fairy king gave to him.

Hermia first awoke, and, finding her lost Lysander asleep so near her, was looking at him and wondering at his strange inconstancy. Lysander presently opening his eyes, and seeing his dear Hermia, recovered his reason which the fairy charm had before clouded, and with his reason his love for Hermia; and they began to talk over the adventures of the night, doubting if these things had really happened, or if they bad both been dreaming the same bewildering dream.

Helena and Demetrius were by this time awake; and a sweet sleep having quieted Helena's disturbed and angry spirits, she listened with delight to the professions of love which Demetrius still made to her, and which, to her surprise as well as pleasure, she began to perceive were sincere.

These fair night-wandering ladies, now no longer rivals, became once more true friends; all the unkind words which had passed were forgiven, and they calmly consulted together what was best to be done in their present situation. It was soon agreed that, as Demetrius had given up his pretensions to Hermia, he should endeavor to prevail upon her father to revoke the cruel sentence of death which had been passed against her. Demetrius was preparing to return to Athens for this friendly purpose, when they were surprised with the sight of Egeus, Hermia's father, who came to the wood in pursuit of his runaway daughter.

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When Egeus understood that Demetrius would not now marry his daughter, he no longer opposed her marriage with Lysander, but gave his consent that they should be wedded on the fourth day from that time, being the same day on which Hermia had been condemned to lose her life; and on that same day Helena joyfully agreed to marry her beloved and now faithful Demetrius.

The fairy king and queen, who were invisible spectators of this reconciliation, and now saw the happy ending of the lovers' history, brought about through the good offices of Oberon, received so much pleasure that these kind spirits resolved to celebrate the approaching nuptials with sports and revels throughout their fairy kingdom.

And now, if any are offended with this story of fairies and their pranks, as judging it incredible and strange, they have only to think that they have been asleep and dreaming, and that all these adventures were visions which they saw in their sleep. And I hope none of my readers will be so unreasonable as to be offended with a pretty, harmless Midsummer Night's Dream.

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Hero Stories from American History

THE HERO OF VINCENNES

EARLY in 1775 Daniel Boone, the famous hunter and Indian fighter, with thirty other backwoodsmen, set out from the Holston settlements to clear the first trail, or bridle path, to what is now Kentucky. In the spring of the same year, George Rogers Clark, although a young fellow of only twenty-three years, tramped through the wilderness alone. When he reached the frontier settlements, he at once became the leader of the little band of pioneers.

One evening in the autumn of 1775, Clark and his companions were sifting round their campfire in the wilderness. They had just drawn the lines for a fort, and were busy talking about it, when a messenger came with tidings of the bloodshed at Lexington, in far-away Massachusetts. With wild cheers these hunters listened to the story of the minutemen, and, in honor of the event, named their log fort Lexington.

At the close of this eventful year, three hundred resolute men had gained a foothold in Kentucky. In the trackless wilderness, hemmed in by savage foes, these pioneers with their wives and their children began their struggle for a home. In one short year, this handful of men along the western border were drawn into the midst of the war of the Revolution. From now on, the East and the West had each its own work to do. While Washington and his ragged Continentals fought for our independence, the rear guard of the Revolution, as the frontiersmen were called were not less busy.

Under their brave leaders, Boone, Clark and Harrod, in half a dozen little blockhouses and settlements, they were laying the foundations of a great commonwealth, while between them and the nearest eastern settlements were two hundred miles of wilderness. The struggle became so desperate in the fall of 1776 that Clark tramped back to Virginia, to ask the governor or help and to trade for powder.

Virginia was at this time straining every nerve to do her part in the fight against Great Britain; and could not spare men to defend her distant county of Kentucky; but, won by Clark’s earnest appeal, the governor lent him, on his own personal security, five hundred pounds of powder. After many thrilling adventures and sharp fighting with the Indians, Clark got the powder down the Ohio River, and distributed it among the settlers. The war with their savage foes was now carried on with greater vigor than ever.

Now we must remember that the vast region north of the Ohio was at this time a part of Canada. In this wilderness of forests and prairies lived many tribes of warlike Indians. Here and there were clusters of French Creole villages, and forts, occupied by British soldiers; for with the conquest of Canada these French settlements had passed to the English crown. When the war of the American Revolution broke out, the Bnt.ish government tried to unite all the tribes of Indians against its rebellious subjects in America. In this way the people were to be kept from going west to settle.

Colonel Henry Hamilton was the lieutenant governor of Canada, with headquarters at Detroit. It was his task to let loose the redskins that they might burn the cabins of the settlers on the border and kill their women and children, or carry them into captivity. The British commander supplied the savages with rum, rifles, and powder; and he paid gold for the scalps which they brought him. The pioneers named Hamilton the “hair buyer.”

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For the next two years Kentucky well deserved the name of “the dark and bloody ground.” It was one long, dismal story of desperate fighting, in which heroic women, with tender hearts but iron muscles, fought side by side with their husbands and their lovers.

Meanwhile, Clark was busy planning deeds never dreamed of by those round him. He saw that the Kentucky settlers were losing ground, and were doing little harm to their enemies. The French villages, guarded by British forts, were the headquarters for stirring up, arming, and guiding the savages. It seemed to Clark that the way to defend Kentucky was to carry the war across the Ohio, and to take these outposts from the British. He made up his mind that the whole region could be won for the United States by a bold and sudden march.

In 1777, he sent two hunters as spies through the Illinois country. They brought back word that the French took little interest in the war between England and her colonies that they did not care for the British and were much afraid of the pioneers. Clark was a keen and far-sighted soldier. He knew that it took all the wisdom and courage of his fellow settlers to defend their own homes. He must bring the main part of his force from Virginia.

Two weeks before Burgoyne’s surrender at Saratoga, he tramped through the woods for the third time, to lay his cause before Patrick Henry, who was then governor of Virginia. Henry was a fiery patriot, and he was deeply moved by the faith and the eloquence of the gallant young soldier.

Virginia was at this time nearly worn out by the struggle against King George. A few of the leading patriots, such as Jefferson and Madison, listened favorably to Clark’s plan of conquest, and helped him as much as they could. At last the governor made Clark a colonel, and gave him power to raise three hundred and fifty men from the frontier counties west of the Blue Ridge. He also gave orders on the state officers at Fort Pitt for boats, supplies, and powder. All this did not mean much except to show good will and to give the legal right to relieve Kentucky. Everything now depended on Clark’s own energy and influence.

During the winter he succeeded in raising one hundred and fifty riflemen. In the spring he took his little army, and, with a few settlers and their families, drifted down the Ohio in flatboats to the place where stands today the city of Louisville.

The young leader now weeded out of his army all who seemed to him unable to stand hardship and fatigue. Four companies of less than fifty men each, under four trusty captains, were chosen. All of these were familiar with frontier warfare.

On the 24th of June, the little fleet shot the Falls of the Ohio amid the darkness of a total eclipse of the sun. Clark planned to land at a deserted French fort opposite the mouth of the Tennessee Rivers and from there to march across the country against Kaskaskia, the nearest Illinois town. He did not dare to go up the Mississippi, the usual way of the fur traders, for fear of discovery. At the landing place, the army was joined by a band of American hunters who had just come from the French settlements. These hunters said that the fort at Kaskaskia was in good order; and that the Creole militia not only were well drilled, but greatly outnumbered the invading force. They also said that the only chance of success was to surprise the town; and they offered to guide the frontier leader by the shortest route.

With these hunters as guides, Clark began his march of a hundred miles through the wilderness. The first fifty miles led through a tangled and pathless forest. On the prairies the marching was less difficult. Once the chief guide lost his course, and all were in dismay. Clark, fearing treachery, coolly told the man that he should shoot him in two hours if he did not find the trail. The guide was, however, loyal; and, marching by night and hiding by day, the party reached the river Kaskaskia, within three miles of the town that lay on the farther side.

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The chances were greatly against our young leader. Only the speed and the silence of his march gave him hope of success. Under the cover of darkness, and in silence, Clark ferried his men across the river, and spread his little army as if to surround the town.

Fortune favored him at every move. It was a hot July night; and through the open windows of the fort came the sound of music and dancing. The officers were giving a ball to the light-hearted Creoles. All the men of the village were there; even the sentinels had left their posts.

Leaving a few men at the entrance, Clark walked boldly into the great hall, and, leaning silently against the doorpost, watched the gay dancers as they whirled round in the light of the flaring torches. Suddenly an Indian lying on the floor spied the tall stranger, sprang to his feet, and gave a whoop. The dancing stopped. The young ladies screamed, and their partners rushed toward the doors.

“Go on with your dance,” said Clark, but remember, that henceforth you dance under the American flag, and not under that of Great Britain”

The surprise was complete. Nobody had a chance to resist. The town and the fort were in the hands of the riflemen.

Clark now began to make friends with the Creoles. He formed them into companies, and drilled them every day. A priest known as Father Gibault, a man of ability and influence, became a devoted friend to the Americans. He persuaded the people at Cahokia and at other Creole villages, and even at Vincennes, about one hundred and forty miles away on the Wabash, to turn from the British and to raise the American flag. Thus, without the loss of a drop of blood, all the posts in the Wabash valley passed into the hands of the Americans, and the boundary of the rising republic was extended to the Mississippi.

Clark soon had another chance to show what kind of man he was. With less than two hundred riflemen and a few Creoles, he was hemmed in by tribes of faithless savages, with no hope of getting help or advice for months; but he acted as few other men in the country would have dared to act. He had just conquered a territory as large as almost any European kingdom. If he could hold it, it would become a part of the new nation. Could he do it?

From the Great Lakes to the Mississippi came the chiefs and the warriors to Cahokia to hear what the great chief of the” Long Knives” had to say for himself. The sullen and hideously painted warriors strutted to and fro in the village. At times there were enough of them to scalp every white man at one blow, if they had only dared. Clark knew exactly how to treat them.

One day when it seemed as if there would be trouble at any moment, the fearless commander did not even shift his lodging to the fort. To show his contempt of the peril, he held a grand dance, and “the ladies and gentlemen danced nearly the whole night,” while the sullen warriors spent the time in secret council. Clark appeared not to care, but at the same time he had a large room nearby filled with trusty riflemen. It was hard work, but the young Virginian did not give up. He won the friendship and the respect of the different tribes, and secured from them pledges of peace. It was little trouble to gain the good will of the Creoles.

Let me tell you of an incident which showed Clark’s boldness in dealing with Indians. Years after the Illinois campaign, three hundred Shawnee warriors came in full war paint to Fort Washington, the present site of Cincinnati, to meet the great ‘“Long Knife” chief in council. Clark had only seventy men in the stockade. The savages strode into the council room with a war belt and a peace belt. Full of fight and ugliness, they threw the belts on the table, and told the great pioneer leader to take his choice.

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Quick as a flash, Clark rose to his feet, swept both the belts to the floor with his cane, stamped upon them, and thrust the savages out of the hall, telling them to make peace at once, or he would drive them off the face of the earth. The Shawnees held a council which lasted all night, but in the morning they humbly agreed to bury the hatchet.

Great was the wrath of Hamilton, the “hair buyer general,” when he heard what the young Virginian had done. He at once sent out runners to stir up the savages; and, in the first week of October, he set out in person from Detroit with five hundred British regulars, French, and Indians. He recaptured Vincennes without any trouble. Clark had been able to leave only a few of the men he had sent there, and some of them deserted the moment they caught sight of the redcoats.

If Hamilton had pushed on through the Illinois country, he could easily have crushed the little American force; but it was no easy thing to march one hundred and forty miles over snow-covered prairies, and so the British commander decided to wait until spring.

When Clark heard of the capture of Vincennes, he knew that he had not enough men to meet Hamilton in open fight. What was he to do? Fortune again came to his aid.

The last of January, he heard that Hamilton had sent most of his men back to Detroit; that the Indians had scattered among the villages; and that the British commander himself was now wintering at Vincennes with about a hundred men. Clark at once decided to do what Hamilton had failed to do. Having selected the best of his riflemen, together with a few Creoles, one hundred and seventy men in all, he set out on February 7 for Vincennes.

All went well for the first week. They marched rapidly. Their rifles supplied them with food. At night, as an old journal says, they “broiled their meat over the huge camp fires, and feasted like Indian war dancers.” After a week the ice had broken up, and the thaw flooded everything. The branches of the Little Wabash now made one great river five miles wide, the water even in the shallow places being three feet deep.

It took three days of the hardest work to ferry the little force across the flooded plain. All day long the men waded in the icy waters, and at night they slept as well as they could, on some muddy hillock that rose above the flood. By this time they had come so near Vincennes that they dared not fire a gun for fear of being discovered.

Marching at the head of his chilled and foot-sore army, Clark was the first to test every danger.

“Come on, boys!” he would shout as he plunged into the flood.

Were the men short of food? “I am not hungry,” he would say, “help yourself.” Was some poor fellow chilled to the bone? “Take my blanket,” said Clark, “I am glad to get rid of it.”

In fact, as peril and suffering increased, the courage and the cheerfulness of the young leader seemed to grow stronger.

On February 17, the tired army heard Hamilton’s sunrise gun on the fort at Vincennes, nine miles away, boom across the muddy flood.

Their food had now given out. The bravest began to lose heart, and wished to go back. In hastily made dugouts the men were ferried, in a driving rain, to the eastern bank of the Wabash; but they found no dry land for miles round. With Clark leading the way, the men waded for three miles with the water often up to their chins, and camped on a hillock for the night. The records tell us that a little drummer boy, whom some of the tallest men carried on their shoulders, made a deal of fun for the weary men by his pranks and jokes.

Death now stared them in the face. The canoes could find no place to ford. Even the riflemen huddled together in despair. Clark blacked his face with damp gunpowder, as the Indians did when ready to die, gave the war whoop, and leaped into the ice-cold river. With a wild shout the men followed. The whole column took up their line of march, singing a merry song. They halted six miles from Vincennes. The night was bitterly cold, and the half- frozen and half- starved men tried to sleep on a hillock.

The next morning the sun rose bright and beautiful. Clark made a thrilling speech and told his famished men that they would surely reach the fort before dark. One of the captains, however, was sent with twenty-five trusty riflemen to bring up the rear, with orders to shoot any man that tried to turn back.

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The worst of all came when they crossed the Horse-shoe Plain, which the floods had made a shallow lake four miles wide, with dense woods on the farther side. In the deep water the tall and the strong helped the short and the weak. The little dugouts picked up the poor fellows who were clinging to bushes and old logs, and ferried them to a spot of dry land. When they reached the farther shore, so many of the men were chilled that the strong ones had to seize those half- frozen, and run them up and down the bank until they were able to walk.

One of the dugouts captured an Indian canoe paddled by some squaws. It proved a rich prize, for in it were buffalo meat and some, kettles. Broth was soon made and served to the weakest. The strong gave up their share. Then amid much joking and merry songs, the column marched in single file through a bit of timber. Not two miles away was Vincennes, the goal of all their hopes.

A Creole who was out shooting ducks was captured. From him it was learned that nobody suspected the coming of the Americans, and that two hundred Indians had just come into town.

With the hope that the Creoles would not dare to fight and that the Indians would escape, Clark boldly sent the duck hunter back to town with the news of his arrival. He sent warning to the Creoles to remain in their houses, for he came only to fight the British.

So great was the terror of Clark’s name that the French shut themselves up in their houses, while most of the Indians took to the woods. Nobody dared give a word of warning to the British.

Just after dark the riflemen marched into the streets of the village before the redcoats knew what was going on.

Crack! Crack! Sharply sounded half a dozen rifles outside the fort.

“That is Clark, and your time is short!” cried Captain Helm, who was Hamilton’s prisoner at this time. “He will have this fort tumbling on your heads before tomorrow morning.”

During the night the Americans threw up an entrenchment within rifle shot of the fort and at daybreak opened a hot fire into the portholes. The men begged their leader to let them storm the fort, but he dared not risk their lives. A party of Indians that had been pillaging the Kentucky settlements came marching into the village, and were caught red-handed with scalps hanging at their belts.

Clark was not slow to show his power.

“Think, men,” he said sternly, “of the cries of the widows and the fatherless on our frontier. Do your duty.”

Six of the savages were tomahawked before the fort, where the garrison could see them, and their dead bodies were thrown into the river.

The British defended their fort for a few days but could not stand against the fire of the long rifles. It was sure death for a gunner to try to fire a cannon. Not a man dared show himself at a porthole, through which the rifle bullets were humming like mad hornets.

Hamilton the “hair buyer” gave up the defense as a bad job and surrendered the fort, defended by cannon and occupied by regular troops, as he says in his journal, “to a set of uncivilized Virginia backwoodsmen armed with rifles.”

Tap! Tap! Sounded the drums, as Clark gave the signal, and down came the British colors.

Thirteen cannon boomed the salute over the flooded plains of the Wabash, and a hundred frontier soldiers shouted themselves hoarse when the stars and stripes went up at Vincennes, never to come down again.

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The British authority over this region was forever at an end. It only remained for Clark to defend what he had so gallantly won.

Of all the deeds done west of the Alleghenies during the war of the Revolution, Clark’s campaign, in the region which seemed so remote and so strange to our forefathers, is the most remarkable. The vast region north of the Ohio River was wrested from the British crown. When peace came, a few years later, the boundary lines of the United States were the Great Lakes on the north, and on the west the Mississippi River

—excerpt from Hero Stories from American History by Albert F. Blaisdell Copyright, 1903

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Plutarch

THE JUST MAN

The judges sat in the court of justice, and before them stood two men, one of whom was accusing the other of a wrong done to him. The name of the accuser was Aristides (Ar-is-ty-deez).

"We have heard what you say, Aristides” said one of the judges, "and we believe your story, and we shall punish this man"

"No, no, not yet," cried Aristides.

"Why not?"

"You have not heard what he has to say for himself. Even though he is my enemy, I wish him to have fair play."

And because he was always so honest and fair to others, the people of Athens called him Aristides the Just.

When the Persians came over to Greece with a very great army, the men of Athens went out to meet them at Marathon, 490 B.C. Only ten thousand against twelve times that number of Persians! But the men of Athens had more than swords and spears and daggers they had stout hearts to fight for their homes and their fatherland against the tyrant forces of Persia. The Greeks chose several generals, each taking command for one day. When it came to the turn of Aristides to command, he gave way to a better captain than himself, for he thought more of the good of Athens than of his own glory; and under this other captain the Greeks gained the victory.

After the battle, when the Persians fled in haste and terror, and much spoil was left behind tents, clothes, gold, silver, etc. the Greeks left Aristides to look after all these treasures while they pursued the foe; for they knew his honesty, and they knew he would touch nothing, but keep the booty to be shared by all. How differently he acted from the Athenian who was known as the Torchbearer. A Persian, who laid hiding in a lonely place after the battle, saw the Torchbearer approach, his long hair being fastened by a band. Seeing this band round his head, the Persian supposed him to be a prince, and he knelt before him in homage; and then he rose and offered to show the Greek a concealed treasure. It was a heap of gold which he had put down a well. Now, the Torchbearer knew he ought to acquaint Aristides of this store; but, instead of doing so, he slew the Persian, and kept the gold for himself. The Torchbearer thought of his own pleasure more than of doing his duty to Athens.

Once a year the people of Athens were asked if there were any persons whom they wished to banish, so that the country might be set free from any men that were disliked and dangerous. Each citizen voted by writing on a shell or bit of broken pottery the name of the man he wished to send into exile. As Aristides passed along the street he met a man who held out a shell.

"Sir," said the stranger, "can you write?"

"Yes."

"Well, I cannot; and I should be glad if you would write a name for me on this shell the name of a man whom I would like to banish."

"Yes; what is the name?"

"Aristides."

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"Has he ever done you any harm?"

"No; but it vexes me to hear people always calling him the Just. I think he must be a vain and stuck-up person."

Aristides wrote his own name on the shell, and walked away. The man took the shell, and threw it into a part of the market place railed round for the purpose. The shells and potsherds were counted, and I am sorry to say that more than six thousand bore the name of Aristides. For while many Athenians admired him, many others thought he was too strict and old-fashioned. But three years afterward, when an immense fleet of Persian ships was coming against the coasts of Greece, the Athenians sent for Aristides to come back; and he returned in time to take part in the battle on sea, in which the Persians were utterly beaten.

During this war the city of Athens had been almost deserted by its people, who had fled to safer places; and the Persians had blackened its houses by fire, and made its walls into broken heaps. After the sea-fight the Persian general of the land forces sent a letter to the Athenians, promising to build their city again, and to give them much money, and to make Athens the leading town in Greece, if only they would agree not to oppose him anymore. He sent the letter by messengers, who waited some days for an answer. When the Spartans heard of the letter coming to Athens, they also sent messengers to Athens. They said they hoped the Athenians would not yield; they would take care of the women and children of Athens, if the men would fight on against the Persians. Aristides was in the city, and the people agreed to give answers thus:

To the messengers from Sparta he said:

"We do not wonder at the Persians expecting us to yield up our liberty in return for gold and silver. But the Spartans are Greeks like ourselves. We wonder that they should be afraid lest we should sell ourselves for the gifts of the Persians. No, the people of Athens will not give up their freedom for all the gold above ground or underground."

He replied to the Persian messengers, as he lifted his hand and pointed to the sun:

"As long as that sun flames in the sky, so long will we carry on war with the Persians, who have lain waste our land and burned our holy temples."

On another occasion one of the chief captains of Athens spoke to the people of Athens at a public meeting, and said:

"I have thought of a most useful thing which might be done for the good of this city; but it cannot be told to you all, as that would hinder its being done."

"Then” cried the people, "tell it only to Aristides, for he is a just man."

The captain came to Aristides, and whispered to him in such a way that no one else could hear:

"This is my plan. The other tribes of Greece have brought their ships into our harbor. If we set fire to these ships, Athens alone will have a fleet, and Athens will then be leader of all Greece."

Aristides went to the people, and spoke thus:

"My friends, the plan which has been told me would, perhaps, be useful to the city of Athens; but it would be wicked."

"Then," exclaimed the people, "whatever it is, it shall not be carried out."

So you see that, though they had once banished Aristides, the citizens now thought very well of him, and followed his advice.

You remember the Torchbearer who was so eager to get the gold from the well. He was a kinsman of Aristides, and was the richest man in Athens. When, one day, certain enemies accused him of some offence, they tried to make out before the judges what a bad, cruel character he had. So they said:

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"This Torch-bearer is a kinsman of the good man Aristides. He is very rich, and Aristides is very poor. Look at Aristides; how poor are his clothes; he is not warmly clad in cold weather like his kinsman; his wife and children have but a poor dwelling. And here is this hard-hearted Torch-bearer; he has plenty of money, and he will not help his friend.”

Aristides was called to the court.

"Is this true?" the judges asked, after these tales had been told over again to him.

"No," said Aristides. "It is not the fault of my kinsman that I am poor. It is my own choice. I have few things belonging to me; I want no more. It is very easy to be good when a man is rich. I would sooner try to be honest and just when I am poor; and therefore I glory in my poverty.”

The persons in the court thought to themselves:

"We would sooner be the poor man Aristides than the rich Torch-bearer."

When Aristides died, he was still so poor that there was not enough money in the house to pay for a proper funeral. Though he had been a captain in the army of Athens, a leader of ships in the great sea-fight, and a magistrate over the people, yet he had never taken pains to pile up riches. Therefore, the Athenians buried him at the public cost, and also paid for the building of a monument, so that all who passed by might see it and keep the noble Aristides in memory. And so well did the folk of Athens love the remembrance of this Just Man that they gave large gifts of money to each of his daughters at their marriage, and to his son they gave a sum of silver and a plot of land well planted with trees. And for years afterward persons who belonged to his family received kind treatment from the city.

In this way the good deeds of a man remain after he is dead, and make the world happier.

Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.

—excerpt from The Tales of the Greeks: The Children’s Plutarch by F.J. Gould

ARISTIDES

Aristides, the son of Lysimachus, was of the tribe Antiochus, and township of Alopece. As to his wealth, statements differ; some say he passed his life in extreme poverty, and left behind him two daughters whose indigence long kept them unmarried: but Demetrius, the Phalerian, in opposition to this general report, professes in his Socrates to know a farm at Phalerum going by Aristides's name, where he was interred; and, as marks of his opulence, adduces first, the office of archon eponymous, which he obtained by the lot of the bean; which was confined to the highest assessed families, called the Pentacosiomedimni; second, the ostracism, which was not usually inflicted on the poorer citizens, but on those of great houses, whose elation exposed them to envy; third and last, that he left certain tripods in the temple of Bacchus, offerings for his victory in conducting the representation of dramatic performances, which were even in our age still to be seen, retaining this inscription upon them, "The tribe Antiochus obtained the victory: Aristides defrayed the charges: Archestratus's play was acted." But this argument, though in appearance the strongest, is of the least moment of any. For Epaminondas, who all the world knows was educated, and lived his whole life, in much poverty, and also Plato, the philosopher, exhibited magnificent shows, the one an entertainment of flute-players the other of dithyrambic singers; Dion, the Syracusan, supplying the expenses of the latter, and Pelopidas those of Epaminondas. For good men do not allow themselves in any inveterate and irreconcilable hostility to receiving presents from their friends, but while looking upon those that are accepted to be hoarded up and with avaricious intentions, as sordid and mean, they do not refuse such as, apart from all profit, gratify the pure love of honor and magnificence. Panaetius, again, shows that Demetrius was deceived concerning the tripod by an identity of name. For, from the Persian war to the end of the Peloponnesian, there are upon record only two of the name of Aristides, who defrayed the expense of representing plays and gained the prize neither of which was the same with the son of Lysimachus; but the father of the one was Xenophilus, and the other lived at a much later time, as the way of writing, which is that in use since the time of Euclides, and the addition of the name of Archestratus prove, a name which, in the time of the Persian war, no writer 117 mentions, but which several, during the Peloponnesian war, record as that of a dramatic poet. The argument of Panaetius requires to be more closely considered. But as for the ostracism, everyone was liable to it, whom his reputation, birth, or eloquence raised above the common level; insomuch that even Damon, preceptor to Pericles, was thus banished, because he seemed a man of more than ordinary sense. And, moreover, Idomeneus says, that Aristides was not made archon by the lot of the bean, but the free election of the people. And if he held the office after the battle of Plataea, as Demetrius himself has written, it is very probable that his great reputation and success in the war, made him be preferred for his virtue to an office which others received in consideration of their wealth. But Demetrius manifestly is eager not only to exempt Aristides but Socrates likewise, from poverty, as from a great evil; telling us that the latter had not only a house of his own, but also seventy minæ put out at interest with Crito.

Aristides being the friend and supporter of that Clisthenes, who settled the government after the expulsion of the tyrants, and emulating and admiring Lycurgus the Lacedaemonian above all politicians, adhered to the aristocratical principles of government; and had Themistocles, son to Neocles, his adversary on the side of the populace. Some say that, being boys and bred up together from their infancy, they were always at variance with each other in all their words and actions as well serious as playful, and that in this their early contention they soon made proof of their natural inclinations; the one being ready, adventurous, and subtle, engaging readily and eagerly in everything; the other of a staid and settled temper, intent on the exercise of justice, not admitting any degree of falsity, indecorum, or trickery, no, not so much as at his play. Ariston of Chios says the first origin of the enmity which rose to so great a height, was a love affair; they were rivals for the affection of the beautiful Stesilaus of Ceos, and were passionate beyond all moderation, and did not lay aside their animosity when the beauty that had excited it passed away; but, as if it had only exercised them in it, immediately carried their heats and differences into public business.

Themistocles, therefore, joining an association of partisans, fortified himself with considerable strength; insomuch that when someone told him that were he impartial, he would make a good magistrate; "I wish," replied he, "I may never sit on that tribunal where my friends shall not plead a greater privilege than strangers." But Aristides walked, so to say, alone on his own path in politics, being unwilling, in the first place, to go along with his associates in ill doing, or to cause them vexation by not gratifying their wishes; and, secondly, observing that many were encouraged by the support they had in their friends to act injuriously, he was cautious; being of opinion that the integrity of his words and actions was the only right security for a good citizen.

However, Themistocles making many dangerous alterations, and withstanding and interrupting him in the whole series of his actions, Aristides also was necessitated to set himself against all Themistocles did, partly in self-defense, and partly to impede his power from still increasing by the favor of the multitude; esteeming it better to let slip some public conveniences, rather than that he by prevailing should become powerful in all things. In fine, when he once had opposed Themistocles in some measures that were expedient, and had got the better of him, he could not refrain from saying, when he left the assembly, that unless they sent Themistocles and himself to the barathum, there could be no safety for Athens. Another time, when urging some proposal upon the people, though there were much opposition and stirring against it, he yet was gaining the day; but just as the president of the assembly was about to put it to the vote, perceiving by what had been said in debate the inexpediency of his advice, he let it fall. Also he often brought in his bills by other persons, lest Themistocles, through party spirit against him, should be any hindrance to the good of the public.

In all the vicissitudes of public affairs, the constancy he showed was admirable, not being elated with honors, and demeaning himself tranquilly and sedately in adversity; holding the opinion that he ought to offer himself to the service of his country without mercenary views and irrespectively of any reward, not only of riches, but even of glory itself. Hence it came, probably, that at the recital of these verses of Aeschylus in the theater, relating to Amphiaraus,

For not at seeming just, but being so He aims; and from his depth of soil below, Harvests of wise and prudent counsels grow,

The eyes of all the spectators turned on Aristides, as if this virtue, in an especial manner, belonged to him.

He was a most determined champion for justice, not only against feelings of friendship and favor, but wrath and malice. Thus it is reported of him that when prosecuting the law against one who was his enemy, on the judges after accusation refusing to hear the criminal, and proceeding immediately to pass sentence upon him, he rose in haste from his seat and joined in petition with him for a hearing, and that he might enjoy the privilege of the law. Another time, when judging 118 between two private persons, on the one declaring his adversary had very much injured Aristides; "Tell me rather, good friend," he said, "what wrong he has done you: for it is your cause, not my own, which I now sit judge of." Being chosen to the charge of the public revenue, he made it appear that not only those of his time, but the preceding officers, had alienated much treasure, and especially Themistocles:

Well known he was an able man to be, But with his fingers apt to be too flee.

Therefore, Themistocles associating several persons against Aristides, and impeaching him when he gave in his accounts, caused him to be condemned of robbing the public; so Idomeneus states; but the best and chiefest men of the city much resenting it, he was not only exempted from the fine imposed upon him, but likewise again called to the same employment. Pretending now to repent him of his former practice, and carrying himself with more remissness, he became acceptable to such as pillaged the treasury, by not detecting or calling them to an exact account. So that those who had their fill of the public money began highly to applaud Aristides, and sued to the people, making interest to have him once more chosen treasurer. But when they were upon the point of election, he reproved the Athenians. "When I discharged my office well and faithfully," said he, "I was insulted and abused; but now that I have allowed the public thieves in a variety of malpractices, I am considered an admirable patriot. I am more ashamed, therefore, of this present honor than of the former sentence; and I commiserate your condition, with whom it is more praiseworthy to oblige ill men than to conserve the revenue of the public." Saying thus, and proceeding to expose the thefts that had been committed, he stopped the mouths of those who cried him up and vouched for him, but gained real and true commendation from the best men.

When Datis, being sent by Darius under pretense of punishing the Athenians for their burning of Sardis, but in reality to reduce the Greeks under his dominion, landed at Marathon and laid waste the country, among the ten commanders appointed by the Athenians for the war, Militiades was of the greatest name; but the second place, both for reputation and power, was possessed by Aristides: and when his opinion to join battle was added to that of Miltiades, it did much to incline the balance. Every leader by his day having the command in chief when it came to Aristides' turn, he delivered it into the hands of Miltiades, showing his fellow officers, that it is not dishonorable to obey and follow wise and able men, but, on the contrary, noble and prudent. So appeasing their rivalry, and bringing them to acquiesce in one and the best advice, he confirmed Miltiades in the strength of an undivided and unmolested authority. For now everyone, yielding his day of command, looked for orders only to him. During the fight the main body of the Athenians being the hardest put to it, the barbarians, for a long time, making opposition there against the tribes Leontis and Antiochus, Themistocles and Aristides being ranged together, fought valiantly; the one being of the tribe Leontis, the other of the Antiochus. But after they had beaten the barbarians back to their ships, and perceived that they sailed not for the isles, but were driven in by the force of sea and wind towards the country of Attica; fearing lest they should take the city, unprovided of defense, they hurried away thither with nine tribes, and reached it the same day. Aristides, being left with his tribe at Marathon to guard the plunder and prisoners, did not disappoint the opinion they had of him. Amidst the profusion of gold and silver, all sorts of apparel, and other property, more than can be mentioned, that were in the tents and the vessels which they had taken, he neither felt the desire to meddle with anything himself, nor suffered others to do it; unless it might be some who took away anything unknown to him; as Callias, the torchbearer, did. One of the barbarians, it seems, prostrated himself before this man, supposing him to be a king by his hair and fillet; and, when he had so done, taking him by the hand, showed him a great quantity of gold hid in a ditch. But Callias, most cruel and impious of men, took away the treasure, but slew the man, lest he should tell of him. Hence, they say, the comic poets gave his family the name of Laccopluti, or enriched by the ditch, alluding to the place where Callias found the gold. Aristides, immediately after this, was archon; although Demetrius, the Phalerian, says he held the office a little before he died, after the battle of Plataea. But in the records of the successors of Xanthippides, in whose year Mardonius was overthrown at Plataea, amongst very many there mentioned, there is not so much as one of the same name as Aristides: while immediately after Phaenippus, during whose term of office they obtained the victory of Marathon, Aristides is registered.

Of all his virtues, the common people were most affected with his justice, because of its continual and common use; and thus, although of mean fortune and ordinary birth, he possessed himself of the most kingly and divine appellation of Just; which kings, however, and tyrants have never sought after; but have taken delight to be surnamed besiegers of cities, thunderers, conquerors, or eagles again, and hawks ; affecting, it seems, the reputation which proceeds from power and violence, rather than that of virtue. Although the divinity, to whom they desire to compare and assimilate themselves, excels, it is supposed, in three things, immortality, power, and virtue; of which three, the noblest and divinest is virtue. For the elements and vacuum have an everlasting existence; earthquakes, thunders, storms, and 119 torrents have great power; but in justice and equity nothing participates except by means of reason and the knowledge of that which is divine. And thus, taking the three varieties of feeling commonly entertained towards the deity, the sense of his happiness, fear, and honor of him, people would seem to think him blest and happy for his exemption from death and corruption, to fear and dread him for his power and dominion, but to love, honor, and adore him for his justice. Yet though thus disposed, they covet that immortality which our nature is not capable of, and that power the greatest part of which is at the disposal of fortune; but give virtue, the only divine good really in our reach, the last place, most unwisely; since justice makes the life of such as are in prosperity, power, and authority the life of a god, and injustice turns it to that of a beast.

Aristides, therefore, had at first the fortune to be beloved for this surname, but at length envied. Especially when Themistocles spread a rumor amongst the people, that, by determining and judging all matters privately, he had destroyed the courts of judicature, and was secretly making way for a monarchy in his own person, without the assistance of guards. Moreover, the spirit of the people, now grown high, and confident with their late victory, naturally entertained feelings of dislike to all of more than common fame and reputation. Coming together, therefore, from all parts into the city, they banished Aristides by the ostracism, giving their jealousy of his reputation the name of fear of tyranny. For ostracism was not the punishment of any criminal act, but was speciously said to be the mere depression and humiliation of excessive greatness and power; and was in fact a gentle relief and mitigation of envious feeling, which was thus allowed to vent itself in inflicting no intolerable injury, only a ten years' banishment. But after it came to be exercised upon base and villainous fellows, they desisted from it; Hyperbolus, being the last whom they banished by the ostracism.

The cause of Hyperbolus's banishment is said to have been this. Alcibiades and Nicias, men that bore the greatest sway in the city, were of different factions. As the people, therefore, were about to vote the ostracism, and obviously to decree it against one of them, consulting together and uniting their parties, they contrived the banishment of Hyperbolus. Upon which the people, being offended, as if some contempt or affront was put upon the thing, left off and quite abolished it. It was performed, to be short, in this manner. Every one taking an ostracon, a shard, that is, or piece of earthenware, wrote upon it the citizen's name he would have banished, and carried it to a certain part of the market place surrounded with wooden rails. First, the magistrates numbered all the shards in gross (for if there were less than six thousand, the ostracism was imperfect); then, laying every name by itself, they pronounced him whose name was written by the larger number, banished for ten years, with the enjoyment of his estate. As, therefore, they were writing the names on the shards, it is reported that an illiterate clownish fellow, giving Aristides his shard, supposing him a common citizen, begged him to write Aristides upon it; and he being surprised and asking if Aristides had ever done him any injury, "None at all," said he, "neither know I the man; but I am tired of hearing him everywhere called the Just." Aristides, hearing this, is said to have made no reply, but returned the shard with his own name inscribed. At his departure from the city, lifting up his hands to heaven, he made a prayer, (the reverse, it would seem, of that of Achilles,) that the Athenians might never have any occasion which should constrain them to remember Aristides.

Nevertheless, three years after, when Xerxes marched through Thessaly and Boeotia into the country of Attica, repealing the law, they decreed the return of the banished: chiefly fearing Aristides, lest, joining himself to the enemy, he should corrupt and bring over many of his fellow-citizens to the party of the barbarians; much mistaking the man, who, already before the decree, was exerting himself to excite and encourage the Greeks to the defense of their liberty. And afterwards, when Themistocles was general with absolute power, he assisted him in all ways both in action and counsel; rendering, in consideration of the common security, the greatest enemy he had the most glorious of men. For when Eurybiades was deliberating to desert the isle of Salamis, and the galleys of the barbarians putting out by night to sea surrounded and beset the narrow passage and islands, and nobody was aware how they were environed, Aristides, with great hazard, sailed from Aegina through the enemy's fleet; and coming by night to Themistocles's tent, and calling him out by himself; "If we have any discretion," said he, "Themistocles, laying aside at this time our vain and childish contention, let us enter upon a safe and honorable dispute, vying with each other for the preservation of Greece; you in the ruling and commanding, I in the subservient and advising part; even, indeed, as I now understand you to be alone adhering to the best advice, in counseling without any delay to engage in the straits. And in this, though our own party oppose, the enemy seems to assist you. For the sea behind, and all around us, is covered with their fleet; so that we are under a necessity of approving ourselves men of courage, and fighting, whether we will or no; for there is no room left us for flight." To which Themistocles answered, "I would not willingly, Aristides, be overcome by you on this occasion; and shall endeavor, in emulation of this good beginning, to outdo it in my actions." Also relating to him the stratagem he had framed against the barbarians, he entreated him to persuade Eurybiades and show him how it was impossible they should save themselves without an engagement; as he was the more likely to be believed. Whence, in the council of 120 war, Cleocritus, the Corinthian, telling Themistocles that Aristides did not like his advice, as he was present and said nothing, Aristides answered, That he should not have held his peace if Themistocles had not been giving the best advice; and that he was now silent not out of any good-will to the person, but in approbation of his counsel.

Thus the Greek captains were employed. But Aristides perceiving Psyttalea, a small island that lies within the straits over against Salamis, to be filled by a body of the enemy, put aboard his small boats the most forward and courageous of his countrymen, and went ashore upon it; and, joining battle with the barbarians, slew them all, except such more remarkable persons as were taken alive. Amongst these were three children of Sandauce, the king's sister, whom he immediately sent away to Themistocles, and it is stated that in accordance with a certain oracle, they were, by the command of Euphrantides, the seer, sacrificed to Bacchus, called Omestes, or the devourer. But Aristides, placing armed men all around the island, lay in wait for such as were cast upon it, to the intent that none of his friends should perish, nor any of his enemies escape. For the closest engagement of the ships, and the main fury of the whole battle, seems to have been about this place; for which reason a trophy was erected in Psyttalea.

After the fight, Themistocles, to sound Aristides, told him they had performed a good piece of service, but there was a better yet to be done, the keeping Asia in Europe, by sailing forthwith to the Hellespont, and cutting in sunder the bridge. But Aristides, with an exclamation, bid him think no more of it, but deliberate and find out means for removing the Mede, as quickly as possible, out of Greece; lest being enclosed, through want of means to escape, necessity should compel him to force his way with so great an army. So Themistocles once more dispatched Arnaces, the eunuch, his prisoner, giving him in command privately to advertise the king that he had diverted the Greeks from their intention of setting sail for the bridges, out of the desire he felt to preserve him.

Xerxes, being much terrified with this, immediately hasted to the Hellespont. But Mardonius was left with the most serviceable part of the army, about three hundred thousand men, and was a formidable enemy, confident in his infantry, and writing messages of defiance to the Greeks: "You have overcome by sea men accustomed to fight on land, and unskilled at the oar; but there lies now the open country of Thessaly; and the plains of Boeotia offer a broad and worthy field for brave men, either horse or foot, to contend in." But he sent privately to the Athenians, both by letter and word of mouth from the king, promising to rebuild their city, to give them a vast sum of money, and constitute them lords of all Greece on condition they were not engaged in the war. The Lacedaemonians, receiving news of this, and fearing, dispatched an embassy to the Athenians, entreating that they would send their wives and children to Sparta, and receive support from them for their superannuated. For, being despoiled both of their city and country, the people were suffering extreme distress. Having given audience to the ambassadors, they returned an answer, upon the motion of Aristides, worthy of the highest admiration; declaring, that they forgave their enemies if they thought all things purchasable by wealth, than which they knew nothing of greater value; but that they felt offended at the Lacedaemonians, for looking only to their present poverty and exigency, without any remembrance of their valor and magnanimity, offering them their victuals, to fight in the cause of Greece. Aristides, making this proposal and bringing back the ambassadors into the assembly, charged them to tell the Lacedaemonians that all the treasure on the earth or under it, was of less value with the people of Athens, than the liberty of Greece. And, showing the sun to those who came from Mardonius, "as long as that retains the same course, so long," said he, "shall the citizens of Athens wage war with the Persians for the country which has been wasted, and the temples that have been profaned and burnt by them." Moreover, he proposed a decree, that the priests should anathematize him who sent any herald to the Medes, or deserted the alliance of Greece.

When Mardonius made a second incursion into the country of Attica, the people passed over again into the isle of Salamis. Aristides, being sent to Lacedaemon, reproved them for their delay and neglect in abandoning Athens once more to the barbarians; and demanded their assistance for that part of Greece, which was not yet lost. The Ephori, hearing this, made show of sporting all day, and of carelessly keeping holy day, (for they were then celebrating the Hyacinthian festival,) but in the night, selecting five thousand Spartans, each of whom was attended by seven Helots, they sent them forth unknown to those from Athens. And when Aristides again reprehended them, they told him in derision that he either doted or dreamed, for the army was already at Oresteum, in their march towards the strangers, as they called the Persians. Aristides answered that they jested unseasonably, deluding their friends, instead of their enemies. Thus says Idomeneus. But in the decree of Aristides, not himself, but Cimon, Xanthippus, and Myronides are appointed ambassadors.

Being chosen general for the war, he repaired to Plattea, with eight thousand Athenians, where Pausanias, generalissimo of all Greece, joined him with the Spartans; and the forces of the other Greeks came in to them. The whole encampment of the barbarians extended all along the bank of the river Asopus, their numbers being so great, there was 121 no enclosing them all, but their baggage and most valuable things were surrounded with a square bulwark, each side of which was the length of ten furlongs.

Tisamenus, the Elean, had prophesied to Pausanias and all the Greeks, and foretold them victory if they made no attempt upon the enemy, but stood on their defense. But Aristides sending to Delphi, the god answered, that the Athenians should overcome their enemies, in case they made supplication to Jupiter and Juno of Cithaeron, Pan, and the nymphs Sphragitides, and sacrificed to the heroes Androcrates, Leucon, Pisander, Damocrates, Hypsion, Actaeon, and Polyidus; and if they fought within their own territories in the plain of Ceres Eleusinia and Proserpine. Aristides was perplexed upon the tidings of this oracle: since the heroes to whom it commanded him to sacrifice had been chieftains of the Plataeans, and the cave of the nymphs Sphragitides was on the top of Mount Cithaeron, on the side facing the setting sun of summer time; in which place, as the story goes, there was formerly an oracle, and many that lived in the district were inspired with it, whom they called Nympholepti, possessed with the nymphs. But the plain of Ceres Eleusinia, and the offer of victory to the Athenians, if they fought in their own territories, recalled them again, and transferred the war into the country of Attica. In this juncture, Arimnestus, who commanded the Plataeans, dreamed that Jupiter, the Saviour, asked him what the Greeks had resolved upon; and that he answered, "Tomorrow, my Lord, we march our army to Eleusis, and there give the barbarians battle according to the directions of the oracle of Apollo." And that the god replied, they were utterly mistaken, for that the places spoken of by the oracle were within the bounds of Plataea, and if they sought there they should find them. This manifest vision having appeared to Arimnestus, when he awoke he sent for the most aged and experienced of his countrymen, with whom communicating and examining the matter, he found that near Hysiae, at the foot of Mount Cithaeron, there was a very ancient temple called the temple of Ceres Eleusinia and Proserpine. He therefore forthwith took Aristides to the place, which was very convenient for drawing up an army of foot, because the slopes at the bottom of the mountain Cithaeron rendered the plain, where it comes up to the temple, unfit for the movements of cavalry. Also, in the same place, there was the fane of Androcrates, environed with a thick shady grove. And that the oracle might be accomplished in all particulars for the hope of victory, Arimnestus proposed, and the Plataeans decreed, that the frontiers of their country towards Attica should be removed, and the land given to the Athenians, that they might fight in defense of Greece in their own proper territory. This zeal and liberality of the Plataeans became so famous, that Alexander, many years after, when he had obtained the dominion of all Asia, upon erecting the walls of Plataea, caused proclamation to be made by the herald at the Olympic games, that the king did the Plataeans this favor in consideration of their nobleness and magnanimity, because, in the war with the Medes, they freely gave up their land and zealously fought with the Greeks.

The Tegeatans, contesting the post of honor with the Athenians, demanded, that, according to custom, the Lacedaemonians being ranged on the right wing of the battle, they might have the left, alleging several matters in commendation of their ancestors. The Athenians being indignant at the claim, Aristides came forward; "To contend with the Tegeatans," said he, "for noble descent and valor, the present time permits not: but this we say to you, O you Spartans, and you the rest of the Greeks, that place neither takes away nor contributes courage: we shall endeavor by crediting and maintaining the post you assign us, to reflect no dishonor on our former performances. For we are come, not to differ with our friends, but to fight our enemies; not to extol our ancestors, but ourselves to behave as valiant men. This battle will manifest how much each city, captain, and private soldier is worth to Greece." The council of war, upon this address, decided for the Athenians, and gave them the other wing of the battle.

All Greece being in suspense, and especially the affairs of the Athenians unsettled, certain persons of great families and possessions having been impoverished by the war, and seeing all their authority and reputation in the city vanished with their wealth, and others in possession of their honors and places, convened privately at a house in Plataea, and conspired for the dissolution of the democratic government; and, if the plot should not succeed, to ruin the cause and betray all to the barbarians. These matters being in agitation in the camp, and many persons already corrupted, Aristides, perceiving the design, and dreading the present juncture of time, determined neither to let the business pass unanimadverted upon, nor yet altogether to expose it; not knowing how many the accusation might reach, and willing to set bounds to his justice with a view to the public convenience. Therefore, of many that were concerned, he apprehended eight only, two of whom, who were first proceeded against and most guilty, Aeschines of Lampra, and Agesias of Acharnae, made their escape out of the camp. The rest he dismissed; giving opportunity to such as thought themselves concealed, to take courage and repent; intimating that they had in the war a great tribunal, where they might clear their guilt by manifesting their sincere and good intentions towards their country.

After this, Mardonius made trial of the Grecian courage, by sending his whole number of horse, in which he thought himself much the stronger, against them, while they were all pitched at the foot of Mount Cithaeron, in strong and rocky places, except the Megarians. They, being three thousand in number, were encamped on the plain, where they 122 were damaged by the horse charging and making inroads upon them on all hands. They sent, therefore, in haste to Pausanias, demanding relief, as not being able alone to sustain the great numbers of the barbarians. Pausanias, hearing this, and perceiving the tents of the Megarians already hid by the multitude of darts and arrows, and themselves driven together into a narrow space, was at a loss himself how to aid them with his battalion of heavy-armed Lacedaemonians. He proposed it, therefore, as a point of emulation in valor and love of distinction, to the commanders and captains who were around him, if any would voluntarily take upon them the defense and succor of the Megarians. The rest being backward, Aristides undertook the enterprise for the Athenians, and sent Olympiodorus, the most valiant of his inferior officers, with three hundred chosen men and some archers under his command. These being soon in readiness, and running upon the enemy, as soon as Masistius, who commanded the barbarians' horse, a man of wonderful courage and of extraordinary bulk and comeliness of person, perceived it, turning his steed he made towards them. And they sustaining the shock and joining battle with him, there was a sharp conflict, as though by this encounter they were to try the success of the whole war. But after Masistius's horse received a wound, and flung him, and he falling could hardly raise himself through the weight of his armor, the Athenians, pressing upon him with blows, could not easily get at his person, armed as he was, his breast, his head, and his limbs all over, with gold and brass and iron; but one of them at last, running him in at the visor of his helmet, slew him; and the rest of the Persians, leaving the body, fled. The greatness of the Greek success was known, not by the multitude of the slain, (for an inconsiderable number were killed,) but by the sorrow the barbarians expressed. For they shaved themselves, their horses, and mules for the death of Masistius, and filled the plain with howling and lamentation; having lost a person, who, next to Mardonius himself, was by many degrees the chief among them, both for valor and authority.

After this skirmish of the horse, they kept from fighting a long time; for the soothsayers, by the sacrifices, foretold the victory both to Greeks and Persians, if they stood upon the defensive part only, but if they became aggressors, the contrary. At length Mardonius, when he had but a few days' provision, and the Greek forces increased continually by some or other that came in to them, impatient of delay, determined to lie still no longer, but, passing Asopus by daybreak, to fall unexpectedly upon the Greeks; and signified the same over night to the captains of his host. But about midnight, a certain horseman stole into the Greek camp, and coming to the watch, desired them to call Aristides, the Athenian, to him. He coming speedily; "I am," said the stranger, "Alexander, king of the Macedonians, and am arrived here through the greatest danger in the world for the good-will I bear you, lest a sudden onset should dismay you, so as to behave in the fight worse than usual. For tomorrow Mardonius will give you battle, urged, not by any hope of success or courage, but by want of victuals; since, indeed, the prophets prohibit him the battle, the sacrifices and oracles being unfavorable; and the army is in despondency and consternation; but necessity forces him to try his fortune, or sit still and endure the last extremity of want." Alexander, thus saying, entreated Aristides to take notice and remember him, but not to tell any other. But he told him, it was not convenient to conceal the matter from Pausanias (because he was general); as for any other, he would keep it secret from them till the battle was fought; but if the Greeks obtained the victory, that then no one should be ignorant of Alexander's good-will and kindness towards them. After this, the king of the Macedonians rode back again, and Aristides went to Pausanias's tent and told him; and they sent for the rest of the captains and gave orders that the army should be in battle array.

Here, according to Herodotus, Pausanias spoke to Aristides, desiring him to transfer the Athenians to the right wing of the army opposite to the Persians, (as they would do better service against them, having been experienced in their way of combat, and emboldened with former victories,) and to give him the left, where the Medizing Greeks were to make their assault. The rest of the Athenian captains regarded this as an arrogant and interfering act on the part of Pausanias; because, while permitting the rest of the army to keep their stations, he removed them only from place to place, like so many Helots, opposing them to the greatest strength of the enemy. But Aristides said, they were altogether in the wrong. If so short a time ago they contested the left wing with the Tegeatans, and gloried in being preferred before them, now, when the Lacedaemonians give them place in the right, and yield them in a manner the leading of the army, how is it they are discontented with the honor that is done them, and do not look upon it as an advantage to have to fight, not against their countrymen and kindred, but barbarians, and such as were by nature their enemies? After this, the Athenians very readily changed places with the Lacedaemonians, and there went words amongst them as they were encouraging each other, that the enemy approached with no better arms or stouter hearts than those who fought the battle of Marathon; but had the same bows and arrows, and the same embroidered coats and gold, and the same delicate bodies and effeminate minds within; "while we have the same weapons and bodies, and our courage augmented by our Victories; and fight not like others in defense of our country only, but for the trophies of Salamis and Marathon; that they may not be looked upon as due to Miltiades or fortune, but to the people of Athens." Thus, therefore, were they making haste to change the order of their battle. But the Thebans, understanding it by some deserters, forthwith acquainted Mardonius; and he, either for fear of the Athenians, or a desire to engage the Lacedaemonians, marched over his Persians to the other wing, and commanded the Greeks of his party to be posted opposite to the Athenians. But 123 this change was observed on the other side, and Pausanias, wheeling about again, ranged himself on the right, and Mardonius, also, as at first, took the left wing over against the Lacedaemonians. So the day passed without action.

After this, the Greeks determined in council to remove their camp some distance, to possess themselves of a place convenient for watering; because the springs near them were polluted and destroyed by the barbarian cavalry. But night being come, and the captains setting out towards the place designed for their encamping, the soldiers were not very ready to follow, and keep in a body, but, as soon as they had quitted their first entrenchments, made towards the city of Plataea; and there was much tumult and disorder as they dispersed to various quarters and proceeded to pitch their tents. The Lacedaemonians, against their will, had the fortune to be left by the rest. For Amompharetus, a brave and daring man, who had long been burning with desire of the fight, and resented their many lingerings and delays, calling the removal of the camp a mere running away and flight, protested he would not desert his post, but would there remain with his company, and sustain the charge of Mardonius. And when Pausanias came to him and told him he did these things by the common vote and determination of the Greeks, Amompharetus taking up a great stone and flinging it at Pausanias' feet, and "by this token," said he, "do I give my suffrage for the battle, nor have I any concern with the cowardly consultations and decrees of other men." Pausanias, not knowing what to do in the present juncture, sent to the Athenians, who were drawing off, to stay to accompany him; and so he himself set off with the rest of the army for Plataea, hoping thus to make Amompharetus move.

Meantime, day came upon them; and Mardonius (for he was not ignorant of their deserting their camp) having his army in array, fell upon the Lacedaemonians with great shouting and noise of barbarous people, as if they were not about to join battle, but crush the Greeks in their flight. Which within a very little came to pass. For Pausanias, perceiving what was done, made a halt, and commanded everyone to put themselves in order for the battle; but either through his anger with Amompharetus, or the disturbance he was in by reason of the sudden approach of the enemy, he forgot to give the signal to the Greeks in general. Whence it was, that they did not come in immediately, or in a body, to their assistance, but by small companies and straggling, when the fight was already begun. Pausanias, offering sacrifice, could not procure favorable omens, and so commanded the Lacedaemonians, setting down their shields at their feet to abide quietly and attend his directions, making no resistance to any of their enemies. And, he sacrificing again a second time, the horse charged, and some of the Lacedaemonians were wounded. At this time, also, Callicrates, who, we are told, was the most comely man in the army, being shot with an arrow and upon the point of expiring, said, that he lamented not his death (for he came from home to lay down his life in the defense of Greece) but that he died without action. The case was indeed hard, and the forbearance of the men wonderful; for they let the enemy charge without repelling them; and, expecting their proper opportunity from the gods and their general, suffered themselves to be wounded and slain in their ranks. And some say, that while Pausanias was at sacrifice and prayers, some space out of the battle-array, certain Lydians, falling suddenly upon him, plundered and scattered the sacrifice: and that Pausanias and his company, having no arms, beat them with staves and whips; and that in imitation of this attack, the whipping the boys about the altar, and after it the Lydian procession, are to this day practiced in Sparta.

Pausanias, therefore, being troubled at these things, while the priest went on offering one sacrifice after another, turns himself towards the temple with tears in his eyes, and, lifting up his hands to heaven, besought Juno of Cithaeron, and the other tutelary gods of the Plataeans, if it were not in the fates for the Greeks to obtain the victory, that they might not perish, without performing some remarkable thing, and by their actions demonstrating to their enemies, that they waged war with men of courage, and soldiers. While Pausanias was thus in the act of supplication, the sacrifices appeared propitious, and the soothsayers foretold victory. The word being given, the Lacedaemonian battalion of foot seemed, on the sudden, like someone fierce animal, setting up his bristles, and betaking himself to the combat; and the barbarians perceived that they encountered with men who would fight it to the death. Therefore, holding their wicker- shields before them, they shot their arrows amongst the Lacedaemonians. But they, keeping together in the order of a phalanx, and falling upon the enemies, forced their shields out of their hands, and, striking with their pikes at the breasts and faces of the Persians, overthrew many of them; who, however, fell not either unrevenged or without courage. For taking hold of the spears with their bare hands, they broke many of them, and betook themselves not without effect to the sword; and making use of their falchions and scimitars, and wresting the Lacedaemonians' shields from them, and grappling with them, it was a long time that they made resistance.

Meanwhile, for some time, the Athenians stood still, waiting for the Lacedaemonians to come up. But when they heard much noise as of men engaged in fight, and a messenger, they say, came from Pausanias, to advertise them of what was going on, they soon hasted to their assistance. And as they passed through the plain to the place where the noise was, the Greeks, who took part with the enemy, came upon them. Aristides, as soon as he saw them, going a considerable space before the rest, cried out to them, conjuring them by the guardian gods of Greece to forbear the fight, and be no 124 impediment or stop to those, who were going to succor the defenders of Greece. But when he perceived they gave no attention to him, and had prepared themselves for the battle, then turning from the present relief of the Macedaemonians, he engaged them, being five thousand in number. But the greatest part soon gave way and retreated, as the barbarians also were put to flight. The sharpest conflict is said to have been against the Thebans, the chiefest and most powerful persons among them at that time siding zealously with the Medes, and leading the multitude not according to their own inclinations, but as being subjects of an oligarchy.

The battle being thus divided, the Lacedaemonians first beat off the Persians; and a Spartan, named Arimnestus, slew Mardonius by a blow on the head with a stone, as the oracle in the temple of Amphiaraus had foretold to him. For Mardonius sent a Lydian thither, and another person, a Carian, to the cave of Trophonius. This latter, the priest of the oracle answered in his own language. But the Lydian sleeping in the temple of Amphiaraus, it seemed to him that a minister of the divinity stood before him and commanded him to be gone; and on his refusing to do it, flung a great stone at his head, so that he thought himself slain with the blow. Such is the story. -- They drove the fliers within their walls of wood; and, a little time after, the Athenians put the Thebans to flight, killing three hundred of the chiefest and of greatest note among them in the actual fight itself. For when they began to fly, news came that the army of the barbarians was besieged within their palisade: and so giving the Greeks opportunity to save themselves, they marched to assist at the fortifications; and coming in to the Lacedaemonians, who were altogether unhandy and inexperienced in storming, they took the camp with great slaughter of the enemy. For of three hundred thousand, forty thousand only are said to have escaped with Artabazus; while on the Greeks' side there perished in all thirteen hundred and sixty: of which fifty-two were Athenians, all of the tribe Aeantis, that fought, says Clidemus, with the greatest courage of any; and for this reason the men of this tribe used to offer sacrifice for the victory, as enjoined by the oracle, to the nymphs Sphragitides at the expense of the public: ninety-one were Lacedaemonians and sixteen Tegeatans. It is strange, therefore, upon what grounds Herodotus can say, that they only, and none other, encountered the enemy; for the number of the slain and their monuments testify that the victory was obtained by all in general; and if the rest had been standing still, while the inhabitants of three cities only had been engaged in the fight, they would not have set on the altar the inscription:

“The Greeks, when by their courage and their might, They had repelled the Persian in the fight, The common altar of freed Greece to be, Reared this to Jupiter who guards the free.”

They fought this battle on the fourth day of the month Boedromion, according to the Athenians, but according to the Boeotians, on the twenty-seventh of Panemus, on which day there is still a convention of the Greeks at Plataea, and the Plataeans still offer sacrifice for the victory to Jupiter of freedom. As for the difference of days, it is not to be wondered at, since even at the present time, when there is a far more accurate knowledge of astronomy, some begin the month at one time, and some at another.

After this, the Athenians not yielding the honor of the day to the Lacedaemonians, nor consenting they should erect a trophy, things were not far from being ruined by dissension amongst the armed Greeks; had not Aristides, by much soothing and counseling the commanders, especially Leocrates and Myronides, pacified and persuaded them to leave the thing to the decision of the Greeks. And on their proceeding to discuss the matter, Theogiton, the Megarian, declared the honor of the victory was to be given some other city, if they would prevent a civil war; after him Cleocritus of Corinth rising up, made people think he would ask the palm for the Corinthians, (for next to Sparta and Athens, Corinth was in greatest estimation); but he delivered his opinion, to the general admiration, in favor of the Plataeans; and counseled to take away all contention by giving them the reward and glory of the victory, whose being honored could be distasteful to neither party. This being said, first Aristides gave consent in the name of the Athenians, and Pausanias, then, for the Lacedaemonians. So, being reconciled, they set apart eighty talents for the Plataeans, with which they built the temple and dedicated the image to Minerva, and adorned the temple with pictures, which even to this very day retain their luster. But the Lacedaemonians and Athenians each erected a trophy apart by themselves. On their consulting the oracle about offering sacrifice, Apollo answered that they should dedicate an altar to Jupiter of freedom, but should not sacrifice till they had extinguished the fires throughout the country, as having been defiled by the barbarians, and had kindled unpolluted fire at the common altar at Delphi. The magistrates of Greece, therefore, went forthwith and compelled such as had fire to put it out; and Euchidas, a Plataean, promising to fetch fire, with all possible speed, from the altar of the god, went to Delphi, and having sprinkled and purified his body, crowned himself with laurel; and taking the fire from the altar ran back to Plataea, and got back there before sunset, performing in one day a journey of a thousand furlongs; and saluting his fellow-citizens and delivering them the fire, he immediately fell 125 down, and in a short time after expired. But the Plataeans, taking him up, interred him in the temple of Diana Euclia, setting this inscription over him: "Euchidas ran to Delphi and back again in one day." Most people believe that Euclia is Diana, and call her by that name. But some say she was the daughter of Hercules, by Myrto, the daughter of Menoetius, and sister of Patroclus, and, dying a virgin, was worshipped by the Boeotians and Locrians. Her altar and image are set up in all their marketplaces, and those of both sexes that are about marrying, sacrifice to her before the nuptials.

A general assembly of all the Greeks being called, Aristides proposed a decree, that the deputies and religious representatives of the Greek states should assemble annually at Plataea, and every fifth year celebrate the Eleutheria, or games of freedom. And that there should be a levy upon all Greece, for the war against the barbarians, of ten thousand spearmen, one thousand horse, and a hundred sail of ships; but the Plataeans to be exempt, and sacred to the service of the gods, offering sacrifice for the welfare of Greece. These things begin ratified, the Plataeans undertook the performance of annual sacrifice to such as were slain and buried in that place; which they still perform in the following manner. On the sixteenth day of Maemacterion (which with the Boeotians is Alalcomenus) they make their procession, which, beginning by break of day, is led by a trumpeter sounding for onset; then follow certain chariots loaded with myrrh and garlands; and then a black bull; then come the young men of free birth carrying libations of wine and milk in large two-handed vessels, and jars of oil and precious ointments, none of servile condition being permitted to have any hand in this ministration, because the men died in defense of freedom; after all comes the chief magistrate of Plataea, (for whom it is unlawful at other times either to touch iron, or wear any other colored garment but white,) at that time appareled in a purple robe; and, taking a water-pot out of the city record-office, he proceeds, bearing a sword in his hand, through the middle of the town to the sepulchers. Then drawing water out of a spring, he washes and anoints the monument, and sacrificing the bull upon a pile of wood, and making supplication to Jupiter and Mercury of the earth, invites those valiant men who perished in the defense of Greece, to the banquet and the libations of blood. After this, mixing a bowl of wine, and pouring out for himself, he says, "I drink to those who lost their lives for the liberty of Greece." These solemnities the Plataeans observe to this day.

Aristides perceived that the Athenians, after their return into the city, were eager for a democracy; and deeming the people to deserve consideration on account of their valiant behavior, as also that it was a matter of difficulty, they being well armed, powerful, and full of spirit with their victories, to oppose them by force, he brought forward a decree, that every one might share in the government, and the archons be chosen out of the whole body of the Athenians. And on Themistocles telling the people in assembly that he had some advice for them, which could not be given in public, but was most important for the advantage and security of the city, they appointed Aristides alone to hear and consider it with him. And on his acquainting Aristides that his intent was to set fire to the arsenal of the Greeks, for by that means should the Athenians become supreme masters of all Greece, Aristides, returning to the assembly, told them, that nothing was more advantageous than what Themistocles designed, and nothing more unjust. The Athenians, hearing this, gave Themistocles order to desist; such was the love of justice felt by the people, and such the credit and confidence they reposed in Aristides.

Being sent in joint commission with Cimon to the war, he took notice that Pausanias and the other Spartan captains made themselves offensive by imperiousness and harshness to the confederates; and by being himself gentle and considerate with them and by the courtesy and disinterested temper which Cimon, after his example, manifested in the expeditions, he stole away the chief command from the Lacedaemonians, neither by weapons, ships, or horses, but by equity and wise policy. For the Athenians being endeared to the Greeks by the justice of Aristides and by Cimon's moderation, the tyranny and selfishness of Pausanias rendered them yet more desirable. He on all occasions treated the commanders of the confederates haughtily and roughly; and the common soldiers he punished with stripes, or standing under the iron anchor for a whole day together; neither was it permitted for any to provide straw for themselves to lie on, or forage for their horses, or to come near the springs to water before the Spartans were furnished, but servants with whips drove away such as approached. And when Aristides once was about to complain and expostulate with Pausanias, he told him, with an angry look, that he was not at leisure, and gave no attention to him. The consequence was that the sea captains and generals of the Greeks, in particular, the Chians, Samians, and Lesbians, came to Aristides and requested him to be their general, and to receive the confederates into his command, who had long desired to relinquish the Spartans and come over to the Athenians. But he answered, that he saw both equity and necessity in what they said, but their fidelity required the test of some action, the commission of which would make it impossible for the multitude to change their minds again. Upon which Uliades, the Samian, and Antagoras of Chios, conspiring together, ran in near Byzantium on Pausanias's galley, getting her between them as she was sailing before the rest. But when Pausanias, beholding them, rose up and furiously threatened soon to make them know that they had been endangering not his galley, but their own countries, they bid him go his way, and thank Fortune that fought for him at Plataea; for 126 hitherto, in reverence to that, the Greeks had forborne from indicting on him the punishment he deserved. In fine, they all went off and joined the Athenians. And here the magnanimity of the Lacedaemonians was wonderful. For when they perceived that their generals were becoming corrupted by the greatness of their authority, they voluntarily laid down the chief command, and left off sending any more of them to the wars, choosing rather to have citizens of moderation and consistent in the observance of their customs, than to possess the dominion of all Greece.

Even during the command of the Lacedaemonians, the Greeks paid a certain contribution towards the maintenance of the war; and being desirous to be rated city by city in their due proportion, they desired Aristides of the Athenians, and gave him command, surveying the country and revenue, to assess every one according to their ability and what they were worth. But he, being so largely empowered, Greece as it were submitting all her affairs to his sole management, went out poor, and returned poorer; laying the tax not only without corruption and injustice, but to the satisfaction and convenience of all. For as the ancients celebrated the age of Saturn, so did the confederates of Athens Aristides's taxation, terming it the happy time of Greece; and that more especially, as the sum was in a short time doubled, and afterwards trebled. For the assessment which Aristides made, was four hundred and sixty talents. But to this Pericles added very near one-third part more; for Thucydides says, that in the beginning of the Peloponnesian war, the Athenians had coming in from their confederate’s six hundred talents. But after Pericles's death, the demagogues, increasing by little and little, raised it to the sum of thirteen hundred talents; not so much through the war's being so expensive and chargeable either by its length or ill success, as by their alluring the people to spend upon largesses and playhouse allowances, and in erecting statues and temples. Aristides, therefore, having acquired a wonderful and great reputation by this levy of the tribute, Themistocles is said to have derided him, as if this had been not the commendation of a man, but a money-bag; a retaliation, though not in the same kind, for some free words which Aristides had used. For he, when Themistocles once was saying that he thought the highest virtue of a general was to understand and foreknow the measures the enemy would take, replied, "This, indeed, Themistocles, is simply necessary, but the excellent thing in a general is to keep his hands from taking money."

Aristides, moreover, made all the people of Greece swear to keep the league, and himself took the oath in the name of the Athenians, flinging wedges of red hot iron into the sea, after curses against such as should make breach of their vow. But afterwards, it would seem, when things were in such a state as constrained them to govern with a stronger hand, he bade the Athenians to throw the perjury upon him, and manage affairs as convenience required. And, in general, Theophrastus tells us, that Aristides was, in his own private affairs, and those of his fellow-citizens, rigorously just, but that in public matters he acted often in accordance with his country's policy, which demanded, sometimes, not a little injustice. It is reported of him that he said in a debate, upon the motion of the Samians for removing the treasure from Delos to Athens, contrary to the league, that the thing indeed was not just, but was expedient.

In fine, having established the dominion of his city over so many people, he himself remained indigent; and always delighted as much in the glory of being poor, as in that of his trophies; as is evident from the following story. Callias, the torchbearer, was related to him: and was prosecuted by his enemies in a capital cause, in which, after they had slightly argued the matters on which they indicted him, they proceeded, beside the point, to address the judges: "You know," said they, "Aristides, the son of Lysimachus, who is the admiration of all Greece. In what a condition do you think his family is in at his house, when you see him appear in public in such a threadbare cloak? Is it not probable that one who, out of doors, goes thus exposed to the cold, must want food and other necessaries at home? Callias, the wealthiest of the Athenians, does nothing to relieve either him or his wife and children in their poverty, though he is his own cousin, and has made use of him in many cases, and often reaped advantage by his interest with you." But Callias, perceiving the judges were moved more particularly by this, and were exasperated against him, called in Aristides, requiring him to testify that when he frequently offered him divers presents, and entreated him to accept them, he had refused, answering, that it became him better to be proud of his poverty than Callias of his wealth: since there are many to be seen that make a good, or a bad use of riches, but it is difficult, comparatively, to meet with one who supports poverty in a noble spirit; those only should be ashamed of it who incurred it against their wills. On Aristides deposing these facts in favor of Callias, there was none who heard them, that went not away desirous rather to be poor like Aristides, than rich as Callias. Thus Aeschines, the scholar of Socrates, writes. But Plato declares, that of all the great and renowned men in the city of Athens, he was the only one worthy of consideration; for Themistocles, Cimon, and Pericles filled the city with porticoes, treasure, and many other vain things, but Aristides guided his public life by the rule of justice. He showed his moderation very plainly in his conduct towards Themistocles himself. For though Themistocles had been his adversary in all his undertakings, and was the cause of his banishment, yet when he afforded a similar opportunity of revenge, being accused to the city, Aristides bore him no malice; but while Alcmaeon, Cimon, and many others, were prosecuting and impeaching him, Aristides alone, neither did, nor said any ill against him, and no more triumphed over his enemy in his adversity, than he had envied him his prosperity. 127

Some say Aristides died in Pontus, during a voyage upon the affairs of the public. Others that he died of old age at Athens, being in great honor and veneration amongst his fellow-citizens. But Craterus, the Macedonian, relates his death as follows. After the banishment of Themistocles, he says, the people growing insolent, there sprung up a number of false and frivolous accusers, impeaching the best and most influential men and exposing them to the envy of the multitude, whom their good fortune and power had filled with self-conceit. Amongst these, Aristides was condemned of bribery, upon the accusation of Diophantus of Amphitrope, for taking money from the Ionians when he was collector of the tribute; and being unable to pay the fine, which was fifty minæ, sailed to Ionia, and died there. But of this Craterus brings no written proof, neither the sentence of his condemnation, nor the decree of the people; though in general it is tolerably usual with him to set down such things and to cite his authors. Almost all others who have spoken of the misdeeds of the people towards their generals, collect them all together, and tell us of the banishment of Themistocles, Miltiades's bonds, Pericles's fine, and the death of Paches in the judgment hall, who, upon receiving sentence, killed himself on the hustings, with many things of the like nature. They add the banishment of Aristides; but of this his condemnation, they make no mention.

Moreover, his monument is to be seen at Phalerum, which they say was built him by the city, he not having left enough even to defray funeral charges. And it is stated, that his two daughters were publicly married out of the prytaneum, or state-house, by the city, which decreed each of them three thousand drachmas for her portion; and that upon his son Lysimachus, the people bestowed a hundred minas of money, and as many acres of planted land, and ordered him besides, upon the motion of Alcibiades, four drachmas a day. Furthermore, Lysimachus leaving a daughter, named Polycrite, as Callisthenes says, the people voted her, also, the same allowance for food with those that obtained the victory in the Olympic Games. But Demetrius the Phalerian, Hieronymus the Rhodian, Aristoxenus the musician, and Aristotle, (if the Treatise of Nobility is to be reckoned among the genuine pieces of Aristotle,) say that Myrto, Aristides's granddaughter, lived with Socrates the philosopher, who indeed had another wife, but took her into his house, being a widow, by reason of her indigence, and want of the necessaries of life. But Panaetius sufficiently confutes this in his books concerning Socrates. Demetrius the Phalerian, in his Socrates, says, he knew one Lysimachus, son to the daughter of Aristides, extremely poor, who used to sit near what is called the Iaccheum, and sustained himself by a table for interpreting dreams; and that, upon his proposal and representations, a decree was passed by the people, to give the mother and aunt of this man half a drachma a day. The same Demetrius, when he was legislating himself, decreed each of these women a drachma per diem. And it is not to be wondered at, that the people of Athens should take such care of people living in the city, since hearing the granddaughter of Aristogiton was in a low condition in the isle of Lemnos, and so poor nobody would marry her they brought her back to Athens, and, marrying her to a man of good birth, gave a farm at Potamus as her marriage-portion; and of similar humanity and bounty the city of Athens, even in our age, has given numerous proofs, and is justly admired and respected in consequence.

—excerpt from Plutarch’s Lives by A.H. Clough

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Elocution

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Of the importance of the study of Elocution as part of a good education there can be no question. Almost every one is liable to be called upon, perhaps at a few minutes notice, to explain his views and give his opinions on subjects of various degrees of importance, and to do so with effect ease in speaking is most requisite. Ease implies knowledge, and address in speaking is highly ornamental as well as useful even in private life.

The art of Elocution held a prominent place in ancient education, but has been greatly neglected in modern times, except by a few persons—whose fame as speakers and orators is a sufficient proof of the value and necessity of the study. The Ancients—particularly the Greeks and the Romans—were fully conscious of the benefits resulting from a close attention to and the practice of such rules as are fitted to advance the orator in his profession, and their schools of oratory were attended by all classes; nor were their greatest orators ashamed to acknowledge their indebtedness to their training in the art for a large portion of their success. The Welsh Triads say "Many are the friends of the golden tongue," and, how many a jury has thought a speaker's arguments without force because his manner was so, and have found a verdict, against law and against evidence, because they had been charmed into delusion by the potent fascination of some gifted orator.

As Quintilian remarks: "A proof of the importance of delivery may be drawn from the additional force which the actors give to what is written by the best poets; so that what we hear pronounced by them gives infinitely more pleasure than when we only read it. I think, I may affirm that a very indifferent speech, well set off by the speaker, will have a greater effect than the best, if destitute of that advantage;" and Henry Irving, in a recent article, says: "In the practice of acting, a most important point is the study of elocution; and, in elocution one great difficulty is the use of sufficient force to be generally heard without being unnaturally loud, and without acquiring a stilted delivery. I never knew an actor who brought the art of elocution to greater perfection than the late Charles Mathews, whose utterance on the stage was so natural, that one was surprised to find when near him that he was really speaking in a very loud key." Such are some of the testimonies to the value of this art.

Many persons object to the study of elocution because they do not expect to become professional readers or public speakers, but surely this is a great mistake, and they might as well object to the study of literature because they do not expect to become an author; and still more mischievous in its results is the fallacy, only too current even among persons of intelligence, that those who display great and successful oratorical powers, possess a genius or faculty that is the gift of nature, and which it would be in vain to Endeavour to acquire by practice, as if orators "were born, not made," as is said of poets.

The art of reading well is one of those rare accomplishments which all wish to possess, a few think they have, while others who see and believe that it is not the unacquired gift of genius, labor to obtain it, and it will be found that excellence in this, as in everything else of value, is the result of well-directed effort, and the reward of unremitting industry. A thorough knowledge of the principles of any art will enable a student to achieve perfection in it, so in elocution he may add new beauties to his own style of reading and speaking however excellent they may be naturally. But it is often said "Our greatest orators were not trained." But is this true? How are we to know how much and how laborious was the preliminary training each effort of these great orators cost them, before their eloquence thrilled through the listening crowds? As Henry Ward Beecher says: "If you go to the land which has been irradiated by parliamentary eloquence; if you go to the people of Great Britain; if you go to the great men in ancient times; if you go to the illustrious names that every one recalls--Demosthenes and Cicero--they all represent a life of work. You will not find one great sculptor, nor one great architect, nor one eminent an in any department of art, whose greatness, if you inquire, you will not find to be the fruit of study, and of the evolution which comes from study." So much for the importance of Elocution and the advantages of acquiring a proficiency therein.

A few remarks to those who are ambitious of excelling in the art may now be given, showing how they may best proceed in improving themselves therein.

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The following rules are worthy of strict attention: 1. Let your articulation be distinct and deliberate. 2. Let your pronunciation be bold and forcible. 3. Acquire a compass and variety in the height of your voice. 4. Pronounce your words with propriety and elegance. 5. Pronounce every word consisting of more than one syllable with its proper accent. 6. In every sentence distinguish the more significant words by a natural, forcible and varied emphasis. 7. Acquire a just variety of pause and cadence. 8. Accompany the emotions and passions which your words express, by corresponding tones, looks and gestures.

To follow nature is the fundamental rule in oratory, without regard to which, all other rules will only produce affected declamation not just elocution. Learn to speak slowly and deliberately, almost all persons who have not studied the art have a habit of uttering their words too rapidly. It should be borne in mind that the higher degrees of excellence in elocution are to be gained, not by reading much, but by pronouncing what is read with a strict regard to the nature of the subject, the structure of the sentences, the turn of the sentiment, and a correct and judicious application of the rules of the science. It is an essential qualification of a good speaker to be able to alter the height as well as the strength and the tone of his voice as occasion requires, so accustom yourself to pitch your voice in different keys, from the highest to the lowest; but this subject is of such a nature that it is difficult to give rules for all the inflections of the voice, and it is almost, if not quite impossible to teach gesture by written instructions; a few lessons from a good and experienced teacher will do more to give a pupil ease, grace, and force of action than all the books and diagrams in the world. Action is important to the orator, and changes of action must accord with the language; the lower the language the slower should be the movements and vice versa, observing Shakespeare's rule: "Suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance--that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature." Study repose, without it, both in speech and action, the ears, eyes, and minds of the audience, and the powers of the speaker are alike fatigued; follow nature, consider how she teaches you to utter any sentiment or feeling of your heart. Whether you speak in a private room or in a great assembly, remember that you still speak, and speak naturally. Conventional tones and action have been the ruin of delivery in the pulpit, the senate, at the bar, and on the platform.

All public speaking, but especially acting and reciting, must be heightened a little above ordinary nature, the pauses longer and more frequent, the tones weightier, the action more forcible, and the expression more highly colored. Speaking from memory admits of the application of every possible element of effectiveness, rhetorical and elocutionary, and in the delivery of a few great actors the highest excellence in this art has been exemplified. But speaking from memory requires the most minute and careful study, as well as high elocutionary ability, to guard the speaker against a merely mechanical utterance. Read in the same manner you would speak, as if the matter were your own original sentiments uttered directly from the heart. Action should not be used in ordinary reading.

Endeavour to learn something from every one, either by imitating, but not servilely, what is good, or avoiding what is bad. Before speaking in public collect your thoughts and calm yourself, avoiding all hurry. Be punctual with your audience, an apology for being late is the worst prologue. Leave off before your hearers become tired, it is better for you that they should think your speech too short than too long.

Let everything be carefully finished, well polished, and perfect. Many of the greatest effects in all arts have been the results of long and patient study and hard work, however simple and spontaneous they may have appeared to be.

Remember, that the highest art is to conceal art, that attention to trifles makes perfection, and that perfection is no trifle.

—excerpt from The Canadian Elocutionist by Anna Kelsey Howard

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Beginner

ARTICULATION

SUGGESTIONS TO TEACHERS: Thorough and frequent drills on the elementary sounds are useful in correcting vicious habits of pronunciation and in strengthening the vocal organs. As a rule, only one or two sounds should be employed at one lesson. Care should be taken that the pupils observe and practice these sounds correctly in their reading.

Long Sounds Sound as in Sound as in

a ate e Err

a care i Ice

a arm o Ode

a last u Use a all u Burn e eve oo Fool

Short Sounds Aspirates a am o odd f fifi t Tat e end u up h him sh She i in oo look k kite ch Chat Diphthongs p pipe th Thick oi oil ou out s same wh Why oy boy ow now

Subvocals Sound as in Sound as in b bib v valve d did th this g gig z zin j jug z azure n nine r rare m maim w we ng hang y yet l lull

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Substitutes Sub for as in Sub for as in

a o what y I myth

e a there c k can e a feint c a cite i e police ch sh chaise i e sir ch k chaos o u son g j gem o oo to n ng ink o oo wolf s z as o a fork s sh sure

o u work x gz exact

u oo full gh f laugh

u oo rude ph f phlox

y i fly qu k pique

qu kw quit

PUNCTUATION

Punctuation Marks are used to make the sense more clear.

A Period (.) is used at the end of a sentence, and after an abbreviation; as,

James was quite sick. Dr. Jones was called to see him.

An Interrogation Mark (?) is used at the end of a question; as,

Where is John going?

An Exclamation Mark (!) is used after words or sentences expressing some strong feeling; as,

Alas, my noble boy! that thou shouldst die!

The Comma (,), Semicolon (;), and Colon (:) are used to separate the parts of a sentence.

The Hyphen (-) is used to join the parts of a compound word; it is also used at the end of a line in print or script, when a word is divided.

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The Story of the Kittens We four little kittens are jolly enough: We are Velvet, and Whitepaws, and Hero, and Muff. Full many a frolic we have through the house, Pretending to hunt for the hole of a mouse. One day we are racing, -a live mouse we met,- Our fright and our horror I cannot forget; We ran for a refuge; -a nice box we found, And into its shelter we went with a bound; We struggled and tumbled, then lay in a heap Till, all being quiet, we ventured to peep. We looked all around, and what think you we saw? A foolish young lady attempting to draw! Poor Hero was frightened, but Whitepaws and I Just looked that young person quite straight in the eye. Velvet was sleepy, so he didn’t care, But blinked and sat still without moving a hair. Now out peeped the mouse from a hole in the wall; The young lady saw him,-her sketch she let fall, And ran away shrieking, “A mouse! Oh! A mouse!” In tones that alarmed every soul in the house. Then our mother rushed in, -sagacious old cat! She isn’t afraid to encounter a rat! She quick made an end of the mouse and our fears, And scolded us sadly and boxed our poor ears. “Little ‘fraid cats,” she said, “now run off and play, And don’t be as silly as girls are, I pray!” Henrietta Davis

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Under the Wagon “Come wife,” says good old Farmer-Gray, “put on your things; ‘tis market-day; let’s be off to the nearest town-there and back ere the sun goes down. Spot! No, we’ll leave old Spot behind.” But Spot he barked, and Spot he whined, and soon made up his doggish mind to steal away under the wagon. Away they went at a good round pace, and joy came into the farmer’s face. “Poor Spot,” said he, “did want to come, but I’m very glad he’s left at home. He’ll guard the barn and guard the cot, and keep the cattle out of the lot.” “I’m not so sure of that,” growled Spot, the little dog under the wagon. The farmer all his produce sold, and got his pay in yellow gold, then started home, just after dark-home through the lonely forest. Hark! a robber springs from behind a tree: “Your money or else your life!” said he. The moon was out yet he didn’t see the little dog under the wagon. Old Spot he barked, old Spot he whined, and Spot he grabbed the thief behind and dragged him down in mud and dirt. He tore his coat and tore his shirt; he held him with a whisk and bound, and he couldn’t rise from the miry ground; while his legs and arms the farmer bound, and tumbled him into the wagon. Old Spot he saved the farmer’s life, the farmer’s money, the farmer’s wife; and now a hero, grand and gay, a silver collar he wears to-day; and everywhere his master goes, among his friends, among his foes, he follows upon his horny toes, the little dog under the wagon!

Good Night Mrs. Follen

The sun is hidden from our sight, The birds are sleeping sound; 'Tis time to say to all, "Good night!" And give a kiss all round.

Good night, my father, mother, dear! Now kiss your little son; Good night, my friends, both far and near! Good night to everyone.

Good night, ye merry, merry birds! Sleep well till morning light; Perhaps, if you could sing in words, You would have said, "Good night!"

To all my pretty flowers, good night! You blossom while I sleep; And all the stars, that shine so bright, With you their watches keep.

The moon is lighting up the skies, The stars are sparkling there; 'Tis time to shut our weary eyes, And say our evening prayer.

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At the Meadow Spring Sam put us both in a barrow, Nellie and me, one day, and wheeled us down to the meadow spring, and left us there to play. Three little fish live in the spring, and one is bright as gold, and one is a little baby-fish, and one is dark and old. So Nellie and I we fed the fish, and watched the pebbles shine, and played with the water fairies-Nellie’s shadow and mine. We wondered if the fish could sing, and if they ever talked we have a book with a picture in it of a fish that danced and walked! Then we played that a cruel giant came and carried us both away, and shut us up by the side of the sea in a castle old and gray. And Nellie and I we cried and cried, till our tears fell into the sea; and three little fishes came sailing by, and spoke to Nellie and me. They said that they were fairies, and that, if we were good little girls, all the tears that we should shed would turn to shining pearls; and these we must give to the giant (a miserly man was he), and he would open the great stone doors of his castle by the sea. So we thanked the little fishes, and we watched them sail away, and Nellie and I we cried and cried all the rest of the day. And we gave the giant a bushel of pearls, and he opened the great stone door, and Nellie and I ran home again, and never cried any more. Then Sam came back with the barrow, as fast as ever he could saying, “Here comes the cruel uncle, after the babes in the wood!” And Nellie and I we laughed and ran, till we tumbled down in the clover; and Sam pretended to pick us up, but he rolled us over and over. And Nellie bent her broad-brimmed hat, and tore her apron too, and the ruffles they came off my dress, and the buttons off my shoe. But mother laughed when she saw us, and Susan said, “I declare ‘twould take two machines and a seamstress to keep you in ‘something to wear!”

A Twilight Story Mary J. Porter “Auntie, will you tell a story?” said my little niece of three, As the early winter twilight fell around us silently. So I answered to her pleading: “Once, when I was very small, With my papa and my mamma I went out to make a call; And a lady, pleased to see us, gave me quite a large bouquet, Which I carried homeward proudly, smiling all along the way.

“Soon I met two other children, clad in rags and said of face, Who grew strangely, wildly joyous as I neared their standing place. ‘Twas so good to see the flowers! ‘Give us one – oh, one!’ they cried. But I passed them without speaking, left them with their wish denied. Yet the mem’ry of their asking haunted me by night and day, ‘Give us one!’ I heard them saying, even in my mirthful play.

“Still I mourn, because in childhood I refused to give a flower: Did not make those others happy when I had it in my power.” Suddenly I ceased my story. Tears were in my niece’s eyes – Tears of tenderness and pity – while she planned a sweet surprise; “I will send a flower to-morrow to those little children dear.” Could I tell her that their childhood had been gone this many year?

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The Twins In form and feature, face and limb, I grew so like my brother that folks got taking me for him, and each for one another. It puzzled all our kith and kin, it reached an awful pitch for one of us was born a twin, and not a soul knew which. One day (to make the matter worse), before our names were fixed, as we were being washed by nurse, we got completely mixed, and thus you see, by Fate’s decree, (or rather nurse’s whim), my brother John got christened me, and I got christened him. This fatal likeness even dogged my footsteps when at school, and I was always getting flogged for John turned out a fool. I put this question hopelessly to everyone I knew what would you do if you were me, to prove that you were you? Our close resemblance turned the tide of our domestic life; for somehow my intended bride became my brother’s wife. In short, year after year the same absurd mistakes went on; and when I died – the neighbors came and buried Brother John! -—excerpt from The Home and Platform Elocutionist, Edited by George Stedman Wordsworth, MA

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Intermediate

The great object to be accomplished in reading, as a rhetorical exercise, is to convey to the hearer, fully and clearly, the ideas and feelings of the writer. In order to do this, it is necessary that a selection should be carefully studied by the pupil before he attempts to read it. In accordance with this view, a preliminary rule of importance is the following: RULE I. Before attempting to read a lesson, the learner should make himself fully acquainted with the subject as treated of in that lesson, and endeavor to make the thought and feeling and sentiments of the writer his own.

REMARK: When he has thus identified himself with the author, he has the substance of all rules in his own mind. It is by going to nature that we find rules. The child or the savage orator never mistakes in inflection or emphasis or modulation. The best speakers and readers are those who follow the impulse of nature, or most closely imitate it as observed in others. ARTICULATION Articulation is the utterance of the elementary sounds of a language, and of their combinations. An Elementary Sound is a simple, distinct sound made by the organs of speech. The Elementary Sounds of the English language are divided into Vocals, Subvocals, and Aspirates. Vocals are sounds which consist of pure tone only. A diphthong is a union of two vocals, commencing with one and ending with the other.

DIRECTION.--Put the lips, teeth, tongue, and palate in their proper position; pronounce the word in the chart forcibly, and with the falling inflection, several times in succession; then drop the subvocal or aspirate sounds which precede or follow the vocal, and repeat the vocals alone. Long Vocals Sound as in Sound as in a hate e err a hare i pine a pass o no a far oo cool a fall u tube e eve u burn Short Vocals Sound as in Sound as in a mat o hot e met oo book i it u us

REMARK 1. In this table, the short sounds, except u, are nearly or quite the same in quality as certain of the long sounds. The difference consists chiefly in quantity. REMARK 2. The vocals are often represented by other letters or combinations of letters than those used in the table; for instance, a is represented by ai in hail, ea in steak, etc. REMARK 3. As a general rule, the long vocals and the diphthongs should he articulated with a full, clear utterance; but the short vocals have a sharp, distinct, and almost explosive utterance. Subvocals are those sounds in which the vocalized breath is more or less obstructed.

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Aspirates consist of breath only, modified by the vocal organs. Words ending with subvocal sounds should be selected for practice on the subvocals; words beginning or ending with aspirate sounds may be used for practice on the aspirates. Pronounce these words forcibly and distinctly several times in succession; then drop the other sounds, and repeat the subvocals and aspirates alone.

Subvocals. as in Aspirates. as in b babe p Rap d bad t At g nag k Book j judge ch Rich v move f Life th with th Smith z buzz s Hiss z azure (azh-) sh Rush w wine wh What

REMARK. These sixteen sounds make eight pairs of cognates. In articulating the aspirates, the vocal organs are put in the position required in the articulation of the corresponding subvocals; but the breath is expelled with some force without the utterance of any vocal sound. The pupil should first verify this by experiment, and then practice on these cognates. The following subvocals and aspirates have no cognates.

SUBVOCAL as in SUBVOCAL l mill ng sing m rim r rule n run y yet

Aspirate as in Aspirate as in h hat wh When

Substitutes are characters used to represent sounds ordinarily represented by other characters. Sub for as in Sub for as in a o what y i hymn e a there c s cite e a freight c k cap i e police ch sh machine i e sir ch k chord o u son g j cage o oo to n ng rink o oo would s z rose o a corn s sh sugar o u worm x gz examine u oo pull gh f laugh u oo rude ph f sylph y i my qu k pique qu kw quick

FAULTS TO BE REMEDIED DIRECTIONS: Give to each sound, to each syllable, and to each word its full, distinct, and appropriate utterance. For the purpose of avoiding the more common errors under this head, observe the following rules:

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RULE II. Avoid the omission of unaccented vowels Incorrect Correct Incorrect Correct Sep'rate sep-a-rate Ev'dent ev-i-dent met-ric'l met-ric-al mem'ry mem-o-ry 'pear ap-pear 'pin-ion o-pin-ion com-p'tent com-pe-tent pr'pose pro-pose pr'cede pre-cede gran'lar gran-u-lar 'spe-cial es-pe-cial par-tic'lar par-tic-u-lar

RULE III. Avoid sounding incorrectly the unaccented vowels Incorrect Correct Incorrect Correct Sep-er-ate sep-a-rate Mem-er-ry mem-o-ry met-ric-ul met-ric-al up-pin-ion o-pin-ion up-pear ap-pear prup-ose pro-pose com-per-tent com-pe-tent gran-ny-lar gran-u-lar dum-mand de-mand par-tic-e-lar par-tic-u-lar ob-stur-nate ob-sti-nate ev-er-dent ev-i-dent

REMARK I. In correcting errors of this kind in words of more than one syllable, it is very important to avoid a fault which is the natural consequence of an effort to articulate correctly. Thus, in endeavoring to sound correctly the a in met'ric-al, the pupil is very apt to say met-ric-al'. accenting the last syllable instead of the first. REMARK 2. The teacher should bear it in mind that in correcting a fault there is always danger of erring in the opposite extreme. Properly speaking, there is no danger of learning to articulate too distinctly, but there is danger of making the obscure sounds too prominent, and of reading in a slow, measured, and unnatural manner.

RULE IV. Utter distinctly the terminating subvocals and aspirates Incorrect Correct Incorrect Correct An' and Mos' Mosque ban' band near-es' near-est moun' mound wep' Wept mor-nin' morn-ing ob-jec' ob-ject des' desk sub-jec sub-ject

REMARK 1. This omission is still more likely to occur when several consonants come together Incorrect Correct Incorrect Correct Thrus' thrusts Harms' harm'st beace beasts wrongs' wrong'st thinks' thinkst twinkles' twinkl'dst weps' weptst black'ns black'n'dst

REMARK 2. In all cases of this kind these sounds are omitted, in the first instance, merely because they are difficult, and require care and attention for their utterance, although after a while it becomes a habit. The only remedy is to devote that care and attention which may be necessary. There is no other difficulty, unless there should be a defect in the organs of speech, which is not often the case.

RULE V. Avoid blending syllables which belong to different words. INCORRECT CORRECT He ga-zdupon. He gazed upon. Here res tsis sed. Here rests his head. Whattis sis sname? What is his name? 141

For ranninstantush. For an instant hush. Ther ris sa calm, There is a calm. For tho stha tweep. For those that weep. God sglorou simage. God's glorious image.

EXERCISES IN ARTICULATION This exercise and similar ones will afford valuable aid in training the organs to a distinct articulation.

Every vice fights against nature. Folly is never pleased with itself. Pride, not nature, craves much. The little tattler tittered at the tempest. Titus takes the petulant outcasts. The covetous partner is destitute of fortune. No one of you knows where the shoe pinches. What cannot be cured must be endured. You cannot catch old birds with chaff. Never sport with the opinions of others. The lightnings flashed, the thunders roared. His hand in mine was fondly clasped. They cultivated shrubs and plants. He selected his texts with great care. His lips grow restless, and his smile is curled half into scorn. Wisdom's ways are ways of pleasantness. O breeze, that waftst me on my way! Thou boast'st of what should be thy shame. Life's fitful fever over, he rests well. Canst thou fill his skin with barbed irons? From star to star the living lightnings flash. And glittering crowns of prostrate seraphim. That morning, thou that slumber'd'st not before. Habitual evils change not on a sudden. Thou waft'd'st the rickety skiffs over the cliffs. Thou reef'd'st the haggled, shipwrecked sails. The honest shepherd's catarrh. The heiress in her dishabille is humorous. The brave chevalier behaves like a conservative. The luscious notion of champagne and precious sugar.

A Boy on a Farm

Charles Dudley Warner (b. 1829) was born at Plainfield, Mass. In 1851 he graduated at Hamilton College, and in 1856 was admitted to the bar at Philadelphia, but moved to Chicago to practice his profession. There he remained until 1860, when he became connected with the press at Hartford, Conn., and devoted himself to literature. "My Summer in a Garden," "Saunterings," and "Backlog Studies" are his best known works. The following extract is from "Being a Boy." Say what you will about the general usefulness of boys, it is my impression that a farm without a boy would very soon come to grief. What the boy does is the life of the farm. He is the factotum, always in demand, always expected to do the thousand indispensable things that nobody else will do. Upon him fall all the odds and ends, the most difficult things. After everybody else is through, he has to finish up. His work is like a woman's, perpetually waiting on others. Everybody knows how much easier it is to eat a good dinner than it is to wash the dishes afterwards. Consider what a boy on a farm is required to do, things that must be done, or life would actually stop.

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It is understood, in the first place, that he is to do all the errands, to go to the store, to the post office, and to carry all sorts of messages. If he had as many legs as a centipede, they would tire before night. His two short limbs seem to him entirely inadequate to the task. He would like to have as many legs as a wheel has spokes, and rotate about in the same way. This he sometimes tries to do; and the people who have seen him "turning cart wheels" along the side of the road, have supposed that he was amusing himself and idling his time; he was only trying to invent a new mode of locomotion, so that he could economize his legs, and do his errands with greater dispatch. He practices standing on his head, in order to accustom himself to any position. Leapfrog is one of his methods of getting over the ground quickly. He would willingly go an errand any distance if he could leapfrog it with a few other boys. He has a natural genius for combining pleasure with business. This is the reason why, when he is sent to the spring for a pitcher of water, he is absent so long; for he stops to poke the frog that sits on the stone, or, if there is a penstock, to put his hand over the spout, and squirt the water a little while. He is the one who spreads the grass when the men have cut it; he mows it away in the barn; he rides the horse, to cultivate the corn, up and down the hot, weary rows; he picks up the potatoes when they are dug; he drives the cows night and morning; he brings wood and water, and splits kindling; he gets up the horse, and puts out the horse; whether he is in the house or out of it, there is always something for him to do. Just before the school in winter he shovels paths; in summer he turns the grindstone. He knows where there are lots of wintergreens and sweet flags, but instead of going for them, he is to stay indoors and pare apples, and stone raisins, and pound something in a mortar. And yet, with his mind full of schemes of what he would like to do, and his hands full of occupations, he is an idle boy, who has nothing to busy himself with but school and chores! He would gladly do all the work if somebody else would do the chores, he thinks; and yet I doubt if any boy ever amounted to anything in the world, or was of much use as a man, who did not enjoy the advantages of a liberal education in the way of chores.

Do Not Meddle

About twenty years ago there lived a singular gentleman in the Old Hall among the elm trees. He was about three-score years of age, very rich, and somewhat odd in many of his habits, but for generosity and benevolence he had no equal. No poor cottager stood in need of comforts, which he was not ready to supply; no sick man or woman languished for want of his assistance; and not even a beggar, unless a known impostor, went empty-handed from the Hall. Like the village pastor described in Goldsmith's poem of "The Deserted Village,"

"His house was known to all the vagrant train; He chid their wand'rings, but relieved their pain; The long-remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast."

Now it happened that the old gentleman wanted a boy to wait upon him at table, and to attend him in different ways, for he was very fond of young people. But much as he liked the society of the young, he had a great aversion to that curiosity in which many young people are apt to indulge. He used to say, "The boy who will peep into a drawer will be tempted to take something out of it; and he who will steal a penny in his youth will steal a pound in his manhood." 143

No sooner was it known that the old gentleman was in want of a boy than twenty applications were made for the situation; but he determined not to engage anyone until he had in some way ascertained that he did not possess a curious, prying disposition. On Monday morning seven lads, dressed in their Sunday clothes, with bright and happy faces, made their appearance at the Hall, each of them desiring to obtain the situation. Now the old gentleman, being of a singular disposition, had prepared a room in such a way that he might easily know if any of the young people who applied were given to meddle unnecessarily with things around them, or to peep into cupboards and drawers. He took care that the lads who were then at Elm Tree Hall should be shown into this room one after another. And first, Charles Brown was sent into the room, and told that he would have to wait a little. So Charles sat down on a chair near the door. For some time he was very quiet, and looked about him; but there seemed to be so many curious things in the room that at last he got up to peep at them. On the table was placed a dish cover, and Charles wanted sadly to know what was under it, but he felt afraid of lifting it up. Bad habits are strong things; and, as Charles was of a curious disposition, he could not withstand the temptation of taking one peep. So he lifted up the cover. This turned out to be a sad affair; for under the dish cover was a heap of very light feathers; part of the feathers, drawn up by a current of air, flew about the room, and Charles, in his fright, putting the cover down hastily, puffed the rest of them off the table. What was to be done? Charles began to pick up the feathers one by one; but the old gentleman, who was in an adjoining room, hearing a scuffle, and guessing the cause of it, entered the room, to the consternation of Charles Brown, who was very soon dismissed as a boy who had not principle enough to resist even a slight temptation. When the room was once more arranged, Henry Wilkins was placed there until such time as he should be sent for. No sooner was he left to himself than his attention was attracted by a plate of fine, ripe cherries. Now Henry was uncommonly fond of cherries, and he thought it would be impossible to miss one cherry among so many. He looked and longed, and longed and looked, for some time, and just as he had got off his seat to take one, he heard, as he thought, a foot coming to the door; but no, it was a false alarm. Taking fresh courage, he went cautiously and took a very fine cherry, for he was determined to take but one, and put it into his mouth. It was excellent; and then he persuaded himself that he ran no risk in taking another; this he did, and hastily popped it into his mouth. Now, the old gentleman had placed a few artificial cherries at the top of the others, filled with Cayenne pep- per; one of these Henry had unfortunately taken, and it made his month smart and burn most intolerably. The old gentleman heard him coughing, and knew very well what was the matter. The boy that would take what did not belong to him, if no more than a cherry, was not the boy for him. Henry Wilkins was sent about his business without delay, with his mouth almost as hot as if he had put a burning coal in to it. Rufus Wilson was next introduced into the room and left to himself; but he had not been there ten minutes before he began to move from one place to another. He was of a bold, resolute temper, but not overburdened with principle; for if he could have opened every cupboard, closet, and drawer in the house, without being found out, he would have done it directly. Having looked around the room, he noticed a drawer to the table, and made up his mind to peep therein. But no sooner did he lay hold of the drawer knob than he set a large bell ringing, which was concealed under the table. The old gentleman immediately answered the summons, and entered the room. Rufus was so startled by the sudden ringing of the bell, that all his impudence could not support him. He looked as though anyone might knock him down with a feather. The old gentleman asked him if he had rung the bell because he wanted anything. Rufus was much confused, and stammered, and tried to excuse himself, but all to no purpose, for it did not prevent him from being ordered off the premises. George Jones was then shown into the room by an old steward; and being of a cautious disposition, he touched nothing, but only looked at the things about him. At last he saw that a closet door was a little open, and, thinking it would be impossible for anyone to know that he had opened it a little more, he very cautiously opened it an inch farther, looking down at the bottom of the door, that it might not catch against anything and make a noise. 144

Now had he looked at the top, instead of the bottom, it might have been better for him; for to the top of the door was fastened a plug, which filled up the hole of a small barrel of shot. He ventured to open the door another inch, and then another, till, the plug being pulled out of the barrel, the leaden shot began to pour out at a strange rate. At the bottom of the closet was placed a tin pan, and the shot falling upon this pan made such a clatter that George was frightened half out of his senses. The old gentleman soon came into the room to inquire what was the matter, and there he found George nearly as pale as a sheet. George was soon dismissed. It now came the turn of Albert Jenkins to be put into the room. The other boys had been sent to their homes by different ways, and no one knew what the experience of the other had been in the room of trial. On the table stood a small round box, with a screw top to it, and Albert, thinking it contained something curious, could not be easy without unscrewing the top; but no sooner did he do this than out bounced an artificial snake, full a yard long, and fell upon his arm. He started back, and uttered a scream which brought the old gentleman to his elbow. There stood Albert, with the bottom of the box in one hand, the top in the other, and the snake on the floor. "Come, come," said the old gentleman, "one snake is quite enough to have in the house at a time; therefore, the sooner you are gone the better." With that he dismissed him, without waiting a moment for his reply. William Smith next entered the room, and being left alone soon began to amuse himself in looking at the curiosities around him. William was not only curious and prying, but dishonest, too, and observing that the key was left in the drawer of a bookcase, he stepped on tiptoe in that direction. The key had a wire fastened to it, which communicated with an electrical machine, and William received such a shock as he was not likely to forget. No sooner did he sufficiently recover himself to walk, than he was told to leave the house, and let other people lock and unlock their own drawers. The other boy was Harry Gordon, and though he was left in the room full twenty minutes, he never during that time stirred from his chair. Harry had eyes in his head as well as the others, but he had more integrity in his heart; neither the dish cover, the cherries, the drawer knob, the closet door, the round box, nor the key tempted him to rise from his feet; and the consequence was that, in half an hour after, he was engaged in the service of the old gentleman at Elm Tree Hall. He followed his good old master to his grave, and received a large legacy for his upright conduct in his service.

How To Tell Bad News Mr. H. Ha! Steward, how are you, my old boy? How do things go on at home? Steward. Bad enough, your honor; the magpie's dead. H. Poor Mag! So he's gone. How came he to die? S. Overeat himself, sir. H. Did he? A greedy dog; why, what did he get he liked so well? S. Horseflesh, sir; he died of eating horseflesh, H. How came he to get so much horseflesh? S. All your father's horses, sir. H. What! are they dead, too? 145

S. Ay, sir; they died of overwork. H. And why were they overworked, pray? S. To carry water, sir. H. To carry water! and what were they carrying water for? S. Sure, sir, to put out the fire. H. Fire! what fire? S. O, sir, your father's house is burned to the ground. H. My father's house burned down! and how came it set on fire? S. I think, sir, it must have been the torches. H. Torches! what torches? S. At your mother's funeral. H. My mother dead! S. Ah, poor lady! she never looked up, after it. H. After what? S. The loss of your father. H. My father gone, too? S. Yes, poor gentleman! he took to his bed as soon as he heard of it. H. Heard of what? S. The bad news, sir, and please your honor. H. What! more miseries! more bad news! S. Yes, sir; your bank has failed, and your credit is lost, and you are not worth a shilling in the world. I made bold, sir, to wait on you about it, for I thought you would like to hear the news.

Lucy Forester

John Wilson (b. 1785, d. 1854), better known as "Christopher North," was a celebrated author, poet, and critic, born at Paisley, Scotland, and educated at the University of Glasgow and at Oxford. In 1808 he moved to Westmoreland, England, where he formed one of the "Lake School" of poets. While at Oxford he gained a prize for a poem on "Painting, Poetry, and Architecture." In 1820 he became Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, which position he retained until 1851. He gained his greatest reputation as the chief author of "Noctes Ambrosianae," essays contributed to Blackwood's Magazine between 1822 and 1825. Among his poems may be mentioned "The Isle of Palms" and the "City of the Plague," This selection is adapted from "The Foresters," a tale of Scottish life. Lucy was only six years old, but bold as a fairy; she had gone by herself a thousand times about the braes, and often upon errands to houses two or three miles distant. What had her parents to fear? The footpaths were all firm, and led to no places of danger, nor are infants themselves incautious when alone in the pastimes. Lucy went singing into the low woods, and singing she reappeared on the open hillside. With her small white hand on the rail, she glided along the wooden bridge, or tripped from stone to stone across the shallow streamlet. The creature would be away for hours, and no fear be felt on her account by anyone at home; whether she had gone, with her basket on her arm, to borrow some articles of household use from a neighbor, or, merely for her own solitary delight, had wandered off to the braes to play among the flowers, coming back laden with wreaths and garlands. The happy child had been invited to pass a whole day, from morning to night, at Ladyside (a farmhouse about two miles off) with her playmates the Maynes; and she left home about an hour after sunrise. During her absence, the house was silent but happy, and, the evening being now far advanced, Lucy was expected home every minute, and Michael, Agnes, and Isabel, her father, mother, and aunt, went to meet her on the way. They walked on and on, wondering a little, but in no degree alarmed till they reached Ladyside, and heard the cheerful din of the children within, still rioting at the close of the holiday. Jacob Mayne came to the door, but, on their kindly asking why Lucy had not been sent home before daylight was over, he looked painfully surprised, and said that she had not been at Ladyside. Within two hours, a hundred persons were traversing the hills in all directions, even at a distance which it seemed most unlikely that poor Lucy could have reached. The shepherds and their dogs, all the night through, searched every nook, every stony and rocky place, every piece of taller heather, every crevice that 146 could conceal anything alive or dead: but no Lucy was there. Her mother, who for a while seemed inspired with supernatural strength, had joined in the search, and with a quaking heart looked into every brake, or stopped and listened to every shout and halloo reverberating among the hills, intent to seize upon some tone of recognition or discovery. But the moon sank; and then the stars, whose increased brightness had for a short time supplied her place, all faded away; and then came the gray dawn of the morning, and then the clear brightness of the day,--and still Michael and Agnes were childless. "She has sunk into some mossy or miry place," said Michael, to a man near him, into whose face he could not look, "a cruel, cruel death to one like her! The earth on which my child walked has closed over her, and we shall never see her more!" At last, a man who had left the search, and gone in a direction toward the highroad, came running with something in his arms toward the place where Michael and others were standing beside Agnes, who lay, apparently exhausted almost to dying, on the sword. He approached hesitatingly; and Michael saw that he carried Lucy's bonnet, clothes, and plaid. It was impossible not to see some spots of blood upon the frill that the child had worn around her neck. "Murdered! murdered!" was the one word whispered or ejaculated all around; but Agnes heard it not; for, worn out by that long night of hope and despair, she had fallen asleep, and was, perhaps, seeking her lost Lucy in her dreams. Isabel took the clothes, and, narrowly inspecting them with eye and hand, said, with a fervent voice that was heard even in Michael's despair, "No, Lucy is yet among the living. There are no marks of violence on the garments of the innocent; no murderer's hand has been here. These blood spots have been put here to deceive. Besides, would not the murderer have carried off these things? For what else would he have murdered her? But, oh! foolish despair! What speak I of? For, wicked as the world is--ay! Desperately wicked- -there is not, on all the surface of the wide earth, a hand that would murder our child! Is it not plain as the sun in the heaven, that Lucy has been stolen by some wretched gypsy beggar?" The crowd quietly dispersed, and horse and foot began to scour the country. Some took the highroads, others all the bypaths, and many the trackless hills. Now that they were in some measure relieved from the horrible belief that the child was dead, the worst other calamity seemed nothing, for hope brought her back to their arms. Agnes had been able to walk home to Bracken-Braes, and Michael and Isabel sat by her bedside. All her strength was gone, and she lay at the mercy of the rustle of a leaf, or a shadow across the window. Thus hour after hour passed, till it was again twilight. "I hear footsteps coming up the brae," said Agnes, who had for some time appeared to be slumbering; and in a few moments the voice of Jacob Mayne was heard at the outer door. Jacob wore a solemn expression of countenance, and he seemed, from his looks, to bring no comfort. Michael stood up between him and his wife, and looked into his heart. Something there seemed to be in his face that was not miserable. "If he has heard nothing of my child," thought Michael, "this man must care little for his own fireside." "Oh, speak, speak," said Agnes; "yet why need you speak? All this has been but a vain belief, and Lucy is in heaven." "Something like a trace of her has been discovered; a woman, with a child that did not look like a child of hers, was last night at Clovenford, and left it at the dawning." "Do you hear that, my beloved Agnes?" said Isabel; "she will have tramped away with Lucy up into Ettrick or Yarrow; but hundreds of eyes will have been upon her; for these are quiet but not solitary glens; and the hunt will be over long before she has crossed down upon Hawick. I knew that country in my young days, what say you, Mr. Mayne? There is the light of hope in your face." "There is no reason to doubt, ma'am, that it was Lucy. Everybody is sure of it. If it was my own Rachel, I should have no fear as to seeing her this blessed night." Jacob Mayne now took a chair, and sat down, with even a smile upon his countenance. "I may tell you now, that Watty Oliver knows it was your child, for he saw her limping along after the gypsy at Galla-Brigg; but, having no suspicion, he did not take a second look at her,--but one look is sufficient, and he swears it was bonny Lucy Forester." Aunt Isabel, by this time, had bread and cheese and a bottle of her own elderflower wine on the table.

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"You have been a long and hard journey, wherever you have been, Mr. Mayne; take some refreshment," and Michael asked a blessing. Jacob saw that he might now venture to reveal the whole truth. "No, no, Mrs. Irving, I am over happy to eat or to drink. You are all prepared for the blessing that awaits you. Your child is not far off; and I myself, for it is I myself that found her, will bring her by the hand, and restore her to her parents." Agnes had raised herself up in her bed at these words, but she sank gently back on her pillow; aunt Isabel was rooted to her chair; and Michael, as he rose up, felt as if the ground were sinking under his feet. There was a dead silence all around the house for a short space, and then the sound of many voices, which again by degrees subsided. The eyes of all then looked, and yet feared to look, toward the door.

Jacob Mayne was not so good as his word, for he did not bring Lucy by the hand to restore her to her parents; but dressed again in her own bonnet and gown, and her own plaid, in rushed their own child, by herself, with tears and sobs of joy, and her father laid her within her mother's bosom. Note: The scene of this story is laid in Scotland, and many of the words employed, such as brae, brake, heather, and plaid, are but little used except in that country.

Political Toleration Thomas Jefferson, 1743–1826, the third President of the United States, and the author of the Declaration of Independence, was born in Albemarle County, Virginia. He received most of his early education under private tutors, and at the age of seventeen entered William and Mary College, where he remained two years. At college, where he studied industriously, he formed the acquaintance of several distinguished men, among them was George Wythe, with whom he entered on the study of law. At the age of twenty-four he was admitted to the bar, and soon rose to high standing in his profession. In 1775 he entered the Colonial Congress, having previously served ably in the legislature of his native state. Although one of the youngest men in Congress, he soon took a foremost place in that body. He left Congress in the fall of 1776, and, as a member of the legislature, and later as Governor of Virginia, he was chiefly instrumental in effecting several important reforms in the laws of that state,--the most notable were the abolition of the law of primogeniture, and the passage of a law making all religious denominations equal. From 1785 to 1789 he was Minister to France. On his return to America he was made Secretary of State, in the first Cabinet. While in this office, he became the leader of the Republican or Anti-Federalist party, in opposition to the Federalist Party led by Alexander Hamilton. From 1801 to 1809 he was President. On leaving his high office, he retired to his estate at "Monticello," where he passed the closing years of his life, and died on the 4th of July, just fifty years after the passage of his famous Declaration. His compatriot, and sometimes-bitter political opponent, John Adams, died on the same day. Mr. Jefferson, who was never a ready public speaker, was a remarkably clear and forcible writer; his works fill several large volumes. In personal character, he was pure and simple, cheerful, and disposed to look on the bright side. His knowledge of life rendered his conversation highly attractive. The chief enterprise of his later years was the founding of the University of Virginia, at Charlottesville.

During the contest of opinion through which we have passed, the animation of discussions and of exertions has sometimes worn an aspect which might impose on strangers, unused to think freely and to speak and to write what they think; but this being now decided by the voice of the nation, announced according to the rules of the constitution, all will, of course, arrange themselves under the will of the law, and unite in common efforts for the common good. All, too, will bear in mind this sacred principle, that, though the will of the majority is, in all cases, to prevail, that will, to be rightful, must be reasonable; that the minority possess their equal rights, which equal laws must protect, and to violate which would be oppression. Let us then, fellow-citizens, unite with one heart and one mind. Let us restore to social intercourse that harmony and affection, without which liberty, and even life itself, are but dreary things; and let us reflect, that, having banished from our land that religious intolerance under 148 which mankind so long bled and suffered, we have gained little if we countenance a political intolerance as despotic, as wicked, and capable of as bitter and bloody persecutions. During the throes and convulsions of the ancient world; during the agonizing spasms of infuriated man, seeking, through blood and slaughter, his long-lost liberty; it was not wonderful that the agitation of the billows should reach even this distant and peaceful shore; that this should be more felt and feared by some, and less by others, and should divide opinions as to measures of safety. But every difference of opinion is not a difference of principle. We have called by different names brethren of the same principle. We are all Republicans; we are all Federalists. If there be any among us who would wish to dissolve this Union, or to change its republican form, let them stand undisturbed as monuments of the safety with which error of opinion may be tolerated when reason is left free to combat it. I know, indeed, that some honest men fear that a republican government cannot be strong; that this government is not strong enough. But would the honest patriot, in the full tide of successful experiment, abandon a government which has so far kept us free and firm, on the theoretic and visionary fear that this government, the world's best hope, may, by possibility, want energy to preserve itself? I trust not; I believe this, on the contrary, the strongest government on earth. I believe it to be the only one where every man, at the call of the law, would fly to the standard of the law, and would meet invasions of the public order as his own personal concern. Sometimes it is said that man cannot be trusted with the government of himself. Can he, then, be trusted with the government of others, or have we found angels, in the form of kings, to govern him? Let history answer this question. Let us, then, with courage and confidence, pursue our own federal and republican principles; our attachment to union and representative government.

NOTE.--At the time of Jefferson's election, party spirit ran very high. He had been defeated by John Adams at the previous presidential election, but the Federal party, to which Adams belonged, became weakened by their management during difficulties with France; and now Jefferson had been elected president over his formerly successful rival. The above selection is from his inaugural address.

Diamond Cut Diamond Edouard Rene Lefebvre-Laboulaye, 1811–1883, was a French writer of note. Most of his works involve questions of law and politics, and are considered high authority on the questions discussed. A few works, such as "Abdallah," from which the following extract is adapted, were written as a mere recreation in the midst of law studies; they show great imaginative power. Laboulaye took great interest in the United States, her people, and her literature; and many of his works are devoted to American questions. He translated the works of Dr. William E. Channing into French.

Mansour, the Egyptian merchant, one day repaired to the cadi on account of a suit, the issue of which troubled him but little. A private conversation with the judge had given him hopes of the justice of his cause. The old man asked his son Omar to accompany him in order to accustom him early to deal with the law. The cadi was seated in the courtyard of the mosque. He was a fat, good-looking man, who never thought, and talked little, which, added to his large turban and his air of perpetual astonishment, gave him a great reputation for justice and gravity. The spectators were numerous; the principal merchants were seated on the ground on carpets, forming a semicircle around the magistrate. Mansour took his seat a little way from the sheik, and Omar placed himself between the two, his curiosity strongly excited to see how the law was obeyed, and how it was trifled with in case of need. The first case called was that of a young Banian, as yellow as an orange, with loose flowing robes and an effeminate air, who had lately landed from India, and who complained of having been cheated by one of Mansour's rivals. "Having found a casket of diamonds among the effects left by my father," said he, "I set out for Egypt, to live there on the proceeds of their sale. I was obliged by bad weather to put into Jidda, where I soon found myself in want of money. I went to the bazaar, and inquired for a dealer in precious stones. The richest, I was told, was Mansour; the most honest, Ali, the jeweler. I applied to Ali. "He welcomed me as a son, as soon as he learned that I had diamonds to sell, and carried me home with him. He gained my confidence by every kind of attention, and advanced me all the money I needed. One day, after dinner, at which wine was not wanting, he examined the diamonds, one by one, and said, 'My child, these diamonds are of little value; my coffers are full of such stones. The rocks of the desert furnish them by thousands.'

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"To prove the truth of what he said, he opened a box, and, taking there from a diamond thrice as large as any of mine, gave it to the slave that was with me. 'What will become of me?' I cried; 'I thought myself rich, and here I am, poor, and a stranger.' “‘My child,' replied Ali, 'Leave this casket with me, and I will give you a price for it such as no one else would offer. Choose whatever you wish in Jidda, and in two hours I will give you an equal weight of what you have chosen in exchange for your Indian stones.' "On returning home, night brought reflection. I learned that Ali had been deceiving me. What he had given to the slave was nothing but a bit of crystal. I demanded my casket. Ali refused to restore it. Venerable magistrate, my sole hope is in your justice." It was now Ali's turn to speak. "Illustrious cadi," said he, "It is true that we made a bargain, which I am ready to keep, the rest of the young man's story is false. What matters it what I gave the slave? Did I force the stranger to leave the casket in my hands? Why does he accuse me of treachery? Have I broken my word, and has he kept his?" "Young man," said the cadi to the Banian, "have you witnesses to prove that Ali deceived you? If not, I shall put the accused on his oath, as the law decrees." A Koran was brought. Ali placed his hand on it, and swore three times that he had not deceived the stranger. "Wretch," said the Banian, "thou art among those whose feet go down to destruction. Thou hast thrown away thy soul." Omar smiled, and while Ali was enjoying the success of his ruse, he approached the stranger, and asked, "Do you wish me to help you gain the suit?" "Yes," was the reply; "but you are only a child--you can do nothing." "Have confidence in me a few moments," said Omar; "accept Ali's bargain; let me choose in your stead, and fear nothing." The stranger bowed his head, and murmured, "What can I fear after having lost all?" Then, turning to the cadi, and bowing respectfully, "Let the bargain be consummated," said he, "since the law decrees it, and let this young man choose in my stead what I shall receive in payment." A profound silence ensued. Omar rose, and, bowing to the cadi, "Ali," said he to the jeweler, "you have doubtless brought the casket, and can tell us the weight thereof." "Here it is," said Ali; "it weighs twenty pounds. Choose what you will; if the thing asked for is in Jidda, you shall have it within two hours, otherwise the bargain is null and void." "What we desire," said Omar, raising his voice, "is ants' wings, half male and half female. You have two hours in which to furnish the twenty pounds you have promised us." "This is absurd," cried the jeweler; "it is impossible. I should need half a score of persons and six months labor to satisfy so foolish a demand." "Are there any winged ants in Jidda?" asked the cadi. "Of course," answered the merchants, laughing; "they are one of the plagues of Egypt. Our houses are full of them, and it would be doing us a great service to rid us of them." "Then Ali must keep his promise or give back the casket," said the cadi. "This young man was mad to sell his diamonds weight for weight; he is mad to exact such payment. So much the better for Ali the first time: so much the worse for him the second. Justice has not two weights and measures. Every bargain holds good before the law. Either furnish twenty pounds of ants' wings, or restore the casket to the Banian." "A righteous judgment," shouted the spectators, wonder-struck at such equity. The stranger, beside himself with joy, took from the casket three diamonds of the finest water; he forced them on Omar, who put them in his girdle, and seated himself by his father, his gravity unmoved by the gaze of the assembly. "Well done," said Mansour; "but it is my turn now; mark me well, and profit by the lesson I shall give you. Stop, young man!" he cried to the Banian, "we have an account to settle." "The day before yesterday," continued he, "this young man entered my shop, and, bursting into tears, kissed my hand and entreated me to sell him a necklace which I had already sold to the Pasha of Egypt, saying that his life and that of a lady depended upon it. 'Ask of me what you will, my father,' said he, 'but I must have these gems or die.' "I have a weakness for young men, and, though I knew the danger of disappointing my master the pasha, I was unable to resist his supplications. 'Take the necklace,' said I to him, 'but promise to give whatever I may 150 ask in exchange.' 'My head itself, if you will,' he replied, 'for you have saved my life. We were without witnesses, but," added Mansour, turning to the Banian, "is not my story true?" "Yes," said the young man, "and I beg your pardon for not having satisfied you sooner: you know the cause. Ask of me what you desire." "What I desire," said Mansour, "is the casket with all its contents. Illustrious magistrate, you have declared that all bargains hold good before the law; this young man has promised to give me what I please; now I declare that nothing pleases me but these diamonds." The cadi raised his head and looked about the assembly, as if to interrogate the faces, then stroked his beard, and relapsed into his meditations. "Ali is defeated," said the sheik to Omar, with a smile, "The fox is not yet born more cunning than the worthy Mansour." "I am lost!" cried the Banian. "O Omar, have you saved me only to cast me down from the highest pinnacle of joy to the depths of despair? Persuade your father to spare me, that I may owe my life to you a second time." "Well, my son," said Mansour, "doubtless you are shrewd, but this will teach you that your father knows rather more than you do. The cadi is about to decide: try whether you can dictate his decree." "It is mere child's play," answered Omar, shrugging his shoulders; "but since you desire it, my father, you shall lose your suit." He rose, and taking a piaster from his girdle, put it into the hand of the Banian, who laid it before the judge. "Illustrious cadi," said Omar, "this young man is ready to fulfill his engagement. This is what he offers Mansour--piaster. In itself this coin is of little value; but examine it closely, and you will see that it is stamped with the likeness of the sultan, our glorious master. May God destroy and confound all who disobey his highness! "It is this precious likeness that we offer you," added he, turning to Mansour; "if it pleases you, you are paid; to say that it displeases you is an insult to the pasha, a crime punishable by death; and I am sure that our worthy cadi will not become your accomplice--he who has always been and always will be the faithful servant of an the sultans." When Omar had finished speaking, all eyes turned toward the cadi, who, more impenetrable than ever, stroked his face and waited for the old man to come to his aid. Mansour was agitated and embarrassed. The silence of the cadi and the assembly terrified him, and he cast a supplicating glance toward his son. "My father," said Omar, "permit this young man to thank you for the lesson of prudence which you have given him by frightening him a little. He knows well that it was you who sent me to his aid, and that all this is a farce. No one is deceived by hearing the son oppose the Father, and who has ever doubted Mansour's experience and generosity?" "No one," interrupted the cadi, starting up like a man suddenly awakened from a dream, "and I least of all; and this is why I have permitted you to speak, my young Solomon. I wished to honor in you the wisdom of your father; but another time avoid meddling with his highness's name; it is not safe to sport with the lion's paws. The matter is settled. The necklace is worth a hundred thousand piasters, is it not, Mansour? This madcap, shall give you, therefore, a hundred thousand piasters, and all parties will be satisfied."

NOTES: A cadi in the Mohammedan countries corresponds to our magistrate. A sheik among the Arabs and Moors, may mean simply an old man, or, as in this case, a man of eminence. A Banian is a Hindu merchant, particularly one who visits foreign countries on business. Jidda is a city in Arabia, on the Red Sea A pasha is the governor of a Turkish province. The Turkish piaster was formerly worth twenty-five cents; it is now worth only about eight cents.

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VOCAL CULTURE

An exhaustive analysis of the subject is not attempted in the following pages; nor does the student need this: he only needs a few practical directions to aid him in getting the mastery over his voice and in acquiring a distinct conception of the various styles of composition by the aid of appropriate examples. Under each division are appended appropriate exercise for practice, and with them it is hoped these directions will be found sufficient for the purpose.

No book can supply the place of the living teacher. To the student nothing can make up for the want of judgment and taste; without these, he cannot hope to become an eloquent reader and speaker; with them, by attention to vocal culture, he will experience but little difficulty. Strength and smoothness of tone are too often regarded as the gift of nature. True, nature may favor many in this respect; but any one whose organs of speech are not defective may, by proper exercise and attention, acquire a deep, full, clear, resonant voice.

DIVISIONS

Quality

Pure Tone

Pure Tone is free from any harsh, guttural, aspirated, nasal, or oral tone, and is made with a less expenditure of breath, and with less fatigue, than any other.

The essentials to purity of Tone are, deep breathing, control of the muscles of the throat regulating the vocal organs, and a free opening of the mouth.

A great cause of impurity of Tone is the expulsion of too much breath. To test its purity, in this respect, hold the back of the hand within an inch or two of the mouth while uttering the sound, and if a current of air from the mouth is perceptible by the hand, the tone is not pure.

Pure Tone is used in unimpassioned discourse; in the expression of light and agreeable emotions; and in sadness or grief when not mingled with solemnity.

Example

OH young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide border his steed was the best; And save his good broadsword the weapon had none, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

OROTUND QUALITY

Orotund is a mode of intonation directly from the larynx which gives fullness, clearness and strength. It is the highest perfection of voice, and is used in solemn, pathetic, energetic, and vehement forms of expression. The Orotund usually admits of three degrees, designated, according to the intensity of the emotion: Effusive, or the language of solemnity and pathos; Expulsive, or the language of earnest declamation; Explosive, or the language of intense passion.

Orotund is used to express whatever is grand, vast, or sublime. 152

Examples

1. O thou rollest above, round as the shield of my father’s! Whence are thy beams, O Sun! Thy everlasting light?

2. I would call upon all the true sons of New England to cooperate with the laws of man and the justice of Heaven.

3. Rise, like a cloud of incense from the earth! Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven Great hierarch! Tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praise God.

ASPIRATED QUALITY

Aspirated Quality is not purity of tone, but consists in an excessive expulsion of breath in uttering sounds, making the sounds partly vocal and partly aspirate. It is used in intense fear.

Examples

1. While thronged the citizens, with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips - "The foe! They come! They come!” - Byron.

2. How ill this taper burns! Ha! Who comes here? Cold drops of sweat hang on my trembling flesh, My blood grows chilly, and I freeze with homer!

3. Have mercy, Heaven! Ha! soft, ‘Tis but a dream. But then so terrible, it shakes my soul.

GUTTURAL QUALITY

Guttural Quality also is opposed to purity of tone, and consists of a mode of utterance which seems to come through an obstructed throat. It is the language of hatred, contempt, and loathing.

Example Thou Slave! Thou wretch! Thou coward! Thou little valiant, great in villainy! Thou ever strong upon the stronger side! Thou fortunes champion, thou dost never fight But when her humorous ladyship is by To teach thee safety! Thou art perjured too, And sooth'st up greatness! What a fool art thou, A ramping fool, to brag, and stamp, and sweat, Upon my party! Thou cold-blooded slave, Hast thou not spoken like thunder on my side! Been sworn my soldier! Bidding me depend Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength? And dost thou now fall over to my foes? Thou wear a lion’s hide. Doff it for shame. And hang a calfskin on those recreant limbs. Shakespeare 153

NASAL QUALITY

In this Quality, the voice sounds as if it came through the nose. It is caused by an imperfect opening of the mouth and nasal passages. It is never employed in correct delivery, and may be avoided if the mouth and throat are kept well open, by relaxing the muscles of the throat and lower jaw. We find an excellent example of this in Dr. Holmes's poem, “The One Horse Shay."

Example

But the deacon swore (as deacons do, With an "I dew vum,” or an "I tell you”), He would build one shay to beat the town ‘N’ the keounty, ‘n’ all the kentry raoun; It should be so built that it couldn’ break daoun “Fur,” said the deacon, “’tis mighty plain That the weakes’ place mus’ stan’ the strain; “N’ the way to fit it, uz I maintain Is only jest To make that place uz strong uz the rest.

FORCE

Force, in vocal culture, has reference both to the loudness of sound and the intensity of utterance. The degrees of it are Subdued, Moderate, and Loud.

The voice should be exercised upon the vowels in all degrees of Force, from the gentlest to the most vehement. The hint is here repeated that the loudest tones must be made in such a manner as not to rasp the throat. So far from producing any unpleasant sensation, the right kind of practice will have a pleasant and exhilarating effect.

Seek to make the sounds always smooth and musical; and never lose sight of the fact that what is wanted in every-day use of the voice, in the schoolroom or elsewhere, is a pleasant and natural intonation. The practice of loud and sustained tones is an excellent means of improving the voice, but is to be the exception, not the rule, in ordinary reading. Yet the softest tone must be elastic and full of life, not dull and leaden.

The degree of Force required in reading a given passage depends upon the space to be filled by the reader's voice or the distance it must reach; upon the number of persons presumed to be addressed, and upon the emotion expressed.

Subdued Force is employed in the expression of pathos add solemnity, and is usually accompanied by Effusive Orotund Quality.

Examples

1. Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea A rivulet, then a river; No more by thee my steps shall be, Forever and forever.

2. Oh hark! Oh hear! How thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going; Oh sweet and far, from cliff and scar, The horns of Elf-land faintly blowing. 3. Tread lightly, comrades! we have laid His dark locks on his brow— Like life- save deeper light and shade- We'll not disturb them now.

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MODERATE FORCE

Moderate Force is used in unimpassioned narrative, descriptive, and didactic composition.

Example

When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tombstone my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tomb of the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow. When I see kings lying by those who deposed them, when I consider rival wits placed side by sides or the holy men that divided the world with then contests and disputes, I reflect with sorrow and astonishment on the little competitions, factions, and debates of mankind. When I read the several dates of the tombs of some that died yesterday, and some six hundred years ago, I consider that great day when we shall all of us be cotemporaries, and make our appearance together. - Addison.

LOUD FORCE

It is employed in the expression of the intenser passions and emotions

Examples

1. Up DRAWBRIDGE! Groom! What, warder, HO! Let the Portcullis Fall!

2. Ye guards of liberty, I’m with you once again. I call to you With all my voice.

3. From every hill, by every sea, In shouts proclaim the great decree, “All chains are burst, all men are free! Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!

PITCH

One of the commonest faults, in school reading and in the delivery of many public speakers, is a dull monotony of tone. This sameness is still more disagreeable to the ear when the voice is kept strained upon a high key. Not less unpleasant is an incessant repetition of the same cant or singsong. Elocutionary rules will do little or nothing toward removing these faults. Faithful drill is needed, under the guidance of good taste and a correct musical ear. To this must be added an appreciation of the sentiment of the piece at the moment of utterance.

The ability to manage the voice, with reference to Pitch, depends upon the control of the larynx and lower jaw. If the muscles be relaxed and the throat enlarged, the Pitch will be low; and each degree of contraction will be marked by a higher degree of Pitch.

The best means of cultivating this, is to speak to persons at different distances - far or near, according as a high or low degree is desired. Exercise in sudden transitions in Pitch will also be found invaluable to a complete mastery of the subject.

The distinctions of Pitch are Low, Middle, High.

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Examples

LOW

1. But, whatever may be our fate, be assured that this declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, and it may cost blood; but it will stand, and it will richly compensate for both.

2. How beautiful is night! A dewy freshness fills the silent air; No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speak, nor stain Breaks the serene of heaven.

MIDDLE

1. An old clock, that had stood for fifty years in a farmer’s kitchen without giving its owner any cause of complaint, early one summer's morning, before the family was stirring, suddenly stopped.

2. A blind man would know that one was a gentleman and the other a clown, by the tones of their voices.

3. The very law which molds a tear, And bids it trickle from its source, That law preserves the earth a sphere, And guides the planets in their course.

HIGH

1. I come! I come! ye have called me long; I come o'er the mountains with light and song! Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, By the green leaves opening as I pass.

2. Stand! The ground's your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What's the mercy despots feel? Hear it - in that battle peal! Read it - on you bristling steel! Ask it ! ye who will.

STRESS

The manner in which Force is applied, in reading and speaking, is termed Stress; there are usually reckoned five divisions: Radical, Median, Vanishing, Compound, and Tremor.

RADICAL STRESS

In Radical Stress, the force of the utterance falls on the first part of the sound, and vanishes more or less rapidly. The long vowels afford fine exercises in this

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For example, in uttering the following couplet with spirit, we naturally give the Radical Stress upon the word “up,” and its explosive character will be plainly perceived:

Up! Comrades, up in Rokeby’s halls Ne’er be it said our courage falls!

But when this stress falls on words beginning with consonants, the effect upon the ear is not so sharp and incisive. The Radical Stress is used in abrupt and startling emotions, and in the expression of positive and decisive convictions. This stress is not always used in a violent mender.

Examples

1. Arm, arm, and out!

2. I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided; and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past.

MEDIAN STRESS

In Median Stress, the force is applied so as to swell out the middle of the sound. The long vowels afford exercises in this as well as in Radical Stress.

The proper application of the Median Stress is one of the most refined and delicate beauties of utterance. A due degree of it in ordinary conversation distinguishes the man of culture from the boor.

Examples

1. O precious hours! O golden prime, And affluence of love and time!

2. Had I not, by deeply pondering the precepts of philosophy, and the lessons of the historian and the poet, imbued my mind with an early and intimate conviction that nothing in life is worthy of strenuous pursuit but honor and renown, and that, for the attainment of these, the extremes of bodily torture, and all the terrors of exile and of death, ought to be regarded as trifles, never should I have engaged in such a series of deadly conflicts for your safety, nor have exposed myself to these daily machinations of the most profligate of mankind.

VANISHING STRESS

Vanishing Stress is that in which the force of utterance is withheld until they vanish or close of the sound is reached, ending suddenly, with percussive force.

Example

Fret till your proud heart breaks; Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, make your bondmen tremble.

COMPOUND STRESS

Compound Stress is that in which the voice touches forcibly on the initial and final parts of the sound, but passes lightly over the middle portion of it. It is generally used to express a complication of emotions, as of surprises, indignation, and anger.

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Example

Gone to be married ! gone to swear a peace! It is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard; Be well advised, tell o'er thy tale again. It cannot be; thou dost but SAY, 'tis SO.

TREMOR OR INTERMITTENT STRESS

Tremor or Intermittent Stress consists of a tremulous iteration of sound, or a slumber of short impulses resembling a wave.

The voice trembles in the natural expression of feebleness, grief, old age; and in any excessive emotion of whatever nature. Skillfully and delicately used, the tremor gives extreme effect to many emotional passages; but the excess of it greatly mars the effect of delivery.

Examples

1. Oh! I have lost you all! Parents, and home, and friends.

2. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer! Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.

3. My mother, when I learned that thou wast dead Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life’s journey just begun?

QUANTITY OR MOVEMENT

By Quantity, in reading or speaking, is meant the length of time occupied in uttering a syllable or word.

LONG QUANTITY

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the moldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the days are dark and dreary.

MEDIUM QUANTITY

When I was but an infant, tossed Upon my mother’s knee; And oft I've looked in youthful pride, Upon that hallowed spot, And though I've wandered far from it, It never was forgot.

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SHORT QUANTITY

Quick man the lifeboat! See yon bark That drives before the blast! There’s a rock ahead, the fog is dark, And the storm comes thick and fast. Can human power, in such an hour, Avert the doom that's o'er her? Her mainmast’s gone, but she still drives on To the fatal reef before her. The lifeboat! Man the lifeboat!

Nothing will compensate for inappropriateness in the rate of uttering a given passage. As the stately match of the solemn procession and the light trip of the joyous child are indicative of the states of mind which prompt them, so the movement which is proper in reading depends upon the emotion intended to lie expressed. If the reader should ask himself what would be his manner of walking while under the influence of any particular emotion, it would be a safe guide to his rate of utterance. Animated and playful moods would manifest themselves in a light and buoyant step, sometimes tripping and bounding along. On the contrary, deep emotions of solemnity and awe can exist only with very slow movements. Dignity requires in its expression not only slowness but regularity of movement. Violent passion gives rise to irregular and impulsive speech. To this end practice should be had in reading with great precipitation, without losing a single syllable. Extreme slowness of utterance is very impressive when rightly applied, and the pupil should spare no pains to acquire this grace.

BREATHING

Much of the success in reading or speaking depends upon breathing, as no one can read or speak well who cannot breathe well.

The exercises under Vocal Culture which are to aid breathing, as designated there, should be faithfully practiced by any who feel a deficiency in this direction. In practicing the development of breathing, always prefer a standing position to a sitting position, and let the action bring forth a natural but deep breathing. Practice inflating and inhaling the lungs until this can be done quite rapidly. A good practice is to inhale deeply and give out the voice slowly in prolonged vowel sounds.

Articulation is effected by the action of the palate, tongue, lips, and jaws. The action must be neat, easy, and prompt, that perfect articulation may be made. A full and elastic command of the muscles of the mouth is highly necessary for the most distinct utterances.

First. Pronounce the vowel ē, extending the lips as much as possible sidewise, and showing the tips of the teeth.

Second. Pronounce ah, dropping the jaw and opening the mouth to its widest extent.

Third. Pronounce oo (as in cool), contracting the lips.

-- excerpt from The Star Speaker, compiled by Flora N. Knightlinger

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The Spoopendykes The Old Gentleman Takes Exercise on a Bicycle. “Now, my dear,” said Mr. Spoopendyke, hurrying up to his wife’s room, “if you’ll come down in the yard I’ve got a pleasant surprise for you.” What is it?” asked Mrs. Spoopendyke, “what have you got, a horse?” “Guess again,” grinned Mr. Spoopendyke. “It’s something like a horse.” “I know! It’s a new parlor carpet. That’s what it is!” “No, it isn’t, either. I said it’s something like a horse that is, it goes when you make it. Guess again.” “Is it paint for the kitchen walls?” asked Mrs. Spoopendyke, innocently. “No, it ain’t, and it ain’t a hogshead of stove blacking, nor a set of dining-room furniture, nor it ain’t seven gross of stationary washtubs. Now, guess again.” “Then it must be some lace curtains for the sitting-room windows. Isn’t that just splendid?” and Mrs. Spoopendyke patted her husband on both cheeks and danced up and down with delight. “It’s a bicycle, that’s what it is!” growled Mr. Spoopendyke. “I bought it for exercise and I’m going to ride it. Come down and see me.” “Well, ain’t I glad,” ejaculated Mrs. Spoopendyke. “You ought to have more exercise; if there’s exercise in anything, it’s in a bicycle. Do let’s see it!” Mr. Spoopendyke conducted his wife to the yard and descanted at length on the merits of the machine. “In a few weeks I’ll be able to make a mile a minute as he steadied the apparatus against the clothes-post and to mount. “Now you watch me go to the end of this path.” He got a foot into one treadle and went head first into a flower patch, the machine on top, with a prodigious crash. “Hadn’t you better tie it up to the post until you get on?” suggested Mrs. Spoopendyke. “Leave me alone, will ye?” demanded Mr. Spoopendyke, struggling to an even keel “I’m doing most of this myself. Now you hold on and keep your month shut. It takes a little practice, that’s all.” Mr. Spoopendyke mounted again and scuttled along four or five feet and flopped over on the grass-plot. “That’s splendid!” commended his wife. “You’ve got the idea already. Let me hold it for you this time.” “If you’ve got any extra strength you hold your tongue, will ye?” growled Mr. Spoopendyke. “It don’t want any holding. It ain’t alive. Stand back and give me room, now.” The third trial Mr. Spoopendyke ambled to the end of the path and went down all in a heap among the flowerpots. “That’s just too lovely for anything!” proclaimed Mrs. Spoopendyke. “You made more’n a mile a minute, that time.” “Come and take it off!” roared Mr. Spoopendyke. “Help me up! Dod gast the bicycle!” and the worthy gentleman struggled and plunged around like a whale in shallow water. Mrs. Spoopendyke assisted in righting him and brushed him off. “I know where you make your mistake,” said she. “The little wheel ought to go first, like a buggy. Try it that way going back.” “Maybe you can ride this bicycle better than I can,” howled Mr. Spoopendyke. “You know all about wheels! What you need now is a lantern in your mouth and ten minutes behind time to be the City Hall clock! If you had a bucket of water and a handle you’d make a steam grindstone! Don’t you see the big wheel has got to go first?” “Yes, dear,” murmured Mrs. Spoopendyke, “but I thought if you practiced with the little wheel at first, you wouldn’t have so far to fall.” “Who fell?” demanded Mr. Spoopendyke. “Didn’t you see me step off? I tripped, that’s all. Now you just watch me go back.” Once more Mr. Spoopendyke started in, but the big wheel turned around and looked him in the face, and then began to stagger. “Look out!” squealed Mrs. Spoopendyke. Mr. Spoopendyke wrenched away and kicked and struggled, but it was of no avail. Down he came, and the bicycle was a 160 hopeless wreck. “What’d ye want to yell for!” he shrieked. “Couldn’t ye keep your measly mouth shut? What’d ye think ye are, anyhow, a fog horn’? Dod gast the measly bicycle!” and Mr. Spoopendyke hit it a kick that folded it up like a bolt of muslin. “Never mind, my dear,” consoled Mrs. Spoopendyke, “I’m afraid the exercise was too violent anyway, and I’m rather glad you broke it.” “I suppose so,” snorted Mr. Spoopendyke. “There’s sixty dollars gone.” “Don’t worry, love. I’ll go without the carpet and curtains, and the paint will do well enough in the kitchen. Let me rub you with arnica.” But Mr. Spoopendyke was too deeply grieved by his wife’s conduct to accept any office at her hand, preferring to punish her by letting his wound smart rather than get well, and thereby relieve her of any anxiety she brought on herself by acting so outrageously under the circumstances.

Keeping His Word

“Only a penny a box,” he said, But the gentleman turned away his head, As if he shrank from the squalid sight Of the boy who stood in the fading light. “Oh, sir!” he stammered, “you cannot know,” And he brushed from his matches the flakes of snow, That the sudden tear might have chance to fall— “Or I think—I think you would take them all. Hungry and cold at our garret pane, Ruby will watch till I come again, Bringing the loaf. The sun has set, And he hasn’t a crumb of breakfast yet. One penny, and then I can buy the bread!” The gentleman stopped: “And you?" he said; “I? I can put up with them,—hunger and cold, But Ruby is only five years old. I promised our mother before she went, She knew I would do it, and died content, I promised her, sir, through best, through worst, I always would think of Ruby first.” The gentleman paused at his open door, Such tales he had often heard before; But he fumbled his purse in the twilight drear, “I have nothing less than a shilling here.” “Oh, sir, if you’ll only take the pack, I’ll bring you the change in a moment back, Indeed you may trust me!” “Trust you? No, But here is the shilling - take it, and go.” The gentleman lolled in his easy chair, And watched his cigar wreath melt in air, 161

And smiled on his children, and rose to see The baby asleep on its mother’s knee. “And now it is nine by the clock,” he said, “Time that my darlings were all abed; Kiss me goodnight, and each be sure When you’re saying your prayers, remember the poor." Just then came a message, “A boy at the door." But ere it was uttered he stood on the floor, Half breathless, bewildered, and ragged and strange; “I am Ruby, Mike's brother; I’ve brought you the change. Mike’s hurt, sir; ‘twas dark, and the snow made him blind, And he didn't take notice the train was behind, Till he slipped on the track; and then it whizzed by; He’s home in the garret, I think he will die. Yet nothing would do him, sir, nothing would do, But out through the storm, I must hurry to you. Of his hurt he was certain you wouldn’t have heard, And so you might think he had broken his word.” When the garret they hastily entered and saw Two arms, mangled, helpless, outstretched from the straw; “You did it, - dear Ruby - God bless you!” he said, And the boy, gladly smiling, sank back, and was—dead.

Jack’s Way Yes, Jack could do most anything, and do it mighty well; What he knew would fill ten volumes; what he didn’t - who could tell? His temper was angelic and his tongue was always kind, As a fresh and jolly joker his match was hard to find; He buzzed and hustled round and round, and yet ‘twas very funny! He never did and never would go in for makin’ money.

Now when it came to farming, he knew exactly why The crops were light, the prices low, the seasons wet or dry; He often told the village merchant how to run a store, And showed the parson just the way to make the devil sore; Twas fine to hear the shrewd advice he was forever givin' And yet - to save his life - the man could never make a livin'.

The year diphthery, scarlet fever, and the measles came, He never tired of shown’ where the doctors were to blame; And when he talked on teachin,’ hotelkeepin' and the law, You know’d 'twas all compressed within the compass of his jaw; Of all the men you ever seen he seemed the most disarvin' Though - while he seldom paid a debt - his family was starvin' 162

He’d lend the clothes from off his back, then turn around and borry, But before you got your own returned you’d be both mad and sorry, Twas thus he buzzed his way through life a puzzle and a care Without a foe, he made his friends and relatives despair; And then outlived them all and died in peace at seventy-seven, He made no money here below, he’ll do without in heaven.

A Stray Sunbeam My story is a simple one, its moral I don’t know; 'Tis not a tale of incidents that happened long ago; But a simple little story, put into simple rhyme, That is a temperance lesson just suited to this time. My hero was a wayward boy, big-hearted, full of fun, Of brightest brain and intellect, a widow’s only son; For his father was a soldier, who fell in our late strife, And left the widow with this babe to fight her way through life. Oh, how she fairly worshipped him and lived for him alone, And waited fondly for the day her darling would be grown, And be her strong protector through her declining years; Yes, she worshipped him and watched him, filled alike with hopes and fears; For no father lived to govern the strong and wayward child, And as he grew up older, he also grew more wild, Till with drinking, gambling, everything that makes a downward start, He made her life a torture and broke her loving heart. One night, with boon companions, his brain was all afire, When a message from a minister came speeding o’er the wire. He took it without thinking—he read it and was dumb; 'Twas short, but oh how awful: “Your mother’s dying. Come!” How quickly sped he homeward, how crazed at every wait, Till he reached that mother’s bedside. Alas! he came too late. For the gentle voice was stilled, and, folded on her breast Were the patient, loving hands that oft had laid her boy to rest, And the lips that kissed the clustering curls from off his boyhood’s brow Were pale, and cold, and lifeless; no words of love came now, And heart that he had tortured, which every throb made sore Was touched by death’s cold, icy hand, to beat for him no more. He sank beside that bedside and smote his half-crazed brain, And cried, “Come back, my mother!” Too late—he cried in vain; And his kisses brought no love-light from the eyes, that death had sealed Then with choking sobs of anguish down by her side he kneeled, And from his heart that just before had known no thought or care, There went up to his Maker this simple earnest prayer: "O God, look down in pity upon a humbled one; 163

Forgive, O God, forgive me, for what my deeds have done; And give, oh give, to aid me, thine arm, O Mighty One, And let my mother’s spirit watch o’er her wayward son.” And did He hear that prayer? Ah, yes. A newer life began. Headstrong, reckless youth was changed into a noble man, Whose deeds were all of kindness, of honor and of love, Protected by that spirit that hovered up above, The spirit of his mother, whom death had claimed before, And who waited, patient waited, for him at heaven’s door. And liquor did not touch the lips that fervent did appeal, When by that mother’s corpse her son a suppliant did kneel. A year was gone, he stood beside the grave of that loved one, And twilight came and darkling clouds shut out the setting sun; And he murmured, "Mother, darling, I'm standing by thy grave; Thy Spirit ever near me has made me strong and brave. Be near me, angel mother, protect me by thy love, And guide me ever onward, until we meet above.” He stopped, and lo, from through the gloom that marked the closing day There came a little sunbeam, a little silvery ray, And it lingered there a moment with a soft caressing air Upon the broad white forehead, ‘neath the clustering curls of hair. Oh, do the souls of loved ones watch? They do. Deny not this; That little straying sunbeam was his angel mother’s kiss.

The Old Arm Chair

I LOVE it! I love it and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm chair? I’ve treasured it long as a sainted prize, I’ve bedewed it with tears and embalmed it with sighs, ‘Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart Not a tie will break, not a link will start. Would you know the spell? A mother sat there! And a sacred thing is that old arm chair.

In childhood’s hour I lingered near That hallowed seat with a listening ear, To the gentle words that mother would give, To fit me to die, and teach me to live. She told me shame would never betide, With truth for my creed and God for my guide; She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, As I knelt beside that old arm chair.

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I sat and I watched her many a day When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray, And I almost worshipped her when she smiled And turned from her Bible to bless her child: Years rolled on, but the last one sped, My idol was shattered my earthstar fled! I felt how much the heart can bear, When I saw her die in that old arm chair.

‘Tis past! ‘tis past I but I gaze on it now With quivering lip and throbbing brow; ‘Twas there she nursed me, twas there she died, And memory still flows with the lava tide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, As the scalding drops start down my cheek; But I love it! I love it! and cannot tear My soul from my mother’s old arm chair!

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Orations

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Achilles His Reply to the Envoys By Homer

Date of Homer’s birth and death unknown, but 800 to 900 B.C. the period usually accepted. Of the seven cities contending for the honor of having been his birthplace, Smyrna possesses the best evidence. Many critics contend that the poems bearing Homer’s name were written by various persons in different ages, but it is probable that at least the Iliad, or a considerable part of it, was the product of a single mind. HEAVEN-SPRUNG son of Laertes, Odysseus of many wiles, in openness must I now declare unto you my saying, even as I am minded and as the fulfillment thereof shall be, that ye may not sit before me and coax this way and that. For hateful to me, even as the gates of hell, is he that hides one thing in his heart and uttereth another; but I will speak what me seemeth best. Not me, I ween, nor the other Danaans, shall Agamemnon, son of Atreus, persuade, seeing we were to have no thank for battling with the foeman ever without respite. He that abideth at home hath equal share with him that fightest his best, and in like honor are held both the coward and the brave; death cometh alike to the untoiling and to him that hath toiled long. Neither have I any profit for that I endured tribulation of soul, ever staking my life in fight. Even as a hen bringeth her unfledged chickens each morsel as she winneth it, and with herself it goeth hard, even so I was wont to watch out many a sleepless night and pass through many bloody days of battle, warring with folk for their women’s sake. Twelve cities of men have I laid waste from shipboard, and from land eleven, I do you to wit, throughout deep-soiled Troy-land; out of all these took I many goodly treasures, and would bring and give them all to Agamemnon, son of Atreus, and he staying behind amid the fleet ships would take them and portion out some few but keep the most. Now, some he gave to be meeds of honor to the princes and the kings, and theirs are left untouched; only from me of all the Achaians took he my darling lady and keepeth her—let him sleep beside her and take his joy. But why must the Argives make war on the Trojans? Why hath Atreides gathered his host and led them hither? Is it not for lovely-haired Helen’s sake? Do then the sons of Atreus alone of mortal men love their wives? Surely, whatsoever man is good and sound of mind and loveth his own and cherisheth her, even as I, too, loved mine with all my heart, but the captive of my spear. But now that he hath taken my meed of honor from mine arms and hath deceived me, let him not tempt me that know him full well; he shall not prevail. Nay, Odysseus, let him take counsel with thee and all the princes to ward from the ships the consuming fire. Verily without mine aid he hath wrought many things, and built a wall and dug a foss about it wide and deep, and set a palisade therein; yet even so can he not stay murderous Hector’s might. But so long as I was fighting amid the Achaians, Hector had no mind to array his battle far from the wall, but scarce came unto the Skaian gates and to the oak tree; there once he awaited me alone and scarce escaped my onset. But now, seeing I have no mind to fight with noble Hector, I will tomorrow do sacrifice to Zeus and all the gods, and store well my ships when I have launched them on the salt seas. Then shalt thou see, if thou wilt and hast any care therefore, my ships sailing at break of day over Hellespont, the fishes’ home, and my men right eager at the oar; and if the great Shaker of the earth grant me good journey, on the third day should I reach deep-soiled Phthia. There are my great possessions that I left when I came hither to my hurt; and yet more gold and ruddy bronze shall I bring from hence, and fair-girdled women and gray iron, all at least that were mine by lot: only my meed of honor hath he that gave it me taken back in his despitefulness, even Lord Agamemnon, son of Atreus. To him declare ye everything even as I charge you, openly, that all the Achaians likewise may have indignation, if happily he hopeth to beguile yet some other Danaan, for that he is ever clothed in shamelessness. Verily not in my face would he dare to look, tho’ he have the front of a dog. Neither will I devise counsel with him nor any enterprise, for utterly he hath deceived me and done wickedly; but never again shall he beguile me with fair speech. Let this suffice him. Let him be gone in peace; Zeus, the lord of counsel, hath taken away his wits. Hateful to me are his gifts, and I hold him at a straw’s worth. Not even if he gave me ten times, yea twenty, all that now is his, and all that may come to him other whence, even all the revenue of Orchomenos or Egyptian Thebes where the treasure-houses are stored fullest—Thebes of the hundred gates, whence sally forth two hundred warriors through each with horses and chariots—nay, nor gifts in number as sand or dust; not even so shall Agamemnon persuade my soul till he have paid me back at the bitter despite. And the daughter of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, will I not wed, not were she rival of golden Aphrodite for fairness and for handiwork matched bright-eyed Athene—not even then will I wed her; let him choose him of the Achaians another that is his peer and is more royal than I. For if the gods indeed preserve me and I come unto my home, then will Peleus 167 himself marry me a wife. Many Achaian maidens are there throughout Hellas and Phthia, daughters of princes that rule their cities; whomsoever of these I wish will I make my dear lady. Very often was my high soul moved to take me there a wedded wife, a helpmeet for me, and have joy of the possessions that the old man Peleus possesseth. For not of like worth with life hold I even all the wealth that men say was possessed of the well-peopled city of Ilios in days of peace gone by, before the sons of the Achaians came; neither all the treasure that the stone threshold of the archer Phoebus Apollo encompasseth in rocky Pytho. For kine and goodly flocks are to be had for the harrying, and tripods and chestnut horses for the purchasing; but to bring back man’s life neither harrying nor earning availeth when once it hath passed the barrier of his lips. For thus my goddess mother telleth me, Thetis, the silver-footed, that twain fates are bearing me to the issue of death. If I abide here and besiege the Trojan’s city, then my returning home is taken from me, but my fame shall be imperishable; but if I go home to my dear native land, my high fame is taken from me, but my life shall endure long while, neither shall the issue of death soon reach me. Moreover, I would counsel you all to set sail homeward, seeing ye shall never reach your goal of steep Ilios; of a surety, far-seeing Zeus holdeth his hand over her and her folk are of good courage, So go your way and tell my answer to the princes of the Achaians, even as is the office of elders, that they may devise in their hearts some other better counsel such as shall save them their ships and the host of the Achaians amid the hollow ships; since this counsel availeth them naught that they have now devised by reason of my fierce wrath. But let Phoenix now abide with us and lay him to rest, that he may follow with me on my ships to our dear native land to-morrow, if he will; for I will not take perforce. Note. Addressed more particularly to Odysseus, one of the envoys, than to Phoenix and Ajax, the others. These envoys had been sent by Agamemnon to plead with Achilles for his return to action in the war against Troy. The Lang, Leaf and Myers translation.

Pericles In Favor of the Peloponnesian War 432 BC

Born about 500 B.C., died in 429; entered public life about 469 as leader of the Democratic party; principal minister of the Athenian State after 444; commanded in the first Peloponnesian War. I ALWAYS adhere to the same opinion, Athenians, that we should make no concessions to the Lacedæmonians; although I know that men are not persuaded to go to war, and act when engaged in it, with the same temper; but that, according to results, they also change their views. Still I see that the same advice, or nearly the same, must be given by me now as before; and I claim from those of you who are being persuaded to war, that you will support the common resolutions, should we ever meet with any reverse; or not, on the other hand, to lay any claim to intelligence, if successful. For it frequently happens that the results of measures proceed no less incomprehensibly than the counsels of man; and therefore we are accustomed to regard fortune as the author of all things that turn out contrary to our expectation. Now the Lacedæmonians were both evidently plotting against us before, and now especially are doing so. For whereas it is expressed in the treaty, that we should give and accept judicial decisions of our differences, and each side [in the mean time] keep what we have; they have neither themselves hitherto asked for such a decision, nor do they accept it when we offer it; but wish our complaints to be settled by war rather than by words; and are now come dictating, and no longer expostulating. For they command us to raise the siege of Potidæa, and to leave Ægina independent, and to rescind the decree respecting the Megareans; while these last envoys that have come charge us also to leave the Greeks independent. But let none of you think we should be going to war for a trifle, if we did not rescind the decree respecting the Megareans, which they principally put forward, [saying,] that if it were rescinded, the war would not take place: nor leave in your minds any room for self-accusation hereafter, as though you had gone to war for a trivial thing. For this trifle involves the whole confirmation, as well as trial, of your purpose. If you yield to these demands, you will soon also be ordered to do something greater, as having in this instance obeyed through fear: but by resolutely refusing you would prove clearly to them that they must treat with you more on an equal footing. Henceforth then make up your minds, either to submit before you are hurt, or, if we go to war, as I think is better, on important or trivial grounds alike to make no concession, nor to keep with fear what we have now acquired; for both

168 the greatest and the least demand from equals, imperiously urged on their neighbors previous to a judicial decision, amounts to the same degree of subjugation. Now with regard to the war, and the means possessed by both parties, that we shall not be the weaker side, be convinced by hearing the particulars. The Peloponnesians are men who cultivate their land themselves; and they have no money either in private or public funds. Then they are inexperienced in long and transmarine wars, as they only wage them with each other for a short time, owing to their poverty. And men of this description can neither man fleets nor often send out land armaments; being at the same time absent from their private business, and spending from their own resources; and, moreover, being also shut out from the sea: but it is superabundant revenues that support wars, rather than compulsory contributions. And men who till the land themselves are more ready to wage war with their persons than with their money: feeling confident, with regard to the former, that they will escape from dangers; but not being sure, with regard to the latter, that they will not spend it before they have done; especially should the war be prolonged beyond their expectations, as [in this case] it probably may. For in one battle the Peloponnesians and their allies might cope with all the Greeks together; but they could not carry on a war against resources of a different description to their own; since they have no one board of council, so as to execute any measure with vigor; and all having equal votes, and not being of the same races, each forwards his own interest; for which reasons nothing generally is brought to completion. Most of all will they be impeded by scarcity of money, while, through their slowness in providing it, they continue to delay their operations; whereas the opportunities of war wait for no one. Neither, again, is their raising works against us worth fearing, or their fleet. With regard to the former, it were difficult even in time of peace to set up a rival city; much more in a hostile country, and when we should have raised works no less against them: and if they build [only] a fort, they might perhaps hurt some part of our land by incursions and desertions; it will not, however, be possible for them to prevent our sailing to their country and raising forts, and retaliating with our ships, in which we are so strong. For we have more advantage for land-service from our naval skill, than they have for naval matters from their skill by land. But to become skilful at sea will not easily be acquired by them. For not even have you, though practicing from the very time of the Median War, brought it to perfection as yet; how then shall men who are agriculturists and not mariners, and, moreover, will not even be permitted to practice, from being always observed by us with many ships, achieve any thing worth speaking of? Against a few ships observing them they might run the risk, encouraging their ignorance by their numbers; but when kept in check by many, they will remain quiet; and through not practicing will be the less skilful, and therefore the more afraid. For naval service is a matter of art, like anything else; and does not admit of being practiced just when it may happen, as a bywork; but rather does not even allow of anything else being a bywork to it. Even if they should take some of the funds at Olympia or Delphi, and endeavor, by higher pay, to rob us of our foreign sailors, that would be alarming, if we were not a match for them, by going on board ourselves and our resident aliens; but now this is the case; and, what is best of all, we have native steersmen, and crews at large, more numerous and better than all the rest of Greece. And with the danger before them, none of the foreigners would consent to fly his country, and at the same time with less hope of success to join them in the struggle, for the sake of a few days’ higher pay. The circumstances of the Peloponnesians then seem, to me at least, to be of such or nearly such a character; while ours seem both to be free from the faults I have found in theirs, and to have other great advantages in more than an equal degree. Again, should they come by land against our country, we will sail against theirs; and the loss will be greater for even a part of the Peloponnese to be ravaged, than for the whole of Attica. For they will not be able to obtain any land in its stead without fighting for it; while we have abundance, both in islands and on the mainland. Moreover, consider it [in this point of view]: if we had been islanders, who would have been more impregnable? And we ought, as it is, with views as near as possible to those of islanders, to give up all thought of our land and houses, and keep watch over the sea and the city; and not, through being enraged on their account, to come to an engagement with the Peloponnesians, who are much more numerous; (for if we defeat them, we shall have to fight again with no fewer of them; and if we meet with a reverse, our allies are lost also; for they will not remain quiet if we are not able to lead our forces against them;) and we should make lamentation, not for the houses and land, but for the lives [that are lost]; for it is not these things that gain men, but men that gain these things. And if I thought that I should persuade you, I would bid you go out yourselves and ravage them, and show the Peloponnesians that you will not submit to them for these things, at any rate. I have also many other grounds for hoping that we shall conquer, if you will avoid gaining additional dominion at the time of your being engaged in the war, and bringing on yourselves dangers of your own choosing; for I am more afraid of our own mistakes than of the enemy’s plans. But those points shall be explained in another speech at the time of the events. At the present time let us send these men away with this answer: that with regard to the Megareans, we will also allow them to use our ports and market, if the Lacedæmonians also abstain from expelling foreigners, whether ourselves or our allies (for it forbids neither the one nor the other in the treaty): with regard to the states, that we will leave them

169 independent, if we also held them as independent when we made the treaty; and when they too restore to the states a permission to be independent suitably to the interests, not of the Lacedæmonians themselves, but of the several states, as they wish: that we are willing to submit to judicial decision, according to the treaty: and that we will not commence hostilities, but will defend ourselves against those who do. For this is both a right answer and a becoming one for the state to give. But you should know that go to war we must; and if we accept it willingly rather than not, we shall find the enemy less disposed to press us hard; and, moreover, that it is from the greatest hazards that the greatest honors also are gained, both by state and by individual. Our fathers, at any rate, by withstanding the Medes—though they did not begin with such resources [as we have], but had even abandoned what they had—and by counsel, more than by fortune, and by daring, more than by strength, beat off the barbarian, and advanced those resources to their present height. And we must not fall short of them; but must repel our enemies in every way, and endeavor to bequeath our power to our posterity no less [than we received it]. Note. Delivered before the Assembly at Athens during a discussion of the Lacedæmonian demands Reported by Thucydides. Translated by Henry Dale. As to the authenticity of the speeches here taken from Thucydides (though e of Pericles, Cleon, Nicias, and Alcibiades), the statement of Thucydides on the subject must be kept in mind: “I have found it difficult to retain a memory of the precise words that I had heard spoken, and so it was with those who brought me report. I have made the persons say what it seemed to me most opportune for them to say, in view of the situation; at the same time I have adhered as closely as possible to the general sense of what was actually said.” R. C. Jebb, discussing this matter, says: “We may be sure that wherever Thucydides had any authentic clue to the actual tenor of the speech, he preferred to follow that clue rather than to draw on his own invention.” Jebb adds, that “to these speeches is due in no small measure, the imperishable intellectual interest of the history.”

Socrates In His Own Defense 399 BC

Born about 470 B.C., died in 399; for a time followed his father’s art as a sculptor; served in three campaigns; President of the Pyrtanes in 406 and opposed the Thirty Tyrants; his philosophical precepts, as those of the wisest man of his time, known to us only in the writings of his disciple, Plato. I KNOW not, O Athenians, how far you have been influenced by my accusers; for my part, in listening to them I almost forgot myself, so plausible were their arguments; however, so to speak, they have said nothing true. But of the many falsehoods which they have uttered I wondered at one of them especially, that in which they said you ought to be on your guard lest you should be deceived by me, as being eloquent in speech. For that they are not ashamed of being forthwith convicted by me in fact, when I shall show that I am not by any means eloquent, this seemed to me the most shameless thing in them, unless indeed they call him eloquent who speaks the truth. For if they mean this, then I would allow that I am an orator, but not after their fashion; for they, as I affirm, have said nothing true; but from me you shall hear the whole truth. Not indeed, Athenians, arguments highly wrought, as theirs were, with choice phrases and expressions, nor adorned, but you shall hear a speech uttered without premeditation, in such words as first present themselves. For I am confident that what I say will be just, and let none of you expect otherwise; for surely it would not become my time of life to come before you like a youth with a got-up speech. Above all things, therefore, I beg and implore this of you, O Athenians, if you hear me defending myself in the same language as that in which I am accustomed to speak both in the forum at the counters, where many of you have heard me, and elsewhere, not to be surprised or disturbed on this account. For the case is this: I now for the first time come before a court of justice, though more than seventy years old; I am, therefore, utterly a stranger to the language here. As, then, if I were really a stranger, you would have pardoned me if I spoke in the language and the manner in which I had been educated, so now I ask this of you as an act of justice, as it appears to me, to disregard the manner of my speech, for perhaps it may be somewhat worse, and perhaps better, and to consider this only, and to give your attention to this, whether I speak what is just or not; for this is the virtue of a judge, but of an orator to speak the truth.

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Perhaps, however, some one may say, “Are you not ashamed, Socrates, to have pursued a study from which you are now in danger of dying?” To such a person I should answer with good reason: You do not say well, friend, if you think that a man, who is even of the least value, ought to take into the account the risk of life or death, and ought not to consider that alone when he performs any action, whether he is acting justly or unjustly and the part of a good man or bad man. I then should be acting strangely, O Athenians, if, when the generals whom you chose to command me assigned me my post at Potidæa, at Amphipolis, and at Delium, I then remained where they posted me, like any other person, and encountered the danger of death, but when the deity, as I thought and believed, assigned it as my duty to pass my life in the study of philosophy, and in examining myself and others, I should on that occasion, through fear of death or anything else whatsoever, desert my post. Strange indeed would it be, and then in truth any one might justly bring me to trial, and accuse me of not believing in the gods, from disobeying the oracle, fearing death, and thinking myself to be wise when I am not. For to fear death, O Athenians, is nothing else than to appear to be wise without being so; for it is to appear to know what one does not know. For no one knows but that death is the greatest of all goods; but men feareth as if they well knew that it is the greatest of evils. And how is not this the most reprehensible ignorance, to think that one knows what one does not know? But I, O Athenians, in this perhaps differ from most men; and if I should say that I am in anything wiser than another, it would be in this, that not having a competent knowledge of the things in Hades, I also think that I have not such knowledge. But to act unjustly, and to disobey my superior, whether God or man, I know is evil and base. I shall never, therefore, fear or shun things which, for aught I know, may be good, before evils which I know to be evils. So that even if you should now dismiss me, not yielding to the instances of Anytus, who said that either I should not appear here at all, or that, if I did appear, it was impossible not to put me to death, telling you that if I escaped, your sons, studying what Socrates teaches, would all be utterly corrupted; if you should address me thus, “Socrates, we shall not now yield to Anytus, but dismiss you, on this condition, however, that you no longer persevere in your researches nor study philosophy, and if hereafter you are detected in so doing, you shall die,”—if, as I said, you should dismiss me on these terms, I should say to you: “O Athenians, I honor and love you; but I shall obey God rather than you; and as long as I breathe and am able I shall not cease studying philosophy and exhorting you and warning any one of you I may happen to meet, saying, as I have been accustomed to do: ‘O best of men, seeing you are an Athenian, of a city the most powerful and most renowned for wisdom and strength, are you not ashamed of being careful for riches, how you may acquire them in greatest abundance, and for glory and honor, but care not nor take any thought for wisdom and truth, and for your soul, how it may be made most perfect?’” And if any one of you should question my assertion and affirm that he does care for these things, I shall not at once let him go, nor depart, but I shall question him, sift and prove him. And if he should appear to me not to possess virtue, but to pretend that he does, I shall reproach him for that he sets the least value on things of the greatest worth, but the highest on things that are worthless. Murmur not, O Athenians, but continue to attend to my request, not to murmur at what I say, but to listen, for, as I think, you will derive benefit from listening. For I am going to say other things to you, at which perhaps you will raise a clamor; but on no account do so. Be well assured, then, if you put me to death, being such a man as I say I am, you will not injure me more than yourselves. For neither will Miletus nor Anytus harm me; nor have they the power; for I do not think that it is possible for a better man to be injured by a worse. He may perhaps have me condemned to death, or banished or deprived of civil rights, and he or others may perhaps consider these as mighty evils; I, however, do not consider them so, but that it is much more so to do what he is now doing—to endeavor to put a man to death unjustly. Now, therefore, O Athenians, I am far from making a defense on my own behalf, as any one might think, but I do so on your behalf, lest by condemning me you should offend at all with respect to the gift of the deity to you. For, if you should put me to death, you will not easily find such another, though it may be ridiculous to say so, altogether attached by the deity to this city as to a powerful and generous horse, somewhat sluggish from his size, and requiring to be roused by a gad-fly; so the deity appears to have united me, being such a person as I am, to the city, that I may rouse you, and persuade and reprove every one of you, nor ever cease besetting you throughout the whole day. Such another man, O Athenians, will not easily be found; therefore, if you will take my advice, you will spare me. But you, perhaps, being irritated, like drowsy persons who are roused from sleep, will strike me, and, yielding to Anytus, will unthinkingly condemn me to death; and then you will pass the rest of your life in sleep, unless the deity, caring for you, should send some one else to you. But that I am a person who has been given by the deity to this city, you may discern from hence; for it is not like the ordinary conduct of men that I should have neglected all my own affairs and 171 suffered my private interest to be neglected for so many years, and that I should constantly attend to your concerns, addressing myself to each of you separately, like a father or elder brother, persuading you to the pursuit of virtue. And if I had derived any profit from this course, and had received pay for my exhortations, there would have been some reason for my conduct; but now you see yourselves that my accusers, who have so shamelessly calumniated me in everything else, have not had the impudence to charge me with this, and to bring witnesses to prove that I ever either exacted or demanded any reward. And I think I produce a sufficient proof that I speak the truth, namely, my poverty. Perhaps, however, it may appear absurd, that I, going about, thus advise you in private and make myself busy, but never venture to present myself in public before your assemblies and give advice to the city. The cause of this is that which you have often and in many places heard me mention: because I am moved by certain divine and spiritual influence, which also Miletus, through mockery, has set out in the indictment. This began with me from childhood, being a kind of voice which, when present, always diverts me from what I am about to do, but never urges me on. This it is which opposed my meddling in public politics; and it appears to me to have opposed me very properly. For be well assured, O Athenians, if I had long since attempted to intermeddle with politics, I should have perished long ago, and should not have at all benefited you or myself. And be not angry with me for speaking the truth. For it is not possible that any man should be safe, who sincerely opposes either you or any other multitude, and who prevents many unjust and illegal actions from being committed in a city; but it is necessary that he who in earnest contends for justice, if he will be safe for but a short time, should live privately, and take no part public affairs. Do you think, then, that I should have survived so many years if I had engaged in public affairs, and, acting as becomes a good man, had aided the cause of justice, and, as I ought, had deemed this of the highest importance? Far from it, O Athenians: nor would any other man have done so. But I, through the whole of my life, if I have done anything in public, shall be found to be a man, and the very same in private, who has never made a concession to any one contrary to justice, neither to any other, nor to any one of these whom my calumniators say are my disciples. I, however, was never the preceptor of any one; but if any one desired to hear me speaking and to see me busied about my own mission, whether he were young or old, I never refused him. Nor do I discourse when I receive money, and not when I do not receive any, but I allow both rich and poor alike to question me, and, if any one wishes it, to answer me and hear what I have to say. And for these, whether any one proves to be a good man or not, I cannot justly be responsible, because I never either promised them any instruction nor taught them at all. But if any one says that he has ever learned or heard anything from me in private, which all others have not, be well assured that he does not speak the truth. But why do some delight to spend so long a time with me? Ye have heard, O Athenians. I have told you the whole truth that they delight to hear those closely questioned who think that they are wise but are not: for this is by no means disagreeable. But this duty, as I say, has been enjoined me by the deity, by oracles, by dreams, and by every mode by which any other divine decree has ever enjoined anything to man to do. These things, O Athenians, are both true, and easily confuted if not true. For if I am now corrupting some of the youths, and have already corrupted others, it were fitting, surely, that if any of them, having become advanced in life, had discovered that I gave them bad advice when they were young, they should now rise up against me, accuse me, and have me punished; or if they were themselves unwilling to do this, some of their kindred, their fathers, or brothers, or other relatives, if their kinsmen have ever sustained any damage from me, should now call it to mind. Many of them, however, are here present, whom I see. I could mention many to you, some one of whom certainly Miletus ought to have adduced in his speech as a witness. If, however, he then forgot to do so, let him now adduce them, I give him leave to do so, and let him say it, if he has anything of the kind to allege. But quite contrary to this, you will find, O Athenians, all ready to assist me, who have corrupted and injured their relatives, as Miletus and Anytus say. For those who have been themselves corrupted might perhaps have some reason for assisting me; but those who have not been corrupted, men now advanced in life, their relatives, what other reason can they have for assisting me, except that right and just one, that they know that Miletus speaks falsely and that I speak the truth. Well then, Athenians; these are pretty much the things I have to say in my defense, and others perhaps of the same kind. Perhaps, however, some among you will be indignant on recollecting his own case, if he, when engaged in a cause far less than this, implored and besought the judges with many tears, bringing forward his children in order that he might excite their utmost compassion, and many others of his relatives and friends, whereas I do none of these things, although I may appear to be incurring the extremity of danger. Perhaps, therefore, some one, taking notice of this, may become more determined against me, and, being enraged at this very conduct of mine, may give his vote under the influence of anger. If then any one of you is thus affected—I do not, however, suppose that there is—but if there should be, I think I may reasonably say to him: “I too, O best of men, have relatives; for to make use of that saying of Homer, I am not sprung from an oak, nor from a rock, but from men, so that I too, O Athenians, have relatives, and three sons, one now grown up, and two boys; I shall not, however, bring any one of them forward and implore you to acquit me.” Why then shall I not do this? 172

Not from contumacy, O Athenians, nor disrespect toward you. Whether or not I am undaunted at the prospect of death, is another question, but out of regard to my own character, and yours, and that of the whole city, it does not appear to me to be honorable that I should do anything of this kind at my age, and with the reputation I have, whether true or false. For it is commonly agreed that Socrates in some respects excels the generality of men. If, then, those among you who appear to excel either in wisdom, or fortitude, or any other virtue whatsoever, should act in such a manner as I have often seen some when they have been brought to trial, it would be shameful, who, appearing indeed to be something, have conducted themselves in a surprising manner, as thinking they should suffer something dreadful by dying, and as if they would be immortal if you did put them to death. Such men appear to me to bring disgrace on the city, so that any stranger might suppose that such of the Athenians as excel in virtue, and whom they themselves choose in preference to themselves for magistracies and other honors, are in no respect superior to women. For these things, O Athenians, neither ought we to do who have attained to any height of reputation, nor, should we do them, ought you to suffer us; but you should make this manifest, that you will much rather condemn him who introduces these piteous dramas, and makes the city ridiculous, than him who quietly awaits your decision. But reputation apart, O Athenians, it does not appear to me to be right to entreat a judge, or to escape by entreaty, but one ought to inform and persuade him. For a judge does not sit for the purpose of administering justice out of favor, but that he may judge rightly, and he is sworn not to show favor to whom he pleases, but that he will decide according to the laws. It is therefore right that neither should we accustom you, nor should you accustom yourselves to violate your oaths; for in so doing neither of us would act righteously. Think not then, O Athenians, that I ought to adopt such a course toward you as I neither consider honorable, nor just, nor holy, as well, by Jupiter, on any other occasion, and now especially when I am accused of impiety by this Miletus. For clearly, if I should persuade you. and by my entreaties should put a constraint on you who are bound by an oath, I should teach you to think that there are no gods, and in reality, while making my defense, should accuse myself of not believing in the gods. This, however, is far from being the case: for I believe, O Athenians, as none of my accusers do, and I leave it to you and to the deity to judge concerning me in such way as will be best both for me and for you. Note. Delivered in Athens in 399 B.C., as reported by Plato in the “Apology.” Translated by Henry Cary. Abridged —excerpt from The World’s Greatest Orations, editor William Jenning Bryan, copyright 1906

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Character

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Responsibility

KING ALFRED AND THE CAKES

Many years ago there lived in England a wise and good king whose name was Alfred. No other man ever did so much for his country as he; and people now, all over the world, speak of him as Alfred the Great.

In those days a king did not have a very easy life. There was war almost all the time, and no one else could lead his army into battle so well as he. And so, between ruling and fighting, he had a busy time of it indeed.

A fierce, rude people, called the Danes, had come from over the sea, and were fighting the English. There were so many of them, and they were so bold and strong, that for a long time they gained every battle. If they kept on, they would soon be the masters of the whole country.

At last, after a great battle, the English army was broken up and scattered. Every man had to save himself in the best way he could. King Alfred fled alone, in great haste, through the woods and swamps.

Late in the day the king came to the hut of a woodcutter. He was very tired and hungry, and he begged the woodcutter's wife to give him something to eat and a place to sleep in her hut.

The woman was baking some cakes upon the hearth, and she looked with pity upon the poor, ragged fellow who seemed so hungry. She had no thought that he was the king.

"Yes," she said, "I will give you some supper if you will watch these cakes. I want to go out and milk the cow; and you must see that they do not burn while I am gone."

King Alfred was very willing to watch the cakes, but he had far greater things to think about. How was he going to get his army together again? And how was he going to drive the fierce Danes out of the land? He forgot his hunger; he forgot the cakes; he forgot that he was in the woodcutter's hut. His mind was busy making plans for tomorrow.

In a little while the woman came back. The cakes were smoking on the hearth. They were burned to a crisp. Ah, how angry she was!

"You lazy fellow!" she cried. "See what you have done! You want some-thing to eat, but you do not want to work!"

I have been told that she even struck the king with a stick; but I can hardly believe that she was so ill natured.

The king must have laughed to himself at the thought of being scolded in this way; and he was so hungry that he did not mind the woman's angry words half so much as the loss of the cakes. 175

I do not know whether he had anything to eat that night, or whether he had to go to bed without his supper. But it was not many days until he had gathered his men together again, and had beaten the Danes in a great battle.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH There once lived in England a brave and noble man whose name was Walter Raleigh. He was not only brave and noble, but he was also handsome and polite; and for that reason the queen made him a knight, and called him Sir Walter Raleigh. I will tell you about it. When Raleigh was a young man, he was one day walking along a street in London. At that time the streets were not paved, and there were no sidewalks. Raleigh was dressed in very fine style, and he wore a beautiful scarlet cloak thrown over his shoulders. As he passed along, he found it hard work to keep from stepping in the mud, and soiling his hand-some new shoes. Soon he came to a puddle of muddy water which reached from one side of the street to the other. He could not step across. Perhaps he could jump over it. As he was thinking what he should do, he happened to look up. Who was it coming down the street, on the other side of the puddle? It was Elizabeth, the Queen of England, with her train of gentlewomen and waiting maids. She saw the dirty puddle in the street. She saw the handsome young man with the scarlet cloak, standing by the side of it. How was she to get across? Young Raleigh, when he saw who was coming, forgot about himself. He thought only of helping the queen. There was only one thing that he could do, and no other man would have thought of that. He took off his scarlet cloak, and spread it across the puddle. The queen could step on it now, as on a beautiful carpet. She walked across. She was safely over the ugly puddle, and her feet had not touched the mud. She paused a moment, and thanked the young man. As she walked onward with her train, she asked one of the gentlewomen, "Who is that brave gentleman who helped us so handsomely?" "His name is Walter Raleigh," said the gentlewoman. "He shall have his reward," said the queen. Not long after that, she sent for Raleigh to come to her palace. The young man went, but he had no scarlet cloak to wear. Then, while all the great men and fine ladies of England stood around, the queen made him a knight. And from that time he was known as Sir Walter Raleigh, the queen's favorite. Sir Walter Raleigh and Sir Humphrey Gilbert were half brothers. When Sir Humphrey made his first voyage to America, Sir Walter was with him. After that, Sir Walter tried several times to send men to this country to make a settlement. But those whom he sent found only great forests, and wild beasts, and savage Indians. Some of them went back to England; some of them died for want of food; and some of them were lost in the woods. At last Sir Walter gave up trying to get people to come to America. But he found two things in this country which the people of England knew very little about. One was the potato, the other was tobacco. If you should ever go to Ireland, you may be shown the place where Sir Walter planted the few potatoes which he carried over from America. He told his friends how the Indians used them for food; and he proved that they would grow in the Old World as well as in the New. Sir Walter had seen the Indians smoking the leaves of the tobacco plant. He thought that he would do the same, and he carried some of the leaves to England. Englishmen had never used tobacco before that time; and all who saw Sir Walter puffing away at a roll of leaves thought that it was a strange sight.

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One day as he was sitting in his chair and smoking, his servant came into the room. The man saw the smoke curling over his master's head, and he thought that he was on fire. He ran out for some water. He found a pail that was quite full. He hurried back, and threw the water into Sir Walter's face. Of course the fire was all put out. After that a great many men learned to smoke. And now tobacco is used in all countries of the world. It would have been well if Sir Walter Raleigh had let it alone.

THE BELL OF ATRI Atri is the name of a little town in Italy. It is a very old town, and is built halfway up the side of a steep hill. A long time ago, the King of Atri bought a fine large bell, and had it hung up in a tower in the market place. A long rope that reached almost to the ground was fastened to the bell. The smallest child could ring the bell by pulling upon this rope. "It is the bell of justice," said the king. When at last everything was ready, the people of Atri had a great holiday. All the men and women and children came down to the market place to look at the bell of justice. It was a very pretty bell, and was, polished until it looked almost as bright and yellow as the sun. "How we should like to hear it ring!" they said. Then the king came down the street. "Perhaps he will ring it," said the people; and everybody stood very still, and waited to see what he would do. But he did not ring the bell. He did not even take the rope in his hands. When he came to the foot of the tower, he stopped, and raised his hand. "My people," he said, "do you see this beautiful bell? It is your bell; but it must never be rung except in case of need. If any one of you is wronged at any time, he may come and ring the bell; and then the judges shall come together at once, and hear his case, and give him justice. Rich and poor, old and young, all alike may come; but no one must touch the rope unless he knows that he has been wronged." Many years passed by after this. Many times did the bell in the market place ring out to call the judges together. Many wrongs were righted, many ill doers were punished. At last the hempen rope was almost worn out. The lower part of it was untwisted; some of the strands were broken; it became so short that only a tall man could reach it. "This will never do," said the judges one day. "What if a child should be wronged? It could not ring the bell to let us know it." They gave orders that a new rope should be put upon the bell at once,—a rope that should hang down to the ground, so that the smallest child could reach it. But there was not a rope to be found in all Atri. They would have to send across the mountains for one, and it would be many days before it could be brought. What if some great wrong should be done before it came? How could the judges know about it, if the injured one could not reach the old rope? "Let me fix it for you," said a man who stood by. He ran into his garden, which was not far away, and soon came back with a long grapevine in his hands. "This will do for a rope," he said; and he climbed up, and fastened it to the bell. The slender vine, with its leaves and tendrils still upon it, trailed to the ground. "Yes," said the judges, "it is a very good rope. Let it be as it is." Now, on the hillside above the village, there lived a man who had once been a brave knight. In his youth he had ridden through many lands, and he had fought in many a battle. His best friend through all that time had been his horse,—a strong, noble steed that had borne him safe through many a danger. But the knight, when he grew older, cared no more to ride into battle; he cared no more to do brave deeds; he thought of nothing but gold; he became a miser. At last he sold all that he had, except his horse, and went to live in a little hut on the hillside. Day after day he sat among his moneybags, and planned how he might get more gold; and day after day his horse stood in his bare stall, half-starved, and shivering with cold.

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"What is the use of keeping that lazy steed?" said the miser to himself one morning. "Every week it costs me more to keep him than he is worth. I might sell him; but there is not a man that wants him. I cannot even give him away. I will turn him out to shift for himself, and pick grass by the roadside. If he starves to death, so much the better." So the brave old horse was turned out to find what he could among the rocks on the barren hillside. Lame and sick, he strolled along the dusty roads, glad to find a blade of grass or a thistle. The boys threw stones at him, the dogs barked at him, and in all the world there was no one to pity him. One hot afternoon, when no one was upon the street, the horse chanced to wander into the market place. Not a man nor child was there, for the heat of the sun had driven them all indoors. The gates were wide open; the poor beast could roam where he pleased. He saw the grapevine rope that hung from the bell of justice. The leaves and tendrils upon it were still fresh and green, for it had not been there long. What a fine dinner they would be for a starving horse! He stretched his thin neck, and took one of the tempting morsels in his mouth. It was hard to break it from the vine. He pulled at it, and the great bell above him began to ring. All the people in Atri heard it. It seemed to say

"Some one has done me wrong! Some one has done me wrong! Oh! come and judge my case! Oh! come and judge my case! For I've been wronged!" The judges heard it. They put on their robes, and went out through the hot streets to the market place. They wondered who it could be who would ring the bell at such a time. When they passed through the gate, they saw the old horse nibbling at the vine. "Ha!" cried one, "it is the miser's steed. He has come to call for justice; for his master, as everybody knows, has treated him most shamefully." "He pleads his cause as well as any dumb brute can," said another. "And he shall have justice!" said the third. Mean-while a crowd of men and women and children had come into the market place, eager to learn what cause the judges were about to try. When they saw the horse, all stood still in wonder. Then every one was ready to tell how they had seen him wandering on the hills, unfed, un-cared for, while his master sat at home counting his bags of gold. "Go bring the miser before us," said the judges.

And when he came, they bade him stand and hear their judgment. "This horse has served you well for many a year," they said. "He has saved you from many a peril. He has helped you gain your wealth. Therefore we order that one half of all your gold shall be set aside to buy him shelter and food, a green pasture where he may graze, and a warm stall to comfort him in his old age." The miser hung his head, and grieved to lose his gold; but the people shouted with joy, and the horse was led away to his new stall and a dinner such as he had not had in many a day.

—excerpt from Fifty Famous Stories Retold by James Baldwin published by American Book Company, copyright 1896

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LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE

Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep, An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep; An' all us other children, when the supper things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about, An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

Onc't there was a little boy wouldn't say his prayers,-- So when he went to bed at night, away up stairs, His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl, An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all! An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press, An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess; But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout:-- An' the Gobble-uns'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin, An' make fun of ever'one, an' all her blood an' kin; An' onc't, when they was "company," an' ole folks was there, She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care! An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide, They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side, An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about! An' the Gobble-uns'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

An' little Orphant Annie says when the blaze is blue, An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo! An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray, An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,-- You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond an' dear, An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about, Er the Gobble-uns'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

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The American’s Creed by William Tyler Page I believe in the United States of America as a government of the people, by the people, for the people; whose just powers are derived from the consent of the governed, a democracy in a republic, a sovereign Nation of many sovereign States; a perfect union, one and inseparable; established upon those principles of freedom, equality, justice, and humanity for which American patriots sacrificed their lives and fortunes.

I therefore believe it is my duty to my country to love it, to support its Constitution, to obey its laws, to respect its flag, and to defend it against all enemies.

—Written 1917, accepted by the United States House of Representatives on April 3, 1918

WHAT A BABY COSTS

"How much do babies cost?" said he The other night upon my knee; And then I said: "They cost a lot; A lot of watching by a cot, A lot of sleepless hours and care, A lot of heartache and despair, A lot of fear and trying dread, And sometimes many tears are shed In payment for our babies small, But every one is worth it all.

"For babies people have to pay A heavy price from day to day— There is no way to get one cheap. Why, sometimes when they're fast asleep You have to get up in the night And go and see that they're all right. But what they cost in constant care And worry, does not half compare With what they bring of joy and bliss— You'd pay much more for just a kiss.

"Who buys a baby has to pay A portion of the bill each day; He has to give his time and thought Unto the little one he's bought. He has to stand a lot of pain Inside his heart and not complain; And pay with lonely days and sad For all the happy hours he's had. All this a baby costs, and yet His smile is worth it all, you bet."

—excerpt from A Heap o’ Livin’ by Edgar A. Guest

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FEDERALIST No. 55

The Total Number of the House of Representatives For the Independent Journal. Wednesday, February 13, 1788.

MADISON

To the People of the State of New York:

The number of which the House of Representatives is to consist, forms another and a very interesting point of view, under which this branch of the federal legislature may be contemplated. Scarce any article, indeed, in the whole Constitution seems to be rendered more worthy of attention, by the weight of character and the apparent force of argument with which it has been assailed. The charges exhibited against it are, first, that so small a number of representatives will be an unsafe depositary of the public interests; secondly, that they will not possess a proper knowledge of the local circumstances of their numerous constituents; thirdly, that they will be taken from that class of citizens which will sympathize least with the feelings of the mass of the people, and be most likely to aim at a permanent elevation of the few on the depression of the many; fourthly, that defective as the number will be in the first instance, it will be more and more disproportionate, by the increase of the people, and the obstacles which will prevent a correspondent increase of the representatives.

In general it may be remarked on this subject, that no political problem is less susceptible of a precise solution than that which relates to the number most convenient for a representative legislature; nor is there any point on which the policy of the several States is more at variance, whether we compare their legislative assemblies directly with each other, or consider the proportions which they respectively bear to the number of their constituents. Passing over the difference between the smallest and largest States, as Delaware, whose most numerous branch consists of twenty-one representatives, and Massachusetts, where it amounts to between three and four hundred, a very considerable difference is observable among States nearly equal in population. The number of representatives in Pennsylvania is not more than one fifth of that in the State last mentioned. New York, whose population is to that of South Carolina as six to five, has little more than one third of the number of representatives. As great a disparity prevails between the States of Georgia and Delaware or Rhode Island. In Pennsylvania, the representatives do not bear a greater proportion to their constituents than of one for every four or five thousand. In Rhode Island, they bear a proportion of at least one for every thousand. And according to the constitution of Georgia, the proportion may be carried to one to every ten electors; and must unavoidably far exceed the proportion in any of the other States.

Another general remark to be made is, that the ratio between the representatives and the people ought not to be the same where the latter are very numerous as where they are very few. Were the representatives in Virginia to be regulated by the standard in Rhode Island, they would, at this time, amount to between four and five hundred; and twenty or thirty years hence, to a thousand. On the other hand, the ratio of Pennsylvania, if applied to the State of Delaware, would reduce the representative assembly of the latter to seven or eight members. Nothing can be more fallacious than to found our political calculations on arithmetical principles. Sixty or seventy men may be more properly trusted with a given degree of power than six or seven. But it does not follow that six or seven hundred would be proportionally a better depositary. And if we carry on the supposition to six or seven thousand, the whole reasoning ought to be reversed. The truth is, that in all cases a certain number at least seems to be necessary to secure the benefits of free consultation and discussion, and to guard against too easy a combination for improper purposes; as, on the other hand, the number ought at most to be kept within a certain limit, in order to avoid the confusion and intemperance of a multitude. In all very numerous assemblies, of whatever character composed, passion never fails to wrest the scepter from reason. Had every Athenian citizen been a Socrates, every Athenian assembly would still have been a mob.

It is necessary also to recollect here the observations which were applied to the case of biennial elections. For the same reason that the limited powers of the Congress, and the control of the State legislatures, justify less frequent elections than the public safely might otherwise require, the members of the Congress need be less numerous than if they possessed the whole power of legislation, and were under no other than the ordinary restraints of other legislative bodies.

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With these general ideas in our mind, let us weigh the objections which have been stated against the number of members proposed for the House of Representatives. It is said, in the first place, that so small a number cannot be safely trusted with so much power.

The number of which this branch of the legislature is to consist, at the outset of the government, will be sixty-five. Within three years a census is to be taken, when the number may be augmented to one for every thirty thousand inhabitants; and within every successive period of ten years the census is to be renewed, and augmentations may continue to be made under the above limitation. It will not be thought an extravagant conjecture that the first census will, at the rate of one for every thirty thousand, raise the number of representatives to at least one hundred. Estimating the negroes in the proportion of three fifths, it can scarcely be doubted that the population of the United States will by that time, if it does not already, amount to three millions. At the expiration of twenty-five years, according to the computed rate of increase, the number of representatives will amount to two hundred, and of fifty years, to four hundred. This is a number which, I presume, will put an end to all fears arising from the smallness of the body. I take for granted here what I shall, in answering the fourth objection, hereafter show, that the number of representatives will be augmented from time to time in the manner provided by the Constitution. On a contrary supposition, I should admit the objection to have very great weight indeed.

The true question to be decided then is, whether the smallness of the number, as a temporary regulation, be dangerous to the public liberty? Whether sixty-five members for a few years, and a hundred or two hundred for a few more, be a safe depositary for a limited and well-guarded power of legislating for the United States? I must own that I could not give a negative answer to this question, without first obliterating every impression which I have received with regard to the present genius of the people of America, the spirit which actuates the State legislatures, and the principles which are incorporated with the political character of every class of citizens I am unable to conceive that the people of America, in their present temper, or under any circumstances which can speedily happen, will choose, and every second year repeat the choice of, sixty-five or a hundred men who would be disposed to form and pursue a scheme of tyranny or treachery. I am unable to conceive that the State legislatures, which must feel so many motives to watch, and which possess so many means of counteracting, the federal legislature, would fail either to detect or to defeat a conspiracy of the latter against the liberties of their common constituents. I am equally unable to conceive that there are at this time, or can be in any short time, in the United States, any sixty-five or a hundred men capable of recommending themselves to the choice of the people at large, who would either desire or dare, within the short space of two years, to betray the solemn trust committed to them. What change of circumstances, time, and a fuller population of our country may produce, requires a prophetic spirit to declare, which makes no part of my pretensions. But judging from the circumstances now before us, and from the probable state of them within a moderate period of time, I must pronounce that the liberties of America cannot be unsafe in the number of hands proposed by the federal Constitution.

From what quarter can the danger proceed? Are we afraid of foreign gold? If foreign gold could so easily corrupt our federal rulers and enable them to ensnare and betray their constituents, how has it happened that we are at this time a free and independent nation? The Congress which conducted us through the Revolution was a less numerous body than their successors will be; they were not chosen by, nor responsible to, their fellow citizens at large; though appointed from year to year, and recallable at pleasure, they were generally continued for three years, and prior to the ratification of the federal articles, for a still longer term. They held their consultations always under the veil of secrecy; they had the sole transaction of our affairs with foreign nations; through the whole course of the war they had the fate of their country more in their hands than it is to be hoped will ever be the case with our future representatives; and from the greatness of the prize at stake, and the eagerness of the party which lost it, it may well be supposed that the use of other means than force would not have been scrupled. Yet we know by happy experience that the public trust was not betrayed; nor has the purity of our public councils in this particular ever suffered, even from the whispers of calumny.

Is the danger apprehended from the other branches of the federal government? But where are the means to be found by the President, or the Senate, or both? Their emoluments of office, it is to be presumed, will not, and without a previous corruption of the House of Representatives cannot, more than suffice for very different purposes; their private fortunes, as they must all be American citizens, cannot possibly be sources of danger. The only means, then, which they can possess, will be in the dispensation of appointments. Is it here that suspicion rests her charge? Sometimes we are told that this fund of corruption is to be exhausted by the President in subduing the virtue of the Senate. Now, the fidelity of the other House is to be the victim. The improbability of such a mercenary and perfidious combination of the several members of government, standing on as different foundations as republican principles will well admit, and at the same time accountable to the society over which they are placed, ought alone to quiet this apprehension. But, fortunately, the Constitution has provided a still further safeguard. The members of the Congress are rendered ineligible to any civil 182 offices that may be created, or of which the emoluments may be increased, during the term of their election. No offices therefore can be dealt out to the existing members but such as may become vacant by ordinary casualties: and to suppose that these would be sufficient to purchase the guardians of the people, selected by the people themselves, is to renounce every rule by which events ought to be calculated, and to substitute an indiscriminate and unbounded jealousy, with which all reasoning must be vain. The sincere friends of liberty, who give themselves up to the extravagancies of this passion, are not aware of the injury they do their own cause. As there is a degree of depravity in mankind which requires a certain degree of circumspection and distrust, so there are other qualities in human nature which justify a certain portion of esteem and confidence. Republican government presupposes the existence of these qualities in a higher degree than any other form. Were the pictures which have been drawn by the political jealousy of some among us faithful likenesses of the human character, the inference would be, that there is not sufficient virtue among men for self-government; and that nothing less than the chains of despotism can restrain them from destroying and devouring one another. PUBLIUS

-—excerpt from The Federalist Papers by Alexander Hamilton, John Jay and James Madison

WHAT TO THE SLAVE IS THE FOURTH OF JULY?

Extract from an Oration, at Rochester, July 5, 1852 by Frederick Douglass

Fellow-Citizens—Pardon me, and allow me to ask, why am I called upon to speak here to-day? What have I, or those I represent, to do with your national independence? Are the great principles of political freedom and of natural justice, embodied in that Declaration of Independence, extended to us? and am I, therefore, called upon to bring our humble offering to the national altar, and to confess the benefits, and express devout gratitude for the blessings, resulting from your independence to us?

Would to God, both for your sakes and ours, that an affirmative answer could be truthfully returned to these questions! Then would my task be light, and my burden easy and delightful. For who is there so cold that a nation's sympathy could not warm him? Who so obdurate and dead to the claims of gratitude, that would not thankfully acknowledge such priceless benefits? Who so stolid and selfish, that would not give his voice to swell the hallelujahs of a nation's jubilee, when the chains of servitude had been torn from his limbs? I am not that man. In a case like that, the dumb might eloquently speak, and the "lame man leap as an hart."

But, such is not the state of the case. I say it with a sad sense of the disparity between us. I am not included within the pale of this glorious anniversary! Your high independence only reveals the immeasurable distance between us. The blessings in which you this day rejoice, are not enjoyed in common. The rich inheritance of justice, liberty, prosperity, and independence, bequeathed by your fathers, is shared by you, not by me. The sunlight that brought life and healing to you, has brought stripes and death to me. This Fourth of July is yours, not mine. You may rejoice, I must mourn. To drag a man in fetters into the grand illuminated temple of liberty, and call upon him to join you in joyous anthems, were inhuman mockery and sacrilegious irony. Do you mean, citizens, to mock me, by asking me to speak to-day? If so, there is a parallel to your conduct. And let me warn you that it is dangerous to copy the example of a nation whose crimes, towering up to heaven, were thrown down by the breath of the Almighty, burying that nation in irrecoverable ruin! I can to-day take up the plaintive lament of a peeled and woe-smitten people.

"By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down. Yea! we wept when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof. For there, they that carried us away captive, required of us a song; and they who wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion. How can we sing the Lord's song in a strange land? If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning. If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth."

Fellow-citizens, above your national, tumultuous joy, I hear the mournful wail of millions, whose chains, heavy and grievous yesterday, are to-day rendered more intolerable by the jubilant shouts that reach them. If I do forget, if I do not faithfully remember those bleeding children of sorrow this day, "may my right hand forget her cunning, and may my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth!" To forget them, to pass lightly over their wrongs, and to chime in with the popular theme, would be treason most scandalous and shocking, and would make me a reproach before God and the world. My subject, then, fellow-citizens, is AMERICAN SLAVERY. I shall see this day and its popular characteristics from the slave's point of view. Standing there, identified with the American bondman, making his wrongs mine, I

183 do not hesitate to declare, with all my soul, that the character and conduct of this nation never looked blacker to me than on this Fourth of July. Whether we turn to the declarations of the past, or to the professions of the present, the conduct of the nation seems equally hideous and revolting. America is false to the past, false to the present, and solemnly binds herself to be false to the future. Standing with God and the crushed and bleeding slave on this occasion, I will, in the name of humanity which is outraged, in the name of liberty which is fettered, in the name of the constitution and the bible, which are disregarded and trampled upon, dare to call in question and to denounce, with all the emphasis I can command, everything that serves to perpetuate slavery--the great sin and shame of America! "I will not equivocate; I will not excuse;" I will use the severest language I can command; and yet not one word shall escape me that any man, whose judgment is not blinded by prejudice, or who is not at heart a slaveholder, shall not confess to be right and just.

But I fancy I hear some one of my audience say, it is just in this circumstance that you and your brother abolitionists fail to make a favorable impression on the public mind. Would you argue more, and denounce less, would you persuade more and rebuke less, your cause would be much more likely to succeed. But, I submit, where all is plain there is nothing to be argued. What point in the anti-slavery creed would you have me argue? On what branch of the subject do the people of this country need light? Must I undertake to prove that the slave is a man? That point is conceded already. Nobody doubts it. The slaveholders themselves acknowledge it in the enactment of laws for their government. They acknowledge it when they punish disobedience on the part of the slave. There are seventy-two crimes in the state of Virginia, which, if committed by a black man (no matter how ignorant he be), subject him to the punishment of death; while only two of these same crimes will subject a white man to the like punishment. What is this but the acknowledgement that the slave is a moral, intellectual, and responsible being. The manhood of the slave is conceded. It is admitted in the fact that southern statute books are covered with enactments forbidding, under severe fines and penalties, the teaching of the slave to read or write. When you can point to any such laws, in reference to the beasts of the field, then I may consent to argue the manhood of the slave. When the dogs in your streets, when the fowls of the air, when the cattle on your hills, when the fish of the sea, and the reptiles that crawl, shall be unable to distinguish the slave from a brute, then will I argue with you that the slave is a man!

For the present, it is enough to affirm the equal manhood of the Negro race. Is it not astonishing that, while we are plowing, planting, and reaping, using all kinds of mechanical tools, erecting houses, constructing bridges, building ships, working in metals of brass, iron, copper, silver, and gold; that, while we are reading, writing, and ciphering, acting as clerks, merchants, and secretaries, having among us lawyers, doctors, ministers, poets, authors, editors, orators, and teachers; that, while we are engaged in all manner of enterprises common to other men-- digging gold in California, capturing the whale in the Pacific, feeding sheep and cattle on the hillside, living, moving, acting, thinking, planning, living in families as husbands, wives, and children, and, above all, confessing and worshiping the Christian's God, and looking hopefully for life and immortality beyond the grave--we are called upon to prove that we are men!

Would you have me argue that man is entitled to liberty? that he is the rightful owner of his own body? You have already declared it. Must I argue the wrongfulness of slavery? Is that a question for republicans? Is it to be settled by the rules of logic and argumentation, as a matter beset with great difficulty, involving a doubtful application of the principle of justice, hard to be understood? How should I look to-day in the presence of Americans, dividing and subdividing a discourse, to show that men have a natural right to freedom, speaking of it relatively and positively, negatively and affirmatively? To do so, would be to make myself ridiculous, and to offer an insult to your understanding. There is not a man beneath the canopy of heaven that does not know that slavery is wrong for him.

What am I to argue that it is wrong to make men brutes, to rob them of their liberty, to work them without wages, to keep them ignorant of their relations to their fellow-men, to beat them with sticks, to flay their flesh with the lash, to load their limbs with irons, to hunt them with dogs, to sell them at auction, to sunder their families, to knock out their teeth, to burn their flesh, to starve them into obedience and submission to their masters? Must I argue that a system, thus marked with blood and stained with pollution, is wrong? No; I will not. I have better employment for my time and strength than such arguments would imply.

What, then, remains to be argued? Is it that slavery is not divine; that God did not establish it; that our doctors of divinity are mistaken? There is blasphemy in the thought. That which is inhuman cannot be divine. Who can reason on such a proposition! They that can, may! I cannot. The time for such argument is past.

At a time like this, scorching irony, not convincing argument, is needed. Oh! had I the ability, and could I reach the nation's ear, I would today pour out a fiery stream of biting ridicule, blasting reproach, withering sarcasm, and stern 184 rebuke. For it is not light that is needed, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake. The feeling of the nation must be quickened; the conscience of the nation must be roused; the propriety of the nation must be startled; the hypocrisy of the nation must be exposed; and its crimes against God and man must be proclaimed and denounced.

What to the American slave is your Fourth of July? I answer a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciations of tyrants, brass-fronted impudence; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade and solemnity, are to him mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy--a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices more shocking and bloody, than are the people of these United States, at this very hour.

Go where you may, search where you will, roam through all the monarchies and despotisms of the old world, travel through South America, search out every abuse, and when you have found the last, lay your facts by the side of the every-day practices of this nation, and you will say with me, that, for revolting barbarity and shameless hypocrisy, America reigns without a rival.

THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES There was once a king whose name was Dionysius. He was so unjust and cruel that he won for himself the name of tyrant. He knew that almost everybody hated him, and so he was always in dread lest someone should take his life. But he was very rich, and he lived in a fine palace where there were many beautiful and costly things, and he was waited upon by a host of servants who were always ready to do his bidding. One day a friend of his, whose name was Damocles, said to him, "How happy you must be! You have here everything that any man could wish." "Perhaps you would like to change places with me," said the tyrant. "No, not that, O king!" said Damocles; "but I think, that, if I could only have your riches and your pleasures for one day, I should not want any greater happiness." "Very well," said the tyrant. "You shall have them." And so, the next day, Damocles was led into the palace, and all the servants were bidden to treat him as their master. He sat down at a table in the banquet hall, and rich foods were placed before him. Nothing was wanting that could give him pleasure. There were costly wines, and beautiful flowers, and rare perfumes, and delightful music. He rested himself among soft cushions, and felt that he was the happiest man in all the world. Then he chanced to raise his eyes toward the ceiling. What was it that was dangling above him, with its point almost touching his head? It was a sharp sword, and it was hung by only a single horsehair. What if the hair should break? There was danger every moment that it would do so. The smile faded from the lips of Damocles. His face became ashy pale. His hands trembled. He wanted no more food; he could drink no more wine; he took no more delight in the music. He longed to be out of the palace, and away, he cared not where. "What is the matter?" said the tyrant. "That sword! that sword!" cried Damocles. He was so badly frightened that he dared not move.

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"Yes," said Dionysius, "I know there is a sword above your head, and that it may fall at any moment. But why should that trouble you? I have a sword over my head all the time. I am every moment in dread lest something may cause me to lose my life." "Let me go," said Damocles. "I now see that I was mistaken, and that the rich and powerful are not so happy as they seem. Let me go back to my old home in the poor little cottage among the mountains." And so long as he lived, he never again wanted to be rich, or to change places, even for a moment, with the king. —excerpt from Fifty Famous Stories Retold by James Baldwin, published by American Book Company, copyright 1896

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KJV Psalm 51:4 Against thee, thee only, have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight: that thou mightest be justified when thou speakest, and be clear when thou judgest. Ecclesiastes 12:14 For God shall bring every work into judgment, with every secret thing, whether it be good, or whether it be evil. Romans 1:32 Who knowing the judgment of God, that they which commit such things are worthy of death, not only do the same, but have pleasure in them that do them. Psalm 12:3 The LORD shall cut off all flattering lips, and the tongue that speaketh proud things: Psalm 39:1 I said, I will take heed to my ways, that I sin not with my tongue: I will keep my mouth with a bridle, while the wicked is before me. Psalm 139:4 For there is not a word in my tongue, but, lo, O LORD, thou knowest it altogether. James 1:26 If any man among you seem to be religious, and bridleth not his tongue, but deceiveth his own heart, this man's religion is vain. Psalm 139:2 Thou knowest my downsitting and mine uprising, thou understandest my thought afar off. Proverbs 24:9 The thought of foolishness is sin: and the scorner is an abomination to men. Acts 8:22 Repent therefore of this thy wickedness, and pray God, if perhaps the thought of thine heart may be forgiven thee. Proverbs 6:13-14 He winketh with his eyes, he speaketh with his feet, he teacheth with his fingers; Forwardness is in his heart, he deviseth mischief continually; he soweth discord. Matthew 5:22 But I say unto you, That whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause shall be in danger of the judgment: and whosoever shall say to his brother, Raca, shall be in danger of the council: but whosoever shall say, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire. Matthew 7:1 Judge not, that ye be not judged. Psalm 7:9 Oh let the wickedness of the wicked come to an end; but establish the just: for the righteous God trieth the hearts and reins. Jeremiah 11:20 But, O LORD of hosts, that judgest righteously, that triest the reins and the heart, let me see thy vengeance on them: for unto thee have I revealed my cause. Romans 2:16 In the day when God shall judge the secrets of men by Jesus Christ according to my gospel. 2 Corinthians 5:10 For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ; that every one may receive the things done in his body, according to that he hath done, whether it be good or bad. Jeremiah 6:19 Hear, O earth: behold, I will bring evil upon this people, even the fruit of their thoughts, because they have not hearkened unto my words, nor to my law, but rejected it.

Latin Psalm 51:4 Tibi, tibi soli peccavi et malum coram te feci, ut iustus inveniaris in sententia tua et aequus in iudicio tuo. Ecclesiastes 12:14 Et cuncta, quae fiunt, adducet Deus in iudicium circa omne occultum, sive bonum sive malum. Romans 1:32 Qui cum iudicium Dei cognovissent, quoniam qui talia agunt, digni sunt morte, non solum ea faciunt, sed et consentiunt facientibus. Psalm 12:3 Disperdat Dominus universa labia dolosa et linguam magniloquam. Psalm 39:1 Dixi: “Custodiam vias meas, ut non delinquam in lingua mea; ponam ori meo custodiam, donec consistit peccator adversum me.” Psalm 139:4 quia nondum est sermo in lingua mea, et ecce, Domine, tu novisti omnia. James 1:26 Si quis putat se religiosum esse, non freno circumducens linguam suam sed seducens cor suum, huius vana est religio. Psalm 139:2 tu cognovisti sessionem meam et resurrectionem meam. Intellexisti cogitationes meas de longe,

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Proverbs 24:9 Cogitatio stulti peccatum est, et abominatio hominum detractor. Acts 8:22 Paenitentiam itaque age ab hac nequitia tua et roga Dominum, si forte remittatur tibi haec cogitatio cordis tui; Proverbs 6:13-14 annuit oculis, terit pede, digito loquitur. Prava in corde suo machinatur, malum in omni tempore, iurgia seminat. Matthew 5:22 Ego autem dico vobis: Omnis, qui irascitur fratri suo, reus erit iudicio; qui autem dixerit fratri suo: “Racha,” reus erit concilio; qui autem dixerit: “Fatue”, reus erit gehennae ignis. Matthew 7:1 Nolite iudicare, ut non iudice mini; Psalm 7:9 Consumatur nequitia peccatorum; et iustum confirma: scrutans corda et renes Deus iustus. Jeremiah 11:20 Tu autem, Domine exercituum, qui iudicas iuste et probas renes et corda: videam ultionem tuam ex eis; tibi enim revelavi causam meam. Romans 2:16 in die, cum iudicabit Deus occulta hominum secundum evangelium meum per Christum Iesum. 2 Corinthians 5:10 Omnes enim nos manifestari oportet ante tribunal Christi, ut referat unusquisque pro eis, quae per corpus gessit, sive bonum sive malum. Jeremiah 6:19 Audi terra: “ Ecce ego adducam mala super populum istum, fructum cogitationum eorum, quia verba mea non audierunt et legem meam proiecerunt. Nova Vulgata Bibliorum Sacrorum Editio Sacrosancti Oecumenici Concilii Vaticani II Ratione Habita Iussu Pauli PP. VI Recognita Auctoritate Ioannis Pauli PP. II Promulgata Editio Typica Altera Imported from the Vatican's Website

Greek Psalm 51: 4 Εις σε, εις σε μονον ημαρτον και το πονηρον ενωπιον σου επραξα· δια να δικαιωθης εν τοις λογοις σου και να ησαι αμεμπτος εις τας κρισεις σου. Ecclesiastes 12:14 Διοτι ο Θεος θελει φερει εις κρισιν παν εργον και παν κρυπτον, ειτε αγαθον ειτε πονηρον. Romans 1:32 οιτινες ενω γνωριζουσι την δικαιοσυνην του Θεου, οτι οι πραττοντες τα τοιαυτα ειναι αξιοι θανατου, ουχι μονον πραττουσιν αυτα, αλλα και συνευδοκουσιν εις τους πραττοντας. Psalm 12:3 Ας εξολοθρευση ο Κυριος παντα τα χειλη τα δολια, την γλωσσαν την μεγαλορρημονα. Psalm 39:1 Εις τον πρωτον μουσικον, τον Ιεδουθουν. Ψαλμος του Δαβιδ.>> Ειπα, Θελω προσεχει εις τας οδους μου, δια να μη αμαρτανω δια της γλωσσης μου· θελω φυλαττει το στομα μου με χαλινον, ενω ειναι ο ασεβης εμπροσθεν μου. Psalm 139:4 Διοτι και πριν ελθη ο λογος εις την γλωσσαν μου, ιδου, Κυριε, γνωριζεις το παν. James 1:26 Εαν τις μεταξυ σας νομιζη οτι ειναι θρησκος, και δεν χαλινονη την γλωσσαν αυτου αλλ' απατα την καρδιαν αυτου, τουτου η θρησκεια ειναι ματαια. Psalm 139:2 Συ γνωριζεις το καθισμα μου και την εγερσιν μου· νοεις τους λογισμους μου απο μακροθεν. Proverbs 24:9 Η μελετη της αφροσυνης ειναι αμαρτια· και ο χλευαστης βδελυγμα εις τους ανθρωπους. Acts 8:22 Μετανοησον λοιπον απο της κακιας σου ταυτης και δεηθητι του Θεου, ισως συγχωρηθη εις σε η επινοια της καρδιας σου· Proverbs 6:13-14 Καμνει νευμα δια των οφθαλμων αυτου, σημαινει δια των ποδων αυτου, διδασκει δια των δακτυλων αυτου· μετα διεστραμμενης καρδιας μηχαναται κακα εν παντι καιρω· εγειρει εριδας· Matthew 5:22 Εγω ομως σας λεγω οτι πας ο οργιζομενος αναιτιως κατα του αδελφου αυτου θελει εισθαι ενοχοςς ει την κρισιν· και οστις ειπη προς τον αδελφον αυτου Ρακα, θελει εισθαι ενοχος εις το συνεδριον· οστις δε ειπη Μωρε, θελει εισθαι ενοχος εις την γεενναν του πυρος. Matthew 7:1 Μη κρινετε, δια να μη κριθητε· Psalm 7:9 Ας τελειωση πλεον η κακια των ασεβων· και στερεωσον τον δικαιον, συ ο Θεος ο δικαιος, ο εξεταζων καρδιας και νεφρους.

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Jeremiah 11:20 Αλλ' ω Κυριε των δυναμεων, ο κρινων δικαιως, ο δοκιμαζων τους νεφρους και την καρδιαν, ας ιδω την εκδικησιν σου επ' αυτους, διοτι προς σε εφανερωσα την δικην μου. Romans 2:16 εν τη ημερα οτε θελει κρινει ο Θεος τα κρυπτα των ανθρωπων δια του Ιησου Χριστου κατα το ευαγγελιον μου. 2 Corinthians 5:10 Διοτι πρεπει παντες να εμφανισθωμεν εμπροσθεν του βηματος του Χριστου, δια να ανταμειφθη εκαστος κατα τα πεπραγμενα δια του σωματος καθ' α επραξεν, ειτε αγαθον ειτε κακον. Jeremiah 6:19 Ακουε, γη· ιδου, εγω θελω φερει κακον επι τον λαον τουτον, τον καρπον των διαλογισμων αυτων, διοτι δεν επροσεξαν εις τους λογους μου καιν εις το νομον μου, αλλ' απερριψαν αυτον. Greek Modern Imported from the CrossWire Bible Society's "The Sword Project" Bible Modules.

French Psalm 51: 4 Car je connais mes transgressions, et mon péché est toujours devant moi. Ecclesiastes 12:14 Car Dieu fera venir toute œuvre en jugement, avec tout ce qui est caché, soit bien, soit mal. Romans 1:32 Qui, connaissant le décret de Dieu, savoir: que ceux qui commettent de telles choses sont dignes de mort, non seulement les pratiquent, mais encore approuvent ceux qui les commettent. Psalm 12:3 L'Éternel veuille retrancher toutes les lèvres flatteuses, et la langue qui parle avec orgueil, Psalm 39:1 J'ai dit: Je prendrai garde à mes voies, afin de ne pas pécher par ma langue; je mettrai un frein à ma bouche, tant que le méchant sera devant moi. Psalm 139:4 Même avant que la parole soit sur ma langue, voici, ô Éternel, tu la connais tout entière. James 1:26 Si quelqu'un d'entre vous pense être religieux, et ne tient point sa langue en bride, mais trompe son cœur, la religion d'un tel homme est vaine. Psalm 139:2 Tu sais quand je m'assieds et quand je me lève; tu découvres de loin ma pensée. Proverbs 24:9 Un mauvais dessein est une folie, et le moqueur est en abomination aux hommes. Acts 8:22 Repens-toi donc de ta méchanceté, et prie Dieu, que, s'il est possible, la pensée de ton cour te soit pardonnée. Proverbs 6:13-14 Il fait signe de ses yeux, il parle de ses pieds, il donne à entendre de ses doigts. La perversité est dans son cœur, il machine du mal en tout temps, il fait naître des querelles. Matthew 5:22 Mais moi je vous dis que quiconque se met en colère contre son frère sans cause, sera punissable par le tribunal; et celui qui dira à son frère: Raca (homme de rien), sera punissable par le conseil; et celui qui lui dira: Fou, sera punissable par la géhenne du feu. Matthew 7:1 Ne jugez point, afin que vous ne soyez point jugés; Psalm 7:9 Que la malice des méchants prenne fin, et affermis le juste, toi qui sondes les cœurs et les reins, ô Dieu juste! Jeremiah 11:20 Mais l'Éternel des armées est un juste juge, qui sonde les reins et les cœurs. Tu me feras voir la vengeance que tu tireras d'eux; car je t'ai découvert ma cause. Romans 2:16 Ceci paraîtra au jour auquel Dieu jugera les actions secrètes des hommes, par Jésus-Christ, selon mon Évangile. 2 Corinthians 5:10 Car il nous faut tous comparaître devant le tribunal de Christ, afin que chacun reçoive selon le bien ou le mal qu'il aura fait, étant dans son corps. Jeremiah 6:19 Ecoute, terre! Voici, je fais venir sur ce peuple le malheur, Fruit de ses pensées; Car ils n'ont point été attentifs à mes paroles, Ils ont méprisé ma loi. Version Louis Segond 1910 (LSG) Texte libre de droits Imported from the CrossWire Bible Society's "The Sword Project" Bible Modules.

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Spanish Psalm 51: 4 Contra ti, contra ti sólo he pecado, y he hecho lo malo delante de tus ojos, de manera que eres justo cuando hablas, y sin reproche cuando juzgas. Ecclesiastes 12:14 Porque Dios traerá toda obra a juicio, junto con todo lo oculto, sea bueno o sea malo. Romans 1:32 los cuales, aunque conocen el decreto de Dios que los que practican tales cosas son dignos de muerte, no sólo las hacen, sino que también dan su aprobación a los que las practican. Psalm 12:3 Corte el SENOR todo labio lisonjero, la lengua que habla con exageración; Psalm 39:1 Yo dije: Guardaré mis caminos, para no pecar con mi lengua; guardaré mi boca como con mordaza, mientras el impío esté en mi presencia. Psalm 139:4 Aun antes de que haya palabra en mi boca, he aquí, oh SENOR, tú ya la sabes toda. James 1:26 Si alguno se cree religioso, pero no refrena su lengua, sino que engana a su propio corazón, la religión del tal es vana. Psalm 139:2 Tú conoces mi sentarme y mi levantarme; desde lejos comprendes mis pensamientos. Proverbs 24:9 El tramar necedad es pecado, y el escarnecedor es abominación a los hombres. Acts 8:22 Por tanto, arrepiéntete de esta tu maldad, y ruega al Senor que si es posible se te perdone el intento de tu corazón Proverbs 6:13-14 el que guina los ojos, el que hace senas con los pies, el que senala con los dedos, el que con perversidad en su corazón, continuamente trama el mal, el que siembra Discordia Matthew 5:22 Pero yo os digo que todo aquel que esté enojado con su hermano será culpable ante la corte; y cualquiera que diga: "Raca" a su hermano, será culpable delante de la corte suprema; y cualquiera que diga: "Idiota", será reo del infierno de fuego. Matthew 7:1 No juzguéis para que no seáis juzgados. Psalm 7:9 Acabe la maldad de los impíos, mas establece tú al justo, pues el Dios justo prueba los corazones y las mentes. Jeremiah 11:20 Mas, oh SENOR de los ejércitos, que juzgas rectamente, que examinas los sentimientos y el corazón, vea yo tu venganza contra ellos, porque a ti he expuesto mi causa. Romans 2:16 en el día en que, según mi evangelio, Dios juzgará los secretos de los hombres mediante Cristo Jesús. 2 Corinthians 5:10 Porque es menester que todos nosotros parezcamos ante el tribunal de Cristo, para que cada uno reciba según lo que hubiere hecho por medio del cuerpo, ora sea bueno ó malo. Jeremiah 6:19 Oye, tierra. He aquí yo traigo mal sobre este pueblo, el fruto de sus pensamientos; porque no escucharon á mis palabras, y aborrecieron mi ley. Reina Valera (1909) Imported from the CrossWire Bible Society's "The Sword Project" Bible Modules.

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Week # Verses for the Week Daily Reading Plan 1: 1–10 1:11–20 Week 1 Proverbs 1:1–2:17 1:21–30 1:31–2:7 2:8–17 2:18–3:5 3:6–15 Week 2 Proverbs 2:18–4:10 3:16–25 3:26–35 4:1–10 4:11–20 4:21–5:3 Week 3 Proverbs 4:11–6:10 5:4–5:13 5:14–23 6:1–10 6:11–20 6:21–30 Week 4 Proverbs 6:11–7:25 6:31–7:5 7:6–15 7:16–25 7:26–8:8 8:9–18 Week 5 Proverbs 7:26–9:12 8:19–28 8:29–9:2 9:3–9:12 9:13–10:4 10:5–14 Week 6 Proverbs 9:13–11:12 10:15–24 10:25–11:2 11:3–12 11:13–22 11:23–12:1 Week 7 Proverbs 11:13–13:3 12:2–11 12:12–21 12:22–13:3 13:4–13 13:14–23 Week 8 Proverbs 13:4–14:28 13:24–14:8 14:9–18 14:19–28 14:29–15:3 15:4–13 Week 9 Proverbs 14:29–16:10 15:14–23 15:24–33 16:1–10

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16:11–20 16:21–30 Week 10 Proverbs 16:11–17:27 16:31–17:7 17:8–17 17:18–27 17:28–18:9 18:10–21 Week 11 Proverbs 17:28–19:27 18:22–19:7 19:8–17 19:18–27 19:28–20:8 20:9–18 Week 12 Proverbs 19:28–21:18 20:19–28 20:29–21:8 21:9–18 21:19–28 21:29–22:7 Week 13 Proverbs 21:19–23:8 22:8–17 22:18–27 22:28–23:8 23:9–18 23:19–28 Week 14 Proverbs 23:9–24:23 23:29–24:3 24:4–13 24:14–23 24:24–34 25:1–10 Week 15 Proverbs 24:24–26:12 25:11–20 25:21–26:2 26:3–12 26:13–22 26:23–27:4 Week 16 Proverbs 26:13–28:17 27:5–24 27:25–28:7 28:8–17 28:18–28 29:1–10 Week 17 Proverbs 28:18–30:13 29:11–20 29:21–30:3 30:4–13 30:14–23 30:24–33 Week 18 Proverbs 30:14–31:31 31:1–10 31:11–20 31:21–31

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Lesson Plans

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Character, Bible Bible Week/ Nature & Music & Literature Copywork Elocution Verses for Reading section geography Art & Orations Memory or Schedule Copywork The Arrow and the Song, Let Mozart’s bio Dogs 1 A Swarm of and G Delight, Rule 1 Alfred and Psalm 51:4 Proverbs Wild Bees Minor Little the Cakes 1:1–2:17 Symphony Things, He Prayeth Best, Twinkle Andrea del Pippa, The The Sarto’s bio Days of the Intro. to Ecclesiastes Proverbs 2 Intelligence and 1 Month, The Rules 2–3 Elocution 12:14 2:18–4:10 of Ants picture Frost, The Owl Little Billee, A Letter Mozart’s The 3 from China symphony Butterfly, An Rule 4 Sir Walter Romans Proverbs and review in E-Flat Incident of Raleigh 1:32 4:11–6:10 questions the French Camp Trace or 2nd picture, Elocution: 4 draw a map Andrea del Robert of Rules 5–6 Articulation Psalm 12:3 Proverbs of China Sarto Lincoln exercises 6:11–7:25 (see note*) Chinese Boys and Mozart’s Old Grimes, 5 Girls and Jupiter Song of Life Rule 7 The Bell of Psalm 39:1 Proverbs review Symphony Atri 7:26–9:12 questions Hair, Finger 3rd picture, Lord Ullin’s and Toes Andrea del Daughter, Elocution Psalm 139:4 Proverbs 6 and review Sarto The Charge Rule 8–9 exercises 9:13–11:12 questions of the Light Brigade The The Republic of “Oh My Tournament, Little James 1:26 Proverbs 7 China, the Darling, The Wind Rule 10 Orphant 11:13–13:3 Great Clementine” and the Annie Peninsula of Moon Eastern Asia Jesus the 8 off “Oh! Carpenter, Rules 11–12 Elocution Psalm 139:2 Proverbs Susanna” Letty’s exercises 13:4–14:28 Globe

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The Katy- “My The Proverbs Proverbs 9 Dids’ Party Bonnie” A Dream Rule 13 American’s 24:9 14:29–16:10 Creed Powder- 4th picture, Elocution Proverbs 10 Post Andrea del Lochinvar Rules 14–15 exercises Acts 8:22 16:11–17:27 Sarto The Fussy “All People 11 Queen Bee That on off Rule 16 What a Baby Proverbs Proverbs Earth Do Costs 24:9 17:28–19:27 Dwell” A “Come, A 12 Temperance Thou Fount Midsummer Rules 17–18 Elocution Matthew Proverbs Lesson for of Every Night’s exercises 5:22 19:28–21:18 the Hornets Blessing” Dream “Come, The Hero 13 off Thou of Rule 19 Federalist No. Matthew 7:1 Proverbs Almighty Vincennes 55 21:19–23:8 King” The 5th picture, Achilles, His 14 Enchanted Andrea del off Rules 20–21 Reply to the Psalm 7:9 Proverbs Temple Sarto Envoys 23:9–24:23 (Israel) Trace or Madama What to the draw a map Butterfly, The Just Salve is the Jeremiah Proverbs 15 of Israel 31–34, and Man Rule 22 Fourth of 11:20 24:24–26:12 (see note*) listen to Act July? I Madama Pericles, In 16 The Dead Butterfly, Aristides Rules 23–24 Favor of the Romans Proverbs Sea listen to Act (part 1) Peloponnesian 2:16 26:13–28:17 II War Madama 2 17 The Rock Butterfly, Aristides Rule 25 The Sword of Corinthians Proverbs of Abraham listen to Act (part 2) Damocles 5:10 28:18–30:13 III 6th picture, Socrates, In 18 Treasure Andrea del off Rules 26–27 His Own Jeremiah Proverbs Hunters Sarto Defense 6:19 30:13–31:31

Use the lesson plans one day a week, or up to five days a week. It’s up to you! Pick and choose which sections you want to use each day. We’ve included all the sections of The Tutor for your convenience. By following this plan, you will utilize every section of The Tutor in one semester (18 weeks), or half an academic year. Below are additional aids to make your usage of The Tutor as convenient and as thorough as possible.

To make sure your children learn and retain what they read and hear, practice one or more of the following Charlotte Mason-style ideas: narration (have your children retell the story in their own words); make a notebook for narrations, artwork, copywork, and additional research; create a lapbook (many resources are available online); use some of the stories to teach your children how to outline. Have your more advanced children use the topics in The Tutor for further research and writing assignments (artist, composers, hymn backgrounds, countries covered in geography, etc.).

* Print out an outline map of China and Israel. Many free sources are online. You can also find additional map/geography activities online with little effort. Watch our newsletters for links and activities and check our Web site frequently for helpful links.

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Really focus on listening to the music. Start by reading about the classical composer. Before you listen to each piece of classical music, read the listening guides we’ve included in The Tutor. Read the story of the opera before you listen to it, and then see if you can hear the story elements as you listen. If you’re looking for ways to integrate research and/or writing to your homeschool, have your children research the background of the folksongs, the hymn authors, and the stories behind the hymns. Watch our newsletters and Web site for helpful links and additional information.

Look critically at each piece of art. We intend for you to spend some time looking at each piece of artwork that we include in The Tutor. Spend time discussing the colors the artist used, the shapes, the focal point, and what it says to you. The online Art Museum teacher’s Web site has a helpful page (actually three pages) that you can print out with all sorts of questions to help guide your discussion. It covers describing the picture, a formal analysis, and interpretation. These questions are general and can be used for every piece of art you study.

The Literature section encompasses Poetry, Lamb’s Tales of Shakespeare, Hero Stories From American History, and Plutarch.

The elocution section has three different levels. You will probably want to start with the beginner level, especially if you have young children. Older children will progress through the levels more quickly, but since every volume of The Tutor has different exercises for each level, students can camp out in a level without repetition (unless it is needed, of course). One of our goals is to help students develop a mastery of the spoken word. People with great ideas must be able to express them. Even not-so-great ideas can sound better if expressed eloquently. Proper elocution techniques are important because every person, no matter what his or her goals and station are in life, has to speak. Everyone wants to be understood, everyone wants to persuade another person to his point of view at some point in time. Most people, at some point in their lives, will have jobs in which they will need to be able to speak clearly and concisely, even if they are not professional speakers (pastors, teachers, etc.). If your children have their minds set on a profession that requires a lot of public speaking, then skillful elocution is a must.

The individual Bible verses are included for memorization or copywork. The Bible reading schedule listed here is a weekly summary. A more detailed schedule broken down into daily readings is in The Tutor.

We hope you find these lesson plans helpful in your implementation of The Tutor. Don’t change your teaching style to make these lesson plans operable; rather, make them work for you. The lesson plans are meant to be a road map, not a bus driver. Use what functions best in your own home. We realize that the way The Tutor is implemented will vary as widely as the homes in which it is used. Our goal here at Codex Publishing is to show you the possibilities and to give you the tools that so you can provide your children with a richer and fuller educational experience.

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Index

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“Achilles His Reply to the Envoys,” 166-67 Elocution, 130-164 “All People That on Earth Do Dwell,” 49 “Enchanted Temple, The,” 76-78 “American’s Creed, The” 179 Andrea del Sarto, 54-57 “Federalist No. 55,” 180-82 Ants, 13-15 Fine art, 54-57 Aphides, 15 Follen, Mrs., 135 “Aristides,” 116-27 Folk songs, 46-48 “Arrow and the Song, The,” 90 “Frost, The,” 91 Articulation, 132-33, 138-41 “Fussy Queen Bee, The,” 23-26 “At the Meadow Spring,” 136 Geography, 64-87 G Minor Symphony, 35-39 Bees, 10-13, 23-26 Green, Albert Gorton, 94 Belasco, David, 31 “Good Night,” 135 “Bell of Atri, The,” 176-77 Gould, Hannah Flagg, 91 Blake, William, 98 Bowles, William Lisle, 92 “He Prayeth Best,” 90 “Boy on a Farm, A,” 141-42 “Hero of Vincennes, The,” 108-13 Brewer, Ebenezer Cobham, 90 Hero Stories from American History, 108-13 Browning, Robert, 91, 93 History of China, 68-75 Bryant, William Cullen, 93 Homer, 166 “Butterfly and the Bee, The,” 92 Hornets, 26-28 “How to Tell Bad News,” 144-45 Campbell, Thomas, 95 Character, 174-185 “Incident of the French Camp, An,” 92-93 “Charge of the Light Brigade, The,” 95 “In Favor of the Peloponnesian War,” 167-69 China, 64-75 “In His Own Defense,” 169-72 Coleridge, Samuel T., 90 Insects, 10-28 “Come, Thou Almighty King,” 51 “Intelligence of Ants,” 13-15 “Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing,” 50 Israel, 76-87 Copywork, 60-62 “Jack’s Way,” 161-62 Davis, Henrietta, 134 Jefferson, Thomas, 147 “Days of the Month,” 91 “Jesus the Carpenter,” 97 “Dead Sea, The,” 78-81 Jupiter Symphony, 42-45 “Diamond Cut Diamond,” 148-50 “Just Man, The,” 114-16 “Do Not Meddle,” 142-44 Douglas, Frederick, 182 “Katy-Did’s Party, The,” 15-18 “Dream, A,” 98 “Keeping His Word,” 160-61 “King Alfred and the Cakes,” 174-75

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Lambs tales of Shakespeare, 100-107 “Political Toleration,” 147-48 Lanier, Sidney, 96 Porter, Mary J., 136 Lefebvre-Laboulaye, Edouard Rene, 148 “Powder-Post,” 18-23 “Let Dogs Delight to Bark and Bite,” 90 Puccini, 31 Letter from China, 64-65 Punctuation, 133 “Letty’s Globe,” 97 “Little Billee,” 91-92 Responsibility, 174-85 “Little Orphant Annie,” 178 “Robert of Lincoln,” 93 “Little Things,” 90 “Rock of Abraham, The,” 81-84 Literature, 90-127 “Lochinvar,” 98-99 Sarto, Andrea del, 54-57 Longfellow, Henry, W., 90 Scott, Sir Walter, 99 “Lord Ullin’s Daughter,” 94-95 Shakespeare, William, 100 Lubbock, Sir John, 13 “Sir Walter Raleigh,” 175-76 “Lucy Forester,” 145-47 Socrates, 169 “Song of Life,” 94 MacDonald, George, 97 “Spoopendykes, The,” 159-60 Mackay, Charles, 94 Stephens, C. A., 18 “Madame Butterfly,” 31-34 “Story of the Kitten, The,” 134 Madison, James, 180 Stowe, Harriet Beecher, 15-18 Marye, James, 60 “Stray Sunbeam, A,” 162-63 “Midsummer Nights Dream, A,” 100-107 “Swarm of Wild Bees, A,” 10-13 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 35-45 “Sword of Damocles, The,” 184-85 Music, 30-51 Symphony in E Flat, 40-42 “My Bonnie,” 48 “Temperance Lesson for the Hornets, A,” 26-28 Nature, 10-28 Tennyson, Alfred, 91, 95 Termites, 13 “Oh My Darling, Clementine,” 46 Thackeray, William Makepeace, 92 “Oh! Susanna,” 47 Tolman, Albert W., 10 “Old Arm Chair, The,” 163-64 “Tournament, The,” 96 “Old Grimes,” 93-94 “Treasure Hunters,” 84-87 Opera, 31-34 Turner, Charles Tennyson, 97 Orations, 166-72 “Twilight Story, A,” 136 “Owl, The,” 91 “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” 90 “Twins, The,” 137 Page, William Tyler, 179 Pericles, 167 “Under the Wagon,” 135 “Pippa,” 91 Plutarch, 114-27 Poetry, 90-99 200

Warner, Charles Dudley, 141 “What to the Slave Is the Fourth of July,” 182-84 Washington, George, 60 Wilson, John, 145 Washington’s rules of civility, 60-62 “Wind and the Moon, The,” 96-97 Watts, Isaac, 90 “What a Baby Costs,” 179

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Madonna della Scala 1522-23 Oil on panel, 177 x 135 cm.

Museo del Prado, Madrid 203

St. John the Baptist 1528 Oil on wood, 94 x 68 cm.

Galleria Palatina, Florence

204

Madonna of the Harpies 1517 Oil on wood, 208 x 178 cm.

Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence

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The Annunciation 1512-13 Oil on wood, 183 x 184 cm.

Galleria Palatina, Florence

206

Portrait of a Young Man 1517 Oil on canvas, 72 x 57 cm. National Gallery, London

207

Self-Portrait Oil on wood, 47 x 34 cm.

Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence 208

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