Кэролайн Б. Ле Роу

«Практические декламации: Сборник для школьных выступлений»

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Практические декламации

Подборка для литературных упражнений, подходящая для дней приема, праздников, дней рождения поэтов и т. д., включая хоровые и музыкальные декламации, а также диалоги популярных авторов, специально подготовленные для этого сборника.

Кэролайн Б. Ле Роу, преподаватель элокуции в Центральной школе Бруклина, ранее преподаватель в колледжах Вассар и Смит.

NEW YORK:

Clark & Maynard, Publishers,

771 Broadway and 67 & 69 Ninth Street.

Практическая хрестоматия.

С упражнениями по постановке голоса.

Кэролайн Б. Ле Роу

Преподаватель элокуции в Центральной школе Бруклина, ранее в колледжах Смит и Вассар.

Ожидается, что все учащиеся смогут хорошо читать обычную прозу и поэзию, и именно с целью помочь им в этом, а также помочь учителям в преподавании чтения, была подготовлена эта книга.

Она носит сугубо практический характер. В ней не используются лишние технические термины. Объясняемые и иллюстрируемые темы — это только те, которые, как показал многолетний опыт работы с учителями и учениками, составитель счел наиболее необходимыми.

Поскольку физическое развитие и правильная вокализация должны предшествовать любому хорошему чтению, приводятся простейшие и, следовательно, наиболее важные физические и вокальные упражнения с полными инструкциями по их использованию.

Подборка для чтения не содержит ничего, что относилось бы к чисто показному стилю элокуции. Она адаптирована для старших классов грамматических школ, а также для средних и высших учебных заведений.

Мы утверждаем, что «Практическая хрестоматия» содержит больше подходящего материала для занятий элокуцией в классе, в более сжатой, аналитической и доступной форме, чем любая другая хрестоматия или сборник для декламации, представленные публике.

224 страницы, формат 16mo, красивый тканевый переплет, красные обрезы.

Пробный экземпляр для ознакомления или экземпляры для внедрения будут доставлены по цене 60 центов за штуку.

Как преподавать чтение.

Кэролайн Б. Ле Роу.

ОГЛАВЛЕНИЕ.

Неудачи в преподавании чтения — Обучение через подражание — Естественный и логический метод — Разнообразие в обучении — Физические упражнения — Ценность упражнений — Указания по использованию упражнений — Упражнения для тела — Упражнения для грудной клетки — Предостережения при использовании физических упражнений — Дыхание — Дыхательные упражнения — Предостережения при использовании дыхательных упражнений — Шепот — Артикуляция — Гласные звуки — Согласные звуки — Конечные согласные — Физическое усилие при артикуляции — Дефекты речи — Невнятная артикуляция — Способ выполнения упражнений по артикуляции — Произношение слов по звукам — Естественность в чтении — Место логического ударения — Выбор слов — Обучение без книги — Пунктуация — Смысл, независимый от пунктуации — Чтение поэзии — Хоровое чтение — Чтение и пение — Вокальная точность в декламациях — Одышка при чтении — Робость при чтении — Работа в старших классах — Особые ошибки — Отрывок из книги «Чтение как изящное искусство».

32 Pages. Price Postpaid, 12 Cents per Copy.

CLARK & MAYNARD, Publishers,

771 Broadway, New York.

Авторское право, 1886 г., Clark & Maynard.

ПРЕДИСЛОВИЕ.

Декламации являются одной из самых привлекательных особенностей школьных мероприятий и вносят приятное разнообразие в повседневную работу; однако у немногих учителей есть время, даже если есть способности, чтобы тренировать учеников в длинных и трудных произведениях, которые составляют основную массу бесчисленных декламаций, предлагаемых публике.

Подборка, включенная в этот том, гармонирует с духом классной работы, которая требует краткости, простоты, здравого смысла и здоровой морали. Это единственный сборник подобного рода, в котором эти вопросы рассматриваются как имеющие равное значение с элокуционным эффектом. Очень немногие из этих произведений можно найти в какой-либо другой книге, и каждое из них было практически опробовано в классе. Стиль исполнения, где бы он ни был указан, конечно, может быть изменен в соответствии со вкусом учителя.

Поскольку желательно, чтобы как можно больше учащихся участвовали в таких упражнениях, для этой цели предусмотрено множество коротких отрывков, отлично подходящих для практики правильного логического ударения и четкой артикуляции.

Празднование дней рождения наших поэтов становится приятным и полезным обычаем в большинстве школ, и были предусмотрены материалы как для этих годовщин, так и для всех других праздников.

Поскольку невозможно предоставить обширный материал для каждого поэта, есть надежда, что алфавитные указатели будут служить подсказкой к их лучшим стихотворениям, а прозаические отрывки о писателях пробудят у учащихся желание лучше познакомиться с ними и их творчеством.

СОДЕРЖАНИЕ.

Miscellaneous Recitations.

TITLE. AUTHOR. PAGE

A Bird’s Ministry, Margaret J. Preston, 40

A Discourse of Buddha, Edwin Arnold, 30

After Vacation, The Kingdom of Home, 11

An Illumined Text, Christian at Work, 55

Are the Heroes Dead? Helen Lee Sargent, 26

A Song for the Conquered, William W. Story, 66

A Strange Experience, Josephine Pollard, 14

A Swedish Poem, Anon., 47

A True Story, Baldwin’s Monthly, 80

A Turkish tradition, Interior, 43

Beside the Railway Track, Anon., 65

Concerning Beginnings and Ends, Rev. A. K. H. Boyd, 13

Eyes that See Not, Ella Jewett, 44

Extract from a Letter, Wm. Wirt, 41

Failed, Phillips Thompson, 27

Forefathers’ Day, Helen Hunt Jackson, 79

Forward, Susan Coolidge, 24

Growth, Horace Mann, 39

Happiness, Maggie B. Peeke, 55

Her Angel, Anna F. Burnham, 25

Home Lights, Sunday-school Times, 13

Humility, Ernest W. Shurtleff, 35

Labor, Rev. Orville Dewey, 28

Lamentation of the Lungs, Phrenological Journal, 44

Little Christel, Mary E. Bradley, 82

Luther, Joaquin Miller, 74

Moral Courage, Rev. Sydney Smith, 17

My Portion, Carlotta Perry, 50

Noblesse Oblige, Carlotta Perry, 59

No Work the Hardest Work, C. F. Orne, 18

Only a Little, Dora Goodale, 49

Only a Little Thing, Mrs. M. P. Handy, 68

Original Maxims, James A. Garfield, 74

Original Maxims, George Washington, 71

Questions, Kate Lawrence, 77

Saxon Grit, Rev. Robert Collyer, 51

Sparrows, Adeline D. T. Whitney, 32

Some Old School-books, Harper’s Weekly, 19

The Amen of the Rocks, Christian Gellert, 67

The Angel of Dawn, J. S. Cutler, 76

The Barbarous Chief, Ella Wheeler Wilcox, 38

The Blessing of the Poets, James T. Fields, 115

The Burial of the Old Flag, Mary A. Barr, 62

The Coast-guard, Emily H. Miller, 42

Their Cost, Ellen M. H. Gates, 21

The Daily Task, Marianne Farningham, 15

The Demon on the Roof, Josephine Pollard, 48

The Holy Place, Mary Frances Butts, 29

The King’s Bell, Eben E. Rexford, 57

The Landing of the Pilgrims, Felicia Hemans, 78

The Light-house, Good Words, 46

The Little Light, Anon., 53

The Little Messenger of Love, Harper’s Young People, 69

The Old Folks in the New School-house, Anon., 37

The Old Reading Class, Will Carleton, 22

The Old Stone Basin, Susan Coolidge, 64

The People’s Holidays, Marianne Farningham, 12

The Silver Bird’s Nest, Anon., 73

The Storming of Stony Point, Elaine Goodale, 34

The Twenty-first of February, Wm. Cullen Bryant, 78

The Value of Literature, Hamilton W. Mabie, 60

The Work of a Sunbeam, Nathan G. Shepherd, 72

True Heroism, Anon., 61

Uses of Adversity, Watchman, 60

“What’s the Lesson for To-day?” Anon., 16

What of That? Anon., 36

Wind and Sea, Bayard Taylor, 54

Concert Recitations.

Cavalry Song, Edmund C. Stedman, 107

Songs of the Seasons, Meta E. B. Thorne, 85

Song of the Steamer Engine, C. B. LeRow, 92

Summer Storm, James Russell Lowell, 91

The Cataract of Lodore, Robert Southey, 105

The Charge at Waterloo, Walter Scott, 90

The Child on the Judgment Seat, E. Charles, 95

The Coming of Spring, Wilhelm Müller, 87

The Death of Our Almanac, Henry Ward Beecher, 100

The Good Time Coming, Charles Mackay, 88

The Sorrow of the Sea, Anon., 98

The Two Glasses, Anon., 97

Two Epitaphs, From the German, 104

Selections for Musical Accompaniment.

A Winter Song, St. Nicholas, 110

Hope’s Song, Helen M. Winslow, 109

Rock of Ages, Ella Maud Moore, 113

The Angelus, Frances L. Mace, 108

The Concert Rehearsal, Wolstan Dixey, 111

The Sunrise Never Failed Us Yet, Celia Thaxter, 110

POETS’ BIRTHDAYS.

William Cullen Bryant.

A Bryant Alphabet, Compiler, 117

Extract concerning Bryant, Rev. Henry W. Bellows, 116

” ” ” John Bigelow, 115

” ” ” George William Curtis, 116

” ” ” Edwin P. Whipple, 116

Green River, William Cullen Bryant, 123

The Hurricane, ” ” ” 122

The Night Journey of a River, ” ” ” 121

The Third of November, ” ” ” 121

The Violet, ” ” ” 123

To William Cullen Bryant, Fitz-Greene Halleck, 115

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Art, Ralph Waldo Emerson, 131

An Emerson Alphabet, Compiler, 126

Emerson, Elizabeth C. Kinney, 124

Extract concerning Emerson, Rev. C. A. Bartol, 125

” ” ” George Willis Cooke, 125

” ” ” Oliver Wendell Holmes, 125

” ” ” Protap Chunder Mozoomdar, 126

” ” ” Horace E. Scudder, 124

” from “Compensation,” Ralph Waldo Emerson, 129

” ” “Works and Days,” ” ” ” 130

The Concord Fight, ” ” ” 130

The Rhodora, ” ” ” 131

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

A Holmes Alphabet, Compiler 135

Extract concerning Holmes, George William Curtis, 134

” ” ” Charles W. Eliot, 133

” ” ” Wm. Sloane Kennedy, 134

” ” ” Rev. Ray Palmer, 133

” ” ” Frances H. Underwood, 133

International Ode, Oliver Wendell Holmes, 140

James Russell Lowell’s Birthday Festival, ” ” ” 141

Our Autocrat, John G. Whittier, 132

The Two Streams, Oliver Wendell Holmes, 140

Under the Washington Elm, ” ” ” 139

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

A Longfellow Alphabet, Compiler, 144

Charles Sumner, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 150

Extract concerning Longfellow, George William Curtis, 143

” ” ” Rev. O. B. Frothingham, 143

” ” ” Rev. M. J. Savage, 144

” ” ” Richard H. Stoddard, 143

” ” ” John G. Whittier, 142

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, William W. Story, 142

Loss and Gain, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 149

Musings, ” ” ” 148

The City and the Sea, ” ” ” 149

James Russell Lowell.

Abraham Lincoln, James Russell Lowell, 159

A Lowell Alphabet, Compiler, 154

Extract concerning Lowell, David W. Bartlett, 153

” ” ” Rev. H. R. Haweis, 153

” ” ” North British Review, 152

” ” ” W. C. Wilkinson, 153

” ” ” Frances H. Underwood, 152

Freedom, James Russell Lowell, 160

The First Snow-fall, ” ” ” 157

To James Russell Lowell, Oliver Wendell Holmes, 151

Wendell Phillips, James Russell Lowell, 159

John Greenleaf Whittier.

A Whittier Alphabet, Compiler, 163

Extract concerning Whittier, John Bright, 163

” ” ” Horace E. Scudder, 162

” ” ” Richard H. Stoddard, 162

” ” ” Frances H. Underwood, 161

” ” ” Rev. David A. Wasson, 162

My Country, John Greenleaf Whittier, 168

The Light that is Felt, ” ” ” 170

The Moral Warfare, ” ” ” 167

To Children of Girard, Pa., ” ” ” 167

1827-1885, ” ” ” 168

John G. Whittier, James Russell Lowell, 161

Decoration Day.

Between the Graves, Harriet Prescott Spofford, 172

Decoration Day, Henry W. Longfellow, 171

Decoration Hymn, William H. Randall, 175

Flowers for the Brave, Celia Thaxter, 175

Memorial Day, Margaret Sidney, 176

Red, White, and Blue, Harriet McEwen Kimball, 173

The Heroes’ Day, Harper’s Weekly, 174

Thanksgiving.

Elsie’s Thanksgiving, Margaret E. Sangster, 186

How the Pilgrims Gave Thanks, Anon., 180

Thanksgiving, William D. Howells, 185

Thanksgiving Day, The Advance, 178

Thanksgiving among the Greeks, Anon., 178

Thanksgiving for His House, Robert Herrick, 184

Thanksgiving among the Jews, Anon., 179

Thanksgiving Ode, John G. Whittier, 185

Thanksgivings of Old, E. A. Smuller, 187

The First Boston Thanksgiving, Hezekiah Butterworth, 182

The First English Thanksgiving, Anon, 179

The First National Thanksgiving, Anon, 181

Washington’s Proclamation,

181

Christmas.

A Christmas Question, Rev. Minot J. Savage, 197

A Christmas Thought about Dickens, Bertha S. Scranton, 190

Christmas Bells, Henry W. Longfellow, 201

Christmas in Olden Time, Walter Scott, 189

Christmas Roses, May Riley Smith, 202

The Day of Days, Anon., 188

The Little Mud Sparrows, Eliz. Stuart Phelps, 195

The Nativity, Louisa Parsons Hopkins, 200

The Star in the West, Hezekiah Butterworth, 192

Wings, Dinah Mulock Craik, 199

New-Year’s.

Address to the New Year, Dinah Mulock Craik, 203

A New Year, Margaret E. Sangster, 203

Another Year, Nathaniel P. Willis, 205

A Wish, Margaret Veley, 205

The Child and the Year, Celia Thaxter, 206

The Seasons.

A Song of Waking, Katharine Lee Bates, 207

December, Louisa Parsons Hopkins, 215

Early Spring, Alfred Tennyson, 208

Faded Leaves, Alice Cary, 213

Frost Work, Mary E. Bradley, 217

Golden Rod, Lucy Larcom, 210

Indian Summer, John G. Whittier, 211

January, Rosaline E. Jones, 216

June, Travelers’ Record, 210

May, Good Cheer, 209

November, Hartley Coleridge, 214

October, William Cullen Bryant, 212

September, 1815, William Wordsworth, 212

Winter, Robert Southey, 214

Flowers.

A Bunch of Cowslips, Anon., 221

Chrysanthemums, Mary E. Dodge, 223

Daffodils, Robert Herrick, 222

Ferns, Anon., 219

No Flowers, Anon., 218

Ragged Sailors, Anon., 224

Roses, Anon., 223

Sweet Peas, St. Nicholas, 220

The Message of the Snowdrop, Anon., 224

The Trailing Arbutus, John G. Whittier, 221

Dialogues.

Alton Locke, Tailor and Poet, Charles Kingsley, 247

Diogenes and Plato on Pride, T. A. Bland, 238

Lorna Doone, R. D. Blackmore, 240

Metaphysics, Anon., 249

Mistress and Maid, Dinah Mulock Craik, 233

Ninety-Three, Victor Hugo, 254

Pilgrim’s Progress, John Bunyan, 245

Put Yourself in His Place, Charles Reade, 243

Queen Isabella’s Resolve, Epes Sargent, 227

Ruth Hall, Fanny Fern, 237

The Hills of the Shatemuc, Elizabeth Wetherell, 231

The Mill on the Floss, George Eliot, 229

The Last Days of Pompeii, Edward Bulwer Lytton, 235

The Queen’s Necklace, Alexander Dumas, 225

The Musical Instrument, Anon., 242

Work: A Story of Experience, Louisa M. Alcott, 251

СПИСОК АВТОРОВ.

Alcott, Louisa M., 251

Arnold, Edwin, 30

Barr, Mary A., 62

Bartlett, David W., 153

Bartol, Rev. C. A., 125

Bates, Katharine Lee, 207

Beecher, Rev. Henry Ward, 100

Bellows, Rev. Henry W., 116

Bigelow, John, 115

Blackmore, R. D., 240

Bland, T. A., 238

Boyd, Rev. A. K. H., 13

Bradley, Mary E., 82, 217

Bright, John, 163

Bryant, William Cullen, 78, 121, 122, 123, 212

Bunyan, John, 245

Burnham, Anna F., 25

Butterworth, Hezekiah, 182, 192

Butts, Mary Frances, 29

Carleton, Will, 22

Cary, Alice, 213

Charles, E., 95

Coleridge, Hartley, 214

Collyer, Rev. Robert, 51

Cooke, George Willis, 125

Coolidge, Susan, 24, 64

Craik, Dinah Mulock, 199, 203, 233

Curtis, George Wm., 116, 134, 143

Cutler, J. S., 76

Dewey, Rev. Orville, 28

Dixey, Wolstan, 111

Dodge, Mary E., 223

Dumas, Alexander, 225

Eliot, Charles W., 133

Eliot, George, 229

Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 129, 130, 131

Farningham, Marianne, 12, 15

Fern, Fanny, 237

Fields, James T., 155

Frothingham, Rev. O. B., 143

Garfield, James A., 74

Gates, Ellen M. H., 21

Gellert, Christian, 67

Goodale, Dora, 49

Goodale, Elaine, 34

Halleck, Fitz-Greene, 115

Handy, M. P., 68

Haweis, Rev. H. R., 153

Hemans, Felicia, 78

Herrick, Robert, 184, 222

Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 125, 139, 140, 141, 151

Hopkins, Louisa Parsons, 200, 215

Howells, William D., 185

Hugo, Victor, 254

Jackson, Helen Hunt, 79

Jewett, Ella, 44

Jones, Rosaline E., 216

Kennedy, Wm. Sloane, 134

Kimball, Harriet McEwen, 173

Kingsley, Charles, 247

Kinney, Elizabeth C., 124

Larcom, Lucy, 210

Lawrence, Kate, 77

LeRow, C. B., 92

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, 148, 149, 150, 171, 201

Lowell, James Russell, 91, 157, 159, 160, 161

Lytton, E. Bulwer, 235

Mabie, Hamilton W., 60

Mace, Frances L., 108

Mackay, Charles, 188

Mann, Horace, 39

Miller, Emily H., 42

Miller, Joaquin, 74

Moore, Ella Maud, 113

Mozoomdar, Protap Chunder, 126

Müller, Wilhelm, 87

Orne, C. F., 18

Palmer, Rev. Ray, 133

Peeke, Maggie B., 55, 59

Perry, Carlotta, 50

Phelps, Eliz. Stuart, 195

Pollard, Josephine, 14, 48

Preston, Margaret J., 40

Randall, Wm. H., 175

Reade, Charles, 243

Rexford, Eben E., 57

Sangster, Margaret E., 186, 203

Sargent, Epes, 227

Sargent, Helen Lee, 26

Savage, Rev. Minot J., 144, 197

Scott, Walter, 90, 189

Scranton, Bertha S., 190

Scudder, Horace E., 124, 162

Shepherd, Nathan G., 72

Shurtleff, Ernest W., 35

Sidney, Margaret, 176

Smith, May Riley, 202

Smith, Rev. Sydney, 17

Smuller, E. A., 187

Southey, Robert, 105, 214

Spofford, Harriet Prescott, 172

Stedman, Edmund C., 107

Stoddard, Richard H., 143, 162

Story, William W., 66, 142

Taylor, Bayard, 54

Tennyson, Alfred, 208

Thaxter, Celia, 110, 175, 206

Thompson, Phillips, 27

Thorne, Meta E. B., 85

Underwood, Frances H., 133, 152, 161

Veley, Margaret, 205

Washington, George, 71, 181

Wasson, Rev. David A., 162

Wetherell, Elizabeth, 231

Whipple, Edwin P., 116

Whittier, John Greenleaf, 132, 142, 167, 168, 170, 185, 221

Whitney, Adeline D. T., 32

Wilcox, Ella Wheeler, 35

Willis, Nathaniel P., 208

Winslow, Helen M., 109

Wordsworth, Wm., 41, 212

Практические декламации.

РАЗНООБРАЗНЫЕ ПОДБОРКИ.

После каникул.

Again they muster from the far-off hillside,

From country farm-house and from sea-girt shore;

Their tramping feet resound along the highways,

Their gleeful shouts ring on the air once more.

A merry band, so full of youth’s elixir,

How can their restless spirits e’er essay

The tasks that wait their patient, steady labor

After the long, bright, summer holiday?

Not now, O children, in the sunny meadows

Ye cull the flowers or by the brooklets stray,

But in the fields of knowledge, thick with blossoms,

To gather sweets for a far future day.

Here, too, you roam a land of fairest promise,

Watered by many a stream of limpid hue,

Where weary travelers find a sweet refreshment

And garner richest stores of old and new.

We bid thee welcome to the homes that missed thee,

To the deserted school-room’s open door.

The nation’s hope is in thee, keep thy birthright;

Thine heritage is more than golden store.

The Kingdom of Home.

Народные праздники.

Марианна Фарнингем.

Not alone for the rich and great

Are the beautiful works of God;

The mountain’s slopes and the ocean’s beach

By the people’s feet are trod,

And the poor man’s children sing and dance

On the green flower-covered sod.

Not alone for the cultured eyes

Do the sweet flowers spring and grow;

There is scarcely living a man so poor

But he may their sweetness know;

And out of the town to the fresh fair fields

The toilers all can go.

Away from the factory shop and desk,

Where the diligent work in throngs,

They go sometimes to the well-earned rest

That to faithful zeal belongs;

And the shore and the forest welcome them,

And the larks pour down their songs.

“Man does not live by bread alone,”

And well it needs must be

That we all should look on our Father’s works

By the river and lake and sea,

And spend our souls in adoring praise,

For He careth for you and me.

And well may all with a stronger hand,

And a braver, truer heart,

Go back to the task that God has given,

And faithfully do our part;

And bear in our souls the peace of the fields,

To the counter, the desk, and the mart.

Домашние огни.

The light of June that shines on tremulous leaves

Of softest green, how fair a thing to see!

When shafts of dawn touch birch and maple tree,

Or sunset’s hour a mesh of magic weaves;

The diamond light that flashes on the sea

In August noons,—a dazzle of pure rays.

With lovely ground of blue, whereon we gaze

From cliff or sandy shore in ecstasy;

The light that blazes on the mountain way,

Or, strained to pallor, steals to lonely dells;

None are forgotten on this autumn day,

As with sweet memories the glad heart swells;

But as the October sun drops down the west,

We say with smiling lips, Home lights are best.

О началах и концах.

Преподобный А. К. Х. Бойд.

Мы не можем вынести очень долгий, однообразный взгляд в будущее. Это невыразимое благословение, что мы можем остановиться и начать заново во всем. Путешествие, которое подавляет нас, когда мы рассматриваем его как одно длинное утомительное дело, можно вынести, если разделить его на этапы. И один из великих уроков практической мудрости — приучить себя мысленно делить все на этапы. Решимость любого человека была бы сломлена, если бы он увидел одним взглядом весь огромный объем работы, который ему предстоит выполнить за всю жизнь. И все же вы знаете, и маленький ребенок знает так же хорошо, что после того, как он одолел этот огромный алфавит, он должен начать снова с чего-то другого, он должен подниматься от своей первой маленькой книги дальше и выше в поля знаний и обучения. Давайте, если мы мудры, придерживаться великого принципа «шаг за шагом».

Странный опыт.

Жозефина Поллард.

They took the little London girl from out the city street

To where the grass was growing green, the birds were singing sweet;

And everything along the road so filled her with surprise,

The look of wonder fixed itself within her violet eyes.

The breezes ran to welcome her; they kissed her on each cheek,

And tried in every way they could their ecstasy to speak,

Inviting her to romp with them, and tumbling up her curls,

Expecting she would laugh or scold, like other little girls.

But she did not; no, she could not; for this crippled little child

Had lived within a dingy court where sunshine never smiled,

And for weary, weary days and months the little one had lain

Confined within a narrow room, and on a couch of pain.

The out-door world was strange to her—the broad expanse of sky,

The soft, green grass, the pretty flowers, the stream that trickled by;

But all at once she saw a sight that made her hold her breath,

And shake and tremble as if she were frightened near to death.

Oh, like some horrid monster of which the child had dreamed,

With nodding head and waving arms, the angry creature seemed;

It threatened her, it mocked at her, with gestures and grimace

That made her shrink with terror from its serpent-like embrace.

They kissed the trembling little one, they held her in their arms,

And tried in every way they could to quiet her alarms,

And said, “Oh, what a foolish little goose you are to be

So nervous and so terrified at nothing but a tree!”

They made her go up close to it, and put her arms around

The trunk and see how firmly it was fastened in the ground;

They told her all about the roots that clung down deeper yet,

And spoke of other curious things she never would forget.

Oh, I have heard of many, very many girls and boys

Who have to do without the sight of pretty books and toys,

Who have never seen the ocean; but the saddest thought to me

Is that anywhere there lives a child who never saw a tree.

Ежедневная задача.

Марианна Фарнингем.

The morning light falls gently on the eyes

And wakes the sleeping men;

And bids them rise and haste to meet the day,

And find their work again.

No one is asked to choose what he will do,

Or take the task loved best,

For God allots the places, and each one

Obeys His high behest.

One, loving silence, passes to the street

And mingles with the crowd,

And finds his daily work awaiting him,

Where noise is long and loud.

And one who hungers for the voice and touch

Of others in the gloom

Is ordered to withdraw from all, and work

Alone within one room.

Another, loving beauty, air, and light,

Passes in sordid ways,

And uncongenial sights, and jarring sounds,

The hours of his best days.

And yet another who could love all work,

And do it thankfully,

Has naught to do but suffer and be still

In patience, perfectly.

Are, then, the workers at their daily tasks

Unhappy and unblest?

Nay; He who chooses for them gives the wage

Of happiness and rest.

The feet pass swiftly to the place of toil,

The lips break into song,

And ready hands receive the allotted task,

Nor find the hours too long.

Because the loyal heart is true to God,

And the deft hand obeys

The Master, who decides what each shall do,

Joy fills the working days.

And so, if but the soul be leal, the task

Itself becomes more dear,

And every worker finds that work well done

Is work that brings good cheer.

«Какой сегодня урок?»

Little Bess, with laughing eyes,

Brightly blue as summer skies,

Came to me one morn in May,

Asking in her eager way,

“What’s the lesson for to-day?”

And I told her, then and there,

What I wished her to prepare.

But new meaning (strange to say),

In the childish query lay,

“What’s the lesson for to-day?”

And I pondered o’er and o’er

What I scarce had thought before,—

As I went my wonted way,

Towards my duty, sad or gay,

“What’s my lesson for the day?”

Students in the school of life,

’Mid its struggles and its strife,

Let us ask, in childlike way,

Of the Teacher we obey,

“What’s the lesson for to-day?”

And the answer God will give,

He will show us how to live,

Teach us of His perfect way,

Grant us wisdom that we may

Learn the lesson of the day.

Моральное мужество.

Преподобный Сидней Смит.

В мире теряется огромное количество талантов из-за нехватки небольшого мужества. Дело в том, что для того, чтобы сделать в этом мире что-то стоящее, мы не должны стоять в стороне, дрожа и думая о холоде и опасности, а должны прыгнуть в воду и пробираться как можно лучше. Не годится постоянно рассчитывать задачи и выверять точные шансы; это было очень хорошо до потопа, когда человек мог советоваться со своими друзьями по поводу задуманной публикации в течение ста пятидесяти лет, а затем дожить до того, чтобы увидеть ее успех впоследствии: но в настоящее время человек ждет, сомневается, колеблется и советуется со своим братом, дядей и близкими друзьями, пока в один прекрасный день не обнаружит, что ему шестьдесят лет; что он потратил так много времени на консультации со своим двоюродным братом и близкими друзьями, что у него больше нет времени следовать их советам.

Отсутствие работы — самая тяжелая работа.

Чарльз Ф. Орн.

Ho! ye who at the anvil toil,

And strike the sounding blow,

Where from the burning iron’s breast

The sparks fly to and fro,

While answering to the hammer’s ring,

And fire’s intenser glow—

Oh, while ye feel ’tis hard to toil

And sweat the long day through,

Remember it is harder still

To have no work to do.

Ho! ye who till the stubborn soil,

Whose hard hands guide the plow;

Who bend beneath the summer sun

With burning cheek and brow—

Ye deem the curse still clings to earth

From olden time till now;

But while ye feel ’tis hard to toil

And labor all day through,

Remember it is harder still

To have no work to do.

Ho! ye who plow the sea’s blue field,

Who ride the restless wave;

Beneath whose gallant vessel’s keel

There lies a yawning grave;

Around whose bark the wintry winds

Like fiends of fury rave—

Oh, while ye feel ’tis hard to toil

And labor long hours through,

Remember it is harder still

To have no work to do.

Ho! all who labor, all who strive,

Ye wield a mighty power;

Do with your might, do with your strength,

Fill every golden hour;

The glorious privilege to do

Is man’s most noble dower.

Oh, to your birthright and yourselves,

To your own souls be true!

A weary, wretched life is theirs

Who have no work to do.

Некоторые старые школьные учебники.

I have been back to my home again,

To the place where I was born;

I have heard the wind from the stormy main

Go rustling through the corn;

I have seen the purple hills once more;

I have stood on the rocky coast

Where the waves storm inland to the shore;

But the thing that touched me most

Was a little leather strap that kept

Some school-books, tattered and torn!

I sighed, I smiled, I could have wept

When I came on them one morn;

For I thought of the merry little lad,

In the mornings sweet and cool,

If weather was good, or weather bad,

Going whistling off to school.

My fingers undid the strap again,

And I thought how my hand had changed,

And half in longing, and half in pain,

Backward my memory ranged.

There was the grammar I knew so well,—

I didn’t remember a rule;

And the old blue speller,—I used to spell

Better than any in school;

And the wonderful geography

I’ve read on the green hill-side,

When I’ve told myself I’d surely see

All lands in the world so wide,

From the Indian homes in the far, far West,

To the mystical Cathay.

I have seen them all. But Home is best

When the evening shades fall gray.

And there was the old arithmetic,

All tattered and stained with tears;

I and Jamie and little Dick

Were together in by-gone years.

Jamie has gone to the better land;

And I get now and again,

A letter in Dick’s bold, ready hand,

From some great Western plain.

There wasn’t a book, and scarce a page,

That hadn’t some memory

Of days that seemed like a golden age,

Of friends I shall no more see.

And so I picked up the books again

And buckled the strap once more,

And brought them over the tossing main;

Come, children, and look them o’er.

And there they lie on a little stand

Not far from the Holy Book;

And his boys and girls with loving care

O’er grammar and speller look.

He said, “They speak to me, children dear,

Of a past without alloy;

And the look of Books, in promise clear,

Of a future full of joy.”

Harper’s Weekly.

Их стоимость.

Эллен М. Х. Гейтс.

How cheap are the things which are bought and sold,

The beautiful things which the hands can hold,

Whatever is purchased with silver and gold.

The merchants are calling and filling their rooms

With jewels and laces and rarest perfumes,

And wonderful webs from the Indian looms.

The price of the treasures is small, as they say;

For dollars and cents, are exchanged every day

The furs of the North-land, the silks of Cathay.

But, oh! the rare things which can never be brought

From the far-away countries, but still must be sought

Through working and waiting and anguish of thought!

The patience that comes to the heart, as it tries

To hear, through all discord and turbulent cries,

The songs of the armies that march to the skies;

The courage that fails not, nor loses its breath

In stress of the battle, but smilingly saith,

“I’ll measure my strength with disaster and death;”

The love that through doubting and pain will increase;

The longing and restlessness, calmed into peace

That is perfect and satisfied, never to cease—

These, these are the dear things. No king on his throne

Can buy them away from the poor and unknown

Who make them, through labor or anguish, their own.

Истинная жизнь должна быть простой во всех своих элементах. — Горас Грили.

Старый класс чтения.

Уилл Карлтон.

I.

I cannot tell you, Genevieve, how oft it comes to me—

That rather young old reading class in District Number Three,

That row of elocutionists who stood so straight in line,

And charged at standard literature with amiable design.

We did not spare the energy in which our words were clad!

We gave the meaning of the text by all the light we had;

But still I fear the ones who wrote the lines we read so free

Would scarce have recognized their work in District Number Three.

II.

Outside, the snow was smooth and clean—the winter’s thick-laid dust;

The storm, it made the windows speak at every sudden gust;

Bright sleigh-bells threw us pleasant words when travelers would pass;

The maple-trees along the road stood shivering in their class;

Beyond, the white-browed cottages were nestling cold and dumb,

And far away the mighty world seemed beckoning us to come—

The wondrous world, of which we conned what had been and might be,

In that old-fashioned reading class of District Number Three.

III.

We took a hand at History—its altars, spires and flames—

And uniformly mispronounced the most important names;

We wandered through Biography, and gave our fancy play,

And with some subjects fell in love—“good only for one day;”

In Romance and Philosophy we settled many a point,

And made what poems we assailed to creak at every joint;

And many authors that we love, you with me will agree,

Were first time introduced to us in District Number Three.

IV.

You recollect Susannah Smith, the teacher’s sore distress,

Who never stopped at any pause—a sort of day express?

And timid young Sylvester Jones, of inconsistent sight,

Who stumbled on the easy words and read the hard ones right?

And Jennie Green, whose doleful voice was always clothed in black?

And Samuel Hicks, whose tones induced the plastering all to crack?

And Andrew Tubbs, whose various mouths were quite a show to see?

Alas! we cannot find them now in District Number Three.

V.

And Jasper Jenckes, whose tears would flow at each pathetic word

(He’s in the prize-fight business now, and hits them hard, I’ve heard);

And Benny Bayne, whose every tone he murmured as in fear

(His tongue is not so timid now: he is an auctioneer);

And Lanty Wood, whose voice was just endeavoring hard to change,

And leaped from hoarse to fiercely shrill with most surprising range;

Also his sister Mary Jane, so full of prudish glee.

Alas! they’re both in higher schools than District Number Three.

VI.

So back these various voices come, though long the years have grown,

And sound uncommonly distinct through Memory’s telephone;

And some are full of melody, and bring a sense of cheer,

And some can smite the rock of time, and summon forth a tear;

But one sweet voice comes back to me, whenever sad I grieve!

And sings a song, and that is yours, O peerless Genevieve!

It brightens up the olden times, and throws a smile at me—

A silver star amid the clouds of District Number Three.

Вперед.

Сьюзен Кулидж.

Let me stand still upon the height of life;

Much has been won, though much there is to win;

I am a little weary of the strife.

Let me stand still awhile, nor count it sin

To cool my hot brow, ease the travel-pain,

And then address me to the road again.

Long was the way, and steep and hard the climb;

Sore are my limbs, and fain I am to rest;

Behind me lie long sandy tracks of time;

Before me rises the steep mountain crest.

Let me stand still; the journey is half done,

And when less weary I will travel on.

There is no standing still! Even as I pause

The steep path shifts and I slip back apace;

Movement was safety; by the journey laws

No help is given, no safe abiding-place,

No idling in the pathway hard and slow;

I must go forward, or must backward go!

I will go up then, though the limbs may tire,

And though the path be doubtful and unseen;

Better with the last effort to expire

Than lose the toil and struggle that have been,

And have the morning strength, the upward strain,

The distance conquered, in the end made vain.

Ah, blessed law! for rest is tempting sweet,

And we would all lie down if so we might;

And few would struggle on with bleeding feet;

And few would ever gain the higher height

Except for the stern law which bids us know

We must go forward, or must backward go.

Ее ангел.

Анна Ф. Бернем.

Margery cowered and crouched in the door of the beautiful porch.

There were beautiful people in there, and they all belonged to the church.

But Margery waited without; she did not belong anywhere

Except in the dear Lord’s bosom, who taketh the children there.

And through the open doorway came floating a lovely sound;

She shut her eyes and imagined how the angels stood around

With their harps like St. Cecilia’s in the picture on the wall—

Ah, Margery did not doubt that so looked the singers all.

“Suffer the little children!” sang a heavenly voice somewhere,

Or the soul of a voice that was winging away in the upper air;

“Let the children come to me!” sang the angel in her place,

And Margery, listening, stood, with upturned eyes and face.

“Let them come! let them come to me!” And up the aisle she sped

With eyes that sought for the Voice, to follow where it led.

She did not say to herself: “I’m coming! Wait for me!”

But it shone in her face, and it leaped in her eyes, dear Margery!

Up the stair to the singer she ran, she touched the hem of her dress.

But the choir were bending their heads, the preacher had risen to bless

The reverent throng, and alas! bewildered Margery,

The Voice has ceased, and the singers have turned their eyes on thee.

They look with surprise at her feet, and again at her ragged gown,

And one by one they pass with a careless smile or a frown;

But the sweetest face bent near, and—“I came,” said Margery,

“For I thought ’twas an angel sang, ‘Let the children come to me!’”

With a tender sigh the singer took the child upon her knee;

“I sang the words for the dear Lord Christ, my Margery,

And so, for the dear Lord Christ, I take thee home with me!”

—“It was an angel sang!” sobs little Margery.

Герои мертвы?

Хелен Ли Сарджент.

“We are low,—we are base!” sigh the singers,

“The heroes have long been dead!

The times have fallen,—the state is sick,

And the glory of earth has fled!

Sordid and selfish on every side

Walk the men and the women we know.

Downward we tend continually,

And faster and faster go!”

Shame to ye, shame to ye, singers!

And have ye never known

That the soul of man has been ever the same

Since the sun of heaven shone?

If ye listen and look for the heroes,

Ye will find them everywhere;

But if ye look for the knaves and scamps—

It is true they are not rare.

But whenever a ship is lost at sea,

Or a building burns on land,

Amid the terror and death and loss

A hero is found at hand.

And if ever a war should come again

(From it long may we be freed!)

Ye will find the heroes, as ever before,

Responding to the need.

Неудача! Стихотворение о тяжелых временах.

Филлипс Томпсон.

Failed! Jim Miserton failed! You don’t mean to say it’s so?

Had it from Smith at the Bank? Well, he’s a man that should know.

Forty-two cents on the dollar? I cannot believe my ears.

There’s no such thing as judging a man by the way he appears.

Yes, you may well say “failed;” there’s more than the term implies,

When all there is of a man in a hopeless ruin lies.

To come after twenty years of a stubborn up-hill strife,

It isn’t a business smash so much as a failure in life.

Gold was always his god—he’d nothing else in his soul;

Money, for money’s sake, was ever his ultimate goal.

A “self-made man” they styled him, for low and poor he began;

But now his money has vanished, and what is left of the man?

He had no eye for beauty, for literature no taste;

Buying pictures or books he counted a shameful waste.

Nothing he cared for art or the poet’s elaborate rhymes;

His soul was only attuned to the musical jingle of dimes.

Selfish, exacting, and stern, a hand he would treat like a slave;

Long were his hours of toil, and scanty the pay that he gave;

Made of cast-iron himself, his zeal in the struggle for gold

Left him no pity to spare for those of a different mold.

Never a cent for the poor, for the naked never a stitch;

’Twas all their fault, he would say; they should save like him, and grow rich.

Now and then to a church he’d forward a liberal amount,

Duly set down in his books to the advertising account.

So he succeeded, of course, and piled his coffers with wealth,

Missing pleasure and culture, losing vigor and health;

Now he’s down at the bottom, exactly where he began;

Even his gold has vanished, and what is left of the man?

A self-made man, indeed! then we owe no honor to such;

The genuine self-made man you cannot honor too much;

But be sure what you make is a man—with a heart, and a soul, and a mind,

Not merely a pile of dollars, that goes, leaving nothing behind.

Труд.

Преподобный Орвилл Дьюи.

К какому-нибудь полю деятельности, умственному или физическому, должен примкнуть каждый бездельник, как к избранному и желанному поприщу для совершенствования. Но он не побуждаем к этому учениями нашей несовершенной цивилизации. Напротив, он садится, складывает руки и благословляет себя в своем безделье. Этот образ мыслей — наследие абсурдной и несправедливой феодальной системы, при которой крепостные трудились, а джентльмены проводили жизнь в сражениях и пирах. Пора покончить с этим позором труда. Стыдишься трудиться, ты? Стыдишься своей грязной мастерской и пыльного поля труда; своей мозолистой руки, отмеченной службой более почетной, чем война; своих испачканных и выветренных одежд, на которых Мать-Природа вышила, среди солнца и дождя, среди огня и пара, свои собственные геральдические знаки отличия? Стыдишься этих знаков и титулов и завидуешь щегольским нарядам слабоумного безделья и тщеславия? Это измена природе; это нечестие перед Небом; это нарушение великого установления Небес. Труд, повторяю — труд, будь то мозга, сердца или руки, есть единственное истинное мужество, единственное истинное благородство.

Святое место.

Мэри Фрэнсис Баттс.

The people came to the priest,

“Good father,” said they,

“We love the holy altar

Where we kneel to pray;

We would ’broider a cloth

Of fine silk and wool

To cover the altar,

For our hearts are full.”

“My children,” said the priest,

“When the heart is full,

Spend not its treasure

In fine silk and wool.

Listen, my children,

Do you hear a moan?

’Tis the poor man waiting,

Sick and alone.

“His darlings ask in vain

For a piece of bread;

And what thinks the Lord?”

The good priest said.

“The tender-hearted Christ

Would be very wroth

Should you leave his poor

For an altar-cloth.

“He blesses the holy altar

Where we kneel to pray;

But in the silence

I hear him say:

“Seek me, my children,

In works of grace;

Where you comfort a heart

Is the holy place.”

Беседа Будды.

Эдвин Арнольд.

Herewith a broken beam of Buddha’s lore,

One raylet of his glorious gift of light,

Rose-gleam which lingers when the sun is down

Such space that men may find a path thereby.

A priest questioned him:

“‘Which is Life’s chief good, Master?’ And he spake:

“‘Shadows are good, when the high sun is flaming,

From whereso’er they fall;

Some take their rest beneath the holy temple,

Some by the prison wall.

“‘The king’s gilt palace roof shuts off the sunlight,

So doth the dyer’s shed!

Which is the chiefest shade of all the shadows?’

‘They are alike!’ one said.

“‘So is it,’ quoth he, ‘with all shows or living;

As shadows fall, they fall!

Rest under, if ye must, but question not

Which is the best of all.

“‘Yet in the forest some trees wave with fragrance

Of fruit and bloom o’erhead;

And some are evil, bearing fruitless branches

Whence poisonous air is spread.

“‘Therefore, though all be shows, seek, if ye must,

Right shelter from life’s heat;

Lo! these do well who toil for wife and child

Threading the burning street.

“‘Good is it helping kindred! good to dwell

Blameless and just to all;

Good to give alms, with good-will in the heart,

Albeit the store be small!

“‘Good to speak sweet and gentle words, to be

Merciful, patient, and mild;

To hear the law and keep it, leading days

Innocent, undefiled.

“‘These the chief goods—for evil by its like

Ends not, nor hate by hate;

By love hate ceaseth, by well-doing ill,

By knowledge life’s dark state.

“‘Look! yonder soars an eagle! mark those wings

Which cleave the blue, cool skies!

What shadow needeth that proud Lord of Air

To shield his fearless eyes?

“‘Rise from this life! lift upon new-spread pinions

Heart free and great as his!

The eagle seeks no shadow, nor the wise

Greater or lesser bliss!’”

Мы — неохотные ходоки. Мы недостаточно невинны и простосердечны, чтобы наслаждаться прогулкой. Мы пали из того состояния благодати, которое подразумевает способность наслаждаться прогулкой. Нельзя сказать, что как народ мы настолько позитивно печальны или угрюмы, скорее мы лишены той игривости животных инстинктов, которая характеризовала наших предков и которая проистекает из полной и гармоничной жизни — здорового сердца в согласии со здоровым телом. Человек должен вкладывать себя в то, что рядом, и в обычные вещи, и довольствоваться устойчивым и умеренным доходом, если хочет познать блаженство веселого сердца и сладость прогулки по круглой земле. Это урок, который американцу еще предстоит усвоить — способность к развлечению на низком уровне. — Джон Берроуз.

Чтобы наполнить юный ум высокими и благородными идеями, пополнить память богатейшим словарем и приобрести широкое владение нашим великим английским языком, у нас нет ничего лучше, кроме Библии, чем пьесы Шекспира.

Отрывки из Шекспира, однажды тщательно заученные наизусть, никогда не забываются. Многие великие ораторы и государственные деятели мира имели обыкновение заучивать и декламировать отрывки из Шекспира. Эдмунд Берк сделал Шекспира своим ежедневным чтением, в то время как Эрскин, говорят, мог поддерживать разговор на любую тему фразами великого драматурга. Руфус Чоат был знаком с каждой строкой Шекспира. Дэниел Уэбстер никогда не уставал повторять отрывки из того же автора. Добродушный доктор Холмс рассказывает нам, что Уэнделл Филлипс, историк Мотли и он сам, будучи мальчиками, декламировали речь Антония в праздничные дни над распростертой фигурой какого-нибудь младшего товарища по играм.

Воробьи.

Аделин Д. Т. Уитни.

Little birds sit on the telegraph wires,

And chitter and flitter and fold their wings.

Maybe they think that for them and their sires

Stretched always on purpose, those wonderful strings;

And perhaps the thought that the world inspires

Did plan for the birds among other things.

Little birds sit on the slender lines,

And the news of the world runs under their feet:

How value rises and now declines,

How kings with their armies in battle meet;

And all the while, ’mid the soundless signs,

They chirp their small gossipings, foolish and sweet.

Little things light on the lines of our lives—

Hopes and joys and acts of to-day;

And we think that for these the Lord contrives,

Nor catch what the hidden lightnings say;

Yet from end to end his meaning arrives,

And his word runs underneath all the way.

Is life only wires and lightning, then,

Apart from that which about it clings?

Are the thoughts and the works and the prayers of men

Only sparrows that light on God’s telegraph strings—

Holding a moment and gone again?

Nay: he planned for the birds with the larger things!

Но, прежде всего, где ты находишь невежество, глупость, скотство — атакуй это, говорю я; рази это мудро, неустанно, и не отдыхай, пока ты живешь и пока оно живет; но рази, рази во имя Бога! Высший Бог, как я это понимаю, внятно повелевает тебе: все еще внятно, если у тебя есть уши, чтобы слышать. Он, даже Он, своим невысказанным голосом, полнее любого грома Синая или членораздельной речи вихрей; ибо молчание глубоких вечностей, миров за пределами утренних звезд, разве не говорит оно тебе? Нерожденные века; старые могилы с их давно истлевшей пылью, сами слезы, которые орошали ее, теперь все высохли — разве не говорят они тебе то, чего ухо не слышало? Глубокие царства смерти, звезды в своих никогда не отдыхающих путях, все пространство и все время провозглашают это тебе в постоянном безмолвном наставлении. Ты тоже, если когда-либо человек должен был, будешь работать, пока это называется «сегодня»; ибо приходит ночь, в которую никто не может работать. — Томас Карлейль.

Штурм Стоуни-Пойнта.

(16 июля 1779 г.)

Элейн Гудейл.

The wonder of midnight, now pregnant with wars,

Skies mellow and fruitful, all trembling with stars,

The ripe, yellow planet, poised low in the west,

The smooth-flowing river, with stars on its breast;

These murmur of Wayne,

Mad Anthony Wayne,—

He has life-blood to lose, he has glory to gain!

The low-lying marshes, where, silent and stern,

Twelve hundred are creeping through bog-grass and fern,

With fireflies for lanterns; while, black-throated still,

The cannon are cold in the fort on the hill,—

These whisper of Wayne,

Mad Anthony Wayne,

Every sense up in arms, every nerve on the strain.

The noiseless approach, and the desperate close;

The flash of the steel, and the blood as it flows;

The hero, once wounded, who cries,—“I shall win!

Let me die in the fort! Men, carry me in!”

These tell us of Wayne,

Mad Anthony Wayne,

With nerves hard as iron, despising the pain!

The red flag of morning, displayed in the skies,

Brings a stern look of joy to the conqueror’s eyes,—

Those eyes that flashed full on his chief (so they tell),—

“What! storm Stony Point? You may bid me storm hell!”

We’ll believe it of Wayne,

Mad Anthony Wayne,

The bravest of foes, and the peer of his slain!

Смирение.

Эрнест У. Шертлефф.

Sweet are the roses in the pasture lane,

Like flakes of sunset dropped from some rich cloud—

Oh, sweet, indeed, but not with sweetness vain;

Nor is the pasture of their presence proud.

Not for themselves they blossom, bud and nod—

They spring to breathe to man the peace of God.

I never heard a songster’s lay that told

Of aught but simple joy and grateful praise.

The oriole, with throat aflame with gold,

Dreams not he is a charm to mortal gaze;

No bird to laud himself hath ever sung—

His song is for the flowers he chirps among.

The sun that fills the skies with summer calms,

The stars that light unmeasured depths of space

Like distant suns that flash reflected charms,

When on the night Jehovah turns his face—

All these in humbleness their glory wear,

Grateful, not proud, because Heaven made them fair.

O vaunting man, go ponder on these things!

Think—what is glory in thy Makers view?

Who wins the passing praise the cold world sings

Not always earns the praise of Heaven too.

Thou mayst through life thy name with gods enroll,

Yet bear rebuke of angels in thy soul.

Oh, to be simple in the lives we lead!

To know that what we hold is not our own!

The lily is as modest as the weed,

The mountain humble as the broken stone.

Since man is proud, how wise it is, how just,

That death should come to teach us we are dust!

Ну и что с того?

Tired? Well, what of that?

Didst fancy life was spent on beds of ease,

Fluttering the rose-leaves scattered by the breeze?

Come, rouse thee! work while it is called day!

Coward, arise! go forth upon thy way.

Lonely? And what of that?

Some must be lonely; ’tis not given to all

To feel a heart responsive rise and fall,

To blend another life into its own;

Work may be done in loneliness. Work on!

Dark? Well, and what of that?

Didst fondly dream the sun would never set?

Dost fear to lose thy way? Take courage yet.

Learn thou to walk by faith, and not by sight;

Thy steps will guided be, and guided right.

Hard? Well, what of that?

Didst fancy life one summer holiday,

With lessons none to learn, and naught but play?

Go, get thee to thy task! Conquer or die!

It must be learned; learn it, then, patiently.

Знание в наше время восторжествовало и продолжает торжествовать над предрассудками и фанатизмом. Цивилизованный и христианский мир быстро усваивает великий урок, что различие наций не означает неизбежную враждебность и что не всякий контакт должен быть войной. Весь мир становится общим полем для деятельности интеллекта. Энергия ума, гений, сила, где бы они ни существовали, могут высказаться на любом языке, и мир услышит их. — Дэниел Уэбстер.

Старики в новой школе.

Things ain’t now as they used to be

A hundred years ago,

When schools were kept in private rooms

Above stairs or below;

When sturdy boys and rosy girls

Romped through the drifted snow,

And spelled their duty and their “abs,”

A hundred years ago.

Those old school-rooms were dark and cold

When winter’s sun ran low;

But darker was the master’s frown,

A hundred years ago;

And high hung up the birchen rod,

That all the school might see,

Which taught the boys obedience

As well as Rule of Three.

Though ’twas but little that they learned,

A hundred years ago,

Yet what they got they ne’er let slip,—

’Twas well whipped in, you know.

But now the times are greatly changed,

The rod has had its day,

The boys are won by gentle words,

And girls by love obey.

The school-house now a palace is,

And scholars, kings and queens;

They master Algebra and Greek

Before they reach their teens.

Where once was crying, music sweet

Her soothing influence sheds;

Ferules are used for beating time,

And not for beating heads.

Yes, learning was a ragged boy,

A hundred years ago;

With six weeks schooling in a year,

What could the urchin do?

But now he is a full-grown man,

And boasts attainments rare;

He’s got his silver slippers on,

And running everywhere.

Варварский вождь.

Элла Уиллер Уилкокс.

There was a kingdom known as the Mind,

A kingdom vast, as fair,

And the brave King Brain had the right to reign

In royal splendor there.

Oh! that was a beautiful, beautiful land

Which unto this king was given;

It was filled with everything good and grand,

And it reached from earth to heaven.

But a savage monster came one day,

From over a distant border;

He made war on the king and usurped his sway,

And set everything in disorder.

He mounted the throne, which he made his own,

And the kingdom was sunk in grief,

There was sorrow and shame from the hour he came—

Ill Temper, the barbarous chief.

He threw down the castles of Love and Peace,

He burned up the altars of prayers;

He trod down the grain that was sowed by Brain,

And planted thistles and tares.

He wasted the storehouse of knowledge, and drove

Queen Wisdom away in fright,

And a terrible gloom like the cloud of doom

Shadowed that land with night.

Then, bent on more havoc, away he rushed

To the neighboring kingdom Heart,

And the blossoms of kindness and hope he crushed,

And patience was made to depart.

And he even went on to the isthmus Soul,

That unites the Mind with God,

And its beautiful bowers and fragrant flowers

With a reckless heel he trod.

Oh! to you is given this beautiful land

Where the lordly Brain has sway—

But the border ruffian is near at hand—

And be on your guard, I pray.

Beware of Ill Temper, the barbarous chief,

He is cruel as Vice or Sin;

He will certainly bring your kingdom grief,

If once you let him in.

Рост.

Хорас Манн.

Сначала разум не может проецировать себя наружу, если можно так выразиться, даже так далеко, как может видеть глаз. Ребенок может видеть глазом очертания далекой горы задолго до того, как его разум сможет, так сказать, перепрыгнуть через разделяющее пространство. Но вскоре разум обретает силу полета, по сравнению с которой пространство, пройденное самым острым глазом, подкрепленным лучшим телескопом, — ничто. Глаз, конечно, может видеть далекую звезду, чей свет, путешествующий с момента своего создания со скоростью двести тысяч миль в секунду, только что достиг земли; но все это лишь пядь по сравнению с глубинами в безднах пространства, в которые погружается предприимчивый разум.

Служение птицы.

Маргарет Дж. Престон.

From his home in an eastern bungalow,

In sight of the everlasting snow

Of the grand Himalayas, row on row,

Thus wrote my friend:

“I had traveled far

From the Afghan towers of Candahar,

Through the sand-white plains of Sinde-Sagar;

“And once, when the daily march was o’er,

As tired I sat in my tented door,

Hope failed me, as never it failed before.

“In swarming city, at wayside fane,

By the Indus’ bank, on the scorching plain,

I had taught,—and my teaching all seemed vain.

“‘No glimmer of light [I sighed] appears;

The Moslem’s fate and the Buddhist’s fears

Have gloomed their worship this thousand years.

“‘For Christ and His truth I stand alone

In the midst of millions; a sand-grain blown

Against yon temple of ancient stone.

“‘As soon may level it!’ Faith forsook

My soul, as I turned on the pile to look;

Then rising, my saddened way I took

“To its lofty roof, for the cooler air;

I gazed, and marveled;—how crumbled were

The walls I had deemed so firm and fair!

“For, wedged in a rift of the massive stone,

Most plainly rent by its roots alone,

A beautiful peepul-tree had grown;

“Whose gradual stress would still expand

The crevice, and topple upon the sand

The temple, while o’er its work would stand

“The tree in its living verdure!—Who

Could compass the thought?—The bird that flew

Hitherward, dropping a seed that grew,

“Did more to shiver this ancient wall

Than earthquake,—war,—simoon,—or all

The centuries, in their lapse and fall!

“Then I knelt by the riven granite there,

And my soul shook off its weight of care,

As my voice rose clear on the tropic air:

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