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

may think it strange, but it is just as hard to pronounce in one language as another.”

“Only two letters! What can it be?” cried both the children.

“The hardest word,” replied their father, “I have ever met with in any language—and I have learned several—is a little word of two letters—N-o, no.”

“Now you are making fun of us!” cried the children: “that is one of the easiest words in the world.” And, to prove that their father was mistaken, they both repeated, “N-o, no; n-o, no,” a great many times.

“I am not joking in the least. I really think it is the hardest of all words. It may seem easy enough to you to-night, but perhaps you cannot pronounce it to-morrow.”

“I can always say it, I know I can;” said George with much confidence—“NO! Why, it is as easy to say it as to breathe.”

“Well, George, I hope you will always find it as easy to pronounce as you think it is now, and that you will be able to speak it when you ought to.”

In the morning George went bravely to school, a little proud that he could pronounce so hard a word as “Popocatepetl.” Not far frown the schoolhouse was a large pond of very deep water, where the boys used to skate and slide when it was frozen over.

Now, the night before, Jack Frost had been busy changing the surface of the pond into beautiful crystals of ice; and when the boys went to school in the morning they found the pond as smooth and clear as glass. The day was cold, and they thought that by noon the ice would be strong enough to skate upon.

As soon as school was dismissed the boys all ran to the pond,—some to try the ice, and others merely to see it.

“Come, George,” said William Green; “now we shall have a glorious time sliding.”

George hesitated, and said he did not believe it was strong enough, for it had been frozen over only one night.

“Oh, come on!” said another boy: “I know it is strong enough. I have known it to freeze over in one night, many a time, so it would bear: haven’t you, John?”

“Yes,” answered John Brown: “it did so one night last winter; and it wasn’t so cold as it was last night, either.”

But George still hesitated, for his father had forbidden him to go on the ice without special permission.

“I know why George won’t go,” said John; “he’s afraid he might fall down and hurt himself.”

“Or the ice might crack,” said another; “and the noise would frighten him. Perhaps his mother might not like it.”

“He’s a coward, that’s the reason he won’t come.”

George could stand this no longer, for he was rather proud of his courage. “I am not afraid,” said he; and he ran to the pond, and was the first one on the ice. The boys enjoyed the sport very much, running and sliding, and trying to catch one another on its smooth surface.

More boys kept coming on as they saw the sport, and soon all thought of danger was forgotten. Then suddenly there was a loud cry, “The ice has broken! the ice has broken!” And sure enough, three of the boys had broken through, and were struggling in the water; and one of them was George.

The teacher had heard the noise, and was coming to call the boys from the ice just as they broke through. He tore some boards from a fence close by, and shoved them out on the ice until they came within reach of the boys in the water. After a while he succeeded in getting the three boys out of the water, but not until they were almost frozen.

George’s father and mother were very much troubled when he was brought home, and they learned how narrowly he had escaped drowning. But they were so glad to know that. he was safe that they did not ask him any questions until he was warm and comfortable again. But in the evening, when they were all gathered together about the cheerful fire, his father asked him how he came to disobey his positive command.

George answered that he did not want to go on the ice, but the boys made him.

“How did they make you? Did they take hold of you, and drag you on?” asked his father.

“No,” said George, “but they all wanted me to go.”

“When they asked you, why didn’t you say ‘No’?”

“I was going to do so: but they called me a coward, and said I was afraid to go; and I couldn’t stand that.”

“And so,” said his father, “you found it easier to disobey me, and run the risk of losing your life, than to say that little word you thought so easy last night. You could not say ‘No.’”

George now began to see why this little word”No” was so hard to pronounce. It was not because it was so long, or composed of such difficult sounds; but because it often requires so much real courage to say it,—to say “No” when one is tempted to do wrong.

After that, whenever George was tempted to do wrong, he remembered his narrow escape from drowning, and the importance of the little word “No.” The oftener he said it, the easier it became; and in time he could say it, when necessary, without much effort.

 

DEFINITIONS:—Popocatepetl, a volcano in Mexico (sometimes inaccurately pronounced po po cat’ a petl). Prounounce, say distinctly. Syllable, one of the distinct parts of a word. Attracted, drawn. Hesitated, paused. Importance, value. Special, particular.

 

A SONG*

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, There is ever a something sings alway: There’s the song of the lark when the skies are clear, And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray. The sunshine showers across the grain, And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree; And in and out, when the eaves drip rain, The swallows are twittering carelessly.

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, Be the skies above or dark or fair; There is ever a song that our hearts may hear— There is ever a song somewhere, my dear— There is ever a song somewhere!

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, In the midnight black or the midday blue: The robin pipes when the sun is here, And the cricket chirrups the whole night through; The buds may blow and the fruit may grow, And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sere: But whether the sun or the rain or the snow, There is ever a song somewhere, my dear.

* From “Afterwhiles.” Copyright, 1887. By permission of the Bowen-Merrill Company, publishers; Indianapolis, Indiana.

 

THE JOURNEY OF LIFE.

AN ALLEGORY.

Once upon a time, a good many years ago, there was a traveler, and he set out upon a journey. It was a magic journey, and was to seem very long when he began it, and very short when he got halfway through.

He traveled along a rather dark path for some little time, without meeting anything, until at last he came to a beautiful child. So he said to the child, “What do you here?” And the child said, “I am always at play. Come and play with me.”

So he played with the child the whole day long, and they were very merry. The sky was so blue, the sun was so bright, the water was so sparkling, the leaves were so green, the flowers were so lovely, and they heard so many singing birds, and saw so many butterflies, that everything was beautiful. This was in fine weather.

When it rained, they loved to watch the falling drops and smell the fresh scents. When it blew, it was delightful to listen to the wind, and fancy what it said, as it came rushing from its home, whistling and howling, and driving the clouds before it, bending the trees, rumbling in the chimneys, shaking the house and making the sea roar in fury.

But when it snowed, that was the best of all; for they liked nothing so well as to look up at the white flakes falling fast and thick, like down frown the breasts of millions of white birds, and to see how smooth and deep the drift was, and to listen to the hush upon the paths and roads.

But one day of a sudden the traveler lost the child. He called to him over and over again, but got no answer. So he went on for a little while without meeting anything, until at last he came to a handsome boy. He said to the boy, “What do you here?” And the boy said, “I am always learning. Come and learn with me.”

So he learned with the boy about Jupiter and Juno, and the Greeks and Romans,—more than I could tell, or he either; for he soon forgot a great deal of it. But they were not always learning; they had the merriest games that ever were played.

They rowed upon the river in summer, and skated on the ice in winter; they were active afoot and active on horseback; at cricket, and all games of ball; at prisoner’s base, hare-and-hounds, follow-my-leader, and more sports than I can think of: nobody could beat them. As to friends, they had such dear friends, and so many of them, that I want the time to reckon them up. They were all young, like the handsome boy, and were never to be strange to one another all their lives through.

Still, one day, in the midst of all these pleasures, the traveler lost the boy, as he had lost the child, and, after calling him in vain, went on upon his journey. So he went on for a while without seeing anything, until at last he came to a young man. He said to the young man, “What do you here?” And the young man said, “I am always in love. Come and love with me.”

But the traveler lost the young man as he had lost the rest of his friends, and, after calling to him to come back, which he never did, went on upon his journey. At last he came to a middle-aged gentleman. So he said to him, “What are you doing here?” And his answer was, “I am always busy. Come and be busy with me.”

The traveler began to be very busy with the gentleman, and they went on through the wood together. The whole journey was through a wood, only it had been open and green at first, like a wood in spring, and now began to be thick and dark, like a wood in summer; some of the little trees that had come out earliest were even turning brown.

The gentleman was not alone, but had a lady of about the same age with him, who was his wife; and they had children, who were with them too. They all went on together through the wood, cutting down the trees, and making a path among the branches, and carrying burdens and working hard.

Sometimes they came to a long green avenue that opened into deeper woods. Then they would hear a very distant little voice crying, “Father, father, I am another child! Stop for me!” And presently they would see a very little figure, growing larger as it came along, running to join them. When it came up, they all crowded round it, and kissed and welcomed it; and then they all went on together.

Sometimes they came to several avenues at once; and then they all stood still, and one of the children said, “Father, I am going to sea;” and another said, “Father, I am going to