Third Reader: The Alexandra Readers. John Dearness
went down, ’mid clouds of gold;
Night came, with footsteps damp and cold;
Day dawned; the hours crept slowly by;
And now across the sunny sky
A black cloud stretches far away,
And shuts the golden gates of day.
A storm comes on, with flash and roar,
While all the sky is shrouded o’er;
The great waves rolling from the west,
Bring night and darkness on their breast.
Still floats the boat through driving storm,
Protected by God’s powerful arm.
The home-bound vessel, Sea-bird, lies
In ready trim, ’twixt sea and skies:
Her captain paces, restless now,
A troubled look upon his brow,
While all his nerves with terror thrill—
The shadow of some coming ill.
The mate comes up to where he stands,
And grasps his arm with eager hands.
“A boat has just swept past,” says he,
“Bearing two children out to sea;
’Tis dangerous now to put about,
Yet they cannot be saved without.”
“Nought but their safety will suffice!
They must be saved!” the captain cries.
“By every thought that’s just and right,
By lips I hoped to kiss to-night,
I’ll peril vessel, life, and men,
And God will not forsake us then.”
With anxious faces, one and all,
Each man responded to the call;
And when at last, through driving storm,
They lifted up each little form,
The captain started with a groan:
“My God is good, they are my own!”
—Rosa Hartwick Thorpe.
By permission of the publishers.
THE DAISY AND THE LARK
In the country, close by the roadside, stood a pleasant house. In front lay a little garden, enclosed by a fence, and full of blossoming flowers. Near the hedge, in the soft green grass, grew a little daisy. The sun shone as brightly and warmly upon her as it shone upon the large and beautiful garden flowers.
The daisy grew from day to day. Every morning she unfolded her white rays, and lifted up a little golden sun in the centre of her blossom. She never remembered how little she was. She never thought that she was hidden down in the grass, while the tall beautiful flowers grew in the garden. She was too happy to care for such things. She lifted her face towards the warm sun, she looked up to the blue sky, and she listened to the lark singing high in the air.
One day the little daisy was as joyful as if it were a great holiday, and yet it was only Monday. The little children were at school. They sat at their desks learning their lessons. The daisy, on her tiny stem, was learning from the warm sun and the soft wind how good God is. Then the lark sang his sweet song. “How beautiful, how sweet the song is!” said the daisy. “What a happy bird to sing so sweetly and fly so high!” But she never dreamed of being sorry because she could not fly or sing.
The tall garden flowers by the fence were very proud and conceited. The peonies thought it very grand to be so large, and puffed themselves out to be larger than the roses. “See how bright my colors are!” said the tulips. And they stood bolt upright to be seen more plainly. They did not notice the little daisy. She said to herself, “How rich and beautiful they are! No wonder the pretty bird likes them. I am glad I can live near them.”
Just then the lark flew down. “Tweet, tweet, tweet,” he cried, but he did not go near the peonies and tulips. He hopped into the grass near the lowly daisy. She trembled for joy. The little bird sang beside her: “Oh, what sweet, soft grass, and what a beautiful little flower, with gold in its heart and silver on its dress!” How happy the little daisy felt! And the bird kissed it with his beak, sang to it, and then flew up into the blue air above.
The daisy looked up at the peonies and the tulips, but they were quite vexed, and turned their backs upon her. She did not care, she was so happy. When the sun was set, she folded up her leaves and went to sleep. All night long she dreamed of the warm sun and the pretty little bird. The next morning, when she stretched out her white leaves to the warm air and the light, she heard the voice of the lark, but his song was sad. Poor little lark! He might well be sad: he had been made a prisoner in a cage that hung by the open window. He sang of the happy time when he could fly in the air, joyous and free.
Just then two boys came into the garden. They came straight to the daisy. One of them carried a sharp knife in his hand. “We can cut a nice piece of turf for the lark, here,” he said. And he cut a square piece of turf around the daisy, so that the little flower stood in the centre. He carried the piece of turf with the daisy growing in it, and placed it in the lark’s cage.
“There is no water here,” said the captive lark. “All have gone, and forgotten to give me a drop of water to drink. My throat is hot and dry. I feel as if I were burning.” And he thrust his beak into the cool turf to refresh himself a little with the green grass. Within it was the daisy. He nodded to her, and kissed her with his beak.
“Poor little flower! Have you come here, too?”
“How I wish I could comfort him,” said the daisy. And she tried to fill the air with perfume.
The poor bird lay faint and weak on the floor of the cage. His heart was broken. In the morning the boys came, and when they found the bird was dead, they wept many bitter tears. They dug a little grave for him, and covered it with flowers. The piece of turf was thrown on the ground.
The daisy had given her little life to make the captive bird glad.
—Hans Christian Andersen.
THE SPLENDOR OF THE DAYS
Sweet and shrill the crickets hiding in the grasses brown and lean
Pipe their gladness—sweeter, shriller—one would think the world was green.
O the haze is on the hilltops, and the haze is on the lake!
See it fleeing through the valley with the bold wind in its wake!
Mark the warm October haze!
Mark the splendor of the days!
And the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!
See the bare hills turn their furrows to the shine and to the glow;
If you listen, you can hear it, hear a murmur soft and low—
“We are naked,” so the fields say, “stripped of all our golden dress.”
“Heed it not,” October