Fourth Reader. VariousЧитать онлайн книгу.
my poor brain! Oh, my poor brain!” cried the jackal, wringing its paws and scratching its head. “Let me see, how did it all begin? You were in the cage, and the tiger came walking by – ”?
“Pooh! Not at all!” interrupted the tiger. “What a fool you are! I was in the cage.”
“Yes, of course!” cried the jackal, pretending to tremble with fright. “Yes! I was in the cage – no, I wasn’t – dear! dear! where are my wits? Let me see – the tiger was in the Brahman, and the cage came walking by. No, no, that’s not it, either! Well, don’t mind me, but begin your dinner, my lord, for I shall never understand it!”
“Yes, you shall!” returned the tiger, in a rage at the jackal’s stupidity; “I’ll make you understand! Look here. I am the tiger – ”
“Yes, my lord!”
“And that is the Brahman – ”
“Yes, my lord!”
“And that is the cage – ”
“Yes, my lord!”
“And I was in the cage – do you understand?”
“Yes, but please, my lord, how did you get in?”
“How did I get in! Why, in the usual way, of course!” cried the tiger, impatiently.
“O dear me! my head is beginning to whirl again! Please don’t be angry, my lord, but what is the usual way?”
At this the tiger lost all patience, and, jumping into the cage, cried, “This way! Now do you understand how it was?”
“Perfectly!” grinned the jackal, as he instantly shut the door; “and if you will permit me to say so, I think matters will remain as they were!” – Joseph Jacobs.
A CANADIAN BOAT-SONG
Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We’ll sing at St. Ann’s our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylight’s past!
Why should we yet our sail unfurl?
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl!
But when the wind blows off the shore,
Oh! sweetly we’ll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylight’s past!
Utawas’ tide! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green Isle! hear our prayers;
Oh! grant us cool heavens and favoring airs.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylight’s past!
Attempt the end and never stand in doubt;
Nothing’s so hard but search will find it out.
THE SONG SPARROW
There is a bird I know so well,
It seems as if he must have sung
Beside my crib when I was young;
Before I knew the way to spell
The name of even the smallest bird,
His gentle, joyful song I heard.
Now see if you can tell, my dear,
What bird it is, that every year,
Sings “Sweet – sweet – sweet – very merry cheer.”
He comes in March, when winds are strong,
And snow returns to hide the earth;
But still he warms his head with mirth,
And waits for May. He lingers long
While flowers fade, and every day
Repeats his sweet, contented lay;
As if to say we need not fear
The seasons’ change, if love is here,
With “Sweet – sweet – sweet – very merry cheer.”
He does not wear a Joseph’s coat
Of many colors, smart and gay;
His suit is Quaker brown and gray,
With darker patches at his throat.
And yet of all the well-dressed throng,
Not one can sing so brave a song.
It makes the pride of looks appear
A vain and foolish thing to hear
His “Sweet – sweet – sweet – very merry cheer.”
A lofty place he does not love,
But sits by choice, and well at ease,
In hedges, and in little trees
That stretch their slender arms above
The meadow-brook; and there he sings
Till all the field with pleasure rings;
And so he tells in every ear,
That lowly homes to heaven are near
In “Sweet – sweet – sweet – very merry cheer.”
I like the tune, I like the words;
They seem so true, so free from art,
So friendly, and so full of heart,
That if but one of all the birds
Could be my comrade everywhere,
My little brother of the air,
This is the one I’d choose, my dear,
Because he’d bless me, every year,
With “Sweet – sweet – sweet – very merry cheer.”
From “The Builders and Other Poems.”
Copyright, 1897, by Charles Scribner’s Sons.
The only way to have a friend is to be one.
THE CHILD OF URBINO
Many, many years ago, in old Urbino, in the pleasant land of Italy, a little boy stood looking out of a high window into the calm, sunshiny day. He was a pretty boy with hazel eyes and fair hair cut straight above his brows. He wore a little blue tunic with some embroidery about the neck of it, and in his hand he carried a little round cap of the same color.
He was a very happy little boy here in this stately, yet kindly, Urbino. He had a dear old grandfather and a loving mother; and he had a father who was very tender to him, and who was full of such true love of art that the child breathed it with every breath he drew. He often said to himself, “I mean to become a painter, too.” And the child understood that to be a painter was to be the greatest thing in the world; for this child was Raphael, the seven-year-old son of Giovanni Sanzio.
At this time Urbino was growing into fame for its pottery work, and when its duke wished to send a bridal gift or a present on other festal occasions, he often chose some of his own Urbino ware. Jars and bowls and platters and vases were all made and painted at Urbino, whilst Raphael Sanzio was running about on rosy, infantine feet.
There was a master potter in that day, one Benedetto, who did things rare and fine in the Urbino ware. He lived within