School Reading By Grades: Fifth Year

PREFACE

The pupil who has read the earlier numbers of this series is now prepared to study with some degree of care the peculiarities of style which distinguish the different selections in the present volume. Hence, while due attention must be given to the study of words merely as words, – that is to spelling, defining, and pronouncing, – considerable time should be occupied in observing and discussing the literary contents, the author’s manner of narrating a story, of describing an action or an appearance, of portraying emotion, of producing an impression upon the mind of the reader or the hearer. The pupils should be encouraged to seek for and point out the particular passages or expressions in each selection which are distinguished for their beauty, their truth, or their peculiar adaptability to the purpose in view. The habit should be cultivated of looking for and enjoying the admirable qualities of any literary production, and particularly of such productions as are by common consent recognized as classical.

The lessons in this volume have been selected and arranged with a view towards several ends: to interest the young reader; to cultivate a taste for the best style of literature as regards both thought and expression; to point the way to an acquaintance with good books; to appeal to the pupil’s sense of duty, and strengthen his desire to do right; to arouse patriotic feelings and a just pride in the achievements of our countrymen; and incidentally to add somewhat to the learner’s knowledge of history and science and art.

The illustrations will prove to be valuable adjuncts to the text. Spelling, defining, and punctuation should continue to receive special attention. Difficult words and idiomatic expressions should be carefully studied with the aid of the dictionary and of the Word List at the end of this volume. Persistent and systematic practice in the pronunciation of these words and of other difficult combinations of sounds will aid in training the pupils’ voices to habits of careful articulation and correct enunciation.

While literary biography can be of but little, if any, value in cultivating literary taste, it is desirable that pupils should acquire some knowledge of the writers whose productions are placed before them for study. To assist in the acquisition of this knowledge, and also to serve for ready reference, a few Biographical Notes are inserted towards the end of the volume. The brief suggestions given on page 6 should be read and commented upon at the beginning, and frequently referred to and practically applied in the lessons which follow.

TO THE LEARNER

A famous writer has said that the habit of reading is one’s pass to the greatest, the purest, the most perfect pleasures that have been prepared for human beings. “But,” he continued, “you cannot acquire this habit in your old age; you cannot acquire it in middle age; you must do it now, when you are young. You must learn to read, and to like reading now, or you cannot do so when you are old.” Now, no one can derive very great pleasure or very great profit from reading unless he is able to read well. The boy or girl who stumbles over every hard word, or who is at a loss to know the meaning of this or that expression, is not likely to find much enjoyment in books. To read well to one’s self, one must be able to read aloud in such a manner as to interest and delight those who listen to him: and this is the chief reason why we have so many reading books at school, and why your teachers are so careful that you should acquire the ability to enunciate every sound distinctly, pronounce every word properly, and read every sentence readily and with a clear understanding of its meaning.

Is the reading exercise a task to you? Try to make it a pleasure. Ask yourself: What is there in this lesson that teaches me something which I did not know before? What is there in this lesson that is beautiful, or grand, or inspiring? Has the writer said anything in a manner that is particularly pleasing – in a manner that perhaps no one else would have thought to say it? What particular thought or saying, in this lesson, is so good and true that it is worth learning by heart and remembering always. Does the selection as a whole teach anything that will tend to make me wiser, or better, or stronger than before? Or is it merely a source of temporary amusement to be soon forgotten and as though it had never been? Or does it, like fine music or a noble picture, not only give present pleasure, but enlarge my capacity for enjoyment and enable me to discover and appreciate beautiful things in literature and art and nature which I would otherwise never have known?

When you have asked yourself all these questions about any selection, and have studied it carefully to find answers to them, you will be prepared to read it aloud to your teacher and your classmates; and you will be surprised to notice how much better you have read it than would have been the case had you attempted it merely as a task or as an exercise in the pronouncing of words. It is by thus always seeking to discover things instructive and beautiful and enjoyable in books, that one acquires that right habit of reading which has been spoken of as the pass to the greatest, the purest, the most perfect of pleasures.

SOMETHING ABOUT BOOKS

A beautiful book, and one profitable to those who read it carefully, is “Sesame and Lilies” by John Ruskin. It is beautiful because of the pleasant language and choice words in which it is written; for, of all our later writers, no one is the master of a style more pure and more delightful in its simplicity than Mr. Ruskin’s. It is profitable because of the lessons which it teaches; for it was written “to show somewhat the use and preciousness of good books, and to awaken in the minds of young people some thought of the purposes of the life into which they are entering, and the nature of the world they have to conquer.” The following pertinent words concerning the choice of books have been taken mainly from its pages:

All books may be divided into two classes, – books of the hour, and books of all time. Yet it is not merely the bad book that does not last, and the good one that does. There are good books for the hour and good ones for all time; bad books for the hour and bad ones for all time.

The good book of the hour, – I do not speak of the bad ones, – is simply the useful or pleasant talk of some person printed for you. Very useful often, telling you what you need to know; very pleasant often, as a sensible friend’s present talk would be.

These bright accounts of travels, good-humored and witty discussions of questions, lively or pathetic story-telling in the form of novel: all these are books of the hour and are the peculiar possession of the present age. We ought to be entirely thankful for them, and entirely ashamed of ourselves if we make no good use of them. But we make the worst possible use, if we allow them to usurp the place of true books; for, strictly speaking, they are not books at all, but merely letters or newspapers in good print.

Our friend’s letter may be delightful, or necessary, to-day; whether worth keeping or not, is to be considered. The newspaper may be entirely proper at breakfast time, but it is not reading for all day. So, though bound up in a volume, the long letter which gives you so pleasant an account of the inns and roads and weather last year at such a place, or which tells you some amusing story, or relates such and such circumstances of interest, may not be, in the real sense of the word, a book at all, nor, in the real sense, to be read.

A book is not a talked thing, but a written thing. The book of talk is printed only because its author can not speak to thousands of people at once; if he could, he would – the volume is mere multiplication of the voice. You can not talk to your friend in India; if you could, you would; you write instead; that is merely a way of carrying the voice.

But a book is written, not to multiply the voice merely, not to carry it merely, but to preserve it. The author has something to say which he perceives to be true and useful, or helpfully beautiful. So far as he knows, no one has yet said it; so far as he knows, no one can say it. He is bound to say it, clearly and in a melodious manner if he may; clearly, at all events.

In the sum of his life he finds this to be the thing, or group of things, manifest to him; this the piece of true knowledge, or sight, which his share of sunshine and earth has allowed him to seize. He would set it down forever; carve it on a rock, if he could, saying, “This is the best of me; for the rest, I ate and drank and slept, loved and hated, like another; my life was as the vapor, and is not; but this I saw and knew; this, if anything of mine, is worth your memory.” That is his writing; that is a book.

Now books of this kind have been written in all ages by their greatest men – by great leaders, great statesmen, great thinkers. These are all at your choice; and life is short. You have heard as much before; yet have you measured and mapped out this short life and its possibilities? Do you know, if you read this, that you can not read that – that what you lose to-day you can not gain to-morrow?

Will you go and gossip with the housemaid, or the stableboy, when you may talk with queens and kings? Do you ask to be the companion of nobles? Make yourself noble, and you shall be. Do you long for the conversation of the wise? Learn to understand it, and you shall hear it.

Very ready we are to say of a book, “How good this is – that is just what I think!” But the right feeling is, “How strange that is! I never thought of that before, and yet I see it is true; or if I do not now, I hope I shall, some day.”

But whether you feel thus or not, at least be sure that you go to the author to get at his meaning, not to find yours. And be sure also, if the author is worth anything, that you will not get at his meaning all at once; nay, that at his whole meaning you may not for a long time arrive in any wise. Not that he does not say what he means, and in strong words too; but he can not say it all, and, what is more strange, will not, but in a hidden way in order that he may be sure you want it.

When, therefore, you come to a good book, you must ask yourself, “Am I ready to work as an Australian miner would? Are my pickaxes in good order, and am I in good trim myself, my sleeves well up to the elbow, and my breath good, and my temper?” For your pickaxes are your own care, wit, and learning; your smelting furnace is your own thoughtful soul. Do not hope to get at any good author’s meaning without these tools and that fire; often you will need sharpest, finest carving, and the most careful melting, before you can gather one grain of the precious gold.

I can not, of course, tell you what to choose for your library, for every several mind needs different books; but there are some books which we all need, and which if you read as much as you ought, you will not need to have your shelves enlarged to right and left for purposes of study.

If you want to understand any subject whatever, read the best book upon it you can hear of. A common book will often give you amusement, but it is only a noble book that will give you dear friends.

Avoid that class of literature which has a knowing tone; it is the most poisonous of all. Every good book, or piece of book, is full of admiration and awe; and it always leads you to reverence or love something with your whole heart.

OLD CHIRON’S SCHOOL

Æson was king of Iolcus by the sea; but for all that, he was an unhappy man. For he had a stepbrother named Pelias, a fierce and lawless man who was the doer of many a fearful deed, and about whom many dark and sad tales were told. And at last Pelias drove out Æson, his stepbrother, and took the kingdom for himself, and ruled over the rich town of Iolcus by the sea.

And Æson, when he was driven out, went sadly away from the town, leading his little son by the hand; and he said to himself, “I must hide the child in the mountains, or Pelias will surely kill him, because he is the heir.” So he went up from the sea across the valley, through the vineyards and the olive groves, and across a foaming torrent toward Pelion, the ancient mountain, whose brows are white with snow.

He went up and up into the mountain, over marsh and crag, and down, till the boy was tired and foot-sore, and Æson had to bear him in his arms, till he came to the mouth of a lonely cave at the foot of a mighty cliff. Above the cliff the snow wreaths hung, dripping and cracking in the sun; but at its foot, around the cave’s mouth, grew all fair flowers and herbs, as if in a garden arranged in order, each sort by itself. There they grew gayly in the sunshine, and in the spray of the torrent from above; while from the cave came a sound of music, and a man’s voice singing to the harp.

Then Æson put down the lad, and whispered:

“Fear not, but go in, and whomsoever you shall find, lay your hands upon his knees, and say, ‘In the name of the Father of gods and men, I am your guest from this day forth.’ ”

Then the lad went in without trembling, for he too was a hero’s son; but when he was within, he stopped in wonder, to listen to that magic song.

And there he saw the singer lying upon bearskins and fragrant boughs; Chiron, the ancient Centaur, the wisest of all beings beneath the sky. Down to the waist he was a man; but below he was a noble horse; his white hair rolled down over his broad shoulders, and his white beard over his broad brown chest; and his eyes were wise and mild, and his forehead like a mountain wall.

And in his hands he held a harp of gold, and struck it with a golden key; and as he struck he sang till his eyes glittered, and filled all the cave with light.

And he sang of the birth of Time, and of the heavens and the dancing stars; and of the ocean, and the ether, and the fire, and the shaping of the wondrous earth. And he sang of the treasures of the hills, and the hidden jewels of the mine, and the veins of fire and metal, and the virtues of all healing herbs; and of the speech of birds, and of prophecy, and of hidden things to come.

Then he sang of health, and strength, and manhood, and a valiant heart; and of music and hunting, and wrestling, and all the games which heroes love; and of travel, and wars, and sieges, and a noble death in fight,; and then he sang of peace and plenty, and of equal justice in the land; and as he sang, the boy listened wide-eyed, and forgot his errand in the song.

And at last Chiron was silent, and called the lad with a soft voice. And the lad ran trembling to him, and would have laid his hands upon his knees; but Chiron smiled, and said, “Call hither your father Æson; for I know you and all that has befallen you.”

Then Æson came in sadly, and Chiron asked him, “Why came you not yourself to me, Æson?”

And Æson said: “I thought, Chiron will pity the lad if he sees him come alone; and I wished to try whether he was fearless, and dare venture like a hero’s son. But now I entreat you, let the boy be your guest till better times, and train him among the sons of the heroes that he may become like them, strong and brave.”

And Chiron answered: “Go back in peace and bend before the storm like a prudent man. This boy shall not leave me till he has become a glory to you and to your house.”

And Æson wept over his son and went away; but the boy did not weep, so full was his fancy of that strange cave, and the Centaur, and his song, and the playfellows whom he was to see. Then Chiron put the lyre into his hands, and taught him how to play it, till the sun sank low behind the cliff, and a shout was heard outside. And then in came the sons of the heroes, – Æneas, and Hercules, and Peleus, and many another mighty name.

And great Chiron leaped up joyfully, and his hoofs made the cave resound, as they shouted, “Come out, Father Chiron; come out and see our game.” And one cried, “I have killed two deer,” and another, “I took a wild cat among the crags.” And Hercules dragged a wild goat after him by its horns; and Cæneus carried a bear cub under each arm, and laughed when they scratched and bit; for neither tooth nor steel could wound him. And Chiron praised them all, each according to his deserts.

Only one walked apart and silent, Æsculapius, the too wise child, with his bosom full of herbs and flowers, and round his wrist a spotted snake; he came with downcast eyes to Chiron, and whispered how he had watched the snake cast his old skin, and grow young again before his eyes, and how he had gone down into a village in the vale, and cured a dying man with a herb which he had seen a sick goat eat. And Chiron smiled and said:

“To each there has been given his own gift, and each is worthy in his place. But to this child there has been given an honor beyond all honors, – to cure while others kill.”

Then some of the lads brought in wood, and split it, and lighted a blazing fire; and others skinned the deer and quartered them, and set them to roast before the fire; and while the venison was cooking they bathed in the snow torrent, and washed away the dust and sweat. And then all ate till they could eat no more – for they had tasted nothing since the dawn – and drank of the clear spring water, for wine is not fit for growing lads. And when the remnants were put away, they all lay down upon the skins and leaves about the fire, and each took the lyre in turn, and sang and played with all his heart.

And after a while they all went out to a plot of grass at the cave’s mouth, and there they boxed, and ran, and wrestled, and laughed till the stones fell from the cliffs.

Then Chiron took his lyre, and all the lads joined hands; and as he played, they danced to his measure, in and out, and round and round. There they danced hand in hand, till the night fell over land and sea, while the black glen shone with their broad white limbs, and the gleam of their golden hair.

And the lad danced with them, delighted, and then slept a wholesome sleep, upon fragrant leaves of bay, and myrtle, and marjoram, and flowers of thyme; and rose at the dawn, and bathed in the torrent, and became a schoolfellow to the heroes’ sons. And in course of time he forgot Iolcus, and Æson his father, and all his former life. But he grew strong, and brave, and cunning, upon the rocky heights of Pelion, in the keen, hungry, mountain air. And he learned to wrestle, and to box, and to hunt, and to play upon the harp; and, next, he learned to ride, for old Chiron often allowed him to mount upon his back; and he learned the virtues of all herbs, and how to cure all wounds; and Chiron called him Jason the healer, and that is his name until this day.

THE DOG OF MONTARGIS

In the old castle of Montargis in France, there was once a stone mantelpiece of workmanship so rare that it was talked about by the whole country. And yet it was not altogether its beauty that caused people to speak of it and remember it. It was famous rather on account of the strange scene that was carved upon it. To those who asked about its meaning, the old custodian of the castle would sometimes tell the following story.

It happened more than five hundred years ago, when this castle was new and strong, and people lived and thought in very different sort from what they do now. Among the young men of that time there was none more noble than Aubrey de Montdidier, the nephew of the Count of Montargis; and among all the knights who had favor at the royal court, there was none more brave than the young Sieur de Narsac, captain of the king’s men at arms.

Now these two men were devoted friends, and whenever their other duties allowed them, they were sure to be in each other’s company. Indeed, it was a rare thing to see either of them walking the streets of Paris alone.

“I will meet you at the tournament to-morrow,” said Aubrey gayly, one evening, as he was parting from his friend.

“Yes, at the tournament to-morrow,” said De Narsac; “and be sure that you come early.”

The tournament was to be a grand affair. A gentleman from Provence was to run a tilt with a famous Burgundian knight. Both men were noted for their horsemanship and their skill with the lance. All Paris would be out to see them.

When the time came, De Narsac was at the place appointed. But Aubrey failed to appear. What could it mean? It was not at all like Aubrey to forget his promise; it was seldom that he allowed anything to keep him away from the tournament.

“Have you seen my friend Aubrey to-day?” De Narsac asked this question a hundred times. Everybody gave the same answer, and wondered what had happened.

The day passed and another day came, and still there was no news from Aubrey. De Narsac had called at his friend’s lodgings, but could learn nothing. The young man had not been seen since the morning before the tournament.

Three days passed, and still not a word. De Narsac was greatly troubled. He knew now that some accident must have happened to Aubrey. But what could it have been?

Early in the morning of the fourth day he was aroused by a strange noise at his door. He dressed himself in haste and opened it. A dog was crouching there. It was a greyhound, so poor that its ribs stuck out, so weak that it could hardly stand.

De Narsac knew the animal without looking at the collar on its neck. It was Dragon, his friend Aubrey’s greyhound, – the dog who went with him whenever he walked out, the dog who was never seen save in its master’s company.

The poor creature tried to stand. His legs trembled from weakness; he swayed from side to side. He wagged his tail feebly, and tried to put his nose in De Narsac’s hand. De Narsac saw at once that he was half starved; that he had not had food for a long time.

He led the dog into his room and fed him some warm milk. He bathed the poor fellow’s nose and bloodshot eyes with cold water. “Tell me where is your master,” he said. Then he set before him a full meal that would have tempted any dog.

The greyhound ate heartily, and seemed to be much stronger. He licked De Narsac’s hands. He fondled his feet. Then he ran to the door and tried to make signs to his friend to follow him. He whined pitifully.

De Narsac understood. “You want to lead me to your master, I see.” He put on his hat and went out with the dog.

Through the narrow lanes and crooked streets of the old city, Dragon led the way. At each corner he would stop and look back to make sure that De Narsac was following. He went over the long bridge – the only one that spanned the river in those days. Then he trotted out through the gate of St. Martin and into the open country beyond the walls.

In a little while the dog left the main road and took a bypath that led into the forest of Bondy. De Narsac kept his hand on his sword now, for they were on dangerous ground. The forest was a great resort for robbers and lawless men, and more than one wild and wicked deed had been enacted there.

But Dragon did not go far into the woods. He stopped suddenly near a dense thicket of briers and tangled vines. He whined as though in great distress. Then he took hold of the sleeve of De Narsac’s coat, and led him round to the other side of the thicket.

There under a low-spreading oak the grass had been trampled down; there were signs, too, of freshly turned-up earth. With moans of distress the dog stretched himself upon the ground, and with pleading eyes looked up into De Narsac’s face.

“Ah, my poor fellow!” said De Narsac, “you have led me here to show me your master’s grave.” And with that he turned and hurried back to the city; but the dog would not stir from his place.

That afternoon a company of men, led by De Narsac, rode out to the forest. They found in the ground beneath the oak what they had expected – the murdered body of young Aubrey de Montdidier.

“Who could have done this foul deed?” they asked of one another; and then they wept, for they all loved Aubrey.

They made a litter of green branches, and laid the body upon it. Then, the dog following them, they carried it back to the city and buried it in the king’s cemetery. And all Paris mourned the untimely end of the brave young knight.