"The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run,It"s the sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun, It"s song to a man"s soul, brother, fire to a man"s brain, To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again. "Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the greenwheat,
So will ye not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet?
I"ve a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for achingeyes,"
Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds" cries. It"s a white road westwards is the road I must treadTo the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head,To the violets and the warm hearts and the thrushes"
song,
In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong.
- John Masefield
Author.-John Masefield (born 1876), English poet and prose writer. In his younger days he was a sailor and an adventurer. At present he is Poet-Laureate. His publications include-Salt Water Ballads, A Mainsail Haul (prose), A Tarpaulin Muster (prose), William Shakespeare (prose), Gallipoli (prose), The Everlasting Mercy, The Widow in the Bye-street, Dauber, The Daffodil Fields (verse), and several plays-Nan, Pompey the Great, A King"s Daughter, etc.
General Notes.-What counties are in the West of England? Why are they warmer than the counties in the East? Is April blossom-time in Australia? Write a verse in praise of the place where you were born.
Suggestions for Verse-speaking.-Notice that there are two speakers-(a) the poet, (b) the west wind. Divide the class to take these two parts. If desired, the song of the west wind may be divided between three groups.
Lesson 59
SILVER
Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon;This way and that she peers, and sees Silver fruit upon silver trees;One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch; Couched in his kennel, like a log, With paws of silver sleeps the dog;From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;A harvest mouse goes scampering by, With silver claws and silver eye;And moveless fish in the water gleam
By silver reeds in a silver stream.
- Walter de la Mare
Author.-Walter de la Mare, English poet and novelist, was born at Charlton, Kent, in 1873. He is a writer of magical verse that is full of music, pictures, and fantasy. His books of verse include Songs of Childhood, The Listeners, and Peacock Pie; among his prose writingsare Memoirs of a Midget and a children"s monkey story, The Three Mulla Mulgars. His collected poems were published in 1920, and he has since selected two small volumes of his poems, Old Rhymes and New, for use in schools.
General Notes.-What a contrast to the long swinging lines of " The West Wind." As you say the poem, notice the quietness and stillness of it. Write a sunset poem called "Gold."Lesson 60
HOW THE CRICkETS BROuGHT GOOD FORTuNE
My friend Jack went into a baker"s shop one day to buy a little cake which he had fancied in passing. He intended it for a child whose appetite was gone, and who could be coaxed to eat only by amusing him. He thought that such a pretty loaf might tempt even the sick. While he waited for his change, a little boy, six or eight years old, in poor but perfectly clean clothes, entered the baker"s shop.
"If you please, ma"am," said he to the baker"s wife,"mother sent me for a loaf of bread."
The woman climbed upon the counter (this happened in a country town), took from the shelf of four-pound loaves the best one she could find, and put it into the arms of the little boy.
My friend Jack then for the first time observed the thin and thoughtful face of the little fellow. It contrasted strongly with the big round loaf, of which he was taking the best of care.
"Have you any money?" said the baker"s wife. The little boy"s eyes grew sad.
"No, ma"am," said he, hugging the loaf closer to his thin blouse; "but mother told me to say that she would come and speak to you about it to-morrow.""Run along," said the good woman; "carry your bread home, child.""Thank you, ma"am," said the poor little fellow.
My friend Jack came forward for his change. He had put his purchase into his pocket, and was about to go when he found the child with the big loaf standing stock-still behind him.
"What are you doing there?" said the baker"s wife to the child, who she too thought had left the shop. "Don"t you like the bread?""Oh yes, ma"am," said the child.
"Well then, carry it to your mother, my little friend. If you wait any longer, she will think you are playing by the way, and you will get a scolding."The child did not seem to hear. Something else held his attention. The baker"s wife went up to him, and gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder.
"What are you thinking about?"said she.
"Ma"am," said the little boy, "what is it that sings?""There is no singing," said she.
"Yes!" cried the little fellow. "Hear it! Queek, queek, queek, queek!"My friend and the woman both listened, but they could hear nothing, unless it was the song of the crickets, frequent guests in bakers" houses.
"It is a little bird," said the dear little fellow; "or perhaps the bread sings when it bakes, as apples do.""No, indeed, little goosey!" said the baker"s wife; "those are crickets. They sing in the bake-house because we are heating the oven and they like to see the fire.""Crickets!" said the child; "are they really crickets?" "Yes, to be sure," said she.
The child"s face lighted up.
