The New McGuffey Fourth Reader, W. H. McGuffey [reading like a writer txt] 📗

write as I dictate.” He then dictated an order, which Ernestine wrote, and he signed. Calling one of his guards, he bade him go with the girl and see that the order was obeyed.

How much happiness was Ernestine the means of bestowing through her good elocution, united to the happy circumstance that brought it to the knowledge of the king! First there were her poor neighbors, to whom she could give instruction and entertainment. Then there was the poor widow who sent the petition, and who not only regained her son, but received through Ernestine an order for him to paint the king’s likeness; so that the poor boy soon rose to great distinction, and had more orders than he could attend to. Words could not express his gratitude, and that of his mother, to the little girl.

And Ernestine had, moreover, the satisfaction of aiding her father to rise in the world, so that he became the king’s chief gardener. The king did not forget her, but had her well educated at his own expense. As for the two pages, she was indirectly the means of doing them good, also; for, ashamed of their bad reading, they commenced studying in earnest, till they overcame the faults that had offended the king. Both finally rose to distinction; and they owed their advancement in life chiefly to their good elocution.

DEFINITIONS:—Petition, a formal request. Articulate, to utter the elementary sounds. Modulate, to vary or inflect. Monotony, lack of variety. Affected, unnatural and silly.

 

A LEGEND OF BREGENZ.

BY ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

Girt round with rugged mountains The fair Lake Constance lies; In her blue heart reflected, Shine back the starry skies;

And, watching each white cloudlet Float silently and slow, You think a piece of Heaven Lies on our earth below!

Midnight is there: and Silence, Enthroned in Heaven, looks down Upon her own calm mirror, Upon a sleeping town:

For Bregenz, that quaint city Upon the Tyrol shore, Has stood above Lake Constance A thousand years and more.

Her battlements and towers, From off their rocky steep, Have cast their trembling shadow For ages on the deep.

Mountain and lake and valley A sacred legend know, Of how the town was saved one night Three hundred years ago.

Far from her home and kindred A Tyrol maid had fled, To serve in the Swiss valleys, And toil for daily bread;

And every year that fleeted So silently and fast Seemed to bear farther from her The memory of the Past.

She spoke no more of Bregenz With longing and with tears; Her Tyrol home seemed faded In a deep mist of years;

Yet, when her master’s children Would clustering round her stand She sang them ancient ballads Of her own native land;

And when at morn and evening She knelt before God’s throne, The accents of her childhood Rose to her lips alone.

And so she dwelt: the valley More peaceful year by year; When suddenly strange portents Of some great deed seemed near.

One day, out in the meadow, With strangers from the town Some secret plan discussing, The men walked up and down.

At eve they all assembled; Then care and doubt were fled; With jovial laugh they feasted: The board was nobly spread.

The elder of the village Rose up, his glass in hand, And cried, “We drink the downfall Of an accursed land!

“The night is growing darker; Ere one more day is flown, Bregenz, our foeman’s stronghold, Bregenz shall be our own!”

The women shrank in terror (Yet Pride, too, had her part), But one poor Tyrol maiden Felt death within her heart.

Nothing she heard around her (Though shouts rang forth again); Gone were the green Swiss valleys, The pasture and the plain;

Before her eyes one vision, And in her heart one cry That said, “Go forth! save Bregenz, And then, if need be, die!”

With trembling haste and breathless, With noiseless step she sped; Horses and weary cattle Were standing in the shed;

She loosed the strong white charger That fed from out her hand; She mounted, and she turned his head Toward her native land.

Out—out into the darkness— Faster, and still more fast;— The smooth grass flies behind her, The chestnut wood is past;

She looks up; clouds are heavy; Why is her steed so slow?— Scarcely the wind beside them Can pass them as they go.

“Faster!” she cries, “oh, faster!” Eleven the church bells chime; “O God,” she cries, “help Bregenz, And bring me there in time!”

But louder than bells’ ringing, Or lowing of the kine, Grows nearer in the midnight The rushing of the Rhine.

She strives to pierce the blackness, And looser throws the rein; Her steed must breast the waters That dash above his mane.

How gallantly, how nobly, He struggles through the foam! And see—in the far distance Shine out the lights of home!

Up the steep bank he bears her, And now they rush again Toward the heights of Bregenz That tower above the plain.

They reach the gates of Bregenz Just as the midnight rings, And out come serf and soldier To meet the news she brings.

Bregenz is saved! Ere daylight Her battlements are manned; Defiance greets the army That marches on the land.

Three hundred years are vanished, And yet upon the hill An old stone gateway rises To do her honor still.

And there, when Bregenz women Sit spinning in the shade, They see in quaint old carving The Charger and the Maid.

And when, to guard old Bregenz By gateway, street, and tower, The warder paces all night long And calls each passing hour,

“Nine,” “ten,” “eleven,” he cries aloud, And then (oh, crown of fame!), When midnight pauses in the skies, He calls the maiden’s name!

DEFINITIONS:—Fleeted, passed quickly. Portents, signs, indications. Jovial, joyful, gladsome. Board, dinner table. Charger, a horse for battle or parade. Serf, slave, serving man.

EXERCISE.—On the map of Europe, find Lake Constance, Tyrol, Bregenz. What are the mountains called which surround Lake Constance? Where is the Rhine?

 

THE GOLDEN TOUCH.

BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

I.

Once upon a time, there lived a very rich man, and a king besides, whose name was Midas; and he had a little daughter, whom nobody but myself ever heard of, and whose name I either never knew, or have entirely forgotten. So, because I love odd names for little girls, I choose to call her Marygold.

This King Midas was fonder of gold than of anything else in the world. He valued his royal crown chiefly because it was composed of that precious metal. If he loved anything better, or half so well, it was the one little maiden who played so merrily around her father’s footstool. But the more Midas loved his daughter, the more did he desire and seek for wealth. He thought, foolish man! that the best thing he could possibly do for this dear child would be to bequeath her the largest pile of glistening coin that had ever been heaped together since the world was made.

Thus he gave all his thoughts and all his time to this one purpose. If ever he happened to gaze for an instant at the gold-tinted clouds of sunset, he wished that they were real gold, and that they could be squeezed safely into his strong box. When little Marygold ran to meet him, with a bunch of buttercups and dandelions, he used to say, “Pooh, pooh, child! If these flowers were as golden as they look, they would be worth the plucking!”

At length (as people always grow more and more foolish, unless they take care to grow wiser and wiser) Midas had got to be so exceedingly unreasonable, that he could scarcely bear to see or touch any object that was not gold. He made it his custom, therefore, to pass a large portion of every day in a dark and dreary apartment, under ground, at the basement of his palace. It was here that he kept his wealth. To this dismal hole—for it was little better than a dungeon—Midas betook himself, whenever he wanted to be particularly happy.

Here, after carefully locking the door, he would take a bag of gold coin, or a gold cup as big as a washbowl, or a heavy golden bar, or a peck measure of gold dust, and bring them from the obscure corners of the room into the one bright and narrow sunbeam that fell from the dungeonlike window. He valued the sunbeam for no other reason but that his treasure would not shine without its help.

And then would he reckon over the coins in the bag; toss up the bar, and catch it as it came down; sift the gold dust through his fingers;` look at the funny image of his own face, as reflected in the burnished circumference of the cup; and whisper to himself, “O Midas, rich King Midas, what a happy man art thou!”

II.

Midas was enjoying himself in his treasure room, one day, as usual, when he perceived a shadow fall over the heaps of gold; and, looking up, he beheld the figure of a stranger, standing in the bright and narrow sunbeam! It was a young man, with a cheerful and ruddy face.

Whether it was that the imagination of King Midas threw a yellow tinge over everything, or whatever the cause might be, he could not help fancying that the smile with which the stranger regarded him had a kind of golden brightness in it. Certainly, there was now a brighter gleam upon all the piled-up treasures than before. Even the remotest corners had their share of it, and were lighted up, when the stranger smiled, as with tips of flame and sparkles of fire.

As Midas knew that he had carefully turned the key in the lock, and that no mortal strength could possibly break into his treasure room, he, of course, concluded that his visitor must be something more than mortal.

Midas had met such beings before now, and was not sorry to meet one of them again. The stranger’s aspect, indeed, was so good-humored and kindly, if not beneficent, that it would have been unreasonable to suspect him of intending any mischief. It was far more probable that he came to do Midas a favor. And what could that favor be, unless to multiply his heaps of treasure?

The stranger gazed about the room; and, when his lustrous smile had glistened upon all the golden objects that were there, he turned again to Midas.

“You are a wealthy man, friend Midas!” he observed. “I doubt whether any other four walls on earth contain so much gold as you have contrived to pile up in this room.”

“I have done pretty well,—pretty well,” answered Midas, in a discontented tone. “But, after all, it is but a trifle, when you consider that it has taken me my whole lifetime to get it together. If one could live a thousand years, he might have time to grow rich!”

“What!” exclaimed the stranger. “Then you are not satisfied?”

Midas shook his head.

“And pray, what would satisfy you?” asked the stranger. “Merely for the curiosity of the thing, I should be glad to know.”

Why did the stranger ask this question? Did he have it in his power to gratify the king’s wishes? It was an odd question, to say the least.

III.

Midas paused and meditated. He felt sure that this stranger, with such a golden luster in his good-humored smile, had come hither with both the power and the purpose of gratifying his utmost wishes. Now, therefore, was the fortunate moment, when he had but to speak, and obtain whatever possible, or seemingly impossible thing, it might come into his head to ask. So he thought, and thought, and thought, and heaped up one golden mountain upon another, in his imagination, without