His industry was astonishing. Every day he divided into portions, and in each portion devoted himself to a certain pursuit. That he might divide his time exactly, he had wax torches, or candles, made, all of the same size and notched across at regular distances. These candles were always kept burning, and as they burned down he divided the day into notches, almost as accurately as we now divide it into hours upon the clock. But it was found that the wind and draughts of air, blowing into the palace through the doors and windows, caused the candles to burn unequally. To prevent this the king had them put into cases formed of wood and white horn. And these were the first lanterns ever made in England.
King Alfred died in the year 901; but as long ago as that is, his fame, and the love and gratitude with which his subjects regarded him, are freshly remembered to the present hour. Charles Dickens.
A SONG
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
There is ever a something sings alway:
Theres the song of the lark when the skies are clear,
And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray.
The sunshine showers across the grain,
And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree;
And in and out, when the eaves drip rain,
The swallows are twittering carelessly.
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
Be the skies above or dark or fair;
There is ever a song that our hearts may hear
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear
There is ever a song somewhere!
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
In the midnight black or the midday blue:
The robin pipes when the sun is here,
And the cricket chirrups the whole night through;
The buds may blow and the fruit may grow,
And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sere:
But whether the sun or the rain or the snow,
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear.
BETTER THAN GOLD
Better than grandeur, better than gold,
Than rank and title a thousand fold,
Is a healthy body, a mind at ease,
And simple pleasures that always please;
A heart that can feel for a neighbors woe,
And share his joys with a genial glow;
With sympathies large enough to enfold
All men as brothers, is better than gold.
Better than gold is a thinking mind,
That in the realm of books can find
A treasure surpassing Australian ore,
And live with the great and good of yore:
The sages lore and the poets lay,
The glories of empires passed away.
The worlds great dream will thus unfold
And yield a pleasure better than gold.
Better than gold is a peaceful home,
Where all the fireside charities come,
The shrine of love and the haven of life,
Hallowed by mother, or sister, or wife.
However humble the home may be,
Or tried with sorrow by Heavens decree,
The blessings that never were bought or sold
And centre there, are better than gold.
THE TIGER, THE BRAHMAN, AND THE JACKAL
Once upon a time a tiger was caught in a trap. He tried in vain to get out through the bars, and rolled and bit with rage and grief when he failed.
By chance a poor Brahman came by. Let me out of this cage, O pious one! cried the tiger.
Nay, nay, my friend, replied the Brahman, mildly. You would probably eat me up if I did.
Not at all! declared the tiger, with many vows; on the contrary, I should be forever grateful, and would serve you as a slave!
Now, when the tiger sobbed and sighed and wept, the pious Brahmans heart softened, and at last he consented to open the door of the cage. At once, out sprang the tiger, and seizing the poor man, cried:
What a fool you are! What is to prevent my eating you now? After being cooped up so long I am terribly hungry.
In vain the Brahman pleaded for his life. All that he could gain was a promise from the tiger to abide by the decision of the first three things that he chose to question concerning the tigers action.
So the Brahman first asked a tree what it thought of the matter, but the tree replied coldly:
What have you to complain about? Dont I give shade and shelter to all who pass by, and dont they in return tear down my branches and pull off my leaves to feed their cattle? Dont complain, but be a man!
Then the Brahman, sad at heart, went further afield till he saw a buffalo turning a water-wheel. He laid his case before it, but he got no comfort, for the buffalo answered:
You are a fool to expect gratitude! Look at me! Do you not see how hard I work? While I was young and strong they fed me on the best of food, but now when I am old and feeble they yoke me here, and give me only the coarsest fodder to eat!
The Brahman, still more sad, asked the road to give him its opinion of the tigers conduct.
My dear sir, said the road, how foolish you are to expect anything else! Here am I, useful to everybody, yet all, rich and poor, great and small, trample on me as they go past, giving me nothing but the ashes of their pipes and the husks of their grain!
On hearing this the Brahman turned back sorrowfully. On his way he met a jackal, who called out:
Why, whats the matter, Mr. Brahman? You look as miserable as a fish out of water!
Then the Brahman told him all that had occurred.
How very confusing! said the jackal, when the recital was ended; will you tell it over again, for everything has got mixed up in my mind?
The Brahman told his story all over again, but the jackal shook his head in a distracted sort of way, and still could not understand.
Its very odd, said he, sadly, but it all seems to go in at one ear and out the other! Take me to the place where it all happened, and then, perhaps, I shall be able to understand it.
So the cunning jackal and the poor Brahman returned to the cage, and there was the tiger waiting for his victim, and sharpening his teeth and claws.
Youve been away a long time! growled the savage beast, but now let us begin our dinner.
Our dinner! thought the wretched Brahman, as his knees knocked together with fright; what a delicate way he has of putting it!
Give me five minutes, my lord! he pleaded, in order that I may explain matters to the jackal here, who is somewhat slow in his wits.
The tiger consented, and the Brahman began the whole story over again, not missing a single detail, and spinning as long a yarn as possible.
Oh, my poor brain! Oh, my poor brain! cried the jackal, wringing its paws and scratching its head. Let me see, how did it all begin? You were in the cage, and the tiger came walking by ?
Pooh! Not at all! interrupted the tiger. What a fool you are! I was in the cage.
Yes, of course! cried the jackal, pretending to tremble with fright. Yes! I was in the cage no, I wasnt dear! dear! where are my wits? Let me see the tiger was in the Brahman, and the cage came walking by. No, no, thats not it, either! Well, dont mind me, but begin your dinner, my lord, for I shall never understand it!
Yes, you shall! returned the tiger, in a rage at the jackals stupidity; Ill make you understand! Look here. I am the tiger
Yes, my lord!
And that is the Brahman
Yes, my lord!
And that is the cage
Yes, my lord!
And I was in the cage do you understand?
Yes, but please, my lord, how did you get in?
How did I get in! Why, in the usual way, of course! cried the tiger, impatiently.
O dear me! my head is beginning to whirl again! Please dont be angry, my lord, but what is the usual way?
At this the tiger lost all patience, and, jumping into the cage, cried, This way! Now do you understand how it was?
Perfectly! grinned the jackal, as he instantly shut the door; and if you will permit me to say so, I think matters will remain as they were! Joseph Jacobs.
From Indian Fairy Tales, by permission of the author.A CANADIAN BOAT-SONG
Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
Well sing at St. Anns our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylights past!
Why should we yet our sail unfurl?
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl!
But when the wind blows off the shore,
Oh! sweetly well rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylights past!
Utawas tide! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green Isle! hear our prayers;
Oh! grant us cool heavens and favoring airs.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylights past!
Attempt the end and never stand in doubt;
Nothings so hard but search will find it out.
THE SONG SPARROW
There is a bird I know so well,
It seems as if he must have sung
Beside my crib when I was young;
Before I knew the way to spell
The name of even the smallest bird,
His gentle, joyful song I heard.
Now see if you can tell, my dear,
What bird it is, that every year,
Sings Sweet sweet sweet very merry cheer.
He comes in March, when winds are strong,
And snow returns to hide the earth;
But still he warms his head with mirth,
And waits for May. He lingers long
While flowers fade, and every day
Repeats his sweet, contented lay;
As if to say we need not fear
The seasons change, if love is here,
With Sweet sweet sweet very merry cheer.
He does not wear a Josephs coat
Of many colors, smart and gay;
His suit is Quaker brown and gray,
With darker patches at his throat.
And yet of all the well-dressed throng,
Not one can sing so brave a song.
It makes the pride of looks appear
A vain and foolish thing to hear
His Sweet sweet sweet very merry cheer.
A lofty place he does not love,
But sits by choice, and well at ease,
In hedges, and in little trees
That stretch their slender arms above
The meadow-brook; and there he sings
Till all the field with pleasure rings;
And so he tells in every ear,
That lowly homes to heaven are near
In Sweet sweet sweet very merry cheer.
I like the tune, I like the words;
They seem so true, so free from art,
So friendly, and so full of heart,
That if but one of all the birds
Could be my comrade everywhere,
My little brother of the air,
This is the one Id choose, my dear,
Because hed bless me, every year,
With Sweet sweet sweet very merry cheer.
From The Builders and Other Poems.
Copyright, 1897, by Charles Scribners Sons.
The only way to have a friend is to be one.
THE CHILD OF URBINO
Many, many years ago, in old Urbino, in the pleasant land of Italy, a little boy stood looking out of a high window into the calm, sunshiny day. He was a pretty boy with hazel eyes and fair hair cut straight above his brows. He wore a little blue tunic with some embroidery about the neck of it, and in his hand he carried a little round cap of the same color.
He was a very happy little boy here in this stately, yet kindly, Urbino. He had a dear old grandfather and a loving mother; and he had a father who was very tender to him, and who was full of such true love of art that the child breathed it with every breath he drew. He often said to himself, I mean to become a painter, too. And the child understood that to be a painter was to be the greatest thing in the world; for this child was Raphael, the seven-year-old son of Giovanni Sanzio.
At this time Urbino was growing into fame for its pottery work, and when its duke wished to send a bridal gift or a present on other festal occasions, he often chose some of his own Urbino ware. Jars and bowls and platters and vases were all made and painted at Urbino, whilst Raphael Sanzio was running about on rosy, infantine feet.
There was a master potter in that day, one Benedetto, who did things rare and fine in the Urbino ware. He lived within a stones throw of Giovanni Sanzio, and had a beautiful daughter, by name Pacifica. The house of Benedetto was a long, stone building with a porch at the back all overclimbed by hardy rose trees, and looking on a garden in which grew abundantly pear trees, plum trees, and strawberries. The little son of neighbor Sanzio ran in and out of this bigger house and wider garden of Benedetto at his pleasure, for the maiden Pacifica was always glad to see him, and even the master potter would show the child how to lay the color on the tremulous unbaked clay. Raphael loved Pacifica, as he loved everything that was beautiful, and every one that was kind.
Master Benedetto had four apprentices or pupils at that time, but the one that Raphael and Pacifica liked best was one Luca, a youth with a noble, dark beauty of his own. For love of Pacifica he had come down from his mountain home, and had bound himself to her fathers service. Now he spent his days trying in vain to make designs fair enough to find favor in the eyes of his master.
One day, as Raphael was standing by his favorite window in the potters house, his friend, the handsome Luca, who was also standing there, sighed so deeply that the child was startled from his dreams. Good Luca, what ails you? he queried, winding his arms about the young mans knees.
Oh, Faello! sighed the apprentice, wofully, here is a chance to win the hand of Pacifica if only I had talent. If the good Lord had only gifted me with a masters skill, instead of all the strength of this great body of mine, I might win Pacifica.
What chance is it? asked Raphael.
Dear one, answered Luca, with a tremendous sigh, you must know that a new order has come in this very forenoon from the Duke. He wishes a dish and a jar of the very finest majolica to be painted with the story of Esther, and made ready in three months from this date. The master has said that whoever makes a dish and a jar beautiful enough for the great Duke shall become his partner and the husband of Pacifica. Now you see, Faello mine, why I am so bitterly sad of heart; for at the painting of clay I am but a tyro. Even your good father told me that, though I had a heart of gold, yet I would never be able to decorate anything more than a barbers basin. Alas! what shall I do? They will all beat me; and tears rolled down the poor youths face.