Fourth Reader: The Alexandra Readers. John Dearness
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!
—Thomas Moore.
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.”
—Henry van Dyke.
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.
Raphael
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 a stone’s throw of Giovanni Sanzio, and had a beautiful daughter, by name Pacifica. The house of Benedetto was a long, stone building with a porch at the back all overclimbed by hardy rose trees, and looking on a garden in which grew abundantly pear trees, plum trees, and strawberries. The little son of neighbor Sanzio ran in and out of this bigger house and wider garden of Benedetto at his pleasure, for the maiden Pacifica was always glad to see him, and even the master potter would show the child how to lay the color on the tremulous unbaked clay. Raphael loved Pacifica, as he loved everything that was beautiful, and every one that was kind.
Master Benedetto had four apprentices or pupils at that time, but the one that Raphael and Pacifica liked best was one Luca, a youth with a noble, dark beauty of his own. For love of Pacifica he had come down from his mountain home, and had bound himself to her father’s service. Now he spent his days trying in vain to make designs fair enough to find favor in the eyes of his master.
One day, as Raphael was standing by his favorite window in the potter’s house, his friend, the handsome Luca, who was also standing there, sighed so deeply that the child was startled from his dreams. “Good Luca, what ails you?” he queried, winding his arms about the young man’s knees.
“Oh, ‘Faello!” sighed the apprentice, wofully, “here is a chance to win the hand of Pacifica if only I had talent. If the good Lord had only gifted me with a master’s skill, instead of all the strength of this great body of mine, I might win Pacifica.”
“What chance is it?” asked Raphael.
“Dear one,” answered Luca, with a tremendous sigh, “you must know that a new order has come in this very forenoon from the Duke. He wishes a dish and a jar of the very finest majolica to be painted with the story of Esther, and made ready in three months from this date. The master has said that whoever makes a dish and a jar beautiful enough for the great Duke shall become his partner and the husband of Pacifica. Now you see, ‘Faello mine, why I am so bitterly sad of heart; for at the painting of clay I am but a tyro. Even your good father told me that, though I had a heart of gold, yet I would never be able to decorate anything more than a barber’s basin. Alas! what shall I do? They will all beat me;” and tears rolled down the poor youth’s