Third Reader: The Alexandra Readers. John Dearness
gone!
Sing a song of Winter!
North-wind’s bitter chill,
Home and ruddy firelight,
Kindness and good-will,
Hemlock in the churches,
Daytime soon withdrawn;
Sing a song of Winter—
Ah, but Winter’s gone!
Sing a song of loving!
Let the seasons go;
Hearts can make their gardens
Under sun or snow;
Fear no fading blossom,
Nor the dying day;
Sing a song of loving—
That will last for aye!
—Elizabeth Roberts Macdonald.
By permission of the publishers, L. C. Page & Co., Boston.
Striving not to be rich or great,
Never questioning fortune or fate,
Contented slowly to earn, and wait.
A MISER’S TREASURE
There once lived, in a little English town, a skilful linen weaver named Silas Marner. He was of a simple, trusting nature. He thought no wrong of anybody, and had never harmed any one in word or deed. Among his friends in the town there was one man whom he loved so dearly that he would gladly have given his life for him.
This man, however, far from being a true friend, acted most dishonestly and unfaithfully. Having committed a robbery himself, he cast the blame on Silas; and the weaver, who was too simple to see through the trick that had been played upon him, was forced to leave his native town, not only a disgraced, but a broken-hearted, man. The wickedness of the man whom he had thought his true friend, and the readiness of all his fellow-townsmen to believe evil of him, changed his whole nature and made him suspicious of and bitter against all men.
He wandered forth and settled at last in the village of Raveloe, far away from his old home. There he took up his abode in a little weather-beaten cottage at the outskirts of the town, and would have nothing to do with his neighbors beyond furnishing them with the fine linen he wove so well, and taking his pay in gold.
All day long he sat spinning at his loom, seeing no one and thinking only of his wrongs; and at night he had nothing to do but count his gold and watch with delight how the pile grew larger and larger every week. At last the gold, taking the place of his former interests, became the one thing in life he cared for. He hoarded it and gloated over it like a miser; and before long, though he still worked steadily at his loom, he thought no more of his work, but only of the gold it would bring him to add to his store. Thus passed his life for a long time.
But one evening when Silas had gone out to carry a bundle to a neighboring house, and had left his door ajar because he meant to be back in a short time, a thief, attracted by the light and the open door, entered the weaver’s hut and stole the bags of gold. When he returned, and, as usual, lifted the stone under which his treasure was hidden, he found nothing but the empty hole.
At first he could not believe that the money was gone. He hunted everywhere through his little cottage, turning again and again to the empty hole in the ground, to make sure that his eyes had not deceived him. When at last the truth forced itself upon him that his gold was really gone, he uttered a cry of anger and dismay, and rushed forth into the night, weeping and wailing and searching in vain for his lost treasure.
His neighbors, who soon heard what had happened, felt very sorry for him, and tried to show, by many little kind acts, their friendliness for the now desolate man. But he would have nothing to do with any of them. He shut himself up in his cheerless cottage, and though, from force of habit, he still worked at his loom, he had no longer any interest in life.
One bitterly cold night, Silas again had occasion to go out after dark. This time he left his door wide open, for now he had nothing left to lose. But while he was gone, a little golden-haired child, whose poor mother lay frozen to death in the snow on the roadside, had spied the light in Marner’s cottage and had crept to it for safety. Once inside the warm room, the child had fallen asleep, her golden head resting upon the very spot from which the miser’s treasure had been stolen.
When Silas entered the cottage and saw the glitter of gold on the floor, he was so startled that for a moment he stood stock-still. His first thought was that his treasure had been restored to him, and with a cry of joy he rushed forward to seize it. But instead of the cold, hard gold, he felt soft, warm curls; and the next minute the little child, who was awakened by his touch, began to cry.
Silas Marner, dazed as he was by the strange, living thing he had found in the place of his lost gold, did all he could to comfort the frightened little stranger; and soon, warm and no longer hungry, she was nestling her golden head against his arm, and laughing and babbling as contentedly as though she had always known her protector.
That was the beginning of a new happiness for Silas, much more satisfying than the miser’s love he had formerly felt for his gold. The lonely, helpless child aroused his pity and affection. As the mother was dead and no relatives came to claim the little girl, he decided to take care of her himself, and soon found himself loving her with a deep, fatherly tenderness.
He knew so little about children, however, that he needed the advice of a woman to help him bring up Eppie, as he had called the little girl; and so, gradually, he began to mingle more and more with the people of the village. As for the simple Raveloe folk, when they saw Silas Marner’s tenderness for the child, they felt that they had not really understood the lonely man. Before long all the villagers were on the best of terms with Silas and Eppie, and he had cast behind him all the hatred and bitterness that had led him to shun his fellow-men.
Eppie grew up strong and beautiful, and by the most tender love repaid Silas Marner for all his care of her through the years of her childhood. She had led him back to love and faith in human nature; and he never again regretted his lost treasure, which had been so richly replaced by the golden-haired child.
—Grace H. Kupfer.
From “Lives and Stories Worth Remembering,” by permission of the American Book Company.
DRIFTED OUT TO SEA
Two little ones, grown tired of play,
Roamed by the sea, one summer day,
Watching the great waves come and go,
Prattling, as children will, you know,
Of dolls and marbles, kites and strings;
Sometimes hinting at graver things.
At last they spied within their reach
An old boat cast upon the beach;
Helter-skelter, with merry din,
Over its sides they scrambled in—
Ben, with his tangled, nut-brown hair,
Bess, with her sweet face flushed and fair.
Rolling in from the briny deep,
Nearer, nearer, the great waves creep,
Higher, higher, upon the sands,
Reaching out with their giant hands,
Grasping the boat in boisterous glee,
Tossing