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

their aprons, or picking them up from the ground, now piling them in baskets, and now eating the nicest and ripest, while Frisk was barking gayly among them, as if he were catching pears too!

Poor Harry! He could hear all this glee and merriment through the open window, as he lay in bed. The storm of passion having subsided, there he lay weeping and disconsolate, a grievous sob bursting forth every now and then, as he heard the loud peals of childish laughter, and as he thought how he should have laughed, and how happy he should have been, had he not forfeited all his pleasure by his own bad conduct.

He wondered if Annie would not be so good-natured as to bring him a pear. All on a sudden, he heard a little foot on the stair, pitapat, and he thought she was coming. Pitapat came the foot, nearer and nearer, and at last a small head peeped, half afraid, through the half-open door.

But it was not Annie’s head; it was Frisk’s—poor Frisk, whom Harry had been teasing all the norning, and who came into the room wagging his tail, with a great pear in his mouth; and, jumping upon the bed, he laid it in the little boy’s hand.

Is not Frisk a fine, grateful fellow? and does he not deserve a share of Harry’s breakfast, whether he begs for it or not? And little Harry will remember from the events of this day that kindness, even though shown to a dog, will always be rewarded; and that ill nature and bad temper are connected with nothing but pain and disgrace.

 

DEFINITIONS:—Inverted, turned upside down. Porringer, a small metallic dish. Remembered, had not forgotten. Plight, condition. Pensioner, one who is supported by others. Pilferers, those who steal little things. Vigilant, watchful. Inmates, those living in the same house. Holiday, a day of amusement. Buffeting, striking with the hand. Subsided, become quiet. Forfeited, lost. Connected, united, have a close relation.

EXERCISE.—What two lessons may be learned from this story? Is it a good rule to return kindness for unkindness? Do you think that Harry’s dog brought him the pear because he was really grateful?

 

LITTLE BOY BLUE.*

BY EUGENE FIELD.

The little toy dog is covered with dust, But sturdy and stanch he stands; And the little toy soldier is red with rust, And his musket it molds in his hands. Time was when the little toy dog was new, And the soldier was passing fair, And there was a time when our Little Boy Blue Kissed them and put them there.

“Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said, “And don’t you make any noise!” So, toddling off to his trundle bed, He dreamed of the pretty toys: And, as he was dreaming, an angel song Awakened our Little Boy Blue— Oh, the years are many, the years are long; But the little toy friends are true.

Ah, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, Each in the same old place, Awaiting the touch of a little hand, The smile of a little face; And they wonder, as waiting these long years thro’ In the dust of that little chair, What has become of our Little Boy Blue, Since he kissed them and put them there.

* From ” A Little Book of Western Verse.” Copyright, 1889, by Eugene Field. By permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons, publishers.

 

IF I WERE A BOY.

If I were a boy again, and knew what I know now, I would not be quite so positive in my opinions as I used to be. Boys generally think that they are very certain about many things. A boy of fifteen is generally a great deal more sure of what he thinks he knows than a man of fifty.

You ask the boy a question and he will probably answer you right off, with great assurance; he knows all about it. Ask a man of large experience and ripe wisdom the same question, and he will say, “Well, there is much to be said about it. I am inclined on the whole to think so and so, but other intelligent men think otherwise.”

When I was a small boy, I traveled from central Massachusetts to western New York, crossing the river at Albany, and going the rest of the way by canal. On the canal boat a kindly gentleman was talking to me one day, and I mentioned the fact that I had crossed the Connecticut River at Albany. How I got it in my head that it was the Connecticut River, I do not know, for I knew my geography very well then; but in some unaccountable way I had it fixed in my mind that the river at Albany was the Connecticut, and I called it so.

“Why,” said the gentleman, “that is the Hudson River.”

“Oh, no, sir!” I replied, politely but firmly. “You’re mistaken. That is the Connecticut River.”

The gentleman smiled and said no more. I was not much in the habit, I think, of contradicting my elders; but in this matter I was perfectly sure that I was right, and so I thought it my duty to correct the gentleman’s geography. I felt rather sorry for him that he should be so ignorant. One day, after I reached home, I was looking over my route on the map, and lo! there was Albany standing on the Hudson River, a hundred miles from the Connecticut.

Then I did not feel half so sorry for the gentleman’s ignorance as I did for my own. I never told anybody that story until I wrote it down on these pages the other day; but I have thought of it a thousand times, and always with a blush for my boldness.

Nor was it the only time that I was perfectly sure of things that really were not so. It is hard for a boy to learn that he may be mistaken; but, unless he is a fool, he learns it after a while. The sooner he finds it out, the better for him.

If I were a boy, I would not think that I and the boys of my time were an exception to the general rule—a new kind of boys, unlike all who have lived before, having different feelings and different ways. To be honest, I must own that I used to think so myself. I was quite inclined to reject the counsel of my elders by saying to myself, “That may have been well enough for boys thirty or fifty years ago, but it isn’t the thing for me and my set of boys.” But that was nonsense. The boys of one generation are not different from the boys of another generation.

If we say that boyhood lasts fifteen or sixteen years, I have known three generations of boys, some of them city boys and some of them country boys, and they are all very much alike—so nearly alike that the old rules of industry and patience and perseverance and self-control are as applicable to one generation as to another. The fact is, that what your fathers and teachers have found by experience to be good for boys, will be good for you; and what their experience has taught them will be bad for boys, will be bad for you. You are just boys, nothing more nor less.

 

DEFINITIONS:— Assurance, certainty. Route, road. Generation, people living at the same time. Applicable, can be applied.

EXERCISE—Find on the map, Albany, the Hudson River, and the Connecticut River.

 

THE TEMPEST.

BY JAMES T. FIELDS.

We were crowded in the cabin; Not a soul would dare to sleep It was midnight on the waters, And a storm was on the deep.

‘Tis a fearful thing in winter To be shattered by the blast, And to hear the rattling trumpet Thunder, “Cut away the mast!”

So we shuddered there in silence, For the stoutest held his breath, While the hungry sea was roaring, And the breakers threatened death.

And as thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy in his prayers, “We are lost!” the captain shouted, As he staggered down the stairs.

But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand, “Isn’t God upon the ocean, Just the same as on the land?”

Then we kissed the little maiden, And we spoke in better cheer; And we anchored safe in harbor When the morn was shining clear.

 

DEFINITIONS:—Deep, the ocean. Blast, tempest. Breakers, waves of the sea broken by rocks. Cheer, state of mind.

 

THE RIGHT WAY.

BY FRANK R. STOCKTON.

“Oh, Andy!” said little Jenny Murdock, “I’m so glad you came along this way. I can’t get over.”

“Can’t get over?” said Andrew. “Why what’s the matter?”

“The bridge is gone,” said Jenny. “When I came across after breakfast it was there, and now it’s over on the other side, and how can I get back home?”

“Why, so it is,” said Andrew. “It was all right when I came over a little while ago, but old Donald pulls it on the other side every morning after he has driven his cows across, and I don’t think he has any right to do it. I suppose he thinks the bridge was made for him and his cows.”

“Now I must go down to the big bridge, Andy, and I want you to go with me. I’m afraid to go through all those dark woods by myself,” said Jenny.

“But I can’t go, Jenny,” said Andrew, “it’s nearly school time now.”

Andrew was a Scotch boy, and a fine fellow. He was next to the head of his school, and he was as good at play as he was at his book.

Jenny Murdock, his most particular friend, was a little girl who lived very near Andrew’s home. She had no brothers or sisters, but Andrew had always been as good as a brother to her; and, therefore, when she stood by the water’s edge that morning, just ready to burst into tears, she thought all her troubles over when she saw Andrew coming along the road.

He had always helped her out of her troubles before, and she saw no reason why he should not do so now. She had crossed the creek in search of wild flowers, and when she wished to return had found the bridge removed, as Andrew supposed, by old Donald McKenzie, who pastured his cows on this side of the creek.

This stream was not very wide, nor very deep at its edges, but in the center it was four or five feet deep; and in the spring the water ran very swiftly, so that wading across it, either by cattle or men, was quite a difficult undertaking. As for Jenny, she could not get across at all without a bridge, and there was none nearer than the wagon bridge, a mile and a half below.

“You will go with me, Andy, won’t you?” said the little girl.

“And be late to school?” said he. “I have not been late yet, you know, Jenny.”

“Perhaps Dominie Black will think you have been sick or had to mind the cows,” said Jenny.

“He won’t think so unless I tell him,” said Andrew, “and you know I won’t do that.”

“If we were to run all the way, would you be too late?” said Jenny.

“If we were to run all the way? I should not get to school till after copy time. I expect every minute to hear the school bell ring,” said Andrew.

“But what can I do, then?” said poor little Jenny. “I can’t wait here till school’s out, and I don’t want to go up to the schoolhouse, for all the boys to laugh at me.”

“No,” said Andrew, reflecting very seriously, “I must take you home some way or other. It won’t do