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Ungrateful neglect was all he received from Ferdinand. And, worn out with hardships, disappointment, and ill treatment, this great navigator sank into his grave on the 20th of May, 1506, in the fifty-ninth year of his age.

LXV.-THE STORK AND THE RUBY.

R. H. STODDARD.

[Richard Henry Stoddard is a living American poet, a native of Hingham, Massachusetts.]

A CERTAIN prince,-I have forgot his name, -
Playing one morning at the archer's game,
Within a garden where his palace stood,
Shot at a stork, and spilled the creature's blood
For very wantonness and cruelty.
Thrice had he pierced the target in the eye
At fifty paces; twice defaced a rose,
Striking each time the very leaf he chose;
Then he set up his dagger in a hedge,
And split an arrow on its glittering edge.
What next to hit he knew not. Looking round,
He saw a stork just lighted on the ground,
To rest itself after its leagues of flight.

The dewy walk in which it stood was bright,
So white its plumage, and so clear its eyes,
Twinkling with innocence and sweet surprise!
"I'll shoot the silly bird," the prince exclaimed;
And bending his strong bow, he straightway aimed
His keenest arrow at its panting heart:
The lucky arrow missed a vital part,

(Or was it some kind wind that pushed it by ?)
And only struck and broke the creature's thigh.
The poor thing tumbled in a lily bed,

And its blood ran, and made the lilies red.
It marked the changing color of the flowers,
The winding garden walks, the bloomy bowers,
And last the cruel prince, who laughed with glee-
Fixing the picture in its memory:

This done, it struggled up and flew away,
Leaving the prince amazed, and in dismay.

Beyond the city walls, a league or more,
A little maid was spinning at her door,
Singing old songs to cheer the long day's work :
Her name was Heraclis. The fainting stork
Dropped at her feet, and with its ebon bill
Showed her its thigh broken, and bleeding still:
She fetched it water from a neighbor spring,
And while it drank and washed each dabbled wing,
She set the fractured bones with pious care,
And bound them with the fillet of her hair.
Eased of its pain, again it flew away,
Leaving the maiden happier all the day.

That night the prince, as usual, went to bed,
His royal wine a little in his head:
Beside him stood a casket full of gems,

The spoil of conquered monarchs' diadems:

Great pearls, milk-white, and shining like the moon ;
Emeralds, grass-green; sapphires, like skies of June;
Brilliants that threw their light upon the wall,
And one great ruby that outshone them all,
Large as a pigeon's egg, and red as wine
When held before the sun — a gem divine.
Through these he ran his fingers carelessly,
Like one who dips a handful of the sea,
To sun his eyes with dripping stars of brine:
At last he slumbered in the pale moonshine.

Meantime the watchful stork was in his bowers; Again it saw its blood upon the flowers,

And saw the walks, the fountain's shaft in air,
But not the cruel prince; no prince was there :
So up and down the spacious courts it flew,
And ever nearer to the palace drew.

Passing the lighted windows, row by row,
It saw the prince, and saw the ruby's glow;
Hopping into the chamber, grave and still,
It seized the ruby with its ebon bill,
And spreading then its rapid wings in flight,.
Flew out, and vanished in the yawning night.
Night slowly passed, and morning broke again:
There came a light tap on the window pane
Of Heraclis: it woke her; she arose,
And slipping on in haste her peasant clothes,
Opened the door to see who knocked; and lo!
In walked the stork again, as white as snow,
And in its bill the ruby, whose red ray
Flamed in her face, anticipating day.
Again the creature pointed to its thigh,
And something human brightened in its eye-
A look that said, "I thank you!" plain as words:
The virgin's look was brighter than the bird's,
So glad was she to see it was not dead:
She stretched her hand to sleek its bowing head;
But ere she could, it made a sudden stand,
And thrust the priceless ruby in her hand,
And sailing swiftly through the cottage door,
Mounted the morning sky, and came no more.

LXVI. THE DEATH OF THE LITTLE SCHOLAR.

DICKENS.

[Charles Dickens is a living English novelist, of great original genius and worldwide popularity. This lesson is taken from one of his novels, called Master Humphrey's Clock. Two of the characters are little Nell, a gentle and lovely child, and her grandfather. They wander about England on foot, and at the close of one of their day's journeys, are received and entertained by a schoolmaster, whose favorite pupil is on his death bed.]

WITHOUT further preface, he conducted them into his little school room, which was parlor and kitchen likewise, and told them they were welcome to remain under his roof till morning. The child looked round the room as she took her seat. The chief ornaments of the walls were certain moral sentences, fairly copied in good round text, and well-worked sums in simple addition and multiplication, evidently achieved by the same hand, which were plentifully pasted around the room; for the double purpose, as it seemed, of bearing testimony to the excellence of the school, and kindling a worthy emulation in the bosoms of the scholars. "Yes," said the schoolmaster, observing that her attention was caught by these specimens, "that's beautiful writing, my dear." "Very, sir,” replied the child, modestly; "is it yours?" "Mine!" he returned, taking out his spectacles, and putting them on, to have a better view of the triumphs so dear to his heart; "I couldn't write like that nowadays. No: they are all done by one hand; a little hand it is; not so old as yours, but a very clever one."

As the schoolmaster said this, he saw that a small blot of ink had been thrown upon one of the copies; so he took a penknife from his pocket, and going up to the wall, carefully scratched it out. When he had finished, he walked slowly backward from the writing, admiring it as one might contemplate a beautiful picture, but with something of sadness in his voice and manner which quite touched the child, though she was unacquainted with its cause.

“A little hand, indeed," said the poor schoolmaster.

"Far

beyond all his companions, in his learning and his sports too. How did he ever come to be so fond of me? love him is no wonder, but that he should love me

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there the schoolmaster stopped, and took off his spectacles to wipe them, as though they had grown dim. nothing the matter, sir," said Nell anxiously.

"I hope there is

"Not much, my dear," returned the schoolmaster: “I hoped to have seen him on the green to-night. He was always foremost among them. But he'll be there to-morrow."

"Has he been ill?" asked the child, with a child's quick sympathy.

"Not very. They said he was wandering in his head yesterday, dear boy, and so they said the day before. But that's a part of that kind of disorder: it's not a bad sign—not at all a bad sign."

The child was silent. He walked to the door, and looked wistfully out. The shadows of night were gathering, and all was still.

would come to me, "He always came

"If he could lean on somebody's arm, he I know," he said, returning into the room. into the garden to say good night. But perhaps his illness has only just taken a favorable turn, and it's too late for him to come out, for it's very damp, and there's a heavy dew. It's much better he shouldn't come to-night."

The next day, towards night, an old woman came tottering up the garden as speedily as she could, and meeting the schoolmaster at the door, said he was to go to Dame West's directly, and had best run on before her He and the child were on the point of going out together for a walk, and without relinquishing her hand, the schoolmaster hurried away, leaving the messenger to follow as she might.

They stopped at a cottage door, and the schoolmaster knocked softly at it with his hand. It was opened without loss of time. They passed into an inner room, where his infant friend, half dressed, lay stretched upon a bed.

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