LESSON XXIX.


dells, _small valleys_.

bow'ers, _covered places made of boughs_.

troupe, _a number of living beings; a company_.

daf'fo dils, _yellow flowers_.

sheen, _brightness; splendor_.

sprite, _an unreal person_.

sus pend'ed, _stopped for a time; hung_.

va'ries, _is different; changes_.

blue'bell, _a kind of flower_.

ram'bling, _wandering_.

rev'el, _play in a noisy manner_.


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LOOKING FOR THE FAIRIES.


I've peeped in many a bluebell,
And crept among the flowers,
And hunted in the acorn cups,
And in the woodland bowers;
And shook the yellow daffodils,
And searched the gardens round,
A-looking for the little folk
I never, never found.

I've linger'd till the setting sun
Threw out a golden sheen,
In hope to see a fairy troupe
Come dancing on the green;
And marveled that they did not come
To revel in the air,
And wondered if they slept, and where
Their hiding-places were.

I've wandered with a timid step
Beneath the moon's pale light,
And every blazing dew-drop seemed
To be a tiny sprite;
And listened with suspended breath,
Among the grand, old trees,
For fairy music floating soft
Upon the evening breeze.

Ah me! those pleasant, sunny days,
In youthful fancies wild,--
Rambling through the wooded dells,
A careless, happy child!
And now I sit and sigh to think
Age from childhood varies,
And never more may we be found
Looking for the fairies.


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Directions for Reading.--Which one of the stanzas should be read more
slowly than the others?

Point out the _emphatic words_ in the last four lines of the lesson.


*       *       *       *       *


Language Lesson.--Which lines in each stanza end in similar sounds?

Let pupils explain the meaning of what is given below in dark type.

I've hunted in the _acorn cups_.

I've wandered with a _timid step_.

_Age from childhood varies._


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LESSON XXX.


poi'son ous, _likely to do great harm or injury_.

sep'a rate, _apart from other things_.

con di'tion, _state; situation_.

nec'es sa ry, _really needed_.

dis a gree'a ble, _very unpleasant_.

sen'si ble, _wise; knowing what is proper_.

ac cus'tomed, _being used to_.

es pe'cial ly, _more than usual_.


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AIR.


We all know very well that we can not live without breathing.

What we do not all know, or do not all think of, is that we want not
only air, but good air. We are apt to take it for granted that any air
will do for us; stale air, dirty air, even poisonous air.

What makes the matter worse is, that we can not help spoiling air
ourselves by the very act of breathing.

If people are shut up in rooms where the bad air can not get out and the
good air can not get in at all, they are sure to be made ill.

Some people in Scotland thought they would have a merry Christmas party,
and invited their friends to come to a dance.

As it was very cold weather, they shut all the doors and windows tight,
and then they began to dance.

It was a small room with a low ceiling, and there were thirty-six people
dancing in it all night. By the time morning came the air was so bad
that it was really like poison; and very soon seven of the poor dancers
were seized with a terrible fever, and two of them actually died.

The air we breathe out is different from the air we take in. We send
away some things with our breath which were not in the air when we took
it in.

One of these is water. Sometimes you can see this for yourself. On a
cold, frosty day, you know we can see the clouds of steam coming out of
our mouths. This steam is only very fine particles of water.

In warm weather we do not see the steam, but the water is there all the
same; if you will breathe on a looking-glass at any time, you will make
it dim and damp directly with the water that is contained in your
breath.

We also breathe out animal matter, little particles of our own bodies
just ready to decay. We can not see them, but they soon give the air a
close, disagreeable smell. Good air has no smell at all.

And now I have something to say to you about the use of noses.

I dare say you can not see much use in the sense of smell. Seeing,
hearing, touching, are very needful to us, we all know; but as to
smelling, that does not seem to have any particular value.

It is pleasant to smell a sweet rose or violet; and, I believe, smelling
really forms a good part of what we call tasting.

Of all our senses, smell is the one that soonest gets out of practice.
If people would always accustom themselves to use their noses, they
never would consent to live in the horrid air they do.

If you go from the fresh air into a close room, you will notice the
smell at once. Then, if you remain there, you will soon get accustomed
to the smell and not notice it; but it will still be there, and will be
doing you a great deal of harm.

In good air there are, mainly, two sorts of gas.

The first is a very lively sort of gas, called oxygen; it is very fond
of joining itself with other things, and burning them, and things burn
very fast indeed in oxygen.

The second is a very slow, dull gas, called nitrogen; and nothing will
burn in it at all. Pure oxygen would be too active for us to live in, so
it is mixed with nitrogen.

When we breathe, the air goes down into our lungs, which are something
like sponges, inside our chests.

These sponges have in them an immense quantity of little blood-vessels,
and great numbers of little air-vessels; so that the blood almost
touches the air; there is only a very, very thin skin between them.

Through that skin, the blood sends away the waste and useless things it
has collected from all parts of the body, and takes in the fresh oxygen
which the body wants.

You have often heard man's life compared to a candle. I will show you
some ways in which they are much alike.

When a candle or lamp burns, if we keep it from getting any new air, it
soon uses all the lively gas, or oxygen, and then it goes out. This is
easily shown by placing a glass jar over a lighted candle.

If the candle gets only a little fresh air, it burns dim and weak. If we
get only a little fresh air, we are sickly and weak.

The candle makes another kind of gas. It is called carbonic acid gas,
which, is unhealthy and not fit for breathing. The heat of our bodies
also makes this gas, and we throw it off in our breath.

Oxygen and carbon, in a separate condition, make up a good part of our
flesh, blood, and bones; but when they are joined together, and make
carbonic acid gas, they are of no further use to us.

You might go to a store and buy sand and sugar; but if they became mixed
together as you brought them home, you would not be able to use either
one of them, unless some clever fairy could pick them apart for you.

You see now one great way of spoiling the air. How are we to get rid of
this bad air, and obtain fresh air, without being too cold?

In summer time this is quite simple, but in winter it is more difficult;
because it is a very bad thing to be cold, and a thin, cold draught of
air is especially bad.

The bad air loaded with carbonic acid gas, when we first breathe it out,
is warm. Warm gases are much lighter than cold ones, therefore the bad
air at first goes up to the ceiling.

If there is an opening near the top of the room, the bad air goes out;
but if there is no opening, it by and by grows cold and heavy, and comes
down again. Then we have to breathe it.

If you open the window at the top, it will let out the bad air, and you
will not feel a draught. It is not often so very cold that you cannot
bear the window open, even a little way from the top, and that is the
best way of airing a room.

This is just as necessary by night as by day. People who shut in the bad
air, and shut out the good air, all night long, can never expect to
awake refreshed, feeling better for their sleep.

What becomes of the carbonic acid gas which the body throws off through
our breath? Can any thing pick the carbon and oxygen in it apart, and
make them fit for us to use again?

Yes. Every plant, every green leaf, every blade of grass, does that for
us. When the sun shines on them, they pick the carbon out and send back
the oxygen for us to breathe. They keep the carbon and make that fit
for us and animals to eat.

The grass makes the carbon fit for sheep and cows, and then we eat their
flesh or drink their milk; and the corn makes the carbon fit to eat; so
do potatoes, and all the other vegetables and fruits which we eat. Is
not this a wonderful arrangement?

But perhaps you think, considering what an amazing number of people
there are in the world, besides all the animals--for all creatures that
breathe, spoil the air just as we do--there can hardly be trees and
plants enough to set all the air right again.

Round about cities and large towns there are certainly more people than
there are trees, but in many other parts of the world there are a great
many more trees than there are people.

I have heard of forests in South America so thick and so large, that the
monkeys might run along the tops of the trees for a hundred miles. So
you see there are plenty of trees in the world to do the work.

But then, how does all the bad air leave the towns and cities where men
live, and get to the forests and meadows?

The air is constantly moving about; rising and falling, sweeping this
way or that way, and traveling from place to place.

Not only the little particles out of our breath, but any thing that
gives the air any smell, does it some harm. Even nice smells, like those
of roses, are unhealthy, if shut up in a room for some time.

Dirty walls, ceilings, and floors give the air a musty, close, smell; so
do dirty clothes, muddy boots, cooking, and washing. Some of these ought
not to be in the house at all; others remind us to open our windows
wide.

All the things I have been saying to you about pure air, apply still
more to sick people than to healthy ones.


*       *       *       *       *


Directions for Reading.--Read the following sentences carefully, and
avoid running the words together.

The good__air can not get__in at__all.

We are__apt to take__it for granted.

It__is sure to make them__ill.

Point out three other places in the lesson where similar errors are
likely to occur.


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Language Lesson.--Add _ment_ to each of the following words, and then
give the meaning of the words so formed.

_arrange    move    settle    encourage_


*       *       *       *       *




LESSON XXXI.


dis tinct'ly, _clearly; plainly_.

a roused', _wakened_.

re ced'ing, _going backward or away from_

vig'i lant, _watchful; careful_.

ex haust'ed, _tired out with work_.

pre ced'ing, _going before_.

fort'night, _two weeks' time_.

con vul'sive, _irregular in movement_.

tar'ried, _delayed; remained_.

grad'u al ly, _step by step; slowly_.


*       *       *       *       *




A TIMELY RESCUE.


It was in the month of February, 1831, a bright moonlight night, and
extremely cold, that the little brig I commanded lay quietly at her
anchors inside the bay.

We had had a hard time of it, beating about for eleven days, with
cutting north-easters blowing, and snow and sleet falling for the
greater part of the time.

When at length we made the port, all hands were almost exhausted, and we
could not have held out two days longer without relief.

"A bitter cold night, Mr. Larkin," I said to my mate, as I tarried for a
moment on deck to finish my pipe. "The tide is running out swift and
strong; it will be well to keep a sharp look-out for this floating ice,
Mr. Larkin."

"Ay, ay, sir," answered the mate, and I went below.

Two hours afterwards I was aroused from a sound sleep by the vigilant
officer. "Excuse me for disturbing you, captain," said he, as he
detected an expression of vexation on my face; "but I wish you would
turn out, and come on deck as soon as possible."

"Why--what's the matter, Mr. Larkin?"

"Why, sir, I have been watching a cake of ice that swept by at a little
distance a moment ago; I saw something black upon it--something that I
thought moved."

We were on deck before either spoke another word. The mate pointed out,
with no little difficulty, the cake of ice floating off to leeward, and
its white, glittering surface was broken by a black spot.

"Get me a spy-glass, Mr. Larkin--the moon will be out of that cloud in a
moment, and then we can see distinctly." I kept my eye on the receding
mass of ice, while the moon was slowly working its way through a heavy
bank of clouds.

The mate stood by with a spy-glass. When the full light fell at last
upon the water, I put the glass to my eye. One glance was enough..

"Forward, there!" I shouted at the top of my voice; and with, one bound
I readied the main hatch, and began to clear away the ship's cutter. Mr.
Larkin had received the glass from my hand to take a look for himself.

"O, pitiful sight!" he said in a whisper, as he set to work to aid me in
getting out the boat; "there are two children on that cake of ice!"

In a very short space of time we launched the cutter, into which Mr.
Larkin and myself jumped, followed by two men, who took the oars. I held
the tiller, and the mate sat beside me.

"Do you see that cake of ice with something black upon it, lads?" I
cried; "put me alongside of that, and I will give you a month's extra
wages when you are paid off."

The men were worn out by the hard duty of the preceding fortnight; and,
though they did their best, the boat made little more way than the tide.
This was a long chase; and Mr. Larkin, who was suffering as he saw how
little we gained, cried out--

"Pull, lads--I'll double the captain's prize. Pull, lads, for the sake
of mercy, pull!"

A convulsive effort at the oars told how willing the men were to obey,
but their strength was gone. One of the poor fellows splashed us twice
in recovering his oar, and then gave out; the other was nearly as far
gone. Mr. Larkin sprung forward and seized the deserted oar.

"Lie down in the bottom of the boat," said he to the man; "and, captain,
take the other oar; we must row for ourselves." I took the second man's
place.

Larkin had stripped to his Guernsey shirt; as he pulled the bow I waited
the signal stroke. It came gently, but firmly; and the next moment we
were pulling a long, steady stroke, gradually increasing in rapidity
until the wood seemed to smoke in the oar-locks.

We kept time with each other by our long, deep breathing. Such a pull!
At every stroke the boat shot ahead like an arrow. Thus we worked at the
oars for fifteen minutes--it seemed to me as many hours.

"Have we almost come to it, Mr. Larkin?" I asked.

"Almost, captain,--don't give up: for the love of our dear little ones
at home, don't give up, captain," replied Larkin.

The oars flashed as the blades turned up to the moonlight. The men who
plied them were fathers, and had fathers' hearts; the strength which
nerved them at that moment was more than human.

Suddenly Mr. Larkin stopped pulling, and my heart for a moment almost
ceased its beating; for the terrible thought that he had given out
crossed my mind. But I was quickly reassured by his saying--

"Gently, captain, gently--a stroke or two more--there, that will
do"--and the next moment the boat's side came in contact with something.

Larkin sprung from the boat upon the ice. I started up, and, calling
upon the men to make fast the boat to the ice, followed.

We ran to the dark spot in the centre of the mass, and found two little
boys--the head of the smaller nestling in the bosom of the larger. Both
were fast asleep!

They were benumbed with cold, and would surely have frozen to death, but
for our timely rescue.

Mr. Larkin grasped one of the lads, cut off his shoes, tore off his
jacket; and then, loosening his own garments to the skin, placed the
chilled child in contact with his own warm body, carefully wrapping over
him his great-coat.

I did the same with the other child; and we then returned to the boat;
and the men having partly recovered, pulled slowly back.

The children, as we learned when we afterwards had the delight of
returning them to their parents, were playing on the ice, and had
ventured on the cake.

A movement of the tide set the ice in motion, and the little fellows
were borne away on that cold night, and would certainly have perished,
had not Mr. Larkin seen them as the ice was sweeping out to sea.

"How do you feel?" I said to the mate, the next morning after this
adventure.

"A little stiff in the arms, captain," the noble fellow replied, while
the big tears of grateful happiness gushed from his eyes--"a little
stiff in the arms, captain, but very easy here," and he laid his hand on
his manly heart.


*       *       *       *       *


Language Lesson.--Change the following _commands_ to _statements_.

Take the other oar.    Don't give up!

Give the meaning of the word _lads_ in the third and fourth lines of
page 152, and in the fourth line of page 154.[09]

Make out an _analysis_ of the lesson, and use it in telling the story
in your own words.


[09] See Lesson XXXI.


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LESSON XXXII.


re'gion, _place; space_.

furze, _a thorny shrub with yellow flowers_.

list'eth, _wishes; pleases_.

mirth, _joy; fun_.

boon, _gay; merry_.

shaft, _an arrow; the stem of an arrow_.

up borne', _held or borne up_.

crest'ing, _touching the tops of_.


*       *       *       *       *




BIRDS IN SUMMER.


How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Flitting about in each leafy tree;--
In the leafy trees so broad and tall,
Like a green and beautiful palace hall,
With its airy chambers, light and boon,
That open to sun, and stars, and moon;
That open unto the bright blue sky,
And the frolicsome winds, as they wander by!

[Illustration]

They have left their nests in the forest bough;
Those homes of delight they need not now;
And the young and old they wander out,
And traverse their green world round about;
And hark! at the top of this leafy hall,
How, one to the other, they lovingly call:
"Come up, come up!" they seem to say,
"Where the topmost twigs in the breezes play!

"Come up, come up, for the world is fair,
Where the merry leaves dance in the summer air!"
And the birds below give back the cry,
"We come, we come to the branches high!"
How pleasant the life of the birds must be,
Living in love in a leafy tree;
And away through the air what joy to go,
And to look on the green, bright earth below!

How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Skimming about on the breezy sea,
Cresting the billows like silvery foam,
And then wheeling away to its cliff-built home!
What joy it must be to sail, upborne
By a strong, free wing, through the rosy morn,
To meet the young sun, face to face,
And pierce, like a shaft, the boundless space!

How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Wherever it listeth there to flee:
To go, when a joyful fancy calls,
Dashing down, 'mong the waterfalls;
Then wheeling about, with its mates at play,