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Like monument of Grecian art,
In listening mood she seemed to stand,
The guardian Naiad of the strand.
And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace
A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace,
Of finer form or lovelier face!
A foot more light, a step more true,
Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew;
E'en the slight hare-bell raised its head,
Elastic, from her airy tread!
What though upon her speech there lung
The accents of the mountain tongue?-
Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear,
The listener held his breath to hear!
A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid;
Her satin snood, her silken plaid,
Her golden brooch, such birth betrayed.
Impatient of the silent horn,
Now on the gale her voice was borne:-
“Father!” she cried; — the rocks around
Loved to prolong the gentle sound.
A while she paused, no answer came;-
“Malcolm, was thine the blast?"—the name
Less resolutely uttered fell,
The echoes could not catch the swell.
"A stranger I," the Huntsman said,
Advancing from a hazel shade.
The maid, alarmed, with hasty oar
Pushed her light shallop from the shore,
And when a space was gained between,
Closer she drew her bosom's screen;
(So forth the startled swan would swing,
So turn to prune his ruffled wing.)
Then safe, though fluttered and amazed,
She paused, and on the stranger gazed.




1. A farmer, whose poultry-yard had suffered severely from the foxes, succeeded at last in catching one in a trap.

“Ah, you rascal!” said he, as he saw him struggling, "I'll teach you to steal my fat geese!--you shall hang on the tree yonder, and your brothers shall see what comes of thieving!”

2. The farmer was twisting a halter to do what he threatened, when the fox, whose tongue had helped him in hard pinches before, thought there could be no harm in trying whether it might not do him one more good turn.

3. “You will hang me," he said, "to frighten my brother foxes. On the word of a fox, they won't care a rabbit-skin for it; they'll come and look at me, but you may depend upon it, they will dine at your expense before they go home again!”

4. “Then I shall hang you for yourself, as a rogue and a rascal,” said the farmer.

“I am only what nature, or whatever you call the thing, chose to make me," the fox answered. “I did n't make myself."

“You stole my geese," said the man.

5. “Why did nature make me like geese, then ?” said the fox. “Live and let live; give me my share, and I won't touch yours; but you keep them all to yourself."

“I do n't understand your fine talk," answered the farmer; “but I know that you are a thief, and that you deserve to be hanged.”

6. “His head is too thick to let me catch him so; I wonder if his heart is any softer,” thought the fox. “You are taking away the life of a fellow - creature,"

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he said; "that's a responsibility,—it is a curious thing, that life, and who knows what comes after it? You say I am a rogue.


say I am not; but at any rate I ought not to be hanged,—for if I am not, I don't deserve it; and if I am, you should give me time to repent!” “I have him now,” thought the fox; “let him get out if he can.”

7. “Why, what would you have me do with you?” said the man.

“My notion is that you should let me give me a lamb, or goose or two, every month, and then I could live without stealing; but perhaps you know better than I, and I am a rogue; my education may have been neglected; you should shut me up, and take care of me, and teach me. Who knows but in the end I may turn into a dog?”

8. “Very pretty,” said the farmer; "we have dogs enough, and more, too, than we can take care of, without you. No, no, Master Fox; I have caught you, and you shall swing, whatever is the logic of it. There will be one rogue less in the world, anyhow.”

“It is mere hate and unchristian vengeance,” said the fox.

9. "No, friend,” the farmer answered; “I do n't hate you, and I do n't want to revenge myself on you; but you and I can't get on together, and I think I am of more importance than you. If nettles and thistles grow in my cabbage garden, I do n't try to persuade them to grow into cabbages. I just dig them up. I do n't hate them; but I feel somehow that they must n't hinder me with my cabbages, and that I must put them away; and so, my poor friend, I am sorry for you, but I am afraid you must swing.”



COMPOSITION. Read this piece carefully three times; then close the book and write the fable in your own words.


1. Columbus, à Genoese, discovered America in 1492. After him, Americus Vespucius sailed along the coast of North America, and gave his name to the New World.

2. Magellan, a Portuguese navigator, in 1520, discovered the Pacific Ocean by sailing into it through the strait that bears his name.

3. Cook, an English navigator, circumnavigated the globe, 1772-1775. Drake, a famous English sea-captain, also sailed around the world. He was noted for his success in capturing Spanish ships freighted with silver from the mines of Mexico and Peru.

4. De Soto, a Spaniard, in 1539, discovered the Mississippi, and La Salle, a Frenchman, explored the river in 1682. Cortez, a Spaniard, conquered Mexico in 1519; Pizarro, another Spaniard, subdued Peru in 1533.

5. Dr. Kane, an American, made an exploring expedition into the Arctic regions in 1852–5. His ship was frozen in by the ice, and after passing two winters in the Arctic regions, he and his crew returned by means of sledges and boats. His account of the voyage, entitled “Kane's Arctic Explorations,” is a most interesting vol

Since that time, various Arctic expeditions have been fitted out by Americans, among which was that of the ill-fated Jeannette, lost in the ice, westward from Wrangel Island, 1881-82. The crew escaped from the ship in three boats, of which one was lost - two only reaching Siberia: the crew of one of which, with Commander DeLong, perished from cold and starvation.

6. Dr. Livingstone, a Scotchman, spent many years in exploring Central Africa, where he finally perished. Stanley, an American, crossed the central part of Africa in 1874. He traced the great river Congo, the Amazon of Africa, from its source to the Atlantic.



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“Which shall it be? Which shall it be?”
I looked at John, John looked at me
(Dear, patient John, who loves me yet
As well as when my locks were jet).
And when I found that I must speak,
My voice seemed strangely low and weak:
“Tell me again what Robert said!”
And then I, listening, bent my head.
“This is his letter:-'I will give
A house and land while you shall live,
If, in return, from out your seven,
One child to me for aye be given.””
I looked at John's old garments worn;
I thought of all that John had borne
Of poverty, and work, and care,
Which I, though willing, could not share;
I thought of seven mouths to feed,
Of seven little children's need,
And then of this. “Come, John," said I,

“We'll choose among them as they lie
Asleep.” So, walking hand in hand,
Dear John and I surveyed our band.
First to the cradle light we stepped,
Where Lilian, the baby, slept,
A glory 'gainst the pillow white.
Softly the father stooped to lay
His rough hand down in loving way,
When dream or whisper made her stir;
Then huskily he said, "Not her.”
We stooped beside the trundle-bed,
And one long ray of lamp-light shed
Athwart the boyish faces there,
In sleep so pitiful and fair.

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