Part 17

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Though filled with the nectar which Jupiter sips; And now, far removed from thy loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well: The old oaken bucket, the ironbound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in the well.

DEFINITIONS:--Cataract, a great fall of water. Overflowing, running over. Exquisite, exceeding, extreme. Poised, balanced. Goblet, a kind of cup or drinking vessel. Nectar, the drink of the gods. Intrusively, without right or welcome. Reverts, returns.

EXERCISE.--Who was the author of "The Old Oaken Bucket"? What does the poem describe? and what feeling does it express?

THE FARMER AND THE FOX.

By JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.

A farmer, whose poultry-yard had suffered severely from the foxes, succeeded at last in catching one in a trap. "Ah, you rascal!" said he, as he saw him struggling, "I'll teach you to steal my fat geese!--you shall hang on the tree yonder, and your brothers shall see what comes of thieving."

The farmer was twisting a halter to do what he threatened, when the fox, whose tongue had helped him in hard pinches before, thought there could be no harm in trying whether it might not do him one more good turn.

"You will hang me," he said, "to frighten my brother foxes. On the word of a fox, they won't care; they'll come and look at me, but they will dine at your expense before they go home again."

"Then I shall hang you for yourself, as a rogue and a rascal," said the farmer.

"I am only what nature chose to make me," the fox answered. "I didn't make myself."

"You stole my geese," said the man.

"Why did nature make me like geese, then?" said the fox. "Live and let live; give me my share, and I won't touch yours."

"I don't understand your fine talk," answered the farmer; "but I know that you are a thief, and that you deserve to be hanged."

"His head is too thick to let me catch him so," thought the fox; "I wonder if his heart is any softer! You are taking away the life of a fellow-creature," he said; "that's a responsibility--life is a curious thing, and who knows what comes after it?

"You say I am a rogue--I say I am not; but at any rate, I ought not to be hanged--for if I am not, I don't deserve it; and if I am, you should give me time to repent! I have him now," thought the fox; "let him. get out if he can."

"Why, what would you have me do with you?" said the man.

"My notion is that you should let me go, and give me a lamb, or goose or two, every month, and then I could live without stealing; but perhaps you know better; my education may have been neglected; you should shut me up, and take care of me, and teach me. Who knows but I may turn into a dog? Stranger things than this have happened."

"Very pretty," said the farmer; "we have dogs enough, and more, too, than we can take care of, without you. No, no, Master Fox, I have caught you, and I am determined that you shall swing. There will be one rogue less in the world, anyhow."

"It is mere hate and unchristian vengeance," said the fox.

"No, friend," the farmer answered; "I don't hate you, and I don't want to revenge myself on you; but you and I can't get on together, and I think I am of more importance in this world than you. If nettles and thistles grow in my cabbage garden, I don't try to persuade them to grow into cabbages. I just dig them up.

"I don't hate them; on the contrary, I feel a sense of pity for them. But I feel somehow that they mustn't hinder me with my cabbages, and that I must put them away; and so, my poor friend, I am sorry for you, but I am afraid you must swing."

HIAWATHA'S CHILDHOOD.

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the moon, Nokomis. Dark behind it rose the forest, Rose the black and gloomy pine trees, Rose the firs with cones upon them. Bright before it beat the water, Beat the clear and sunny water, Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water.

There the wrinkled old Nokomis Nursed the little Hiawatha, Rocked him in his linden cradle, Bedded soft in moss and rushes, Safely bound with reindeer sinews; Stilled his fretful wail by saying, "Hush! the Naked Bear will hear thee!" Lulled him into slumber, singing, "Ewa-yea! my little owlet! Who is this that lights the wigwam? With his great eyes lights the wigwam? Ewa-yea! my little owlet!"

Many things Nokomis taught him Of the stars that shine in heaven; Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, Ishkoodah with fiery tresses; Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits, Warriors with their plumes and war clubs, Flaring far away to northward In the frosty nights of winter; Showed the broad white road in heaven, Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows, Running straight across the heavens, Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows.

At the door on summer evenings Sat the little Hiawatha; Heard the whispering of the pine trees, Heard the lapping of the waters, Sounds of music, words of wonder; "Minne-wawa" said the pine trees, "Mudway-ashka!" said the water.

Saw the firefly, Wah-wah-taysee, Flitting through the dusk of evening, With the twinkle of its candle Lighting up the brakes and bushes, And he sang the song of children, Sang the song Nokomis taught him: "Wah-wah-taysee, little firefly, Little, flitting, white-fire insect, Little, dancing, white-fire creature, Light me with your little candle, Ere upon my bed I lay me, Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!"