De La Salle Fifth Reader Part 37

"I can't now; I really can't. I am going on business of great importance."

"But you shall," exclaimed the first speaker, a strong and bullying youth, laying hold of him. "I will have no sulking, when I want anything done. So come, join us at once."

"I entreat you," said the poor boy feelingly, "do let me go."

"No such thing," replied the other. "What is that you seem to be carrying so carefully in your bosom? A letter, I suppose; well, it will not addle by being for half an hour out of its nest. Give it to me, and I will put it by safe while we play."

"Never, never," answered the child, looking up towards heaven.

"I _will_ see it," insisted the other rudely; "I will know what is this wonderful secret." And he commenced pulling him roughly about. A crowd of men from the neighborhood soon got round, and all asked eagerly what was the matter. They saw a boy, who, with folded arms, seemed endowed with a supernatural strength, as he resisted every effort of one much bigger and stronger, to make him reveal what he was bearing. Cuffs, pulls, blows, kicks, seemed to have no effect. He bore them all without a murmur, or an attempt to retaliate; but he unflinchingly kept his purpose.

"What is it? what can it be?" one began to ask the other; when Fulvius chanced to pa.s.s by, and joined the circle round the combatants. He at once recognized Tarcisius, having seen him at the Ordination; and being asked, as a better-dressed man, the same question, he replied contemptuously, as he turned on his heel, "What is it? Why, only a Christian, bearing the Mysteries."

This was enough. Heathen curiosity, to see the Mysteries of the Christians revealed, and to insult them, was aroused, and a general demand was made to Tarcisius to yield up his charge. "Never with life,"

was his only reply. A heavy blow from a smith's fist nearly stunned him, while the blood flowed from the wound. Another and another followed, till, covered with bruises, but with his arms crossed fast upon his breast, he fell heavily on the ground. The mob closed upon him, and were just seizing, him to tear open his thrice-holy trust, when they felt themselves pushed aside right and left by some giant strength. Some went reeling to the further side of the square, others were spun round and round, they knew not how, till they fell where they were, and the rest retired before a tall athletic officer, who was the author of this overthrow. He had no sooner cleared the ground than he was on his knees, and with tears in his eyes raised up the bruised and fainting boy as tenderly as a mother could have done, and in most gentle tones asked him, "Are you much hurt, Tarcisius?"

"Never mind me, Quadratus," answered he, opening his eyes with a smile; "but I am carrying the Divine Mysteries; take care of them."

The soldier raised the boy in his arms with tenfold reverence, as if bearing, not only the sweet victim of a youthful sacrifice, a martyr's relics, but the very King and Lord of Martyrs, and the divine Victim of eternal salvation. The child's head leaned in confidence on the stout soldier's neck, but his arms and hands never left their watchful custody of the confided gift; and his gallant bearer felt no weight in the hallowed double burden which he carried. No one stopped him, till a lady met him and stared amazedly at him. She drew nearer, and looked closer at what he carried. "Is it possible?" she exclaimed with terror, "is that Tarcisius, whom I met a few moments ago, so fair and lovely?"

"Madam," replied Quadratus, "they have murdered him because he was a Christian."

The lady looked for an instant on the child's countenance. He opened his eyes upon her, smiled, and expired. From that look came the light of faith--she hastened to be a Christian.

The venerable Dionysius could hardly see for weeping, as he removed the child's hands, and took from his bosom, unviolated, the Holy of Holies; and he thought he looked more like an angel now, sleeping the martyr's slumber, than he did when living scarcely an hour before. Quadratus himself bore him to the cemetery of Callistus, where he was buried amidst the admiration of older believers; and later a holy Pope composed for him an epitaph, which no one can read without concluding that the belief in the real presence of Our Lord's Body in the Blessed Eucharist was the same then as now:

"Christ's secret gifts, by good Tarcisius borne, The mob profanely bade him to display; He rather gave his own limbs to be torn, Than Christ's Body to mad dogs betray."

_Cardinal Wiseman._

From "Fabiola; or, The Church of the Catacombs."

ADDLE, to become rotten, as eggs.

TUNIC, a loose garment, reaching to the knees, and confined at the waist by a girdle.

SUPERNATURAL, = prefix _super_, meaning _above_ or _beyond,_ + _natural_.

-ION, a suffix denoting _act, state, condition of_. Define _emotion, objection, dejection, conversion, submission, construction, admiration, persecution, observation, revolution, deliberation._

Write a letter to a friend who has sent you a copy of "Fabiola." Tell him how much you like the book, what you have read in it, and thank him for sending it.

Make a list of the characters in the story of Tarcisius, and tell what you like or dislike in each.

Memory Gems:

The boy, with proud, yet tear-dimmed eyes, Kept murmuring under breath: "Before temptation--sacrifice!

Before dishonor--death!"

_Margaret J. Preston._

Dare to do right! Dare to be true!

Other men's failures can never save you; Stand by your conscience, your honor, your faith; Stand like a hero, and battle till death.

_George L. Taylor._

Heroes of old! I humbly lay The laurel on your graves again; Whatever men have done, men may-- The deeds you wrought are not in vain.

_Austin Dobson._

_61_

a jar'

chal' ice a thwart'

rap' tur ous sward ter' race jew' eled ci bo' ri um por' tal vil' lain au da' cious sac ri le' gious

LEGEND OF THE WAXEN CIBORIUM.

A summer night in Remy--strokes of the midnight bell, Like drops of molten silver, athwart the silence fell, Where 'mid the misty meadows, the circling crystal streams, A little village slumber'd,--locked in quiet dreams.

A lily, green-embower'd, beside a mossy wood, With golden cross uplifted, the small white chapel stood, But in that solemn hour, the light of moon and star Upon its portal shining, revealed the door ajar!

And lo! into the midnight, with noiseless feet, there ran From out the sacred shadows, a mask'd and m.u.f.fl'd man, Who bore beneath his mantle, with sacrilegious hold, The Victim of the altar within Its vase of gold!