Author.-Elihu Burritt (1810-1879), the " Learned Blacksmith," an American writer who spent his leisure in study and became a mathematician and a wonderful linguist. He was an earnest apostle of international peace. His best-known work is Sparks from the Anvil.
General.-The story is graphically told in a series of word-pictures-theboys at the foot of the cliff and the wild lad climbing; the father"s distress; attempts at rescue; the climax, when the boy is about to fall; the rescue; the rejoicings. Can you visualize these scenes? Do you think fifty niches too many for two minutes" work? Is there confusion of thought in para- graph four? Why did the rescuers use several ropes? Remember that natural bridges arc generally the result of the action of water which works through loose soil or soft rock beneath a harder layer. Virginia is an American State named after the " Virgin Queen, " Elizabeth. The famous Natural Bridge of Virginia is in Rockbridge county, near Lexington. Consult an atlas.
Lesson 35
CALLING TO ME
Through the hush of my heart, in the spell of its dreaming, Comes the song of a bush boy glad-hearted and free;Oh, the gullies are green where the sunlight is streaming, And the voice of that youngster is calling to me.
It is calling to me with a haunting insistence,And my feet wander off on a hoof-beaten track, Till I hear the old magpies away in the distanceWith a song of the morning that"s calling me back.
It is calling me back, for the dew"s on the clover,And the colours are mellow on mountain and tree; Oh, the gold has gone grey in the heart of the rover,And the bush in the sunshine is calling to me.
It is calling to me, though the breezes are telling Gay troubadour tales to the stars as they roam;For the tapers are lit in the humble old dwelling, And the love that it sheltered is calling me home.
It is calling me home-but the white road lies gleaming, And afar from it all must I tarry and dree;Just an echo far off, in the hush of my dreaming, Is the voice of a youngster that"s calling to me.
"John O"Brien " (Father Hartigan), in Around the Boree LogDrawn by John Rowell
"Glad-hearted and free. "
"Tis not in mortals to command success,
But we"ll do more, Sempronius, we"ll deserve it.
Addison
Author.- " John O"Brien " is the pen-name of the Reverend Francis Hartigan, a Catholic priest at Narrandera, New South Wales. His book of poems Round the Boree Log and Other Verses (Angus and Robertson, Sydney) is widely popular.
General.- "I rememher, I remember, the house where I was born. "Most poets refer, in one poem at least, to the place of their birth. It is said that Shakespeare is an exception. What other poems express the same feelings? Can you mark the three-pulse beat along the lines? Do you notice the device of repetition at the opening of the stanzas? What does he mean by " the gold has gone grey, " "a haunting insistence, " " troubadour tales, " "dree "? Describe the place of your birth, and see if you can do as well. Then find out what makes the difference.
Lesson 36
THE WHITE GOAT
When the white goat reached the mountain, there was general delight. Never had the old fir-trees seen anything so pretty. They received her like a little princess. The chestnut- trees bent to the ground to kiss her with the tips of their branches. The golden gorse opened wide to let her pass, and smelt just as sweet as it could. In fact, the whole mountain welcomed her.
You can imagine how happy she was. No rope, no stake, nothing to prevent her from skipping and browsing as she pleased.. My dear fellow, the grass was above her horns, and such grass!-luscious, delicate, toothsome, made of all sorts of plants-quite another thing from that grass in the meadow. And the flowers-oh, great big campanulas, and crimson foxgloves with their long calyxes, a perfect forest of wild flowers giving out an intoxicating sweetness.
The white goat wallowed in the thick of them with her hoofs in the air, and rolled down the banks pell-mell with the falling leaves and the chestnuts. Then, suddenly, she sprang to her feet with a bound and a hop. Away she went, head foremost, through thicket and bushes, now on a rock, now in a gully, up there, down there, everywhere. You would have said that tenlittle white goats were on the mountain.
The fact is, Blanchette was afraid of nothing. She sprang with a leap over torrents that spattered her as she passed with a dust of damp spray. Then, all dripping, she would stretch herself out on a nice flat rock, and dry in the sun. Once, coming to the edge of a slope with a bit of laurel in her teeth, she saw below, far below in the plain, the house of her master with the meadow behind it; and she laughed till she cried. "How small it is! " she said. " How could I ever have lived there? " Poor little thing ! Being perched so high, she fancied she was as tall as the world.
*****
Suddenly the wind freshened. The mountain grew violet; it was dusk. "Already ! " said the little goat; and she stopped, quite surprised. Below, the fields were drowned in mist. Her master"s meadow disappeared in the fog, and nothing could be seen of the house but the roof and a trifle of smoke. She heard the little bells of a flock that was on its way home, and her heart grew sad. A falcon, making for his nest, swept her with his wings as he passed. She shuddered. There came a howl on the mountain: " Hoo, hoo ! "She thought of the wolf. All day that silly young thing had never once thought of it. At the same moment, a horn sounded far, far down the valley. It was that kind master of hers, making a last effort. "Hoo, hoo! " howled the wolf. "Come back! Come back! " cried the horn.
Blanchette felt a wish to return; but, remembering thestake, the rope, the hedge round the field, she thought that she never could endure that life again, and it was better to remain where she was. The horn ceased to sound. The goat heard behind her the rustling of leaves. She turned, and saw in the shadow two short ears erect and two eyes shining. It was the wolf.
