 CHAPTER XXIX The youngest brother, Gluck, was twelve years old and kind to everyone. He had to act as cooked and servant to his brothers. One cold wet day the brothers went out, telling Gluck to roast a leg of mutton on the spit, let nobody into the house, and let nothing out. After a time someone knocked at the door. Gluck went to the window, opened it, and put his head out to see who it was. It was the most extraordinary-looking little gentleman. He had a very large nose, slightly brass-coloured, very round and very red cheeks, merry eyes, long hair and mustaches that curled twice round like a corkscrew on each side of his mouth. He was four feet six inches high and wore a pointed cap as long as himself. He was decorated with a black feather about three feet long. Around his body was folded an enormous black glossy-looking cloak much too long for him. As he knocked again he caught sight of Gluck. "'Hello,' said the little gentleman. That's not the way to answer the door. I'm wet. Let me in.' To do the little gentleman justice he was wet. His feather hung down between his legs like a beaten puppy's tail, dripping like an umbrella, and from the ends of his mustaches the water was running into his waistcoat pockets and out again like a mill-stream. "'I beg pardon, sir,' said Gluck. "'I'm very sorry, but I really can't.' "'Cart what?' said the old gentleman. "'I can't let you in, sir. I can't. Indeed my brothers would beat me to death, sir, if I thought of such a thing.' "'What do you want, sir?' "'Want,' said the old gentleman, petulantly. "'I want fire and shelter, and there's your great fire there, blazing, crackling and dancing on the wall, with nobody to feel it. Let me in, I say. I only want to warm myself.' Gluck had had his head by this time so long out of the window that he began to feel it was really unpleasantly cold, and when he turned and saw the beautiful fire rustling and roaring and throwing long, bright tongues up the chimney as if it were licking its chops at the savoury smell of the leg of mutton, his heart melted within him that it should be burning away for nothing. "'He does look very wet,' said little Gluck. "'I'll just let him in for a quarter of an hour.' Roundy went to the door and opened it, and as the little gentleman walked in through the house came a gust of wind that made the old chimney's totter. "'That's a good boy,' said the little gentleman. "'Never mind your brothers, I'll talk to them.' "'Praise, sir, don't do any such thing,' said Gluck. "'I can't let you stay till they come. They'd be the death of me.' "'Dim me,' said the old gentleman. "'I'm very sorry to hear that. How long may I stay?' "'Only till the mutton's done, sir,' replied Gluck, and at the very brown.' Then the old gentleman walked into the kitchen and sat himself down on the hob with the top of his cap accommodated up the chimney, for it was a great deal too high for the roof. "'You'll soon dry there, sir,' said Gluck, and sat down again to turn the mutton. But the old gentleman did not dry there, but went on drip, drip, dripping among the cinders, and the fire fizzed and sputtered, and began to look very black and uncomfortable. Never was such a cloak. Every folden it ran like a gutter. "'I beg pardon, sir,' said Gluck at length, after watching the water spreading in long, quick, silver-like streams over the floor for a quarter of an hour. "'Mant, I take your cloak.' "'No, thank you,' said the old gentleman. "'Your cap, sir? I'm all right. Thank you,' said the old gentleman, rather gruffly. "'But, sir, I'm very sorry,' said Gluck hesitatingly. "'But really, sir, you're putting the fire out.' "'It'll take longer to do the mutton, then,' replied its visitor dryly. Gluck was very much puzzled by the behaviour of his guest. It was such a strange mixture of coolness and humility. He turned away at the string meditatively for another five minutes. "'That mutton looks very nice,' said the old gentleman at length. "'Can't you give me a little bit?' "'Impossible, sir,' said Gluck. "'I'm very hungry,' continued the old gentleman. "'I've had nothing to eat yesterday, nor today. They surely couldn't miss a bit from the knuckle.' He spoke in so very melancholy a tone that it quite melted Gluck's heart. "'They promised me one slice today, sir,' said he. "'I can give you that, but not a bit more.' "'That's a good boy,' said the old gentleman again. Then Gluck warmed a plate and sharpened a knife. "'I don't care if I do get beaten for it,' thought he. Just as he had cut a large slice out of the mutton, there came a tremendous wrap at the door. The old gentleman jumped off the hob, as if it had suddenly become inconveniently warm. Gluck fitted the slice into the mutton again, with desperate efforts at exactitude, and ran to open the door. "'What did you keep us waiting in the rain for?' said Schwartz, as he walked in, throwing his umbrella in Gluck's face. "'Aye, what for, indeed, you little vagabond?' said Hans, administering an educational box on the ear, as he followed his brother into the kitchen. "'Blessed my soul,' said Schwartz when he opened the door. "'Ah, men,' said the little gentleman who had taken his cap off and was standing in the middle of the kitchen, bowing with the utmost possible velocity. "'Who's that?' said Schwartz, catching up a rolling pin and turning to Gluck with a fierce frown. "'I don't know, indeed, brother,' said Gluck in great terror. "'How did he get in?' roared Schwartz. "'My dear brother,' said Gluck deprecatingly. He was so very wet.' The rolling pin was descending on Gluck's head, but at the instant the old gentleman interposed his conical cap, on which it crashed with a shock that shook the water out of it all over the room. What was very odd, the rolling pin no sooner touched the cap than it flew out of Schwartz's hand, spinning like a straw in a high wind, and fell into the corner at the farther end of the room. "'Who are you, sir?' demanded Schwartz, turning upon him. "'What's your business?' snarled Hans. "'I'm a poor old man, sir,' the little gentleman began very modestly, and I saw your fire through the window and beg shelter for a quarter of an hour. "'Have the goodness to walk out again, then,' said Schwartz. "'We've quite enough water in our kitchen without making it a drying-house. "'It is a cold day to turn an old man out in, sir. Look at my grey hairs. They hung down to his shoulders. "'Aye,' said Hans. "'There are enough of them to keep you warm. Walk. "'I'm very, very hungry, sir. Couldn't you spare me a bit of bread before I go?' "'Bread? Indeed,' said Schwartz. "'Do you suppose we've nothing to do with our bread, but to give it to such red-nosed fellows as you? "'Why don't you sell your feather?' said Hans, sneeringly. "'Out with you.' "'A little bit,' said the old gentleman. "'Be off,' said Schwartz. "'Pray, gentlemen. Often be hanged,' cried Hans, seizing him by the collar, but he had no sooner touched the old gentleman's collar than away he went after the rolling pin, spinning round and round till he fell into the corner on the top of it. Then Schwartz was very angry and ran at the old gentleman to turn him out, but he also had hardly touched him when away he went after Hans and the rolling pin, and hit his head against the wall as he tumbled into the corner, and so there they lay, all three. Then the old gentleman spun himself round with velocity in the opposite direction, continued to spin until his long cloak was all wound neatly about him, clapped his cap on his head, very much on one side, for it could not stand upright without going through the ceiling, gave an additional twist to his corkscrew mustaches, and replied with perfect coolness. "'Gentlemen, I wish you a very good morning. At twelve o'clock tonight I'll call again. After such a refusal of hospitality as I have just experienced, you will not be surprised if that visit is the last I ever pay you. If I ever catch you here again,' muttered Schwartz, coming half-rightened out of the corner, but before he could finish his sentence the old gentleman had shut the house door behind him with a great bang, and passed the window at the same instant, drove a wreath of ragged cloud that whirled and rolled away down the valley in all manner of shapes, turning over and over in the air, and melting away at last in a gush of rain. "'A very pretty business indeed, Mr. Gluck,' said Schwartz. "'Dish the mutton, sir. If I ever catch you at such a trick again, bless me why the mutton's been cut. "'You promised me one slice, brother, you know,' said Gluck. "'Oh, and you were cutting it hot, I suppose, and going to catch all the gravy. It'll be long before I promise you such a thing again. Leave the room, sir, and have the kindness to wait in the coal cellar till I call you.' Gluck left the room melancholy enough. The brothers ate as much mutton as they could, locked the rest in the cupboard and proceeded to get very drunk after dinner. Such a night as it was, howling wind and rushing rain without intermission. The brothers had just sense enough left to put up all the shutters and double bar the door before they went to bed. They usually slept in the same room. As the clock struck twelve, they were both awakened by a tremendous crash. Their door burst open with a violence that shook the house from top to bottom. "'What's that?' cried Schwartz, starting up in his bed. "'Only I,' said the little gentleman. The two brothers sat up on their bolster and stared into the darkness. The room was full of water, and by a misty moon-beam which found its way through a hole in the shutter they could see, in the midst of it, an enormous foam-globe, spinning round and bobby up and down like a cork, on which, as on a most luxurious cushion, reclined the little old gentleman, cap and all. There was plenty of room for it now, for the roof was off. "'Sorry to incmode you,' said the visitor ironically. "'I'm afraid your beds are dampish. Perhaps you had better go to your brother's room. I've left the ceiling on there.' They required no second admonition, but rushed into Glock's room, wet through and in the agony of fear. "'You'll find my car and the kitchen table,' the old gentleman called after them. "'Remember the last visit?' "'Pray heaven it may be,' said Schwartz shuttering, and the foam-globe disappeared. Dawn came at last, and the two brothers looked out of Glock's little window in the morning. The treasure-valley was one mass of ruin and desolation. The inundation had swept away trees, crops, and cattle, and left, in their stead, a waste of red sand and grey mud. The two brothers crept, shivering, and horror struck into the kitchen. The water had gutted the whole first floor. Corn, money, almost every moveable thing had been swept away, and there was left only a small white card on the kitchen table. On it, in large, breezy, long-legged letters were engraved the words, South-West Wind Esquire. Ruskin, the King of the Golden River, adapted. The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself, yea all which it inherits shall dissolve, and like this insubstantial pageant faded, leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep. There is not, in the wide world, a valley so sweet, as that whale in whose bosom the bright waters meet. O, the last rays of feeling and life must depart, ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from mahal. Yet it was not that nature had shed over the scene, her purest of crystal and brightest of green. It was not herself magic of streamlet or hell. Oh, no, it was something more exquisite still. It was that friend's, the beloved of my bosom, Vermeer, who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, and who felt how the best charms of nature improve when we see them reflected from the looks that we love. Sweet whale of avuka, how calm could I rest, and thy bosom of shade with friends I love best, where the storms that we feel in this cold world should seize, and our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. End of Chapter 30. Chapter 31 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 Love The Bible Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you, bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you. And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise. For if ye love them which love you, but thank have ye, for sinners also love those that love them. And if ye do good to them which do good to you, what thank have ye, for sinners also do even the same. And if ye lend to them, of whom ye hope to receive, what thank have ye, for sinners also lend to sinners to receive as much again. But love ye your enemies, and do good, and lend, hoping for nothing again, and your reward shall be great, and ye shall be the children of the highest. For he is kind unto the unthankful, and to the evil. Be ye therefore merciful, as your father also is merciful. Judge not, and ye shall not be judged. Condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned. Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven. Give, and it shall be given unto you. Good measure, pressed down, and shaken together, and running over, shall men give into your bosom. For with the same measure that ye meet with all, it shall be measured to you again. St. Luke 6th 27-38 End of Chapter 31 Chapter 32 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 Neerajan Agarajan. Chapter 32 The Robin's Song When the willows gleam along the brooks, and the grass grows green in sunny nooks, in the sunshine and the rain, I hear the robin in the lane, thinking cheerly, cheer up, cheer up, cheerly, cheerly, cheer up. But the snow is still along the walls and on the hill. The days are cold, the nights fall on, but one is here, and one is gone. Cheerly, cheer up, cheer up, cheerly, cheerly, cheer up. When spring hopes seem to rain, I hear the joyful strain. A song at night, a song at morning. A lesson deep to me is born. Hearing cheerly, cheer up, cheer up, cheerly, cheerly, cheer up. Unknown. End of Chapter 32 Section 033 of the Ontario Readers Third Book by the Ontario Ministry of Education. Read for LibriVox.org by John Greenman. Work or Play by Mark Twain Saturday morning was come, and all the summer world was bright and fresh, and brimming with life. There was a song in every heart, and if the heart was young, the music issued at the lips. There was cheer in every face, and a spring in every step. The locust trees were in bloom, and the fragrance of the blossoms filled the air. Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and the gladness went out of nature, and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of bored fence, nine feet high. It seemed to him that life was hollow, and existence but a burden. Sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost plank, repeated the operation, did it again, compared the insignificant whitewash streak with the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box, discouraged. He began to think of the fun he had planned for this day, and his sorrows multiplied. Soon the free boys would come tripping along on all sorts of delicious expeditions, and they would make a world of fun of him for having to work. The very thought of it burned him like fire. He got out his worldly wealth and examined it. Bits of toys, marbles, and trash. Enough to buy an exchange of work, maybe, but not enough to buy so much as half an hour of pure freedom. So he returned his straightened means to his pocket and gave up the idea of trying to buy the boys. At this dark and hopeless moment an inspiration burst upon him. Nothing less than a great, magnificent inspiration. He took up his brush and went tranquilly to work. Ben Rogers hove in sight presently, the very boy of all boys whose ridicule he had been dreading. Ben's gait was the hopskip and jump, proof enough that his heart was light and his anticipations high. He was eating an apple and giving a long melodious whoop at intervals, followed by a deep-toned ding-dong-dong, ding-dong-dong, for he was personating a steamboat. Tom went on whitewashing, paid no attention to the steamer. Ben stared a moment and then said, Hey! You're a stump, ain't ya? No answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist. Then he gave his brush another gentle sweep and surveyed the result as before. Ben ranged up alongside of him. Tom's mouth watered for the apple, but he stuck to his work. Ben said, Hello, chap! You got to work, eh? Why, it's you, Ben. I weren't noticing. Say, I'm a-going to swimming, I am. Don't you wish you could? But, of course, you'd rather work, wouldn't you? Of course you would. Tom contemplated the boy a bit and said, What do you call work? Why, ain't that work? Tom resumed his whitewashing and answered carelessly. Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know, it suits Tom Sawyer. Ah, come on now, you don't mean to let on that you like it? The brush continued to move. Like it? Well, I don't see why I oughtn't to like it. Does the boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day? That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nibbling his apple. Tom swept his brush daintily back and forth, stepped back to note the effect, added a touch here and there, criticized the effect again, Ben watching every move, and getting more and more interested, more and more absorbed. Presently he said, Say, Tom, let me whitewash a little. Tom considered, was about to consent, but he altered his mind. No, no, I reckon it wouldn't hardly do, Ben. You see, Aunt Polly's awful particular about this fence, right here on the street, you know, but if it was the back fence I wouldn't mind, and she wouldn't. Yes, she's awful particular about this fence. It's got to be done very careful. I reckon there ain't one boy in a thousand, maybe two thousand, that can do it the way it's got to be done. No, is that so? Oh, come now, let me just try, only just a little. I'd let you if you was me, Tom. Ben, I'd like to, honest engine, but Aunt Polly, well, Jim wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let him. Zid wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let Zid. Now, don't you see how I am fixed? If you was to tackle this fence and anything was to happen to it. Aw, shocks, I'll be just as careful. Now let me try. Say, I'll give you the core of my apple. Well, here. No, Ben, now don't, I'm afeared. I'll give you all of it. Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but a lackity in his heart, and while Ben worked and sweated in the sun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by, dangled his legs, munched his apple, and planned the slaughter of more innocence. There was no lack of material. Boys happened along every little while. They came to jeer, but remained to whitewash. By the time Ben was fagged out, Tom had traded the next chance to Billy Fisher for a kite in good repair, and when he played out, Johnny Miller bought in for a dead rat and a string to swing it with, and so on and so on hour after hour, and when the middle of the afternoon came, from being a poor poverty-stricken boy in the morning, Tom was literally rolling in wealth. He had, besides the things I have mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a Jew's harp, a piece of blue bottle-glass to look through, a spool cannon, a key that wouldn't unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six firecrackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass doorknob, a dog-collar, but no dog, the handle of a knife, four pieces of orange peel, and a dilapidated old window sash. He had had a nice, good idle time all the while, plenty of company, and the fence had three coats of whitewash on it. If he hadn't run out of whitewash, he would have bankrupted every boy in the village. Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world after all. He had discovered a great law of human action without knowing it, namely that, in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary to make the thing difficult to attain. If he had been a great and wise philosopher, he would have comprehended that work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do, and that play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do. General Note As his corpse to the rampant we hurried, not a soldier discharged his farewell shot, or the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, the sods with their bayonets turning, by the struggling moonbeams misty light, and the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him, but he lay like a warrior taking his rest with his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, and we spoke not a word of sorrow, but we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, and we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed, and smoothed down his lonely pillow, that the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, and we far away on the billow. Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, and o'er his cold ashes upright him, but little he'll wreck if they let him sleep on, in the grave where a Britain has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done, when the clock struck the hour for retiring, and we heard the distant and random gun that the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, from the field of his fame fresh and gory. We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, but we left him alone with his glory. C. Wolfe End of Section 34 Filled my pocket with coppers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys for children, and being charmed with the sound of a whistle that I met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered and gave all my money for one. I then came home and went whistling all over the house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My brothers and sisters and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth, put me in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money, and laughed at me so much for my folly that I cried with vexation, and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure. This, however, was afterwards of use to me, the impression continuing in my mind, so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, Don't give too much for the whistle, and I saved my money. As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions of men, I thought I met with many, very many, who gave too much for the whistle. When I saw anyone fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in politics, neglecting his own affairs and ruining them by that neglect, he pays, indeed, said I, too much for his whistle. If I saw one fond of fine clothes, fine furniture, fine horses, all above his fortune, for which he contracted debts and ended his career in poverty, alas, said I, he has paid dear, very dear for his whistle. In short, I believed that a great part of the miseries of mankind were brought upon them by the false estimates they had made of the value of things, and by their giving too much for their whistles. A Canadian Boat Song by Thomas Moore Faintly as tolls the evening chime, our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time, soon as the woods on shore look dim, we'll sing at St. Anne's our parting hymn. Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, the rapids are near, and the daylight's past. Why should we yet our sail unfurl? There is not a breath the blue wave to curl. But when the wind blows off the shore, oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. Blow breezes blow, the stream runs fast, the rapids are near, and the daylight's past. Boota was tide, this trembling moon, shall see us float over thy surges soon. Saint of the screen isle, hear our prayers, oh, grant us cool heavens and favouring airs. Blow breezes blow, the stream runs fast, the rapids are near, and the daylight's past. End of Chapter 36 Chapter 37 of 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. The Little Hero of Harlem from Sharps London Magazine At an early period in the history of Holland, a boy was born in Harlem, a town remarkable for its variety of fortune and war, but happily still more so for its manufacturers and inventions in peace. His father was a slewisser, that is, one whose employment it was to open and shut the slewesses or large oak gates which, placed at certain regular distances, closed the entrances of the canals and secure Holland from the danger to which it seems exposed, of finding itself under water rather than above it. When water is wanted, the slewisser raises the slewesses more or less as required as the cook turns the cock of a fountain and closes them again carefully at night. Otherwise the water would flow into the canals, then overflow them and inundate the whole country so that even the little children in Holland are fully aware of the importance of a punctual discharge of the slewisser's duties. The boy was about eight years old when, one day, he asked permission to take some cakes to a poor blind man who lived at the other side of the dyke. His father gave him leave but charged him not to stay too late. The child promised and set off on his little journey. The blind man, thankfully, partook of his young friend's cakes and the boy, mindful of his father's orders, did not wait, as usual, to hear one of the old man's stories but, as soon as he had seen him eat one muffin, took leave of him to return home. As he went along by the canals, then quite full, for it was in October, and the autumn rains had swelled the waters, the boy now stooped to pull the little blue flowers which his mother loved so well, now, in childish gaiety, hummed some merry song. The road gradually became more solitary and soon neither the joyous shout of the villager returning to his cottage home nor the rough voice of the carter, grumbling at his lazy horses, was any longer to be heard. The little fellow now perceived that the blue of the flowers in his hands was scarcely distinguishable from the green of the surrounding herbage, and he looked up in some dismay. The night was falling, not, however, a dark winter night, but one of those beautiful clear moonlit nights in which every object is perceptible, though not as distinctly as by day. The child thought of his father, of his injunction, and was preparing to quit the ravine in which he was almost buried, and to regain the beach, when suddenly a slight noise like the trickling of water upon pebbles attracted his attention. He was near one of the large sluices, and he now carefully examined it and soon discovered a hole in the wood through which the water was flowing. With the instant perception which every child in Holland would have, the boy saw that the water must soon enlarge the hole through which it was now only dropping, and that utter and general ruin would be the consequence of the inundation of the country that must follow. To see, to throw away the flowers, to climb from stone to stone till he reached the hole, and to put his finger into it, was the work of a moment, and to his delight he found that he had succeeded in stopping the flow of the water. This was all very well for a little while, and the child thought only of the success of his device. But the night was closing in, and with the night came the cold. The little boy looked around in vain. No one came. He shouted. He called loudly. No one answered. He resolved to stay there all night, but alas, the cold was becoming every moment more biting, and the poor finger fixed in the hole began to feel benumbed, and the numbness soon extended to the hand and then throughout the whole arm. The pain became still greater, still harder to bear, but yet the boy moved not. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he thought of his father, of his mother, of his little bed, where he might now be sleeping so soundly. But still the little fellow stirred not, for he knew that did he remove the small slender finger which he had opposed to the escape of the water, not only would he himself be drowned, but his father, his brothers, his neighbors, may the whole village. We know not what faltering of purpose, what momentary failures of courage there might have been during that long and terrible night, but certain it is that at daybreak he was found in the same painful position by a clergyman returning from attendance on a death bed, who, as he advanced, thought he heard groans and bending over the dyke, discovered a child seated on a stone writhing from pain and with pale face and tearful eyes. In the name of wonder, boy, he exclaimed, what are you doing there? I am hindering the water from running out, was the answer in perfect simplicity of the child, who, during that whole night, had been evincing such heroic fortitude and undaunted courage. The muse of history has handed down to posterity many a warrior, the destroyer of thousands of his fellow men, but she has left us an ignorance of the name of this real little hero of Harlem. Dreams, books are each a world, and books, we know, are a substantial world, both pure and good. Wordsworth End of Section 37 Chapter 38 of the Ontario Reader's Third Book This is LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Claire Snyder. Repeat, you are old, Father William, said the caterpillar. Alice folded her hands and began. You are old, Father William, the young man said, and your hair has become very white, and yet you incessantly stand on your head. Do you think at your age it is right? In my youth, Father William, replied to his son, I feared it might injure the brain, but now that I am perfectly sure I have none, why I do it again and again. You are old, said the youth, as I mentioned before, and have grown most uncommonly fat, yet you turned a back somersault in at the door. Pray, what is the reason of that? In my youth, said the sage, as he shook his gray locks, I kept all my limbs very supple. By the use of this ointment, one shilling the box, allow me to sell you a couple. You are old, said the youth, and your jaws are too weak for anything tougher than sew it, yet you finished the goose with the bones and the beak. Pray, how did you manage to do it? In my youth, said his father, I took to the law, and argued each case with my wife, and the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw has lasted the rest of my life. You are old, said the youth, one would hardly suppose that your eye was as steady as ever, yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose. What made you so awfully clever? I have answered three questions, and that is enough, said his father. Don't give yourself errors. Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs. That is not said right, said the caterpillar. Not quite right, I am afraid, said Alice timidly. Some of the words have got altered. It is wrong, from beginning to end, said the caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minute. CHAPTER XXXIX 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. THE BIBLE Now the Philistines gathered together their armies to battle, and Saul and the men of Israel were gathered together, and pitched by the valley of Elah, and set the battle in array against the Philistines. And the Philistines stood on a mountain on the one side, and Israel stood on a mountain on the other side, and there was a valley between them. And there went out a champion of the camp of the Philistines named Goliath of Gath, whose height was six cubits and a span, and he had a helmet of brass upon his head, and he was armed with a coat of mail, and the weight of the coat was five thousand shackles of brass. And he had greaves of brass upon his legs, and a target of brass between his shoulders, and the staff of his spear was like a weaver's beam, and his spear's head weighed six hundred shackles of iron, and one bearing a shield went before him. And he stood and cried out into the armies of Israel, and said to them, Why are you come out to set your battle in array? Am I not a Philistine and ye servants of Saul? Choose you a man for you, and let him come down to me. If he be able to fight with me and kill me, then will we be your servants? But if I prevail against him and kill him, then shall ye be our servants, and serve us. And the Philistines said, I defy the armies of Israel this day, Give me a man that we may fight together. When Saul and all Israel heard those words of the Philistines, they were dismayed and greatly afraid. And David rose up early in the morning, and left the sheep with a keeper, and took and went as Jesse had commanded him, and he came to the trench as the host was going forth to fight, and shouted for the battle, for Israel and the Philistines had put the battle in array, army against army. And David left his carriage in the hand of the keeper of the carriage, and ran into the army, and came and saluted his brethren. And as he talked with them, behold, there came up the champion, the Philistine of Gath, Goliath by name, out of the armies of the Philistines, and spake according to the same words, and David heard them, and all the men of Israel when they saw the man fled from him, and were sore afraid. And the men of Israel said, Have you seen this man that has come up? Surely to defy Israel as he come up, and it shall be that the man who killeth him, the king will enrich him with great riches, and will give him his daughter, and make his father's house free in Israel. And David spake to the man that stood by him, saying, What shall be done to the man that killeth the Philistine, and takeeth away the reproach from Israel? For who is this Philistine that he should defy the armies of the living God? And the people answered him after this man are saying, So it shall be done to the man that killeth him, and when the words were heard, which David spake, they rehearsed them before Saul, and he sent for him. And David said to Saul, Let no man's heart fail because of him, Thy servant will go, and fight with this Philistine. And Saul said to David, Thou art not able to go against this Philistine to fight with him, for thou art but a youth, and he a man of war from his youth. And David said unto Saul, Thy servant kept his father's sheep, and there came a lion and a bear, and took a lamb out of the flock, and I went after him and smote him, and delivered it out of his mouth, and when he arose against me I caught him by his beard, and smote him and slew him. Thy servant slew both the lion and the bear. And this Philistine shall be as one of them, seeing he hath defied the armies of the living God. David said moreover, The Lord that delivered me out of the paw of the lion and the paw of the bear, he will deliver me out of the hand of this Philistine. And Saul said unto David, Go, and the Lord be with thee. And Saul armed David with his armor, and he put a helmet of brass upon his head, also he armed him with a coat of mail, and David girded his sword upon his armor, and he assayed to go, for he had not proved it. And David said unto Saul, I cannot go with these, for I have not proved them. And David put them off him, and he took his staff in his hand, and chose him five smooth stones out of the brook, and put them in a shepherd's bag which he had, even in a script, and his sling was in his hand, and he drew near to the Philistine. And the Philistine came on and drew near unto David, and the man that bear the shield went before him, and when the Philistine looked about and saw David he disdained him, for he was but a youth, ruddy and of fair countenance. And the Philistine said unto David, Am I a dog that thou comest to me with staves? And the Philistine cursed David by his gods. And the Philistine said to David, Come to me, and I will give thy flesh unto the fowls of the air, and the beasts of the field. Then David said to the Philistine, Thou comest to me with a sword, and with a spear, and with a shield. But I come to thee in the name of the Lord of Hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, whom thou hast defied. This day will the Lord deliver thee into mine hand, and I will smite thee and take thine head from thee. And I will give the carcasses of the host of the Philistines this day unto the fowls of the air, and to the wild beasts of the earth, that all the earth may know that there is a God in Israel. And all this assembly shall know that the Lord save it, not with sword and spear, for the battle is the Lord's, and he will give you into our hands. And it came to pass when the Philistine arose, and came and drew nigh to meet David, that David hastened, and ran toward the army to meet the Philistine. And David put his hand in his bag, and took thence a stone, and slang it, and smote the Philistine in his forehead, that the stone sunk into his forehead, and he fell upon his face to the earth. So David prevailed over the Philistine with a sling, and with a stone, and smote the Philistine, and slew him. But there was no sword in the hand of David, therefore David ran, and stood upon the Philistine, and took his sword, and drew it out of the sheath thereof, and slew him, and cut off his head therewith. And when the Philistine saw their champion was dead, they fled. CHAPTER 40 OF THE ANTERIAL READERS' THIRD BOOK BY THE ANTERIAL MINISTRY OF EDUCATION Read for LibriVox.org by Tricia G. The Charge of the Light Brigade by Tennyson Half a league, half a league, half a league onward, all in the valley of death rode the six hundred. Forward the light brigade, charge for the guns, he said, into the valley of death rode the six hundred. Forward the light brigade, was there a mandus made? Not though the soldier knew someone had blundered. There's not to make reply, there's not to reason why, there's but to do and die. Into the valley of death rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them, cannon in front of them, volleyed and thundered. Stormed at with shot and shell, boldly they rode and well. Into the jaws of death, into the mouth of hell, rode the six hundred. Flashed all their sabers bare, flashed as they turned in air, sabering the gunners there, charging an army, while all the world wondered. Plunged in the battery smoke, right through the line they broke, Cossack and Russian, reeled from the saber stroke, shattered and thundered. Then they rode back, but not, not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them, cannon behind them, volleyed and thundered. Stormed at with shot and shell, while horse and hero fell. Day that had fought so well, came through the jaws of death, back from the mouth of hell, all that was left of them, left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? Oh, the wild charge they made, all the world wondered. Honor the charge they made, honor the light brigade, noble six hundred. End of Section 40. This recording is in the public domain. Chapter 41 of The Ontario Readers' Third Book by The Ontario Ministry of Education Read for LibriVox.org by Lucy Perry in Bath on March 17th 2009. Maggie Tulliver by George Elliott adapted from the mill on the floss. Maggie and Tom came in from the garden with their father and their uncle Glegg. Maggie had thrown her bonnet off very carelessly and, coming in with her hair rough as well as out of curl, rushed at once to Lucy. The contrast between the two cousins was like the contrast between a rough, dark, overgrown puppy and a white kitten. Lucy put up the neatest little rosebud mouth to be kissed. Everything about her was neat. Hey, Day, said Aunt Glegg, with loud emphasis. Do little boys and girls come into a room without taking notice of their aunts and uncles? That wasn't the way when I was a little girl. Go and speak to your aunts and uncles, my dears, said Mrs. Tulliver. She wanted to whisper to Maggie a command to go and have her hair brushed. Well, and how do you do? And I hope your good children are you, said Aunt Glegg, in the same loud, emphatic way. Look up, Tom. Look up. Look at me now. Put your hair behind your ears, Maggie, and keep your frock on your shoulder. Aunt Glegg always spoke to them in this loud, emphatic way, as if she considered them deaf. Well, my dears, said Aunt Pullit, you grow wonderfully fast. I doubt they'll outgrow their strength. I think the girl has too much hair. I'd have it thinned and cut shorter, sister, if I were you. It isn't good for her health. It's that makes her skin so brown. Don't you think so, Sister Dean? I can't say I'm sure, Sister, said Mrs. Dean, shutting her lips close and looking at Maggie. No, no, said Mr. Tulliver. The child's healthy enough. There's nothing ails her. There's red wheat as well as white, for that matter, and some like dark grain best. But it would be as well if Bessie would have the child's hair cut so it would lie smooth. Maggie, said Mrs. Tulliver, beckoning Maggie to her and whispering in her ear. Go and get your hair brushed. Do for shame. I told you not to come in without going to Martha first. You know I did. Tom, come out with me, whispered Maggie, pulling his sleeve as she passed him, and Tom followed willingly enough. Come upstairs with me, Tom, she whispered when they were outside the door. There's something I want to do before dinner. There's no time to play at anything before dinner, said Tom. Oh yes, there is time for this. Do come, Tom! Tom followed Maggie upstairs to her mother's room and saw her go at once to a draw, from which she took out a large pair of scissors. What are they for, Maggie, said Tom, feeling his curiosity awakened. Maggie answered by seizing her front locks and cutting them straight across the middle of her forehead. Oh, my buttons, Maggie, you'll catch it, exclaimed Tom. You'd better not cut any more off. Snip, when the great scissors again, while Tom was speaking, and he could hardly help feeling it was rather good fun. Maggie looked so queer. Here, Tom, cut it behind for me, said Maggie, excited by her own daring and anxious to finish the deed. You'll catch it, you know, said Tom, hesitating a little as he took the scissors. Never mind, make haste, said Maggie, giving a little stamp with her foot. Her cheeks were quite flushed. The black locks were so thick, nothing could be more tempting to a lad who had already tasted the forbidden pleasure of cutting the pony's mane. One delicious grinding snip, and then another, and another, and the hindalocks fell heavily on the floor. Maggie stood cropped in a jagged, uneven manner, but with a sense of cleanness and freedom as if she had emerged from a wood into the open plain. Oh, Maggie, said Tom, jumping round her and slapping his knees as he laughed. Oh, my buttons, what a queer thing you look! Look at yourself in the glass! Maggie felt an unexpected pang. She had thought beforehand chiefly of her own deliverance from her teasing hair and teasing remarks about it, and something also of the triumph she should have over her mother and her aunts by this very decided course of action. She didn't want her hair to look pretty. That was out of the question. She only wanted people to think her a clever little girl and not to find fault with her. But now, when Tom began to laugh at her, the affair had quite a new aspect. She looked at the glass and still Tom laughed and clapped his hands, and Maggie's flushed cheeks began to pale and her lips to tremble a little. Oh, Maggie, you'll have to go down to dinner directly, said Tom. Oh, my! Don't laugh at me, Tom, said Maggie in a passionate tone and with an outburst of angry tears, stamping and giving him a push. Now then, Spitfire, said Tom, what did you cut it off for then? I shall go down. I can smell dinner going in. Tom hurried downstairs and left poor Maggie. As she stood crying before the glass, she felt it impossible that she should go down to dinner and endure the severe eyes and severe words of her aunts. While Tom and Lucy and Martha, who waited at the table, and perhaps her father and her uncles would laugh at her. If Tom had laughed at her, of course everyone else would. And if she had only let her hair alone, she could have sat with Tom and Lucy and had the apricot pudding and the custard. What could she do but sob? Miss Maggie, you're to come down this minute, said Kezia, entering the room hurriedly. What have you been doing? I never saw such a fright. Don't, Kezia, said Maggie angrily. Go away. But I tell you, you're to come down, Miss, this minute. Your mother says so, said Kezia, going up to Maggie and taking her by the hand to raise her from the floor. Get away, Kezia. I don't want any dinner, said Maggie, resisting Kezia's arm. I shan't come. Oh, well, I can't stay. I've got to wait at dinner, said Kezia, going out again. Maggie, you little silly, said Tom, peeping into the room ten minutes after. Why don't you come and have your dinner? There's lots of goodies and Mother says you're to come. What are you crying for? Oh, it was dreadful. Tom was so hard and unconcerned. If he had been crying on the floor, Maggie would have cried too. And there was the dinner. So nice, and she was so hungry. It was very bitter. But Tom was not altogether hard. He went and put his head near her and said, in a low comforting tone, won't you come, then, Maggie? Shall I bring you a bit of pudding when I've had mine and a custard and things? Yes, said Maggie, beginning to feel a little more tolerable. Very well, said Tom, going away. But he turned again at the door and said, but you'd better come, you know. There's the dessert, you know. Maggie's tears had ceased, and she looked reflective as Tom left her. His good nature had taken off the keenest edge of her suffering. Slowly she rose from among her scattered locks, and slowly she made her way downstairs. Then she stood, leaning with one shoulder against the frame of the dining parlor door, peeping in when it was a jar. She saw Tom and Lucy with an empty chair between them, and there were the custards on a side table. It was too much. She slipped in and went towards the empty chair. But she had no sooner sat down than she repented and wished herself back again. Mrs. Tulliver gave a little scream when she saw her, and dropped the large gravy-spoon into the dish with the most serious results to the tablecloth. Mrs. Tulliver's scream made all eyes turn towards the same point as her own, and Maggie's cheeks and ears began to burn, while Uncle Gleg, a kind-looking white-haired old gentleman, said, Hey, Day, what little girl's this? Why, I don't know her. Is this some little girl you've picked up in the road, Kezia? Why, she's gone and cut her hair herself, said Mr. Tulliver, in an undertone to Mr. Dean, laughing with much enjoyment. Why, little miss, you've made yourself look very funny, said Uncle Pullit. Fie, for shame, said Uncle Gleg, in her severest tone of reproof. Little girls that cut their own hair should be whipped and fed on bread and water, not come and sit down with their aunts and uncles. Aye, aye, said Uncle Gleg, meaning to give a playful turn. She must be sent to jail, I think, and they'll cut the rest of her hair off there and make it all even. She's more like a gypsy than ever, said Aunt Pullit, in a pitying tone. She's a naughty child that'll break her mother's heart, said Mrs. Tulliver, with the tears in her eyes. Maggie seemed to be listening to a chorus of reproach and derision. Her first flush came from anger. Tom thought she was braving it out, supported by the recent appearance of the pudding encustered. He whispered, Oh, my Maggie, I told you you'd catch it. He meant to be friendly, but Maggie felt convinced that Tom was rejoicing in her ignomy. Her feeble powers of defiance left her in an instant. Her heart swelled, and, getting up from her chair, she ran to her father, hit her face on his shoulder, and burst out into loud sobbing. Come, come, said her father, soothingly, putting his arm around her. Never mind, give over crying. Father'll take your part. Delicious words of tenderness. Maggie never forgot any of these moments when her father took her part. She kept them in her heart and thought of them long years after, when everyone said that her father had done very ill by his children. End of Chapter 41 This recording is in the public domain. Chapter 42 of the Ontario Readers' Third Book by the Ontario Ministry of Education Read for LibriVox.org by Linda Ferguson The Corn Song by Whittier He pie the farmer's wintry hoard, he pie the golden corn. No richer gift has autumn poured from out her lavish horn. Let other lands exulting glean the apple from the pine, the orange from its glossy green, the cluster from the vine. We better love the hardy gift our rugged veils bestow, to cheer us when the storm shall drift our harvest fields with snow. Through veils of grass and meads of flowers, our plows their furrows made, while on the hills the sun and showers of changeful April played. We drop the seed over hill and plain beneath the sun of May, and frighten from our sprouting grain the robber crows away. Or through the long bright days of June its leaves grew green and fair, and waved in hot midsummer's noon its soft and yellow hair. And now with autumn's moonlit eaves its harvest time has come. We plucked away the frosted leaves and bared the treasure home. There richer than the fabled gift to polo-shower of old, fair hands the broken grain shall sift and knead its meal of gold. Let vapid idlers lull in silk around their costly board, give us the bowl of samp and milk by homespun beauty-poured. Where ear the white old kitchen hearth sends up its smoky curls, who will not thank the kindly earth and bless our farmer girls. Whittier. End of Section 42 This recording is in the public domain. Chapter 43 of the Ontario Readers' Third Book by the Ontario Ministry of Education Read for LibriVox.org by Timothy Ferguson Sports in Norman, England by William Fitz Steven After dinner all the youth of the city go into the field of the suburbs, and address themselves to the famous game of football. The scholars of each school have their peculiar ball, and the particular trades have, most of them, theirs. The elders of the city, the fathers of the parties, and the rich and wealthy come to the field on horseback in order to behold the exercises of the youth, and in appearance are themselves as youthful as the youngest, seeming to be revived at the sight of so much agility, and in a participation of the diversion of their festive sons. At Easter the diversion is prosecuted on the water. A target is strongly fastened to a trunk or mast fixed in the middle of the river, and a youngster standing upright in the stern of a boat, made to move as fast as the oars and current can carry it, is to strike the target with his lance. And if in hitting it he breaks his lance and keeps his place in the boat, he gains his point and triumphs. But if it happens that the lance is not shivered by the force of the blow, he is, of course, tumbled into the water, and away goes his vessel without him. However, a couple of boats of young men are placed one on each side of the target, so as to be ready to take up the unsuccessful adventurer. The moment he emerges from the stream and comes fairly to the surface. The bridge and the balconies on the banks are filled with spectators whose business is to laugh. On holidays in summer the past time of the youth is to exercise themselves in archery, in running, leaping, wrestling, casting of stones, and flinging to certain distances, and lastly with bucklers. In the winter holidays, when the vast lake which waters the walls of the city towards the north is hard frozen, the youth, in great numbers, go to divert themselves on the ice. Some, taking a small run, place their feet at the proper distance and are carried, sliding sideways a great way. Others will make a large cake of ice, and seating one of their companions upon it, they take hold of one another's hands and draw him along. When it sometimes happens that, moving so swiftly on so slippery a plane, they all fall down headlong. Others there are who are still more expert in these amusements on the ice. They place certain bones, the leg bones of some animal under the soles of their feet, by tying them around their ankles and then taking a pole shot with iron in their hands, they push themselves forward by striking it against the ice, and are carried along with a velocity equal to the flight of a bird or a bolt discharged from a crossbow. Sometimes two of them thus furnished agree to start opposite one to another at a great distance. They meet, elevate their poles, attack and strike each other, when one or both of them fall, and not without some bodily hurt. And even after their fall, they shall be carried a good distance from each other by the rapidity of the motion. Very often the leg or arm of the party that falls, if he chances to light upon them, is broken. But youth is an age ambitious of glory, fond and covetous of victory, and that in future time it may acquit itself boldly and valiantly in real engagements, it will run these hazards in sham ones. Hawking and hunting were sports only for persons of quality, and woe be to the unhappy man of the lower orders who indulged in either of these sports, if caught he would be severely punished, and might have his eyes put out. After breakfast nights with their ladies ride out, each bearing upon his wrist a falcon with scarlet wood and collar of gold, as they near the river a heron, who has been fishing for his breakfast among the reeds near the bank, hears them and spreading his wings flies upward. A night slips the wood from the falcon's head, and the next instant he sees the heron, away he darts while nights and ladies reign in their horses and watch. Up and up he goes, until he passes the heron and still he flies higher. Next instant he turns and, with a terrible swoop downwards, pounces upon the heron and kills it. The night sounds his whistle, and instantly the falcon turns and darts back to him for the dainty food, which is given as a reward for his good hunting. He is then chained and hooded again until another bird rises. So the morning passes, and many a bird do the falcons bring down before the nights and ladies return to the castle, for noon-meat. William Fitz-Steven adapted, and he that doth the ravens feed, yea, providently caters for the sparrow, be comfort to my age. This recording is in the public domain. Chapter 44 of The Ontario Reader's Third Book by The Ontario Ministry of Education Read for LibriVox.org by Tricia G. A Song of Canada by Robert Reed Sing me a song of the great dominion, soul-felt words for a patriot's ear. Bring out boldly the well-turned measure, voicing your notes that the world may hear. Here is no starvelling, heaven forsaken, shrinking aside where the nations throng. Proud as the proudest moves she among them, worthy as she of a noble song. Sing me the might of her giant mountains, bearing their brows in the dazzling blue, changeless alone where all else changes, emblems of all that is grand and true, free as the eagles around them soaring, fair as they rose from their maker's hand. Shout till the snow-caps catch the chorus, the white-topped peaks of our mountain land. Sing me the calm of her tranquil forests, silence eternal and peace profound, in whose great heart's deep recesses breaks no tempest and comes no sound, face to face with the death-like stillness, here if at all man's soul might quail. May, tis the love of that great peace leads us thither where solace will never fail. Sing me the pride of her stately rivers, cleaving their way to the far-off sea, glory of strength in their deep-mouthed music, glory of mirth in their tameless glee. Hark, tis the roar of the tumbling rapids, deep unto deep through the dead-night calls. Truly I hear but the voice of freedom shouting her name from her fortress walls. Sing me the joy of her fertile prairies, league upon league of the golden grain, comfort housed in the smiling homestead plenty throned on the lumbering wane. Land of contentment may no strife vex you, never wars flag on your plains be unfurled. Only the blessings of mankind reach you, finding the food for a hungry world. Sing me the charm of her blazing campfires, sing me the quiet of her happy homes, whether afar neath the forest arches or in the shade of the city's domes. Sing me her life, her loves, her labors, all of a mother a son would hear. For when a loved one's praises sounding, sweet are the strains to the lover's ear. Sing me the worth of each Canadian, Romer in wilderness, toiler in town. Search earth over, you'll find none stancher, whether his hands be white or brown. Come of a right good stock to start with, best of the world's blood in each vein. Lords of ourselves and slaves to no one, for us or from us, you'll find we are men. Sing me the song then, sing it bravely, put your soul in the words you sing. Sing me the praise of this glorious country, clear on the ear let the deep notes ring. Here is no starvelling, heaven forsaken, prouching apart where the nations throng. Proud as the proudest moves she among them, well is she worthy a noble song. End of Section 44 This recording is in the public domain. Chapter 45 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. A Mad Tea Party by Lewis Carroll There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea on it. A Dormouse was sitting between them fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it and talking over its head. Very uncomfortable for a Dormouse, thought Alice. Only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind. The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it. No room, no room! they cried out when they saw Alice coming. There's plenty of room, said Alice indignantly, as she sat down in a large armchair at one end of the table. Your hair wants cutting, said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. You should learn not to make personal remarks, said Alice with some severity. It is very rude. The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this, but all he said was, Why is a raven like a riding-disc? Come, we shall have some fun now, thought Alex. I'm glad they began asking riddles. I believe I can guess that, she added aloud. Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it? said the March Hare. Exactly so, said Alice. Then you should say what you mean, the March Hare went on. I do, Alice hastily replied. At least, at least I mean what I say. That's the same thing, you know. Not the same thing a bit, said the Hatter. Why, you might as well just say that I see what I eat is the same thing as I eat what I see. You might as well say, added the March Hare, that I like what I get is the same thing as I get what I like. You might as well say, added the dormouse, who seemed to be talking in its sleep. That I breathe when I sleep is the same thing as I sleep when I breathe. It is the same thing with you, said the Hatter. And here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and riding-discs, which wasn't much. Have you guessed the riddle yet? the Hatter said, turning to Alice again. No, I give it up, Alice replied. What's the answer? I haven't the slightest idea, said the Hatter. Nor I, said the March Hare. Alice sighed wearily. I think you might do something better with the time, she said, than wasting it in asking riddles that have no answers. Suppose we change the subject, the March Hare interrupted yawning. I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story. I'm afraid I don't know one, said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. Then the doormouse shall, they both cried, wake up doormouse, and they pinched it on both sides at once. The doormouse slowly opened its eyes. I wasn't asleep, it said in a hoarse feeble voice. I heard every word you fellows were saying. Tell us a story, said the March Hare. Yes, please do, pleaded Alice. And be quick about it, added the Hatter, or you'll be asleep again before it's done. Once upon a time there were three little sisters. The doormouse began in a great hurry, and their names were Elsie, Lacey, and Tillie, and they lived at the bottom of a well. What did they live on, said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. They lived on treacle, said the doormouse after thinking a minute or two. They couldn't have done that, you know. Alice gently remarked, they'd have been ill. So there were, said the doormouse, very ill. Alice tried a little to fancy, to herself, what such an extraordinary way of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on. But why did they live at the bottom of a well? Take some more tea, the March Hare said to Alice very earnestly. I've had nothing yet, Alice replied in an offending tone, so I can't take more. You mean you can't take less, said the Hatter. It's very easy to take more than nothing. Nobody asked your opinion, said Alice. Who's making personal remarks now? The Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this, so she helped herself to some tea and bread and butter, and then turned to the doormouse and repeated her question. Why did they live at the bottom of a well? The doormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, it was a treacle well. There's no such thing. Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went, shh, shh, and the doormouse socally remarked, if you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself. No, please go on, Alice said very humbly. I won't interrupt again. I dare say there may be one. One indeed, said the doormouse indignantly. However, it consented to go on, and so these three little sisters were learning to draw, you know. What did they draw? said Alice, quite forgetting her promise. Treacle, said the doormouse, without considering it all this time. I want a clean cup, interrupted the Hatter. Let's all move one place on. He moved as he spoke, and the doormouse followed him. The March Hare moved into the doormouse's place, and Alice, rather unwillingly, took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change, and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk jug into his plate. Alice did not wish to offend the doormouse again, so she began very cautiously. But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from? You can draw water out of a water well, said the Hatter, so I think you could draw treacle out of a treacle well, eh, stupid? But they were in the well, said Alice to the doormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. Of course they were, said the doormouse, well in. This answer so confused poor Alice that she let the doormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. They were learning to draw, the doormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy. And they drew all manner of things, everything that begins with an M. Why with an M, said Alice? Why not? said the March Hare. Alice was silent. The doormouse had closed its eyes by this time and was going off into a doze, but on being pinched by the Hatter it woke up again with a little shriek and went on. That begins with an M, such as mouse traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness. You know, you say things are much of a muchness. Did you ever see a thing as the drawing of a muchness? Really, now you ask me, said Alice, very much confused. I don't think. Then you shouldn't talk, said the Hatter. This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear. She got up in great disgust and walked off. The doormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going. Though she looked back once or twice, half hoping they would call after her. The last time she saw them they were trying to put the doormouse into the teapot. Chapter 46 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. The Ontario Readers' Third Book by the Ontario Ministry of Education The Slave's Dream Beside the ungathered rice he lay, his sickle in his hand. His breast was bare, his matted hair was buried in the sand. Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, he saw his native land. Wide through the landscape of his dreams, the lordly Niger flowed. Beneath the palm trees on the plain, once more a king he strode. And heard the tinkling caravans descend the mountain road. He saw once more his dark-eyed queen among her children stand. They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, they held him by the hand. A tear burst from the sleeper's lids and fell into the sand. And then, at furious speed, he rode along the Niger's bank. His bridal reins were golden chains, and with a marshal clank, at each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel smiting his stallion's flank. Before him, like a blood-red flag the bright flamingos flew, from morn till night he followed their flight, or planes where the tamarind grew. Till he saw the roofs of the caffer huts, and the ocean rose to view. At night he heard the lion roar, and the hyena scream. And the river-horse as he crushed the reeds beside some hidden stream. And it passed like a glorious roll of drums through the triumph of his dream. The forests, with their myriad tongues, shouted of liberty, and the blast of the desert cried aloud, with a voice so wild and free that he started in his sleep, and smiled at their tempestuous glee. He did not feel the driver's whip nor the burning heat of day, for death had illumined the land of sleep, and his lifeless body lay a worn-out fetter that the soul had broken and thrown away. Long fellow. Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact man. Histories make men wise, poets witty, the mathematics subtle, logic and rhetoric able to contend. End of Chapter 46. Recording by Kalinda in Lunaburg, Germany on February 22, 2009. Chapter 47 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 Peepat, Chapter 47 The Chase, adapted by Charles Dudley Warner. Early one August morning, a doe was feeding on Basin Mountain. The sole companion of the doe was her only child, a charming little fawn, whose brown coat was just beginning to be mottled with beautiful spots. The bug, his father, had been that night on a long tramp across the mountain to clear pond and had not yet returned. He went to feed on the lily pads there. The doe was dangerly cropping tender leaves and turning from time to time to regard her offspring. The fawn had taken this morning meal and now lay curled up on a bed of moss. If the mother stepped a pace or two further away in feeding, the fawn made a half movement as if to rise and follow her. Even alarm, he ordered a plaintive cry. She bounded to him at once. It was a pretty picture, maternal love on the one part and happy trust on the other. The doe lifted her head with a quick motion. Had she heard something? Probably it was only the south wind in the bosoms. There was silence all about in the forest. With an affectionate glance at her fawn, she continued picking up her breakfast. But suddenly, she started, head erect, eyes dilated, a tremor in her limbs. She turned her head to the south. She listened intensely. There was a sound, a distinct prolonged note. Pervading the woods. It was repeated. The doe had no doubt now. It was the baying of a hound, far off at the foot of the mountain. Time enough to fly. Time enough to put miles between her and the hound before he should come upon a fresh trail. Yes, time enough. But there was the fawn. The cry of the hound was repeated, more distinct this time. The mother bounded away a few paces. The fawn started up with an anxious beat. The doe turned. She came back. She couldn't leave him. She walked away toward the west, and the little things skipped after her. It was slow going for the slender lakes. Over the fallen logs and through the rasping bushes, the doe bounded in advance and waited. The fawn scrambled after her. Sleeping and tumbling along, and whining a good deal because his mother kept always moving away from him. Whenever the fawn caught up, he was quite content to frisk about. He wanted more breakfast, for one thing, and his mother wouldn't stand still. She moved on continually, and his weak legs were tangled in the roots of the narrow deer path. Suddenly came a sound that threw the doe into a panic of terror. A short, sharp yelp, followed by a prolonged howl, caught up and re-echoed by other beys along the mountain side. The danger was certain now. It was near. She could not crawl on in this way. The dogs would soon be upon them. She turned again for flight. The fawn, scrambling after her, tumbled over and bleated pediously. Flight with the fawn was impossible. The doe returned, stirred by him, head erect and nostrils distended. Perhaps she was thinking. The fawn lay down contentedly, and the doe lit him for a moment. Then, with the swiftness of a bird, she dashed away and in a moment, she was lost in the forest. She went in the direction of the hounds. She descended the slope of the mountain until she reached a more open forest of hard wood. She was going due east when she turned away toward the north, and kept on at a good pace. In five minutes more, she heard the sharp yelp of discovery, and then the deep-mouthed howl of pursuit. The hounds had struck a trail where she turned, and the fawn was safe. For the moment, fear left her, and she bounded on with the exaltation of triumph. For a quarter of an hour, she went on at a slapping pace, clearing the bushes with bound after bound, flying over the fallen logs, pausing neither for brook nor ravine. The baying of the hounds grew fainter behind. After running at high speed, perhaps half a mile further, it occurred to her that it would be safe now to turn to the west, and by a wide circuit, seek her fawn. But at the moment, she heard a sound that chilled her heart. It was the cry of a hound to the west of her. There was nothing to do but to keep on, and on she went with the noise of the pack behind her. In five minutes more, she had passed into a hillside clearing. She heard a tinkle of bells. Below her, down the mountain slope, were other clearings broken by patches of woods. A mile or two down, lay the valley and the farmhouses. That way also, her enemies were. Not a merciful heart in all that lovely valley. She hesitated. It was only for an instant. She must cross the slight brook valley, if possible, and gain the mountain opposite. She bounded on. She stopped. What was that? From the valley ahead came the cry of a searching hound. Every way was closed but one. And that led straight down the mountain to the cluster of houses. The hunted doe went down the open, clearing the fences, flying along the stony path. As she approached, slight brook, she saw a boy standing by a tree with a raised rifle. The dogs were not in fight, but she could hear them coming down the hill. There was no time for hesitation. With a tremendous burst of speed, she cleared the stream, and as she touched the bank, heard the ping of a rifle bullet in the air above her. The crow sound gave wings to the poor thing. In a moment more, she leaped into the travel road. Women and children ran to the doors and windows. Men snatched the rifles. There were 20 people who were just going to shoot her. When the doe leaped the road fence and went away across a marsh toward the foothills. By this time, the dogs, panting and lolling out their tongues, came swinging along, keeping the trail like stupid and consequently losing ground where the deer doubled. But when the doe had got into the timber, she heard the savage broods howling across the meadow. It is well enough perhaps to say that nobody offered to shoot the dogs. The courage of the panting fugitive was not gone. But the fearful pace at which she had been going told on her. Her legs trembled and her heart beat like a trip hammer. She slowed her speed but still flat up the right bank of the stream. The dogs were gaining again and she crossed the broad deep brook. The fording of the river threw the hounds off for a time. She used the little respite to push on until the baying was faint in her ears. Late in the afternoon, she staggered down the shoulder of Bartlett and stood upon the shore of the lake. If she could put that piece of water between her and her pursuers, she would be saved. Had she strength to swim it? At her first step into the water, she saw a sight that sent her back with a bound. There was a boat near the lake. Two men were in it. One was rowing, the other had a gun in his hand. What should she do? With only a moment's hesitation, she plunged into the lake. Her tired legs could not propel the tired body rapidly. The doe saw the boat nearing her. She turned to the shore when she came. The dogs were lapping the water and howling there. She turned again to the center of the lake. The brave, pretty creature was quite exhausted now. In a moment more, the boat was on her. And the man at the oars had leaned over and caught her. Knock her on the head with that paddle, he shouted to the gentleman in the stern. The gentleman was a gentleman, with a kind face. He took the paddle in his hand. Just then, the doe turned her head and looked at him with her great appealing eyes. I can't do it, I can't do it. And he dropped the paddle. Oh, let her go. But the guide slung the deer round and whipped out his hunting knife. And the gentleman ate that night of the venison. Charles Dudley Warner. End of section 47. Recording by Pee Pat. This recording is in the public domain. Chapter 38 of Ontario readers through a book. This is a LibreWalks recording. All LibreWalks recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibreWalks.org. Recording by Mina. The Inch Cape Rock by Robert Saudine No storm in the air, no storm in the sea. The ship was as still as she could be. Her sails from heaven received no motion. Her keel was steady in the ocean. Without either sign or sound of their shock, the waves flowed over the Inch Cape Rock. So little they rose, so little they fell, they did not move the Inch Cape Bell. The pious about of Everbrook talk had placed that bell on the Inch Cape Rock. On a boar in the storm it floated and swung, and over the wave its warning rung. When the rock was hit by the sword swell, the mariners heard the warning bell, and then they knew the perilous rock, and blessed the about of Everbrook talk. The sun in the heaven was shining gay. All things were joyful on that day. The seabird screamed as they wheeled around, and there was joyous in their sound. The boar of the Inch Cape Bell was seen, a darker speck on the ocean green. Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck, and he fixed his eye on the darker speck. He felt the cheering power of spring. It made him whistle, it made him sing. His heart was mouthful to accent, but the Rover's mouth was wickedness. His eye was on the Inch Cape Float, called he, my man, put out the boat, and row me to the Inch Cape Rock, and I'll plague the about of Everbrook talk. The boat is lowered the boatman row, and to the Inch Cape Rock they go. Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, and he cut the bell from the Inch Cape Float. Down sang the bell with gurgling sound, the bubbles rose and burst around. Sir Ralph, the next who comes to the rock, won't bless the about of Everbrook talk. Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away. He scored the seas for many a day, and now grown rich but plundered store, he steers his scores for Scotland show. So thicker haze overspreads the sky, they cannot see the sun on high. The wind had blown the gill all day, and at evening it had died away. On detect the Rover takes a stand, so dark at us they see no light, called Sir Ralph. Ever be light as soon, for there is the dawn of the rising moon. Can't hear of said one, the breakers row, for me thinks we should be near the shore. Now where we are I cannot tell, but I wish we could hear the Inch Cape Bell. They hear no sound, the swell is strong, though the wind had fallen they tripped along, till the vessel strikes with the shivering shock. Cry day, it's the Inch Cape Rock. Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, he caused himself and has to spare. The waves rushing on every side, the ship is sinking beneath the tide. But even in his dying fear, when dreadful sound could the Rover hear, the sound as if but the Inch Cape Bell, the feet below were ringing his knell, and the Inch Cape Rock. Chapter 49 of the Ontario Readers Third Book by the Ontario Ministry of Education Read for Librebox.org by Tricia G. A rough ride by R. D. Blackmore from Lorna Dune. Well young ones, what be gaping at? Your mare said I, standing stoutly up being a tall boy now. I never saw such a beauty, sir, will you let me have a ride on her? Think thou couldst ride her lad? She will have no burden but mine. Thou couldst never ride her, tut, I would be loath to kill thee. Ride her, I cried, with the bravest scorn, for she looked so kind and gentle. There never was a horse upon Exmore, but I could tackle in half an hour. Only I never ride upon saddle. Take those leathers off of her. He looked at me with a dry little whistle and thrust his hands into his pockets, and so grinned that I could not stand it. And Annie laid hold of me in such a way that I was almost mad with her. And he laughed and approved her for doing so. And the worst of all was, he said nothing. Get away, Annie. Do you think I'm a fool, good sir? Only trust me with her and I will not override her. For that I will go bail my son. She is like her to override thee. But the ground is soft to fall upon after all this rain. Now come out into the yard, young man, for the sake of your mother's cabbages. And the mellow straw bed will be softer for thee, since pride must have its fall. I am thy mother's cousin boy, and I'm going up to the house. Tom Fegus is my name, as everybody knows, and this is my young mare, Winnie. What a fool I must have been not to know what it wants. Tom Fegus, the great highwayman, and his young blood mare, the strawberry. Already her fame was noised abroad nearly as much as her master's. And my longing to ride her grew tenfold, but fear came at the back of it. Not that I had the smallest fear of what the mare could do to me, by fair play and horse trickery, but that the glory of sitting upon her seemed to be too great for me, especially as there were rumors abroad that she was not a mare after all but a witch. Mr. Fegus gave his mare a wink, and she walked demurely after him, a bright young thing flowing over with life, yet dropping her soul to a higher one and led by love to anything as the manner is of such creatures when they know what is best for them. Then Winnie trod lightly upon the straw because it had soft muck under it, and her delicate beat came back again. Up for it still, boy, be ye. Tom Fegus stopped, and the mare stopped there, and they looked at me provokingly. Is she able to leap, sir? There is a good take-off on this side of the brook. Mr. Fegus laughed very quietly, turning round to Winnie so that she might enter into it, and she, for her part, seemed to know exactly where the fun lay. Good tumble-off, you mean, my boy. Well, there can be small harm to thee. I am akin to thy family and know the substance of their skulls. Let me get up, said I, waxing Roth, for reasons I cannot tell you, because they were too manifold. Take off your saddle-bag things. I will try not to squeeze her ribs in unless she plays nonsense with me. Then Mr. Fegus was up on his medal at this proud speech of mine, and John Frye was running up all the while and billed dads and half a dozen others. Tom Fegus gave one glance around, and then dropped all regard for me. The high repute of his mare was at stake, and what was my life compared to it? Through my defiance and stupid ways, here I was in a dwellow, and my legs not come to their strength yet, and my arms as limp as a herring. Something of this occurred to him, even in his wrath with me, for he spoke very softly to the Philly, who now could scarcely subdue herself, but she drew in her nostrils and breathed to his breath, and did all she could to answer him. Not too hard, my dear, he said. Let him gently down on the mixon. That will be quite enough. Then he turned to the saddle off, and I was up in a moment. She began at first so easily, and pricked her ears so lovingly, and minced about as if pleased to find so light a way upon her, that I thought she knew I could ride a little, and feared to show any capers. Gee wug, Polly, cried I, for all the men were now looking on, being then at the leaving-off time. Gee wug, Polly, and show what thou beest made of. With that I plugged my heels into her, and Billy Dads flung his hat up. Nevertheless she outraged not, though her eyes were frightening Annie, and John Fry took a pick to keep him safe. But she curbed to and fro with her strong forearms rising like springs in-gathered, waiting and quivering grievously, and beginning to sweat about it. Then her master gave a shrill, clear whistle, when her ears were bent towards him, and I felt her form beneath me gathering up like whale bone, and her hind legs coming under her, and I knew that I was in for it. First she reared upright in the air, and struck me full on the nose with her comb, till I bled worse than Robin Snell made me, and then down with her fore feet deep in the straw, and with her hind feet going to heaven. Finding me stick to her still like wax, for my metal was up as hers was, away she flew with me swifter than ever I went before or since I trod. She drove full head at the cob while, oh Jack slip off, screamed Danny. Then she turned like light when I thought to crush her, and ground my left knee against it. Dear me, I cried, for my breeches were broken, and short words went the furthest. If you kill me, you shall die with me. Then she took the courtyard gate at a leap, knocking my words between my teeth, and then right over a quick-set hedge, as if the sky were a breath to her, and away for the water meadows, while I lay on her neck like a child and wished I had never been born. Straight away, all in the front of the wind and scattering clouds around her, all I knew of the speed we made was the frightful flash of her shoulders, and her mane like trees in the tempest. I felt the earth under us rushing away, and the air left far behind us, and my breath came and went, and I prayed to God and was sorry to be so late of it. All the long swift while, without power of thought, I clung to her crest and shoulders, and was proud of holding on so long, though sure of being beaten. Then in her fury at feeling me still, she rushed at another device for it, and leaped the wide water trough sideways across, to and fro, till no breath was left in me. The hazel boughs took me too hard in the face, and the tall dog-briars got hold of me, and the ache of my back was like crimping a fish, till I longed to give it up, thoroughly beaten, and lie there and die in the creses. But there came a shrill whistle from up the home hill, where the people had hurried to watch us, and the mare stopped as if with a bullet, then set off for home with the speed of a swallow, and going as smoothly and silently. I never had dreamed of such a delicate motion, fluent and graceful and ambient, soft as the breeze flitting over the flowers, but swift as the summer lightning. I sat up again, but my strength was all spent, and no time left to recover it, and though she rose at our gate like a bird, I tumbled off into the soft mud. Well done, lad, Mr. Fagus said good-naturedly, for all were now gathered round me, as I rose from the ground, somewhat tottering, and myry and crestfallen, but otherwise none the worse, having fallen upon my head, which is of uncommon substance. Not at all bad work, my boy. We may teach you to ride by and by, I see. I thought not to see you stick on so long. I should have stuck on much longer, sir, if her sides had not been wet. She was so slippery. Boy, thou art right. She hath given many the slip. Ha-ha! Vex not, Jack, that I laugh at thee. She is like a sweetheart to me, and better than any of them be. It would have gone to my heart if thou hadst conquered. None but I can ride my Winnie-Mare. Fullmenia gem of purest-race serene, the dark unfathomed caves of ocean bare. Fullmenia flower is born to blush unseen, and wasted sweetness on the desert air. Gray End of Section 49 This recording is in the public domain. Chapter 50 At the Ontario Reader's Third Book By the Ontario Ministry of Education Read for Librabox.org By Lucy Burgoyne The Arab and his steed The Honourable Mrs. Norton My beautiful, my beautiful, that standeth meekly by, with thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye, fret not to roam the desert now, with awe by winged speed. I may not mount on thee again, thought soul, my Arab steed. Fret not, with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind. The further that thou flyest now, so far am I behind. The stranger have thy bridal reign, thy master have his gold. Fleet limbed and beautiful, farewell, thought soul, my steed, thought soul. Farewell, those three untired limbs, full many a mile must roam, to reach the chill and wintry sky, which clouds the stranger's home. Some other hand, less fond, must now, by corn and bed, prepare. The silky mane, I braided once, must be another's care. The morning sun shall dawn again, but nevermore with thee shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were want to be. Evening shall darken on the earth, and all the sandy plain. Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again. Yes, thou must go, the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky. Thou master's home, from all of these my exiled one must fly. Thou proud, dark eye, will glow less proud, thy step become less fleet. And vainly shall thou arch thy neck, thy master's hand to meet. Only in sleep shall I behold, that dark eye glancing bright. Only in sleep shall hear again, that step so firm and light. And when I raise my dreaming arm, to check or cheer thy speed, then must I, starting, wait to feel, foot sold, my Arab steed. Are rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide, till foam wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side, and the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy indignant pain, till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each startled fame. Will they ill-use thee, if I thought, but no, it cannot be, thou art so swift, yet easy-curved, so gentle, yet so free. And yet, if happily, when thought gone, my lonely heart shall dune. Can the hand which casts thee from it now, command thee to return? Return, alas, my Arab steed, what shall I must to do, when thou who worked his all of joy, has vanished from his view. When the dim distance cheats my eye, and through the gathering tears, thy bright form for a moment, like the false mirage appears, slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary step alone, where with fleck step and joyous bound, thou opt has borne me on, and sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly think, it was here he bowed his glossy neck, when last I saw him drink. When last I saw thee drink away, the fever dream is all, I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more. They tempted me, my beautiful, for hunger's power is strong. They tempted me, my beautiful, but I have loved too long. Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou worked's all? Tis false, tis false, my Arab steed, I fling them back their goal. Thus, thus I leap upon my back, and scour the distant plains, a way who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains. The Honourable Mrs. Norton End of Section 50 This recording is in the public domain. The nightingale thought, I have sung many songs, but never one so gay, for he sings of what the world will be when the years have died away. Tennison Never to tire, never to grow cold, to be patient, sympathetic, tender, to look for the budding flower and the opening heart, to hope always like God, to love always, this is duty. AMYAL End of Section 51 This recording is in the public domain. Chapter 52 Of The Ontario Reader's Third Book By The Ontario Ministry of Education Read for LibriVox.org Adventure with a Whale I gaily flung myself into my place in the maids' boat one morning, as we were departing in chase of a magnificent chancellot that had been raised just after breakfast. There were no other vessels in sight, much to our satisfaction. The wind was light, with a cloudless sky, and the whale was dead to leeward of us. We sped along at a good rate towards our prospective victim, who was, in his leisurely enjoyment of life, calmly lolling on the surface, occasionally lifting his enormous tail out of water, and letting it fall flat upon the surface with a boom audible from miles. We were, as usual, first boat, but much to the maids' annoyance, when we were a short half-mile from the whale our mainsheet parted. It became immediately necessary to roll the sail up, lest its flapping should alarm the watchful monster, and this delayed us sufficiently to allow the other boats to shoot ahead of us. Thus the second mate got fast some seconds before we arrived on the scene, seeing which we furled sail, unshipped the mast, and went in on him with the oars only. At first the proceedings were quite of the usual character, our chief wielding his lands in most brilliant fashion, while not being fast to the animal allowed us much greater freedom in our evolutions, but that fatal habit of the maids, of allowing his boat to take care of herself so long as he was getting in some good home thrusts, once more asserted itself. Although the whale was exceedingly vigorous, churning the sea into yeasty foam over an enormous area, there we wallowed close to him, right in the middle of the turmoil, actually courting disaster. He had just settled down for a moment, when glancing over the gun-whale I saw his tail, like a vast shadow, sweeping away from us towards the second mate, who was lying off the other side of him. Before I had time to think, the mighty mass of gristle left into the sunshine, curved back from us like a huge bow. Then with a roar it came at us, released from its tension of heaven knows how many tons. Full on the broad side it struck us, sending every soul but me flying out of the wreckage as if fired from catapults. I did not go because my foot was jammed somehow in the well of the boat, but the wretch nearly pulled my thighbone out of its socket. I had hardly released my foot when, towering above me, came the colossal head of the great creature, as he plowed through the bundle of debris that had just been a boat. There was an appalling roar of water in my ears, and darkness that might be felt all around. Yet in the midst of it all, one thought predominated as clearly as if I had been turning it over in my mind in the quiet of my bunker-board, what if he should swallow me? Nor to this day can I understand how I escaped the portals of his gullet, which of course gaped wide as a church-door. But the agony of holding my breath soon overpowered every other feeling and thought, till just as something was going to snap inside my head I rose to the surface. I was surrounded by a welter of bloody froth, which made it impossible for me to see, but oh, the air was sweet. I struck out blindly, instinctively, although I could feel so strong and eddy that voluntary progress was out of the question. My hand touched and clung to a rope, which immediately towed me in some direction. I neither knew nor cared wither. Soon the motion ceased, and with a seamen's instinct I began to haul myself along by the rope I grasped, although no definite idea was in my mind as to where it was attached. Presently I came butt up against something solid, the feel of which gathered all my scattered wits into a compact knob of dread. It was the whale—any port in a storm, I murmured, beginning to haul away again on my friendly line. By dint of hard work I pulled myself right up the sloping, slippery bank of blubber, until I reached the iron, which as luck would have it was planted in that side of the carcass now uppermost. Carcass, I said—well, certainly I had no idea of there being any life remaining within the vast mass beneath me, yet I had hardly time to take a couple of terms round myself with a rope—or whale-line, as I had proved it to be—when I felt the great animal quiver all over and began to forge ahead. I was now composed enough to remember that health could not be far away and that my rescue, provided that I could keep above water, was but a question of a few minutes. But I was hardly prepared for the whale's next move. Being very near his end, the boat—or boats—had drawn off a bit, I supposed, for I could see nothing of them. Then I remembered the flurry. Almost at the same moment it began, and there was I, who with fearful admiration had so often watched the titanic convulsions of a dying cashelot actually involved in them. The turns were off my body, but I was able to twist a couple of turns round my arm, which in case of his sounding I could readily let go. Then all was lost in a roar and rush, as if the heart of some mighty cataract, during which I was sometimes above, sometimes beneath the water, but always clinging, with every ounce of energy still left to the line. Now one thought was uppermost, what if he should breach? I had seen them do so when in a flurry, leaping twenty feet in the air. Then I prayed. Quickly as all the preceding changes had passed, came perfect peace. There I lay, still alive, but so weak that, although I could feel the turns slipping off my arms, and knew that I should slide off the slope of the whale's side to the sea if they did, I could make no effort to secure myself. Everything then passed away from me, just as if I had gone to sleep. I do not at all understand how I kept my position, nor how long, but I awoke to the blessed sound of voices, and saw the second mate's boat alongside. Frank T. Bullen. The Cruise of the Cashelot. End of Section 52. This recording is in the public domain. Chapter 53 of the Ontario Reader's Third Book by the Ontario Ministry of Education. Chapter 53. The Maple. All hail to the broad-leaved maple, with her fair and changeful dress, a type of our youthful country in its pride and loveliness. Whether in spring or summer, or in the dreary fall, mid-nature's forest children, she's fairest of them all. Down sunny slopes and valleys, her graceful form is seen. Her wide, unbridged branches, the sun-burnt reaper screen. Mid the dark-browed firs and cedar, her livelier colors shine, like the dawn of the brighter future on the settler's hut of pine. She crowns the pleasant hilltop, whispers on breezy downs, and casts refreshing shadows over the streets of our busy towns. She gladdens the aching eyeball, shelters the weary head, and scatters her climes and glories on the graves of the silent dead. When winter's frosts are yielding to the sun's returning sway, and merry groups are speeding to sugar-woods away, the sweet and welling juices, which form their welcome spoil, tell of the teeming plenty, which here waits on us toil. When sweet-toned spring, soft breathing, breaks nature's icy sleep, and the forest-bows are swaying, like the green waves of the deep, in her fair and budding beauty, a fitting emblem she, of this our land of promise, of hope and liberty. And when her leaves, all crimson, droop silently in fall, like drops of life-bud dwelling from a warrior brave and tall, they tell how fast and freely would her children's blood be shed, ere the soil of our faith and freedom should echo a foeman's tread. Then hail to the broad-leafed maple, with her fair and changeful dress, a type of our youthful country in its pride and loveliness, whether in spring or summer or in the dreary fall, mid-nature's forest children, she's fairest of them all. H. F. Darnell. In Syracuse there was so hard a ruler that the people made a plot to drive him out of the city. The plot was discovered, and the king commanded that the leaders should be put to death. One of these, named Damon, lived at some distance from Syracuse. He asked that before he was put to death he might be allowed to go home to say good-bye to his family, promising that he would then come back to die at the appointed time. The king did not believe that he would keep his word, and said, I will not let you go unless you find some friend who will come and stay in your place. Then if you are not back on the day set for execution, I shall put your friend to death in your stead. The king thought to himself, Surely no one will ever take the place of a man condemned to death. Now Damon had a very dear friend named Pithius, who at once came forward and offered to stay in prison while Damon was allowed to go away. The king was very much surprised, but he had given his word. Damon was, therefore, permitted to leave for home while Pithius was shut up in prison. Many days passed. The time for the execution was close at hand, and Damon had not come back. The king, curious to see how Pithius would behave, now that death seemed so near, went to the prison. Your friend will never return, he said to Pithius. Your wrong, was the answer. Damon will be here if he can possibly come. But he has to travel by sea, and the winds have been blowing the wrong way for several days. However, it is much better that I should die than he. I have no wife and no children, and I love my friend so well that it would be easier to die for him than to live without him. So I am hoping and praying that he may be delayed until my head has fallen. The king went away more puzzled than ever. The fatal day arrived, but Damon had not come. Pithius was brought forward and led upon the scaffold. My prayers are heard, he cried. I shall be permitted to die for my friend. But mark my words. Damon is faithful and true. You will yet have reason to know he has done his utmost to be here. Just at this moment a man came galloping up at full speed, on a horse covered with foam. It was Damon. In an instant he was on the scaffold and had Pithius in his arms. My beloved friend, he cried, the gods be praised that you are safe. What agony have I suffered in the fear that my delay was putting your life in danger? There was no joy in the face of Pithius, for he did not care to live if his friend must die. But the king had heard all. At last he was forced to believe in the unselfish friendship of these two. His hard heart melted at the sight, and he set them both free, asking only that they would be his friends too. Charlotte M. Young Honor and shame from no condition rise