 Chapter fifty-five of the Ontario Reader's Third Book by the Ontario Ministry of Education read for LibriVox.org. The Wreck of the Orpheus. All day, amid the masts and shrouds, they hung above the wave. The sky overhead was dark with clouds, and dark beneath their grave. The water leapt against its prey, breaking with heavy crash. And when some slackening hand gave way, they fell with dull, low splash. The captain and man never thought to swerve, the boats went to and fro. With cheery face and tranquil nerve each saw his brother go. Each saw his brother go and knew, as night came swiftly on, that less and less his own chance grew, night fell, and hope was gone. The saved stood on the steamer's deck, straining their eyes to see, their comrades clinging to the wreck upon that surging sea, and still they gazed into the dark till, upon their startled ears, there came from that swift sinking bark a sound of gallant cheers. Again and yet again it rose, then silence round them fell, silence of death, and each man knows it was a last farewell, no cry of anguish, no wild shriek, of men in agony, no dropping down of watchers weak, weary and glad to die. But death met with three British cheers, cheers of immortal fame, for us the choking blinding tears, for them a glorious name. O England, while thy sailor host can live and die like these, be thy broad lands one or lost, thou art mistress of the seas. C. A. L. Chapter 56 of the Ontario Reader's Third Book by the Ontario Ministry of Education Read for LibriVox.org The Tide River Clear and cool, clear and cool, by laughing shallow and dreaming pool, cool and clear, cool and clear, by shining shingle and foaming weir, under the crag where the oozle sings, and the ivy-dwall where the church bell rings, undefiled for the undefiled, play by me, bathe in me, mother and child, dank and foul, dank and foul, by the smoky town in its murky cowl, foul and dank, foul and dank, by wharf and sewer and slimy bank. Darker and darker the further I go, baser and baser the richer I grow, who dare sport with the sin defiled, shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child, strong and free, strong and free, the floodgates are open, away to the sea, free and strong, free and strong, cleansing my streams as I hurry along, to the golden sands and the leaping bar, and the taintless tide that awaits me afar, as I lose myself in the infinite main, like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again, undefiled for the undefiled, play by me, bathe in me, mother and child, Kingsley. The best result of all education is the acquired power of making yourself do what you ought to do, when you ought to do it, whether you like it or not. Huxley. Chapter 57 of the Ontario Readers' Third Book by the Ontario Ministry of Education, read for LibriVox.org. Wisdom the Supreme Prize. My son, despise not the chastening of the Lord, neither be weary of his reproof, for whom the Lord loveth he reprooveth, even as a father the son in whom he delighteth. Happy is the man that findeth wisdom, and the man that getteth understanding, for the merchandise of it is better than the merchandise of silver, and the gain thereof than fine gold. She is more precious than rubies, and none of the things thou canst desire are to be compared unto her. Length of days is in her right hand, in her left hand are riches in honour. Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace. She is a tree of life to them that lay hold upon her, and happy is everyone that retaineth her. The Lord by wisdom founded the earth. By his understanding he established the heavens. By his knowledge the depths were broken up, and the skies dropped down the dew. Proverbs 3. CHAPTER XVIII There is no garden like an orchard. Nature shows no fairer thing than the apple-trees and blossom in these late days of the spring. Here the robin-red breast nesting, here from golden dawn till night, honey-bees are gaily swimming in a sea of pink and white. Just a sea of fragrant blossoms, steeped in sunshine, drenched in dew. Just a fragrant breath which tells you earth is fair again and new. Just a breath of subtle sweetness, breath which holds the spice of youth, holds the promise of the summer, holds the best of things for sooth. There is no garden like an orchard. Nature shows no fairer thing than the apple-trees and blossom in these late days of the spring. CHAPTER 59 of the Ontario Readers' Third Book by the Ontario Ministry of Education, read for LibriVox.org inspired by the snow. The black squirrel delights in the new fallen snow like a boy, a real boy, with red hands as well as red cheeks, and an automatic mechanism of bones and muscles capable of all things except rest. The first snow sends a thrill of joy through every fiber of such a boy, and a thousand delights crowd into his mind. The gliding, falling coasters on the hills, the passing slays with niches on the runners for his feet, the flying snowballs, the sliding places, the broad, tempting ice, all whirl through his mind in a delightful panorama, and he hurries out to catch the elusive flakes in his outstretched hands and to shout aloud in the gladness of his heart. And the black squirrel becomes a boy with the first snow. Without a pity he cannot shout. There is a superabundant joy and a life in his long graceful bounds when his beautiful form, in its striking contrast with the white snow, seems magnified to twice its real size. Perhaps there is vanity as well as joy in his lithe, bounding motions among the naked trees, for nature seems to have done her utmost to provide a setting that would best display his graces of form and motion. When the falling snow clings in light airy masses on the spruces and pines, and festoons the naked tracery and clustering winter buds of the maples, when the still air seems to fix every twig and branch and clinging mass of snow in a solid medium of crystal, the spell of stillness is broken by the silent but joyful leaps of the hurrying squirrel. How alive he seems, in contrast with the silence of the snow, as his outlines contrast with its perfect white. His body curves and elongates with regular undulations as he measures off the snow with twin footprints. Away in the distance he is still visible among the naked trunks, a moving patch of animated blackness. His free, regular footprints are all about, showing where he has run hither and thither with no apparent purpose except to manifest his joy in life. His red-haired cousin comes to a lofty opening in a hollow tree and looks out with an expression of disappointment on his face. He does not like the snow-covered landscape spread out so artistically before him. It makes him tired, and he has not enough energy to scold an intruder as he would in the comfortable days of summer. No amount of coaxing or tapping will tempt him from his lofty watchtower or win more recognition than a silent look of weary discontent. Another cousin, the chipmunk, no longer displays his daintily striped coat. This in his burrow he is sleeping away the days and waiting for a more congenial season. But the black squirrel, now among the branches of an elm, is twitching from one rigid attitude to another, electrified by the crisp atmosphere and the inspiration of the snow. Again he is leaping over the white surface to clamor up the repellent bark of a tall hickory. Among the larger limbs he disappears. As he never attempts to hide he must have retired into his own dwelling to partake of the store laid by in the season of plenty. Hickory nuts are his favorite food, and the hard shells seem but an appetizing relish. He knows the value of frugality, and gathers them before they are ripe, throwing down the shriveled and unfilled, that the boys may not annoy him with stones and sticks. In winter he is the happiest of all the woodland family. He does not yield to the drowsy, numbing influence of the cold, nor to the depression of a season of scanty fare, but bounds along from tree to tree, inspired by the subtle spirit of winter and reveling in the joy of being alive. ST. WOOD. CHAPTER SIXTY OF THE ANTERIO READER'S THIRD BOOK BY THE ANTERIO MINISTRY OF EDUCATION The Squirrel. Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm, that age or injury has hollowed deep, where on his bed of wool and matted leaves he has out-slept the winter, ventures forth to frisk a while and bask in the warm sun. The squirrel, flippant, pert and full of play, he sees me, and at once, swift as a bird, ascends the neighboring beach. There whisks his brush, and perks his ears, and stamps and scolds aloud, with all the prettiness of feigned alarm, and anger in significantly fierce. CHAPTER SIXTY OF THE ANTERIO READER'S THIRD BOOK BY THE ANTERIO MINISTRY OF EDUCATION READER'S THIRD BOOK BY THE ANTERIO MINISTRY OF EDUCATION Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, mourn of toil, nor night of waking. No rude sound shall reach thine ear, armors clang, or war-steed champing. Trump nor Pybroche summon here, mustering clan, or squadron-tramping. Yet the lark shrill fife may come, at the daybreak from the fallow, and the bitter sound his drum, booming from the seji shallow. Waters sounds shall none be near, guards nor warders challenge here. Here's no war-steeds, nay and champing, shouting clans or squadron-stamping. CHAPTER SIXTY TWO OF THE ANTERIO READER'S THIRD BOOK BY THE ANTERIO MINISTRY OF EDUCATION FISHING One fine Thursday afternoon, Tom, having borrowed East's new rod, started by himself to the river. He fished for some time with small success. Not a fish would rise to him, but as he prowled along the bank he was presently aware of mighty ones feeding in a pool on the opposite side, under the shade of a huge willow-tree. The stream was deep here, but some fifty yards below was a shallow, for which he made off hot foot, and for getting landlords, keepers, solemn prohibitions of the doctor, and everything else, pulled up his trousers, plunged across, and in three minutes was creeping along on all fours towards the clump of willows. It isn't often that great chub, or any other coarse fish, are in earnest about anything, but just then they were thoroughly bent on feeding, and in half an hour Master Tom had deposited three thumping-fellows at the foot of the giant willow. As he was baiting for a fourth pounder, and just going to throw in again, he became aware of a man coming up the bank not one hundred yards off. Another look told him it was the under-keeper. Could he reach the shallow before him? No, not carrying his rod. Nothing for it but the tree. So Tom laid his bones to it, shinning up as fast as he could, and dragging up his rod after him. He had just had time to reach and crouch along upon a huge branch some ten feet up, which stretched out over the river, when the keeper arrived at the clump. Tom's heart beat fast as he came under the tree. Two steps more, and he would have passed, when as ill luck would have it, the gleam on the scales of the dead fish caught his eye, and he made a dead point at the foot of the tree. He had picked up the fish one by one, his eye and touch told him that they had been alive and feeding within the hour. Tom crouched slower along the branch, and heard the keeper beating the clump. If I could only get the rod hidden, thought he, and began gently shifting it to get it alongside of him. Willow trees don't throw out straight hickory shoots twelve feet long, with no leaves, worse luck. Alas, the keeper catches the rustle, and then a side of the rod, and then of Tom's hand and arm. Oh, be up there, be, says he, running under the tree. Now you come down this minute. Treat at last, thanks Tom, making no answer, and keeping as close as possible, but working away at the rod which he takes to pieces. I'm in for it, unless I can starve him out. And then he begins to meditate, getting along the branch for a plunge, and scramble to the other side. But the small branches are so thick, and the opposite banks so difficult, that the keeper will have lots of time to get round by the ford before he can get out. So he gives that up. And now he hears the keeper beginning to scramble up the trunk. That will never do, so he scrambles himself back to where his branch joins the trunk, and stands with lifted rod. Hello, Velveteens. Mind your fingers if you come any higher. The keeper stops and looks up, and then with a grin says, Oh, be you, be it, young meester. Well here's luck. Now I tells you to come down at once, and it'll be best for thee. Thank ye, Velveteens, I'm very comfortable, said Tom, shortening the rod in his hand, and preparing for battle. Very well, please yourself, says the keeper, descending, however, to the ground again, and taking his seat on the bank. I'd be in no hurry, so you med take your time. I'll learn ye to get on his folks' names before I had done with thee. My luck is usual, thanks, Tom. What a fool I was to give him a black. If I'd called him keeper now I might get off. The return match is all his way. The keeper quietly proceeded to take out his pipe, fill and light it, keeping an eye on Tom, who now set disconsolidately across the branch, looking at the keeper, a pitiful sight for men and fishes. The more he thought of it the less he liked it. It must be getting near a second calling over, thinks he. Keeper smokes on stolidly. If he takes me up I shall be flogged safe enough, and I can't sit here all night. Wonder if he'll rise at silver. I say, keeper, said he meekly, let me go for two bob. Not for twenty, neither, grunts his persecutor. And so they sat on, till long past second calling over, and the sun came slanting in through the willow branches, and telling of locking up near at hand. I'm coming down, keeper, said Tom at last, with a sigh fairly tired out. Now, what are you going to do? Be up to school, and give you over to the doctor, them's my orders, says Velveteen, knocking out the ashes of his fourth pipe and standing up and shaking himself. Very good, said Tom, but hands off, you know, I'll go with you quietly, so no collaring or that sort of thing. Keeper looked at him a minute. Very good, says he at last. And so Tom descended, and wended his way drearily by the side of the keeper up to the school-house, where they arrived just at locking up. As they passed the school gates, the tadpole and several others who were standing there caught the state of things and rushed out, crying, �Rescue!� but Tom shook his head, so they only followed to the doctor's gate, and went back sorely puzzled. How changed and stern the doctor seemed from the last time that Tom was up there, as the keeper told the story, not omitting to state how Tom had called him Blackguard names. �Indeed, sir, broken the culprit, it was only Velveteens.� The doctor only asked one question. �Do you know the rule about the banks, Brown?� �Yes, sir.� �Then wait for me to-morrow, after first lesson.� �I thought so,� muttered Tom. �And about the rod, sir� went on the keeper, �Masters told us we might have all the rods.� �Oh, please, sir,� broke in Tom, �the rod isn�t mine.� The doctor looked puzzled, but the keeper, who was a good hearted fellow, and melted at Tom's evident distress, gave up his claim. Tom was flogged next morning, and a few days afterwards met Velveteens, and presented him with half a crown for giving up the rod claim, and they became good friends. And I regret to say that Tom had many more fish from under the willow that May fly season, and was never caught again by Velveteens. CHAPTER 63 of the Ontario Readers' Third Book by the Ontario Ministry of Education, read for LibriVox.org THE Fountain Into the sunshine, full of light, leaping and flashing from more until night. Into the moonlight, wider than snow, waving so flower-like, when the winds blow. Into the starlight, rushing in spray, happy at midnight, happy by day. Ever in motion, blithesome and cheery, still climbing heavenward, never a weary. Glad of all weathers, still seeming best, upward or downward, motion thy rest. Full of a nature, nothing contained, changed every moment, ever the same. Ceaseless aspiring, ceaseless content, darkness or sunshine, thy element. This fountain, let my heart be, fresh, changeful, constant, upward, like the— Lowell. CHAPTER 64 of the Ontario Readers' Third Book by the Ontario Ministry of Education, read for LibriVox.org BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK Try to frequent the company of your bedders. In books and life that is the most wholesome society. Learn to admire rightly the great pleasure of life is that. Note what great men admired. They admired great things. Narrow spirits admire basely and worship meanly. THAKERY Chapter 65 of the Ontario Reader's Third Book by the Ontario Ministry of Education, read for LibriVox.org. The Bed of Procrustes. A very tall and strong man, dressed in rich garments, came down to meet Theseus. On his arms were golden bracelets and round his neck a collar of jewels, and he came forward, bowing courteously, and held out both his hands and spoke. Welcome, fair youth, to these mountains. Happy I am to have met you. For what greater pleasure to a good man than to entertain strangers. But I see that you are weary. Come up to my castle and rest yourself awhile. I give you thanks, said Theseus, but I am in haste to go up the valley. Alas, you have wandered far from the right way, and you cannot reach your journeys end to night, for there are many miles of mountain between you and it, and steep passes and cliffs dangerous after nightfall. It is well for you that I met you, for my whole joy is to find strangers, and to feast them at my castle, and hear tales from them of foreign lands. Come up with me, and eat the best of venison, and drink the rich red wine, and sleep upon my famous bed, of which all travelers say that they never saw the like. For whatsoever the stature of my guest, however tall or short, that bed fits him to a hair, and he sleeps on it as he never slept before. And he laid hold on Theseus's hands, and would not let him go. Theseus wished to go forwards, but he was ashamed to seem churlish to so hospitable a man, and he was curious to see that wondrous bed. And besides, he was hungry and weary. Yet he shrank from the man, and he knew not why. Though his voice was gentle, it was dry and husky like a toad's. And though his eyes were gentle, they were dull and cold like stones. But he consented, and went with the man up a glen which led from the road, under the dark shadow of the cliffs. And as they went up, the glen grew narrower, and the cliffs higher and darker, and beneath them a torrent roared, half-seen between bare limestone craves. And around them was neither tree nor bush, while the snow-blasts swept down the glen, cutting and chilling, till a horror fell on Theseus as he looked round at that doleful place. And he said at last, your castle stands, it seems, in a dreary region. Yes, but once within it hospitality makes all things cheerful. But who are these? And he looked back, and Theseus also, and far below along the road which they had left came a string of laden masses and merchants walking by them watching their wear. Ah, poor souls, said the stranger! Well for them that I looked back and saw them. And well for me too, for I shall have the more guests at my feast. Wait a while, while I go down and call them, and we will eat and drink together the live long night. Happy I am to whom heaven sends so many guests at once! And he ran back down the hill, waving his hand and shouting to the merchants, while Theseus went slowly up the steep paths. But as he went up he met an aged man, who had been gathering driftwood in the torrent bed. He had laid down his faggot in the road, and was trying to lift it again to his shoulder. And when he saw Theseus he called to him and said, Oh, fair youth, help me up with my burden, for my limbs are stiff and weak with years. Then Theseus left the burden on his back, and the old man blessed him, and then looked earnestly upon him and said, Who are you, fair youth, and wherefore travel you this doleful road? Who I am my parents know, but I travel this doleful road because I have been invited by a hospitable man, who promises to feast me and to make me sleep upon I know not what wondrous bed. Then the old man clapped his hands together and said, No, fair youth, that you are going to torment to death, for he who met you, I will require your kindness by another, is a robber and a murderer of men. Whatsoever stranger he meets he entices him hither to death, and as for this bed of which he speaks, truly it fits all comers, yet none ever rose alive off it save me. Why? asked Theseus astonished. Because if a man be too tall for it, he lops his limbs till they be short enough, and if he be too short he stretches his limbs till they be long enough. But me only he spared, seven weary years are gone, for I alone of all fitted his bed exactly, so he spared me and made me his slave. And once I was a wealthy merchant, and dwelt in a great city, but now I hew wood and draw water for him, the torment of all mortal men. Then Theseus said nothing, but he ground his teeth together. Escape then, said the old man, for he will have no pity on thy youth. But yesterday he brought up hither a young man and a maiden, and fitted them upon his bed, and the young man's hands and feet he cut off, but the maiden's limbs he stretched till she died, and so both perished miserably. But I am tired of weeping over the slain. And therefore he is called Procrestes, the stretcher. Flee from him, yet whither will you flee? The cliffs are steep, and who can climb them, and there is no other road. But Theseus laid his hand upon the old man's mouth and said, There is no need to flee, and he turned to go down the pass. Do not tell him that I have warned you, or he will kill me by some evil death. And the old man screamed after him down the glen, but Theseus strode on in his wrath. And he said to himself, This is an ill-ruled land. When shall I have done ridding it of monsters? And as he spoke, Procrestes came up the hill, and all the merchants with him, smiling and talking gaily. And when he saw Theseus he cried, Ah, fair young guest, have I kept you too long waiting? But Theseus answered, The man who stretches his guests upon a bed and hues off their hands and feet, what shall be done to him, when rite is done throughout the land? Then Procrestes' countenance changed, and his cheeks grew as green as a lizard, and he felt for his sword in haste, but Theseus slept on him and cried, Is this true my host or is it false? And he clasped Procrestes round waste and elbow, so that he could not draw his sword. Is this true my host or is it false? But Procrestes answered never a word. Then Theseus flung him from him, and lifted up his dreadful club, and before Procrestes could strike him, he had struck and felled him to the ground. And once again he struck him, and his evil soul fled forth, squeaking like a bat into the darkness of a cave. Then Theseus stripped him of his gold ornaments, and went up to his house, and found their great wealth and treasure, which he had stolen from the passersby. And he called the people of the country, whom Procrestes had spoiled a long time, and divided the spoil among them, and went down the mountains in a way. Kingsley, the heroes, adapted. CHAPTER 66 of the Ontario Reader's Third Book by the Ontario Ministry of Education, read for LibriVox.org. Bob White. I see you on the zigzag rails, you cheery little fellow. White purple leaves are whorling down, and scarlet brown and yellow. I hear you when the air is full, of snow down of the thistle. All in your speckled jacket trim. Bob White. Bob White, you whistle. Tall amber sheaves in rustling rows are nodding there to greet you. I know that you are out for play. How I should like to meet you! Though blithe of voice so shy you are, in this delightful weather. What splendid playmates you and I, Bob White would make together. There you are gone, but far away I hear your whistle falling. Ah, maybe it is hide-and-seek, and that's why you are calling. Along those hazy uplands wide we'd be such merry rangers. What? Silent now, and hidden too. Bob White, don't let's be strangers. Perhaps you teach your brood the game, in yonder rainbowed thicket, while winds are playing with the leaves, and softly creaks the cricket. Bob White, again I hear, that blithely whistled chorus. Why should we not, companions, be? One father watches Ores. George Cooper. CHAPTER 67 of the Ontario Readers' Third Book by the Ontario Ministry of Education Read for LibriVox.org RADISON AND THE INDIANS The tribe being assembled, and having spread out their customary gifts, consisting of beaver tails, smoked moustangs, and pémison, one of the leading braves arose and said, Men who pretend to give us life, do you wish us to die? You know what beaver is worth and the trouble we have to take it. You call yourselves our brothers, and yet will not give us what those give who make no such profession. Accept our gifts, and let us barter, or we will visit you no more. We have but to travel a hundred leagues, and we will encounter the English, whose offers we have heard. On the conclusion of this harangue, silence reigned for some moments. All eyes were turned on the two white traitors. Feeling that now or never was the time to exhibit firmness, RADISON, without rising to his feet, addressed the whole assemblage in haughty accents. Whom dost thou wish I should answer? I have heard a dog-bark. When a man shall speak, he will see I know how to defend my conduct and my terms. We love our brothers, and we deserve their love in return. For have we not saved them all from the treachery of the English? Uttering these words fearlessly, he leaped to his feet and drew a long hunting knife from his belt. Seizing by the scalplock the chief of the tribe, who had already adopted him as a son, he asked, Who art thou? to which the chief responded, as was customary, thy father? Then cried RADISON, If that is so, and thou art my father, speak for me? Thou art the master of my goods, but as for that dog who has spoken, what is he doing in this company? Let him go to his brothers the English that they head of the bay, or he need not travel so far. He may, if he chooses, see them starving and helpless on Yonder Island answering to my words of command. I know how to speak to my Indian father, continued RADISON, of the perils of the woods, of the abandonment of his squaws and children, of the risks of hunger and the peril of death by foes. All these you avoid by trading with us here. But though I am mightily angry, I will take pity on this wretch and let him still live. Go, addressing the brave with his weapon outstretched, take this as my gift to you and depart. When you meet your brothers the English tell them my name and add that we are soon coming to treat them in their factory Yonder as we have treated this one. The speaker knew enough of the Indian character, especially in affairs of trade, to be aware that a point once yielded them is never recovered. And it is but just to say that the terms he made, then, of three axes for a beaver were thereafter adopted, and that his firmness saved the company many a cargo of these implements. His harangue produced an immediate impression upon all save the humiliated brave, who declared that, if the asinoboins came hitherto barter, he would lie in ambush and kill them. The French traders reply to this was, to the Indian mine, a terrible one. I will myself travel into thy country, said he, and eat sagamite in thy grandmother's skull. While the brave and his small circle of friends were livid with fear and anger, Radisson ordered three fathoms of tobacco to be distributed, observing, contemptuously, to the hostile minority, that as for them they might go and smoke women's tobacco in the country of the lynxes. The barter began, and when at nightfall the Indians departed, not a skin was left amongst them. CHAPTER sixty-eight of the Ontario Reader's third book by the Ontario Ministry of Education, read for LibriVox.org. The brook. I come from haunts of Kudinhearn. I make a sudden sally, and sparkle out among the fern to bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, or slip between the ridges. By twenty thorps a little town, and half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow. To join the brimming river, for men may come and men may go, but I go on forever. I chatter over stony ways in little sharps and troubles. I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret, by many a field and fallow, and many a fairy foreland set, with willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow, to join the brimming river, for men may come and men may go, but I go on forever. I wind about, and in and out, with here a blossom sailing, and here and there a lusty trout, and here and there a grayling. And here and there a foamy flake, upon me as I travel, with many a silvery water break, above the golden gravel, and draw them all along and flow to join the brimming river, for men may come and men may go, but I go on forever. I steal by lawns and grassy plots. I slide by hazel covers. I move the sweet forget-me-nots that grow for happy lovers. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, among my skimming swallows. I make the netted sunbeam dance against my sandy shallows. I murmur under moon and stars, in brambly wildernesses. I linger by my shingly bars, I lorder round my creses. And out again I curve and flow to join the brimming river, for men may come and men may go, but I go on forever. Tennison As good almost kill a man as kill a good book. Many a man lives a burden to the earth, but a good book is the precious life-blood of a master's spirit. MILTON CHAPTER 69 OF THE ANTERIO READER'S THIRD BOOK BY THE ANTERIO MINISTRY OF EDUCATION Red for LibriVox.org. Do seek their meat from God. There was a solitary cabin in the thick of the woods a mile or more from the nearest neighbor, a substantial frame-house in the midst of a large and well-tilled clearing. The owner of the cabin, a shiftless fellow who spent his days for the most part at the corner tavern three miles distant, had suddenly grown disgusted with the land wherein one must work to live, and had betaken himself with his seven-year-old boy to seek some more indolent climb. The five-year-old son of the prosperous owner of the frame-house and the older boy had been playmates. The little boy, unaware of his comrade's departure, had stolen away, late in the afternoon, along the lonely stretch of wood-road, and had reached the cabin only to find it empty. As the dust gathered, he grew afraid to start for home and crept trembling into the cabin, whose door would not stay shut. Desperate with fear and loneliness, he lifted up his voice piteously. In the terrifying silence he listened hard to hear if any one or anything were coming. Then again his shrill childish wailings arose, startling the unexpected night and piercing the forest depths, even to the years of two great panthers which had set forth to seek their meat from God. The lonely cabin stood some distance, perhaps a quarter of a mile, back from the highway connecting the settlements. Along this main road a man was plotting thoroughly. All day he had been walking, and now as he neared home his steps began to quicken with anticipation of rest. Over his shoulder projected a double-barreled fouling-piece, from which was slung a bundle of such necessities as he had purchased in town that morning. It was the prosperous settler, the master of the frame-house, who had chosen to make the tedious journey on foot. He passed the mouth of the wood-road leading to the cabin and had gone perhaps a furlong beyond when his ears were startled by the sound of a child crying in the woods. He stopped, lowered his burden to the road, and stood straining ears and eyes in the direction of the sound. It was just at this time that the two panthers also stopped and lifted their heads to listen. Their ears were keener than those of the man and the sound had reached them at a greater distance. Presently the settler realized once the cries were coming. He called to mind the cabin, but he did not know the cabin's owner had departed. He cherished a hearty contempt for the drunken squatter, and on the drunken squatter's child he looked with small favour, especially as a playmate for his own boy. Nevertheless he hesitated before resuming his journey. "'Poor little fellow,' he murmured, half in wrath, "'I reckon his precious father's drunk down at the corners and him crying for loneliness.' Then he re-shouldered his burden and strode on doggedly. But louder, shriller, more hopeless and more appealing arose the childish voice, and the settler paused again, irresolute, and with deepening indignation. In his fancy he saw the steaming supper his wife would have awaiting him. He loathed the thought of retracing his steps, and then, stumbling a quarter of a mile through the stumps and bog of the wood road. He was foot sore as well as hungry, and he cursed the vagabond squatter with serious emphasis. But in that wailing was a terror which would not let him go on. He thought of his own little one left in such a position and straightway his heart melted. He turned, dropped his bundle behind some bushes, grasped his gun, and made speed back for the cabin. "'Who knows,' he said to himself, but that drunken idiot has left his youngster without a bite to eat in the home miserable shanty. Or maybe he's locked out, and the poor little beggars have scared to death. Sounds as if he was scared. And at this thought the settler quickened his pace. As the hungry panthers drew near the cabin, and the cries of the lonely child grew clearer, they hastened their steps, and their eyes open to a wider circle, flaming with a greener fire. It would be thoughtless superstition to say the beasts were cruel. They were simply keen with hunger and alive with the eager passion of the chase. They were not ferocious with any anticipation of battle, for they knew the voice was the voice of a child, and something in the voice told them that the child was solitary. There's was no hideous or unnatural rage, as it is the custom to describe it. They were but seeking with the strength, the cunning, the deadly swiftness given them to that end, the food convenient for them. On their success in accomplishing that for which nature had so exquisitely designed them, depended not only their own, but the lives of their blind and helpless young, now whimpering in the cave on the slope of the moonlit ravine. They crept through a wet, alder thicket, bounded lightly over the ragged brush fence, and paused to reconnoitre on the edge of the clearing in the full glare of the moon. At the same moment the settler emerged from the darkness of the wood road on the opposite side of the clearing. He saw the two great beasts, heads down and snouts thrust forward, gliding toward the open cabin door. For a few moments the child had been silent. Now his voice rose again in pitiful appeal, a very ecstasy of loneliness and terror. There was a note in the cry that shook the settler's soul. He had a vision of his own boy, at home with his mother, safeguarded from even the thought of peril. And here was this little one left to the wild beasts. Thank God, thank God I came, murmured the settler, as he dropped on one knee to take a sureer aim. There was a loud report, not like the sharp crack of a rifle, and the female panther, shot through the loins, fell in a heap, snarling furiously and striking with her forepaws. The male walked around her in fierce and anxious amazement. Presently as the smoke lifted, he discerned the settler kneeling for a second shot. With a high screech of fury, the lith brute sprang upon his enemy, taking a bullet full in his chest without seeming to know he was hit. Air the man could slip in another cartridge the beast was upon him, bearing him to the ground and fixing keen fangs in his shoulder. Without a word the man set his strong fingers desperately into the brute's throat, wrenched himself partly free and was struggling to rise, when the panther's body collapsed upon him all at once, a dead weight which he easily flung aside. The bullet had done its work just in time. Quivering from the swift and dreadful contest, bleeding profusely from his mangled shoulder, the settler stepped up to the cabin door and peered in. He heard sobs in the darkness. Don't be scared, sunny, he said in a reassuring voice. I'm going to take you home along with me. Poor little lad, I'll look after you if folks that ought to don't. Out of the dark corner came a shout of delight, in a voice which made the settler's heart stand still. Daddy, daddy, it said, I knew you'd come. I was so frightened when it got dark. And a little figure launched itself into the settler's arms and clung to him trembling. The man sat down on the threshold and strained the child to his breast. He remembered how neary had been to disregarding the far-off cries, and great beads of sweat broke out upon his forehead. Not many weeks afterwards the settler was following the fresh trail of a bear which had killed his sheep. The trail led him down at last along the slope of a deep ravine, from whose bottom came the brawl of a swollen and obstructed stream. In the ravine he found a shallow cave, behind a great white rock. The cave was plainly a wild-beast lair, and he entered circumspectly. There were bones scattered about, and on some dry herbage in the deepest corner of the den he found the dead bodies of two small panther-cubs. Charles G. D. Roberts, Earth's Enigmas, adapted. So nigh to grandeur to our dust, so near is God to man. When duty whispers low, thou must, the youth replies, I can. CHAPTER XVII. THE SEA, THE SEA, THE OPEN SEA. THE BLUE, THE FRESH, THE EVER-FREE, WITHOUT A MARK, WITHOUT A BOUND, IT RUNNETH THE EARTH'S WIDE REGIONS ROUND, IT PLAYS WITH THE CLOUDS, IT MOCKS THE SKIES, OR, LIKE A CRATAL CREATURE LIES, I'M ON THE SEA, I'M ON THE SEA, I AM WHERE I WOULD EVER BE, WITH THE BLUE ABOVE, AND THE BLUE BELOW, AND SILENCE WHERE SOEAR I GO. IF A STORM SHOULD COME AND AWAKE THE DEEP, WHAT MATTER? I SHALL RIDE AND SLEEP. I LOVE, O HOW I LOVE TO RIDE, ON THE FIERCE, FOMING, BURSTING TIDE, WHEN EVERY MAD WAVE DROWNS THE MOON, OR WHISTLES ALOFT HIS TEMPEST TUNE, AND TELLS HOW GO WITH THE WORLD BELOW, AND WHY THE SOUTHWEST BLAST DO BLOW. I NEVER WAS ON THE DULT HAME SHORE, BUT I LOVED THE GREAT SEA MORE AND MORE, AND BACKWARDS FLEW TO HER BILLOWY BREAST, LIKE A BIRD THAT SEAKS ITS MOTHER'S NEST, AND A MOTHER SHE WAS AND IS TO ME, FOR I WAS BORN ON THE OPEN SEA. The waves were white, and red the moon, in the noisy hour when I was born, and the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, and the dolphins bared their backs of gold, and never was heard such an outcry wild as welcomed to life the ocean child. I've lived since then in calm and strife, full fifty summers a sailor's life, with wealth to spend, and a power to range, but never have sought nor sighed for change, and death, whenever he comes to me, shall come on the wide unbounded sea. B. W. Proctor, Barry Cornwall. CHAPTER 71 LITTLE DUFFY DOWN DILLY I FLEPPED AND DREAMED THAT LIFE WAS BEAUTY, I WALKED AND FOUND THAT LIFE WAS DUTY. Duffy Down Dilly was so called because in his nature he resembled a flower, and loved to do only what was beautiful and agreeable, and took no delight in labour of any kind, but while Duffy Down Dilly was yet a little boy, his mother sent him away from his pleasant home, and put him under the care of a very strict schoolmaster who went by the name of Mr. Toil. Those who knew him best affirmed that this Mr. Toil was a very worthy character, and that he had done more good both to children and grown people than anybody else in the world. Certainly he had lived long enough to do a great deal of good, for if all stories be true, he had dwelt upon earth ever since Adam was driven from the garden of Eden. Nevertheless, Mr. Toil had a severe and ugly countenance, especially for such little boys or big men as were inclined to be idle. His voice too was harsh, and all his ways and customs seemed very disagreeable to our friend Duffy Down Dilly. The whole day long, this terrible schoolmaster sat at his desk overlooking the scholars, or stalked about the schoolroom with a certain awful bridge rod in his hand. Now came a wrap over the shoulders of a boy whom Mr. Toil had got at clay. Now he punished a whole class who were behind hand with their lessons, and, in short, unless a lad chose to attend quietly and constantly to his book, he had no chance of enjoying a quiet moment in the schoolroom of Mr. Toil. This will never do for me, thought Duffy Down Dilly. Now the whole of Duffy Down Dilly's life had hitherto been passed with his dear mother, who had a much sweeter face than old Mr. Toil, and who had always been very indulgent to her little boy. No wonder, therefore, that poor Duffy Down Dilly found it a woeful change to be sent away from the good lady's side and put under the care of this ugly visaged schoolmaster, who never gave him any apples or cake and seemed to think that little boys were created only to get lessons. I can't bear it any longer, said Duffy Down Dilly to himself, when he had been at school about a week. I'll run away and try to find my dear mother, and, at any rate, I shall never find anybody half so disagreeable as this old Mr. Toil. So the very next morning, off started poor Duffy Down Dilly, and began his rambles about the world, with only some bread and cheese for his breakfast and very little pocket money to pay his expenses. But he had gone only a short distance when he overtook a man of grave and sedate appearance, who was trudging at a moderate pace along the road. Good morning, my lad, said the stranger, and his voice seemed hard and severe, but yet had a sort of kindness in it. Went to you, come so early, and wither are you going. Little Duffy Down Dilly was a boy of a very ingenuous disposition, and had never been known to tell a lie in all his life, nor did he tell one now. He hesitated a moment or two, but finally confessed that he had run away from school on account of his great dislike for Mr. Toil, and that he was resolved to find some place in the world where he should never see or hear of the old schoolmaster again. Oh, very well, my little friend, answered the stranger. Then we will go together, for I, likewise, have had a good deal to do with Mr. Toil, and should be glad to find some place where he was never heard of. Our friend Duffy Down Dilly would have been better pleased with a companion of his own age, with whom he might have gathered flowers along the roadside, or have chased butterflies, or have done many other things to make the journey pleasant. But he had wisdom enough to understand that he should get along through the world much easier by having a man of experience to show him the way. So he accepted the stranger's proposal, and they walked on very sociably together. They had not gone far when the road passed by a field where some haymakers were at work, mowing down the tall grass and spreading it out in the sun to dry. Duffy Down Dilly was delighted with the sweet smell of the new mown grass, and thought how much pleasantry it must be to make hay in the sunshine under the blue sky, and with the birds singing sweetly in the neighboring trees and bushes, than to be shut up in a dismal schoolroom, learning lessons all day long, and continually scolded by old Mr. Toil. But in the midst of these thoughts, while he was stopping to peep over the stone wall, he started back and caught hold of his companion's hand. Quick, quick, cried he. Let us run away, or he will catch us. Who will catch us? asked the stranger. Mr. Toil, the old schoolmaster, answered Duffy Down Dilly. Don't you see him amongst the haymakers? And Duffy Down Dilly pointed to an elderly man, who seemed to be the owner of the field, and the employer of the men at work there. He had stripped off his coat and waved coat, and was busily at work in his shirt sleeves. The drops of sweat stood upon his brow, but he gave himself not a moment's rest, and kept crying out to the haymakers to make hay while the sun shone. Now, strange to say, the figure and features of this old farmer were precisely the same as those of old Mr. Toil, who, at that very moment, must have been just entering his schoolroom. Don't be afraid, said the stranger. This is not Mr. Toil, the schoolmaster, but a brother of his, who was bred a farmer. And the people say he is the more disagreeable man of the two. However, he won't trouble you unless you become a laborer on the farm. Little Duffy Down Dilly believed what his companion said, but he was very glad, nevertheless, when they were out of sight of the old farmer, who bore such a singular resemblance to Mr. Toil. The two travelers had gone but little father, when they came to a spot where some carpenters were erecting a house. Duffy Down Dilly begged his companion to stop a moment, for it was a very pretty sight to see how neatly the carpenters did their work, with their broad axes and saws and planes and hammers, shaping up the doors and putting in the window sashes and nailing on the clapboards. And he could not help thinking that he should like to take a broad axe, a saw, a plane, and a hammer, and build a little house for himself. And then, when he should have a house of his own, old Mr. Toil would never dare to molest him. But just while he was delighting himself with this idea, Little Duffy Down Dilly beheld something that made him catch hold of his companion's hand, all in a fright. Make haste, quick, quick, cried he. There he is again. Who? asked the stranger, very quietly. Old Mr. Toil, said Duffy Down Dilly, trembling. There, he that is overseeing the carpenters, tis my old schoolmaster, as sure as I'm alive. The stranger cast his eyes where Duffy Down Dilly pointed his finger, and he saw an elderly man with a carpenter's rule and compass in his hand. This person went to and fro about the unfinished house, measuring pieces of timber and marking out the work that was to be done, and continually exhorting the other carpenters to be diligent. And wherever he turned his hard and wrinkled visage, the men seemed to feel that they had a taskmaster over them, and sawed, and hammered, and planned as if for dear life. Oh no, this is not Mr. Toil, the schoolmaster, said the stranger. It is another brother of his who follows the trade of carpenters. I'm very glad to hear it, quotes Duffy Down Dilly. But if you please, sir, I should like to get out of his way as soon as possible. Then they went on a little farther, and soon heard the sound of a drum and fife. Duffy Down Dilly pricked up his ears at this, and besought his companion to hurry forward, that they might not miss seeing the soldiers. Accordingly, they made what haste they could, and soon met a company of soldiers gaily dressed with beautiful feathers in their caps and bright muskets on their shoulders. In front marched two drummers and two pifers, beating on their drums and making such lively music that little Duffy Down Dilly would gladly have followed them to the end of the world. And if he was only a soldier, then, he said to himself, old Mr. Toil would never venture to look him in the face. Quick step forward march shouted a gruff voice. Little Duffy Down Dilly started in great dismay. For this voice which had spoken to the soldiers sounded precisely the same as that which he had heard every day in Mr. Toil's school room, out of Mr. Toil's own mouth. And, turning his eyes to the captain of the company, what should he see but the very image of old Mr. Toil himself, with a smart cap and feather on his head, a pair of gold epaulets on his shoulders, a laced coat on his back, a purple stash round his waist, and a long sword instead of a bridge rod in his hand. And though he held his head so high and trotted like a turkey cock, still he looked quite as ugly and disagreeable as when he was hearing lessons in the school room. "'This is certainly old Mr. Toil,' said Duffy Down Dilly in a trembling voice. "'Let us run away for fear he should make us endless in his company.' "'You are mistaken again, my little friend,' replied the stranger, very compositely. "'This is not Mr. Toil, the school master, but a brother of his, who has served in the army all his life. "'People say he's a terribly severe fellow, but you and I need not be afraid of him.' "'Well, well,' said little Duffy Down Dilly, "'but if you please, sir, I don't want to see the soldiers any more.' So the child and the stranger resumed their journey, and by and by they came to a house on the roadside, where a number of people were making merry. Young men and rosy-cheeked girls, with smiles on their faces, were dancing to the sound of a fiddle. It was a pleasantest sight that Duffy Down Dilly had yet met with, and it converted him for all his disappointments. "'Oh, let us stop here,' cried he to his companion, for Mr. Toil will never dare to show his face where there is a fiddler, and where people are dancing and making merry. "'We shall be quite safe here.' But these last words died away upon Duffy Down Dilly's tongue, for, happening to cast his eyes on the fiddler, whom should he behold again, but the likeness of Mr. Toil, holding a fiddle bow instead of a birch rod, and flourishing it with as much ease and dexterity as if he had been a fiddler all his life. He had somewhat the air of a Frenchman, but still looked exactly like the old-school master. And Duffy Down Dilly even fancied that he nodded and winked at him, and made signs for him to join in the dance. "'Oh, dear me,' whispered he, turning pale. It seems as if there was nobody but Mr. Toil in the world. Who could have thought of his playing on a fiddle?' "'This is not your old-school master,' observed the stranger, but another brother of his, who was bred in France, where he learned the profession of a fiddler. He is ashamed of his family, and generally calls himself one zeal, le plaisir. But his real name is Toil, and those who have known him best think him still more disagreeable than his brothers. "'Oh, take me back, take me back,' cried poor little Duffy Down Dilly, bursting into tears. "'If there is nothing but Toil all the world over, I might just as well go back to the schoolhouse.' "'Yonder it is, there is the schoolhouse,' said the stranger, for though he and Duffy Down Dilly had taken a great many steps, they had travelled in a circle instead of a straight line. "'Come, we will go back to school together.' "'There was something in his companion's voice that little Duffy Down Dilly now remembered, and it is strange that he had not remembered it sooner. "'Looking up into his face, behold, there again was the likeness of old Mr. Toil, so that the poor child had been in company with Toil all day, even while he was doing his best to run away from him. "'Some people, to whom I have told little Duffy Down Dilly's story, are of the opinion that old Mr. Toil was a magician and possessed the power of multiplying himself into as many shapes as he saw fit. "'Be this as it may, little Duffy Down Dilly had learned a good lesson, and from that time forward was diligent at his task, because he knew that diligence is not a wit more toilsome than sport or idleness. And when he became better acquainted with Mr. Toil, he began to think that his ways were not so very disagreeable, and that the old schoolmaster's smile of approbation made his face almost as placent as even that of Duffy Down Dilly's mother." One little sandpiper and I, and fast I gather, bit by bit, the scattered driftwood bleached and dry. The wild waves reached their hands for it. The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, as up and down the beach we flit. One little sandpiper and I. Above our heads, the sullen clouds, scud black and swift across the sky, like sullen ghosts in misty shrouds, stand out the white lighthouses high. Almost as far as I can reach, I see the close rift vessels fly, as fast we flit along the beach, one little sandpiper and I. I watch him as he skims along, uttering his sweet and mournful cry. He starts not at my fitful song, or flash a fluttering drapery. He has no thought of any wrong. He scans me with a fearless eye. Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong. The little sandpiper and I. Comrade, where will thou be tonight, when the loose and storm breaks furiously? My driftwood fire will burn so bright, till what warm shelter canst thou fly? I do not fear for thee. Thou roth the tempest rushes through the sky, for are we not God's children both? Thou little sandpiper and I. Sylya Thexter. End of Section 72. This recording is in the public domain. Chapter 73 of the Ontario Readers' Third Book. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Brianna Simmons. From The Sermon on the Mount, the Bible. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God. Again ye have heard that it hath been said of them of old time, thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the Lord thine oaths. But I say unto you, swear not at all, neither by heaven, for it is God's throne, nor by the earth, for it is his footstool, neither by Jerusalem, for it is the city of the great king. Neither shalt thou swear by thy head, because thou canst not make one hair white or black. Ye have heard that it hath been said, thou shalt love thy neighbor and hate thine enemy. But I say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you, that ye may be the children of your father which is in heaven, for he maketh his son to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth the rain on the just and on the unjust. For if ye love them which love you, what reward have ye? Do not even the publicans the same? And if ye salute your brethren only, what do ye more than others? Do not even the publicans so? Be ye therefore perfect, even as your father which is in heaven is perfect. The Legend of St. Christopher by Helen Hunt-Jackson For many a year St. Christopher served God in many a land, and master painters drew his face with loving heart and hand. On altar fronts and churches walls, and peasants used to say, to look on good St. Christopher brought luck for all the day. For many a year in lowly hut the giant dwelt content, upon the bank and back and forth across the stream he went, and on his giant shoulders bore all travellers who came, by night, by day, or rich or poor, all in King Jesus' name. But much he doubted if the King his work would note or know, and often with a weary heart he waded to and fro. One night as wrapped in sleepy lay, he suddenly heard a call, O Christopher, come carry me. His sprang looked out, but all was dark and silent on the shore. It must be that I dreamed, he said, and laid him down again. But instantly there seemed again the feeble distant cry, O come and carry me. Again his sprang and looked, again no living thing could see. The third time came the plaintive voice, like infants, soft and weak. The lantern strode the giant forth more carefully to seek. Down on the bank a little child he found, a piteous sight, who weeping earnestly implored to cross that very night. With gruff good will he picked him up, and on his neck to ride he tossed him as men play with babes, and plunged into the tide. But as the water closed around his knees the infant's weight grew heavier and heavier, until it was so great that giant scares could stand upright. His staff shook in his hand, his mighty knees bent under him. He barely reached the land, and staggering set the infant down, and turned to scan his face. When low he saw a halo bright, which lit up all the place. Then Christopher fell down, afraid, at marvel of the thing, and dreamed not that it was the face of Jesus Christ, his king. Until the infant spoke, and said, Oh Christopher, behold, I am the Lord whom thou hast served, rise up, be glad and bold, for I have seen and noted well thy works of charity, and that thou art my servant good, a token thou shalt see. Planned firmly here upon this bank, thy stalwart staff of pine, and it shall blossom and bear fruit this very hour in sign. When banishing the infant smiled, the giant left alone, saw on the bank with luscious dates his stout pine staff bent down. I think the lesson is as good today as it was then, as good to us called Christians as to the heathen men. The lesson of Saint Christopher, who spent his strength for others, and saved his soul by working hard to help and save his brothers. CHAPTER 75 OF THE ANTERIO READERS' THIRD BOOK BY THE ANTERIO MINISTRY OF EDUCATION, read for LibriVox.org by Tricia G. William Tell and his son, from Chambers Tracts The son already shone brightly as William Tell entered the town of Altork, and he advanced at once to the public place, where the first object that caught his eyes was a handsome cap, embroidered with gold, stuck upon the end of a long pole. Soldiers were walking around it in silence, and the people of Altork, as they passed, bowed their head to the symbol of authority. The cap had been set up by Gessler, the Austrian commander, for the purpose of discovering those who were not submissive to the Austrian power, which had ruled the people of the Swiss cantons for a long time with great severity. He suspected that the people were about to break into rebellion, and with a view to learn who were the most discontented, he had placed the ducal cap of Austria on this pole, publicly proclaiming that everyone passing near or within sight of it should bow before it in proof of his homage to the duke. Tell was much surprised at this new and strange attempt to humble the people, and, leaning on his crossbow, gazed scornfully on them and the soldiers. Berenger, captain of the guard, at length observed this man, who alone amidst the cringing crowd carried his head erect. He ordered him to be seized and disarmed by the soldiers, and then conducted him to Gessler, who put some questions to him, which he answered so hotly that Gessler was both surprised and angry. Suddenly he was struck by the likeness between him and the boy Walter Tell, whom he had seized and put in prison the previous day for uttering some seditious words. He immediately asked his name, which he no sooner heard than he knew him to be the archer so famous as the best marksman in the canton. Gessler at once resolved to punish both father and son at the same time by a method which was perhaps the most refined act of torture which man ever imagined. As soon then as the youth was brought out, the governor turned to Tell and said, I have often heard of thy great skill as an archer, and I now intend to put it to the proof. Thy son shall be placed at a distance of a hundred yards with an apple on his head. If thou strikeest the apple with thy arrow, I will pardon you both. But if thou refusest this trial, thy son shall die before thine eyes. Tell implored Gessler to spare him so cruel a trial in which he might perhaps kill his beloved boy with his own hand. The governor would not alter his purpose, so Tell at last agreed to shoot at the apple as the only chance of saving his son's life. Walter stood with his back to a linden tree. Gessler some distance behind watched every motion. His crossbow and one arrow were handed to Tell. He tried the point, broke the weapon, and demanded his quiver. It was brought to him and emptied at his feet. He stooped down, and taking a long time to choose an arrow, he managed to hide a second in his girdle. After being in doubt a long time, his whole soul beaming in his face, his love for his son rendering him almost powerless, he at length browsed himself, drew the bow, aimed, shot, and the apple struck to the core was carried away by the arrow. The marketplace of Altorf was filled by loud cheers. Walter flew to embrace his father, who, overcome by his emotion, fell fainting to the ground, thus exposing the second arrow to view. Gessler stood over him, awaiting his recovery, which speedily taking place, Tell rose and turned away from the governor with horror. The latter, however, scarcely yet believing his senses, thus addressed him, In comparable archer I will keep my promise, but what needed you with that second arrow which I see in your girdle? Tell replied, It is the custom of the bowmen of Yuri to have always one arrow in reserve. Nay, nay, said Gessler, tell me thy real motive, and whatever it may have been, speak frankly, and thy life is spared. The second shaft, replied Tell, was to pierce thy heart, Tyrant, if I had chance to harm my son. O father's gone to market-town, he was up before the day, and Jamie's after Robbins, and the man is making hay, and whistling down the hollow goes the boy that mined the mill, while mother from the kitchen door is calling with a will, Polly, Polly, the cows are in the corn, oh, where's Polly? From all the misty morning air there comes a summer sound, a murmur as of waters, from skies and trees and ground. The birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons, bill and coup, and over hill and hollow rings again the loud halloo, Polly, Polly, the cows are in the corn, oh, where's Polly? Above the trees the honeybees swarm by with buzz and boom, and in the field and garden a thousand blossoms bloom, in the farmer's meadow a brown eye daisy blows, and down at the edge of the hollow a red and thorny rose, but Polly, Polly, the cows are in the corn, oh, where's Polly? How strange at such a time of day the mill should stop its clatter. The farmer's wife is listening now, and wonders what's the matter? Oh, while the birds are singing in the wood and on the hill, whistling up the hollow goes the boy that mines the mill, but Polly, Polly, the cows are in the corn, oh, where's Polly? End of Chapter 76. Chapter 77 of the Ontario Readers' Third Book by the Ontario Ministry of Education, read for LibriVox.org by David Lawrence in Brampton, Ontario, March 2009. The Relief of Luck Now A Letter from an Officer's Wife On every side death stared us in the face. No human skill could avert it any longer. We saw the moment approach would be must bid farewell to earth, yet without feeling that unutterable horror which must have been experienced by the unhappy victims at Kanpur. We were resolved rather to die than yield, and were fully persuaded that in twenty-four hours all would be over. The engineer had said so and all knew the worst. We women strove to encourage each other and to perform the light duties which had been assigned to us, such as conveying orders to the batteries and supplying the men with provisions, especially cups of coffee, which we prepared day and night. I had gone out to try to make myself useful in company with Jesse Brown, the wife of a corporal in my husband's regiment. Poor Jesse had been in a state of restless excitement all through the siege, and had fallen away visibly within the last few days. A constant fever consumed her, and her mind wandered occasionally, especially that day when the recollections of home seemed powerfully present to her. At last, overcome with fatigue, she lay down on the ground, wrapped up in her plaid. I sat beside her, promising to awaken her when, as she said, her father should return from the plowing. She fell at length into a profound slumber, motionless and apparently breathless, her head resting in my lap. I myself could no longer resist the inclination to sleep in spite of the continual roar of the cannon. Suddenly I was aroused by a wild unearthly scream close to my ear. My companion stood upright beside me, her arms raised, and her head bent forward in the attitude of listening. A look of intensity light broke over her countenance. She grasped my hand, drew me toward her, and exclaimed, "'Didn't he hear it? Didn't he hear it? Aye, I'm no dreamin'. It's the slogan of the Highlanders! What a saved! What a saved!' Then flinging herself on her knees, she thanked God with passionate fervor. I felt utterly bewildered. My English ears heard only the roar of artillery, and I thought my poor Jesse was still raving. But she darted to the batteries, and I heard her cry incessantly to the men. Courage! Courage! Hark to the slogan! To the McGregor! The grandest of them all! Here's help at last!' To describe the effect of these words on the soldiers would be impossible. For a moment they ceased firing, and every soul listened with intense anxiety. Gradually, however, there arose a murmur of bitter disappointment, and the wailing of the women, who had flocked to the spot, burst out anew as the Colonel shook his head. Our dull, lowland ears heard only the rattle of the musketry. A few moments more of this death-like suspense, of this agonizing hope, and Jesse, who had again sunk on the ground, sprang to her feet, and cried in a voice so clear and piercing that it was heard along the whole line. I didn't know I'd believe it! No! The slogan has ceased, indeed! But the camels are coming! Do you hear? Do you hear? At that moment all seemed, indeed, to hear the voice of God in the distance, when the peabrock of the Highlanders brought us tidings of deliverance, for now there was no longer any doubt of the fact, that shrill, penetrating, ceaseless sound, which rose above all other sounds, could come neither from the advance of the enemy, nor from the work of the sappers. No, it was, indeed, the blast of the Scottish bagpipes, now shrill and harsh, as threatening vengeance on the foe. Even softer tones, seeming to promise succor to their friends in need. Never, surely, was there such a scene as that which followed, not a heart in the residency of Loch Nell, but bowed itself before God. All by one simultaneous impulse fell upon their knees, and nothing was heard but bursting sobs, and the murmured voice of prayer. Then all arose, and there rang out from a thousand lips a great shout of joy, which resounded far and wide, and let new vigor to that blessed peabrock. To our cheer of God save the Queen, they replied by that well-known strain that moves every scot to tears. Should old acquaintance be forgot? After that nothing else made any impression on me. I scarcely remember what followed. Jesse was presented to the general on his entrance into the fort, and at the officer's banquet her health was drunk by all present, while the pipers marched around the table, playing once more the familiar air of old Langzein. CHAPTER 78 The Song in Camp by Bayard Taylor Give us a song, the soldiers cried, the outer trenches guarding, when the heated guns of the camps allied grew weary of bombarding. The dark redan in silent scoff lay grim and threatening under, and the tawny mound of the Malikov no longer belched its thunder. There was a pause. A guardsman said, We storm the forts to-morrow, sing while we may, another day, will bring enough of sorrow. They lay along the battery side below the smoking cannon. Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde and from the banks of Shannon, they sang of love and not of fame. Forgot was Britain's glory. Each heart recalled a different name, but all sang Annie Laurie. Voice after voice caught up the song until its tender passion rose like an anthem rich and strong, their battle eve confession. Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, but as the song grew louder, something upon the soldier's cheek washed off the stains of powder. Beyond the darkening ocean burned the bloody sunsets embers, while the Crimean valleys learned how English love remembers. And once again a fire of hell reigned on the Russian quarters, with scream of shot and burst of shell and bellowing of the mortars, and Irish Nora's eyes are dim for a singer, dumb and gory, and English Mary mourns for him who sang of Annie Laurie. Deep soldiers, still in honoured rest your truth and valor wearing. The bravest are the tenderest, the loving are the daring. CHAPTER 79 OF THE ONTERRIORIDO'S THIRD BOOK THIS IS A LABREVOX RECORDING. ALL LABREVOX RECORDINGS ARE IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN. FOR MORE INFORMATION OR TO VOLUNTEER, PLEASE VISIT LABREVOX.ORG RECORDING BY MENA, AFTER GLOW BY WILLIAM WILFRED CAMBELL, AFTER THE CLANGOR OF BATTLE, THERE COMES A MOMENT OF FREST, AND THE SIMPLE HOPE AND THE SIMPLE JOYS AND THE SIMPLE THOUGHTS ARE BEST. AFTER THE VICTOR'S PAIN, AFTER THE THUNDER OF GUN, THERE COMES A LOVE THAT MUST COME TO ALL BEFORE THE SET OF THE SUN. Then what is the happiest memory? Is it the foes' defeat? Is it the splendid praise of a world that thunders by at your feet? Nay, nay, to the life-worn spirit, the happiest thoughts are those that carry us back to simplest joys and sweetness of life's repose. A simple love and a simple trust and a simple duty done are the truer torches to light to death than a whole world's victory's one. End of chapter 79. Chapter 80 of the Ontario Reader's Third Book. This is a LibreVox recording. All LibreVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibreVox.org. Recording by Neeraja Nagarajan, King Richard and Saladin. Saladin led the way to a splendid pavilion where was everything the trial luxury could devise. D. Vox, who was in attendance, then removed the long riding clerk which Richard wore. And he stood before Saladin in the closed dress, which showed to advantage the strength and symmetry of his person, while it bore a strong contrast to the flowing robes which disguised the thin frame of the Eastern Monarch. It was Richard's two-handed sword that chiefly attracted the attention of the Saracen. A broad straight blade, the seemingly unwieldy length of which extended well-knife from the shoulder to the heel of the Vera. Had I not, said Saladin, seen this brand flaming in the front of battle, like that of Azrael, I had scars believed that human arm could wield it. Might I request to see the malachryk strike one blow with it in peace and in pure trial of strength? Willingly, noble Saladin, answered Richard. And looking around for something, whereon to exercise his strength, he saw a steel maze held by one of the attendants. The handle being of the same metal and about an inch and a half in diameter. This he placed on a block of wood. The glittering draught's wood, wielded by both his hands, rose aloft to the king's left shoulder, circled round his head, desended with a sway of some terrific engine. And the bar of iron rolled on the ground in two pieces, as a woodman would sever a sapling with a hedging bill. By the head of the prophet, a most wonderful blow, said the Saladin, critically and accurately examining the iron bar, which had been cut asunder. And the blade of the sword was so well tempered as to exhibit not the least token of having suffered by the feat it had performed. He then took the king's hand, and looking on the size and muscular strength which it exhibited, laughed as he placed it beside his own. So lank and thin, so inferior in drawn and sinew. Hey, look well, said Devox in English. It will be long, gear your long, jack-and-ape's fingers. Do such a feat with your fine, gilded, reaping hook there. Silence, Devox, said Richard. By our lady, he understands or guesses thy meaning. Be not so broad, I pray thee. The Saladin, indeed, presently said, Something I would feign attempt, Though, wherefore, should the weak show their inferiority in presence of the strong? Yet each land had its own exercises, and this may be new to the melecric. So, saying, he took from the floor a cushion of silk and down, and placed it upright on one end. Can thy weapon, my brother, sever that cushion? He said to King Richard. No, surely, replied the king. No, swore on earth, where it, the Excalibur of King Arthur, can cut that which opposes no steady resistance to the blow. Mark, then, said Saladin, and tucking up the sleeve of his gown, shewed his arm, thin, indeed, and spare, but which constant exercise had hardened into a mass consisting of knot, but bone, brawn, and sinew. He unsheathed his cimeter, a curved and narrow blade, which glittered, not like the swords of the Franks, but was, on the contrary, of a dull blue colour marked with ten millions of meandering lines, which showed how anxiously the metal had been welded by the armourer. Wielding this weapon, apparently so inefficient when compared to that of Richard, the soldier stood resting his weight upon his left foot, which was slightly advanced. He balanced himself a little as if to steady his aim. Then, stepping at once forward, drew the cimeter across the cushion, applying the edge so dexterously and with so little apparent effort that the cushion seemed rather to fall asunder than to be divided by violence. It is a juggler's trick, said the Vox, darting forward and snatching up the potion of the cushion which had been cut off, as if to assure himself of the reality of the feat. There is grammar eye in this. The soldier seemed to comprehend him, for he undid the sort of veil which he had hitherto worn, laid it double along the edge of his sabre, extended the weapon's edgeways in the air and drawing it suddenly through the veil, although it hung on the blade entirely loose, severed that also into two parts which floated to different sides of the tent equally displaying the extreme temper and sharpness of the weapon and the exquisite dexterity of him who used it. Now, in good faith, my brother, said Richard, thou art even matchless at the trick of this world and right perilous where it to meet thee. Still, however, I put some faith in a downright English blow and what we cannot do by slight, we eke out by strength. Nevertheless, in truth, thou art as expert in inflicting wounds as my sage Hakeem in curing them. I trust I shall see the learned leech. I have much to thank him for and I'd brought some small present. As he spoke, Saladin exchanged his turban for a tartar cap. He had no sooner done so than Devox opened it once his extended mouth and his large round eyes and Richard gazed with scarred less astonishment while the soldier spoke in a grave and altered voice. The sick man saiths the poet while he is yet infirm, nor it's the physician by his step. But when he is recovered, he knoweth not even his face when he looks upon him. A miracle, a miracle, exclaimed Richard. Of Mahon's working, doubtless, said Thomas Devox. That I should lose my learned Hakeem, said Richard, merely by absence of his cap and robe that I should find him again in my royal brother, Saladin. Such is oft the fashion of the world, answered the saladin. The tattered robe makes not always the dervish. Scott, the talisman. End of chapter 80 Please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Kalinda The Ontario Reader's Third Book by the Ontario Ministry of Education England's Dead Son of the Ocean Isle, where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile is reared or glory's bed. Go, stranger, track the deep. Free, free, the white sail spread. Wave may not foam nor wild wind sweep thus not England's dead. On Egypt's burning plains by the pyramid or suede with fearful power the noonday rains and the palm trees yield no shade. But let the angry sun from heaven look fiercely red unfelt by those whose task is done there slumber England's dead. The hurricane hath might along the Indian shore and far by Ganges banks at night is heard the tiger's roar. But let the sound roll on the tone of dread for those that from their toils are gone there slumber England's dead. Loud rush the torrent floods the western wilds among and free in green Columbia's woods the hunter's bow is strung. But let the floods rush on let the arrows flight be sped why should they wreck whose task is done there slumber England's dead. The mountain storms rise high in the snowy Pyrenees through the sky like rose leaves on the breeze. But let the storm rage on let the fresh wreaths be shed for the Ronseval's field is one there slumber England's dead. On the frozen deeps repose tis a dark and dreadful hour when round the ship the ice fields close and the northern night clouds lower but let the ice drift on let the cold blue desert spread their course with mast and flag is done there slumber England's dead. The warlike of the isles the men of field and wave are not the rocks their funeral piles the seas and shores their grave go stranger track the deep free free the white sail spread wave may not foam nor wild wind sweep where rest not England's dead. Felicia Heymans End of Chapter 81 Recording by Kalinda in Lüneborg, Germany on February 22nd, 2009 Chapter 82 of the Ontario Readers Third Book This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recorded by Craig Campbell Hoenn Linden by Thomas Campbell On Linden, when the sun was low all bloodless lay the untrodden snow and darkest winter was the flow of ice rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight when the drum beat at dead of night commanding fires of death to light the darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast arrayed each horseman drew his battle blade and furious every charger nade to join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder-riven then rushed the steed to battle-driven and louder than the boats of heaven far-flashed the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow on Linden's hills of stained snow and bloodier yet the torrent flow of ice rolling rapidly. Tis mourn but scarce yarn-level sun can pierce the war-clouds rolling down where furious Frank and fiery hun shout in their sulfurous canopy. The combat deepens, on ye brave who rush to glory or the grave wave Munich, all thy banners wave and charge with all thy chivalry. Few, few, shall part where many meet the snow shall be their winding sheet and every turf beneath their feet shall be a soldier's sub-pulture. End of Section 82 This recording is in the public domain. Chapter 83 of the Ontario Reader's Third Book This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Nirajan Agarajan The dream of the oak tree there stood in a wood high on the bank near the open seashore such a grand old oak tree. It was 365 years old but all this length of years had seemed to the tree scarcely more than so many days appeared to us men and women, boys and girls. A tree's life is not quite the same as a man's. We wake during the day and sleep and dream during the night but a tree wakes throughout three seasons of the year and has no sleep till winter comes. The winter is its sleeping time. It's night after the long day which we call spring, summer and autumn. It was just at the holy Christmas tide that the oak tree deemed his most beautiful dream. He seems to hear the church bells ringing all around and to feel as if it were a mild warm summer day. Fresh and green he reared his mighty crown on high and the sunbeams played among his leaves. As in a festive procession all that the tree had beheld in his life now passed by. Night-son ladies with feathers in their caps and hawks perching on their wrists rode gaily through the wood. Dogs barked and the huntsman sounded his bugle. Then came foreign soldiers in bright armor and gay vestments bearing spurs and halberds setting up their tent and presently taking them down again. Then watchfires blazed up and bands of wild outlaws sank, reveled and slept under the tree's outstretched boughs. Our happy lovers met in quiet moonlight and carved their initials on the grayish bark. At one time a guitar and a Neolian harp had been hung among the old oak's boughs by merry traveling apprentices. Now they hung there again and the wind played sweetly with their strings. And now the dream changed. A new and stronger current of life flowed through him down to his lowest roots, up to his highest twigs, even to the very leaves. The tree fell in his roots that a warm life stirred in the earth and that he was growing taller and taller. His trunk shot up more and more, his crown grew fuller and still he soared and spread. He felt that his power grew too and he longed to advance higher and higher to the warm bright sun. Already he towered above the clouds which drifted below him now like a troop of dark plumaged birds of passage now like flocks of large white swans. The stars became visible by daylight so large and bright each one sparkling like a mild clear eye. It was a blessed moment and yet in the height of his joy the oak tree felt a desire and longing that all the other trees, bushes, herbs and flowers of the wood might be lifted up with him to share in his glory and gladness. He could not be fully blessed unless he might have all, small and great, blessed with him. The tree's crown bowed itself as though it had missed something and looked backward. Then he felt the fragrance of honeysuckle and violets and fancy they could hear the birds and so it was for now peeped forth through the clouds the green summits of the wood. The other trees below had grown and lifted themselves up likewise. Bushes and herbs shot high into the air some tearing themselves loose from their roots to mount the faster. Like a flash of white lightning the birch moving fastest of all shot upward slender stem. Even the feathery brown reeds had pierced their way through the clouds and the birds sang and sang and on the grass that fluttered to and fro like a streaming ribbon perched the grasshopper while cockchafers hummed and bees buzzed. All was music and gladness. But the little blue flower near the water I want that too said the oak and the bell flower and the dear little Daisy we are here, we are here chanted sweet low voices on all sides but the pretty anamones and the bed of lilies of the valley and all the flowers had bloomed so long ago with that they were here we are here, we are here was the answer and it seemed to come from the air above as if they had fled upward first oh this is too great happiness exclaimed the oak tree and now he felt that his own roots were loosening themselves from the earth this is best of all he said now no bound shall detain me I can soar to the heights of light and glory and I have all my dear ones with me such was the oak tree's Christmas dream and all the while a mighty storm swept the sea and land the ocean rolled his heavy billows on the shore the tree cracked and was rent in turn up by the roots at the very moment when he dreamed that he was soaring to the skies next day the sea was calm again and a large vessel that had weathered the storm hoisted all its flags for merry Christmas the tree is gone the old oak tree are beacon how can its place ever be supplied said the crew this was the tree's funeral eulogym while the Christmas hymn re-echoed from the wood Hans Christian Anderson adapted End of Chapter 83 Chapter 84 of the Ontario Reader's Third Book this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Neerajana Agarajan A prayer the day returns and drinks us the petty round of irritating concerns and duties help us to play the man help us to perform them with laughter and kind faces let cheerfulness abound with industry give us to go blightly on our business all this day bring us to our resting beds weary and content and undishonored and grant us in the end the gift of sleep R.L. Stevenson End of Chapter 84 Chapter 85 of Ontario Reader's Third Book this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recording are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Meena The depth of the flowers by William Culland Byron The melancholy days are come the saddest of the year of veiling winds naked wood and meadows brown and sealed heaped in the hollows of the grove the autumn leaves lie dead they rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit's tread the robin and the wren are flown and from the shrubs the jade and from the wood top calls the crow through all the gloomy day where are the flowers the fair young flowers they sprang and stood in brighter light and softer airs a beautyous sisterhood alas they are all in their graves and the gentle rays of flowers are lying in their lowly bed with the fair and good of ours the rain is falling where they lie but the cold November rain calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones the wind flower and the violet they perished long ago and the bright rose and the orcas died amid the summer glow but on the hill the golden rod and the astral in the wood and the yellow sunflower by the brook in the autumn beauty stood till fell the flowers from clear cold heaven as falls the plague on men and the brightness of their smile was gone from upland and now when comes the calm mild day as still such days will come to call the squirrel and the bee from out there winter home when the sound of dropping nuts is heard though all the trees are still and twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the well the southman searches for the flowers whose fragrance laid he bore and sighs to find them in the wood and by the steam no more end of depth of the class I'll not leave thee thou lone one to pine on the stem since the loveliest sleeping go sleep thou with them thus kindly I scatter thy leaves over the bed where thy mates of the garden lie sentless and dead so soon may I follow when friendships decay and from love shining circle the gems drop away when true hearts lie withered and fond ones are flown oh who would inhabit this bleak well alone end of chapter 86 this recording is in the public domain chapter 87 of the Ontario Readers third book by the Ontario Ministry of Education read for LibriVox.org by Lucy Perry in Bath on March 15th 2009 A Romans Honour by Charlotte M. Young from Book of Golden Deeds The Romans had suffered a terrible defeat in the C-251 and Regulus, a famous soldier and senator had been captured and dragged into Carthage where the victors feasted and rejoiced through half the night and testified their thanks to their god by offering in his fires the bravest of their captives Regulus himself was not, however, one of these victims he was kept a close prisoner for two years pining and sickening in his loneliness while in the meantime the war continued and so decisive was gained by the Romans that the people of Carthage were discouraged and resolved to ask for terms of peace they thought that no one would be so readily listened to at Rome as Regulus and they therefore sent him back with their envoys, having first made him swear that he would come back to his prison if there should be neither peace nor an exchange of prisoners they little knew how much more a true hearted Roman cared for his city than for himself for his word than for his life worn and dejected the warrior came to the outside of the gates of his own city and there paused, refusing to enter I'm no longer a Roman citizen, he said I am but the barbarian slave and the Senate may not give audience to strangers within the walls his wife, Marcia, ran out to greet him with his two sons but he did not look up and received their caresses as one beneath their notice, as a mere slave and he continued, in spite of all entreaty to remain outside the city and would not even go to the little farm he had loved so well the Roman Senate, as he would not come into them came out to hold their meeting in the Campania the Ambassadors spoke first then Regulus, standing up, said as one repeating a task conscript fathers, being a slave to the Carthaginians I come on the part of my masters to treat with you concerning peace and an exchange of prisoners he then turned to go away with the Ambassadors as a stranger might not be present at the deliberations of the Senate his old friends pressed him to stay and to give his opinion as a Senator who had twice been consul but he refused to degrade that dignity by claiming it slave as he was but, at the command of his Carthaginian Masters he remained, though not taking his seat then he spoke he told the Senators to persevere in the war he said he had seen the distress of Carthage and that a peace would be only to her advantage not to that of Rome and therefore he strongly advised that the war should continue then, as to the exchange of prisoners the Carthaginian Generals who were in the hands of the Romans were in full health and strength whilst he himself was too much broken down to be fit for service again and indeed he believed his enemies had given him a slow poison and that he could not live long thus he insisted that no exchange of prisoners should be made it was wonderful, even to Romans to hear a man thus pleading against himself and their chief priest came forward and declared that as his oath had been rested from him by force he was not bound by it to return to his captivity Regulus was too noble to listen to this for a moment have you resolved to dishonour me, he said I am not ignorant that death and the extremist tortures are preparing for me but what are these to the shame of an infamous action or the wounds of a guilty mind slave as I am to Carthage I have still the spirit of a Roman I have sworn to return it is my duty to go let the gods take care of the rest the Senate decided to follow the advice of Regulus though they bitterly regretted his sacrifice his wife wept and entreated in vain that they would detain him they could merely repeat their permission to him to remain but nothing could prevail with him to break his word and he turned back to the chains and death he expected as calmly as if he had been returning to his home this was in the year BC 249 End of Chapter 87 this recording is in the public domain Chapter 88 of the Ontario Readers Third Book by the Ontario Ministry of Education read for LibriVox.org by Lucy Perry in Bath on March 15th 2009 The Fighting Temeraire by Henry Newbolt it was eight bells ringing for the morning watch was done and the gunners lads were singing as they polished every gun it was the eight bells ringing and the gunners lads were singing for the ships she rode are swinging as they polished every gun O to see the Linnstock lighting Temeraire, Temeraire O to hear the roundshot biting Temeraire, Temeraire O to see the Linnstock lighting and to hear the roundshot biting four were all in love with fighting on the fighting Temeraire it was the noontide ringing and the battle just begun when the ship her way was winging as they loaded every gun it was the noontide ringing when the ship her way was winging and the gunners lads were singing as they loaded every gun there'll be many Grim and Gory Temeraire, Temeraire there'll be few to tell the story Temeraire, Temeraire there'll be many Grim and Gory there'll be few to tell the story but will all be one in glory with the fighting Temeraire there's a farbell ringing at the setting of the sun and a phantom voices singing of the great days done there's a farbell ringing and a phantom voices singing of renowned forever clinging to the great days done now the sunset breezes shiver Temeraire, Temeraire and she's fading down the river Temeraire, Temeraire now the sunset breezes shiver and she's fading down the river and she's the fighting Temeraire End of chapter 88 this recording is in the public domain you must know friend Sancho replied Don Quixote that it has been the constant practice of night serrant informer ages to make their squires governors of the islands or kingdoms they conquered as they were thus discoursing they discovered some 30 or 40 windmills that are in that plane and as soon as the night had spied them fortune cried he directs our affairs better than we ourselves could have won fortune cried he directs our affairs better than we ourselves could have wished look yonder friend Sancho there are at least 30 outrageous giants whom I intend to encounter and having deprived them of life we will begin to enrich ourselves with their spoils for they are lawful prize and the extirpation of that cursed brood will be an acceptable service to heaven what giants quote Sancho Pantha those whom those seers yonder don Quixote with their long extended arms some of that detested race have arms of so immense a size that sometimes they reach two leagues in length pray look better sir quote Sancho those things yonder are no giants but windmills and the arms you fancy are their sails which being world about by the wind make the mill go tis a sign cried Don Quixote thou art but little acquainted with adventures I tell thee they are giants and therefore if thou art afraid go aside and say thy prayers for I am resolved to engage in a dreadful unequal combat against them all this said he clapped spurs to his horse Rothinante without giving ear to his squire Sancho who boiled out to him and assured him that they were windmills and no giants but he was so fully possessed with a strong conceit of the contrary that he did not so much as hear his squires without cry nor was he sensible of what they were although he was already very near them far from that stand cowards cried he as loud as he could stand your ground ignoble creatures and fly like basely from a single night who dares encounter you all at the same time the wind rising the mill sails began to move which when Don Quixote spied base miscreants cried he though you move more arms than the giant brarius you shall pay for your arrogance he most devoutly recommended himself to his lady Dulcinea imploring her assistance in this perilous adventure and so covering himself with his shield and couching his lance he rushed with Rothinante's utmost speed upon the first windmill he could come at and running his lance into the sail the wind whirled about with such swiftness that the rapidity of the motion presently broke the lance into shivers and hurled away both night and horse along with it till down he fell rolling a good way off in the field Sancho Pantha ran as fast as his ass could drive to help his master whom he found lying and not able to stir such a blow had he and Rothinante received mercy on me cried Sancho did not I give your worship fair warning did not I tell you they were windmills and that nobody could think otherwise unless he had also windmilled in his head peace friend Sancho replied Don Quixote there is nothing so subject to the inconstancy of fortune as war I am verily persuaded that cursed necromancer Freston who carried away my study and my books has transformed these giants into windmills to deprive me of the honour of the victory such is his inveterate malice against me but in the end all his pernicious wilds and stratogens shall prove ineffectual against the prevailing edge of my sword amen say I replied Sancho and so heaving him up again upon his legs once more the night mounted poor Rothinante that was half shoulder slipped with his fall this adventure was the subject of their discourse as they made the best of their way towards the pass of Lapithe for Don Quixote took that road believing he could not miss of adventure in one so mightily frequented however the loss of his lance was no small affliction to him and as he was making his complaint about it to his squire I have read said he friend Sancho that a certain Spanish knight having broken his sword in the heat of an engagement pulled up by the roots a huge oak tree or at least tore down a massive branch and did such wonderful execution crushing and grinding so many mores with it that day that he won himself and his posterity the surname of the pounder or bruiser I tell thee this because I intend to tear up the next oak or home tree we meet with the trunk whereof I hope to perform such wondrous deeds that they will esteem thyself particularly happy in having had the honor to behold them and being the ocular witness of achievements which posterity will scarce be able to believe even grant you may cried Sancho I believe it all because your worship says it but and it please you sit a little more upright in your saddle you ride sidling me thinks but that I suppose proceeds from your being bruised by the fall it does so reply Don Quixote and if I do not complain of the pain it is because a knight must never complain of his wounds then I have no more to say quote Sancho and yet heaven knows my heart I am glad to hear your worship grown a little now and then when something ails you for my part I shall not fail to bemoan myself when I suffer the smallest pain unless indeed it can be proved that the rule of not complaining extends to the squires as well as knights Don Quixote could not for bear smiling at the simplicity of his squire and told him he gave him leave to complain not only when he pleased but as much as he pleased