De La Salle Fifth Reader Part 39

"Oh, dear!" whispered he, turning pale, "it seems as if there was n.o.body but Mr. Toil in the world. Who could have thought of his playing on a fiddle!"

"This is not your old schoolmaster," said the stranger, "but another brother of his, who was bred in France, where he learned the profession of a fiddler. He is ashamed of his family, and generally calls himself Mr. Pleasure; but his real name is Toil, and those who have known him best, think him still more disagreeable than his brother."

"Pray let us go a little farther," said Daffy-down-dilly. "I don't like the looks of this fiddler."

Thus the stranger and little Daffy-down-dilly went wandering along the highway, and in shady lanes, and through pleasant villages; and, whithersoever they went, behold! there was the image of old Mr. Toil.

He stood like a scarecrow in the cornfields. If they entered a house, he sat in the parlor; if they peeped into the kitchen, he was there. He made himself at home in every cottage, and, under one disguise or another, stole into the most splendid mansions.

"Oh, take me back!--take me back!" said poor little Daffy-down-dilly, bursting into tears. "If there is nothing but Toil all the world over, I may just as well go back to the schoolhouse."

"Yonder it is,--there is the schoolhouse!" said the stranger; for, though he and little Daffy-down-dilly had taken a great many steps, they had traveled in a circle, instead of a straight line. "Come; we will go back to school together."

There was something in his companion's voice that little Daffy-down-dilly now remembered; and it is strange that he had not remembered it sooner. Looking up into his face, behold! there again was the likeness of old Mr. Toil; so the poor child had been in company with Toil all day, even while he was doing his best to run away from him.

When Daffy-down-dilly became better acquainted with Mr. Toil, he began to think that his ways were not so very disagreeable, and that the old schoolmaster's smile of approbation made his face almost as pleasant as the face of his own dear mother.

_Nathaniel Hawthorne._

"Little Daffy-down-dilly and Other Stories." Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Publishers.

How will the following sentences read if you change the name-words from the singular to the plural form: The old schoolmaster has a rod in his hand. The boy likes his teacher. The girl goes cheerfully on an errand for her mother. The pupil attends to his book, and knows his lesson perfectly. Under the blue sky, and while the bird was singing sweetly in tree and bush, the farmer was making hay in his meadow. The man won't trouble him unless he becomes a laborer on his farm. The captain had a smart cap and feather on his head, a laced coat on his back, a purple sash round his waist, and a long sword instead of a birch rod in his hand.

From points furnished by your teacher, write a short composition on "Our School." Be careful as to spelling, capitals, punctuation, paragraphs, margin, penmanship, neatness and general appearance.

Memory Gems:

Evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart.

_Hood._

It is not where you are, but what you are, that determines your happiness.

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su' macs char' coal of fi' cial fres' coes in i' tial rest' less ly

IN SCHOOL DAYS

Still sits the schoolhouse by the road, A ragged beggar sunning; Around it still the sumacs grow And blackberry vines are running.

Within, the master's desk is seen, Deep scarred by raps official; The warping floor, the battered seats, The jackknife's carved initial;

The charcoal frescoes on its wall; Its door's worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school, Went storming out to playing!

Long years ago a winter sun Shone over it at setting; Lit up its western window-panes, And low eaves' icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls, And brown eyes full of grieving, Of one who still her steps delayed When all the school were leaving.

For near her stood the little boy Her childish favor singled; His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled.

Pushing with restless feet the snow To right and left, he lingered; As restlessly her tiny hands The blue-checked ap.r.o.n fingered.

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt The soft hand's light caressing, And heard the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing:

"I'm sorry that I spelt the word; I hate to go above you, Because,"--the brown eyes lower fell,-- "Because, you see, I love you!"

Still memory to a gray-haired man That sweet child-face is showing.

Dear girl! the gra.s.ses on her grave Have forty years been growing!

He lives to learn, in life's hard school, How few who pa.s.s above him Lament their triumph and his loss, Like her,--because they love him.

_Whittier._

From "Child Life in Poetry." Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Publishers.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _John G. Whittier._]

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