Sanders' Union Fourth Reader Part 16

18. He waved his hand to an attendant, and, in a moment, the two children were in the arms of their father. The white men were kindly sheltered for that night, and, the next day, they bore the children to their home, and the people rejoiced at their safe return.

QUESTIONS.--1. By whom wore those children taken captive? 2. Who went in search of them? 3. What did he say to the king of the tribe? 4. What reply did the Indian monarch make? 5. Were the children restored to their father? 6. What is meant by the _New World_, 9th paragraph? 7.

What by _two little buds, from a broken, buried stem_, same paragraph?

LESSON V.

IM' AGE. form; likeness.

ELAPS' ED, glided away.

WAY' WARD NESS, perverseness.

SHUD' DER ING, chilling tremor.

PAS' SION ATE, easily excited to anger.

MAS' TER Y, rule; sway.

HEAD' STRONG, stubborn; obstinate.

UN DER WENT', experienced.

AF FEC' TION, love; attachment.

THRESH' OLD, entrance.

ANX I' E TY, care; solicitude.

PER PET' U AL, continual.

MY MOTHER'S LAST KISS.

MRS. E. OAKES SMITH.

1. I was but five years old when my mother died; but her image is as fresh in my mind, now that twenty years have elapsed, as it was at the time of her death. I remember her, as a pale, gentle being, with a sweet smile, and a voice soft and cheerful when she praised me; and when I had erred, (for I was a wild, thoughtless child,) there was a mild and tender earnestness in her reproofs, that always went to my little heart.

2. Methinks I can now see her large, blue eyes moist with sorrow, because of my childish waywardness, and hear her repeat: "My child, how can you grieve me so?" She had, for a long time, been pale and feeble, and sometimes there would come a bright spot on her cheek, which made her look so lovely, I thought she must be well. But then she spoke of dying, and pressed me to her bosom, and told me to be good when she was gone, and to love my father, and be kind to him; for he would have no one else to love.

3. I recollect she was ill all day, and my little hobbyhorse and whip were laid aside, and I tried to be very quiet. I did not see her for the whole day, and it seemed very long. At night, they told me my mother was too sick to kiss me, as she always had done before I went to bed, and I must go without it. But I could not. I stole into the room, and placing my lips close to hers, whispered: "Mother, dear mother, won't you kiss me?"

4. Her lips were very cold, and when she put her hand upon my cheek, and laid my head on her bosom, I felt a cold shuddering pa.s.s all through me.

My father carried me from the room; but he could not speak. After they put me in bed, I lay a long while thinking; I feared my mother would, indeed, die; for her cheek felt cold, as my little sister's did when she died, and they carried her little body away where I never saw it again.

But I soon fell asleep.

5. In the morning I rushed to my mother's room, with a strange dread of evil to come upon me. It was just as I feared. A white linen covered her straight, cold form. I removed it from her face: her eyes were closed, and her cheeks were hard and cold. But my mother's dear, dear smile was there, or my heart would have broken.

6. In an instant, all the little faults, for which she had so often reproved me, rushed upon my mind. I longed to tell her how good I would always be, if she would but stay with me. I longed to tell her how, in all time to come, her words would be a law to me. I would be all that she had wished me to be.

7. I was a pa.s.sionate, headstrong boy; and never did this frame of temper come upon me, but I seemed to see her mild, tearful eyes full upon me, just as she used to look in life; and when I strove for the mastery over my pa.s.sions, her smile seemed to cheer my heart, and I was happy.

8. My whole character underwent a change, even from the moment of her death. Her spirit seemed to be always with me, _to aid the good_ and _root out the evil_ that was in me. I felt it would grieve her gentle spirit to see me err, and I _could not_, _would not_, do so.

9. I was the child of her affection. I knew she had prayed and wept over me; and that even on the threshold of the grave, her anxiety for my welfare had caused her spirit to linger, that she might pray once more for me. I never forgot my mother's last kiss. It was with me in sorrow; it was with me in joy; it was with me in moments of evil, like a perpetual good.

QUESTIONS.--1. What was the age of the person represented in this piece?

2. What, when his mother died? 3. What did he say of himself when a child? 4. Had he ever grieved his mother? 5. What did he say of his _faults_, after his mother's death? 6. What did he desire to tell her?

7. How ought you to treat your mother, in order to avoid the reproaches of your own conscience?

LESSON VI.

SUR PRISE', amazement.

PER' ISH ED, died.

STINT' ED, small of size.

STERN, severe; harsh; rigid.

LOI' TER, linger; tarry.

STAG' GER ED, reeled to and fro.

FORD' ED, waded.

ES CAP ED, fled from.

THE DEAD CHILD'S FORD.

MRS. E. OAKES SMITH.

1. "Dear mother, here's the _very_ place Where little John was found, The water covering up his face, His feet upon the ground.

Now won't you tell me _all about_ The death of little John'?

And how the woman sent him out Long after sun was down'?

And tell me _all about the wrong_, And _that_ will make the story long."

2. I took the child upon my knee Beside the lake so clear; For _there_ the tale of misery Young Edward begged to hear He looked into my _very_ eyes, With sad and earnest face, And caught his breath with wild surprise, And turned to mark the place Where _perished_, years agone, the child Alone, beneath the waters wild.

3. "A weakly orphan boy was John, A barefoot, stinted child, Whose work-day task was never done, Who wept when others smiled.

Around his home the trees were high, Down to the water's brink, And almost hid the pleasant sky, Where wild deer came to drink."

('') "And did they come, the pretty deer'?

And did they drink the water here'?"

4. Cried Edward, with a wondering eye: "Now, mother, tell to me, Was John about as _large_ as I'?

Pray tell, how _big_ was he'?"

"He was an _older_ boy than _you_, And _stouter_ every way; For, water from the well he drew, And hard he worked all day.

But then poor John was sharp and thin, With sun-burnt hair and sun-burnt skin.

5. "His mother used to spin and weave; From farm to farm she went; And, though it made her much to grieve, She John to service sent.

He lived with one, a woman stern, Of hard and cruel ways; And he must bring her wood to burn, From forest and highways; And then, at night, on cold, hard bed, He laid his little, aching head.

6. "The weary boy had toiled all day With heavy spade and hoe; His mistress met him on the way, And bade him quickly go And bring her home some sticks of wood, For she would bake and brew; When he returned, she'd give him food; For she had much to do.

And then she charged him not to stay, Nor loiter long upon the way.

7. "He went; but scarce his toil-worn feet Could crawl along the wood, He was so spent with work and heat, And faint for lack of food.

He bent his aching, little back To bear the weight along, And staggered then upon the track; For John was _never_ strong; His eyesight, too, began to fail, And he grew giddy, faint, and pale.

8. "The load was small, _quite_ small, 'tis true, But John could bring no more; The woman in a rage it threw,-- She stamped upon the floor.

(_f_.) 'No supper you shall have to-night; So go along to bed, You good-for-nothing, ugly fright, You little stupid-head!'"

Said Edward: "_I_ would _never_ go; She wouldn't _dare_ to serve _me_ so!"