18 Whittier lived to a good old age, for he died in 1892, when eighty-four years old. On his eighty-second birthday the children held exercises in his honor in the schools of the country. Why did they honor him thus ? 19 Whittier was New England's own poet. Labor, nature, New England customs and locality, and strong patriotism — these were the absorbing things in his life and in his poetry. He dignified them and made them great. But Whittier is also a poet of the world, for when he wrote about the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor, the Bartholdi statue which was presented to this country in 1886 by France, he seemed to have looked into the future and to have written something true of the Great War. What would he think of France to-day? 20 Read and see for yourself: The land, that, from the rule of kings, Our Old World Sister, to us brings Rise, stately Symbol! holding forth With watch-fires from thy torch uplift! 21 Thus did Whittier look far into the future and see what the Goddess of Liberty would come to mean to the millions of immigrants that seek our shores. Abolition 17 (ǎb' ō lish' un), getting rid of something, as slavery drab, dull brownish-gray editorial,12 an article that gives the opinion of the editor Friends,1 Quakers, people of simple dress and speech, who desire to live at peace with all mankind. homespun (hōm' spŭn'), spun at home 4 principle 17 (prin' si p'l), rule of conduct I. Outline on the blackboard: (a) When and where Whittier was born, (b) How he was educated, (c) Of whom his family consisted, (d) What his life work was, (e) For what he is best remembered, and (f) When he died. 2. Apply each of the above words to Whittier. 3. Read the story of his life (Riverside Reader VI). 4. Let volunteers read aloud "In School-Days" and "Snow-Bound" (Riverside Reader VI), "The Three Bells," 'Barbara Frietchie," or "The Corn Song." 66 5. For oral composition have a Whittier Day and let each pupil tell something interesting about the poet. 6. Memorize section 6 as a declamation on “Whittier and Oid Butler." A READING CLUB Why not have a Reading Club in your classroom. You can borrow some books from your school library or from the public library and keep them on a special table, desk, or shelf in your room. The pupils that finish their other work in good time and belong to the Reading Club can then get permission to take books to their desks to read. (Manual.) 1. Form a Reading Club in your class, Select a name for it. Choose a president and a secretary. (Manual.) 2. Keep a list of the stories and books that you read. 3. Read "The Eastern United States and Its Writers" in the Fourth Reader. THE FISH I DIDN'T CATCH JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER - it Whittier was a boy over a hundred years ago, before we had railroad trains, street cars, telegraph wires, telephones, or automobiles. The old homestead in which he was born was over a hundred years old then, had been built long before the Revolutionary War. The boys and girls of the Whittier family had woods, ravines, and brooks to explore to their hearts' content. As you read, watch for the things that you would like to see or do with the boy John Greenleaf, if you could go back one hundred years and be on the farm with him: 1 OUR UR old homestead nestled under a long range of hills which stretched off to the west. It was surrounded by woods in all directions save to the southeast, where a break in the leafy wall revealed a vista° of low green meadows, picturesque with wooded islands and jutting capes of upland. Through these a small brook, noisy enough as it foamed, rippled, and laughed down its rocky falls by our garden-side, wound silently and scarcely visible to a still larger stream known as the Country Brook. This brook in its turn, after doing duty at two or three saw and grist mills, the clack of which we could hear in still days across the intervening woodlands, found its way to the great river, and the river took it up and bore it down to the great sea. 2 I have not much reason for speaking well of these meadows, or rather bogs, for they were wet most of the year; but in the early days they were highly prized by the settlers, as they furnished natural mowing before the uplands could be cleared of wood and stones and laid down to grass. There is a tradition that the hayharvesters of two adjoining towns quarrelled about a boundary question, and fought a hard battle one summer morning in that old time, not altogether bloodless. I used to wonder at their folly, when I was stumbling over the rough hassocks,° and sinking knee-deep in the black mire, raking the sharp sickle-edged grass which we used to feed to the young cattle in winter when the bitter cold gave them appetite for even such fodder. 3 I had an almost Irish hatred of snakes, and these meadows were full of them,- striped, green, dingy water-snakes, and now and then an ugly spotted adder by no means pleasant to touch with bare feet. There were great black snakes, too, in the ledges of the neighboring knolls; and on one occasion in early spring found myself in the midst of a score at least of them, — holding their wicked meeting of a Sabbath morning on the margin of a deep spring in the meadows. One glimpse at their fierce shining heads in the sunshine, as they roused themselves at my approach, was sufficient to send me at full speed towards the nearest upland. The snakes, equally scared, fled in the same direction; and, looking back, I saw the dark monsters following close at my heels. I had, happily, sense enough left to step aside and let the ugly troop glide into the bushes. 4 Nevertheless, the meadows had their redeeming points. In spring mornings the blackbirds and bobolinks made them musical with songs; and in the evenings great bullfrogs croaked and clamored; and on summer nights we loved to watch the white wreaths of fog rising and drifting in the moonlight like troops of ghosts, with the fireflies throwing up ever and anono signals of their coming. 5 But the Brook was far more attractive, for it had sheltered bathing-places, clear and white sanded, and weedy stretches, where the shy pickerel° loved to linger, and deep pools, where the stupid sucker stirred the black mud with his fins. I had followed it all the way from its birthplace among the pleasant New Hampshire hills, through the sunshine of broad, open meadows, and under the shadow of thick woods. It was, for the most part, a sober, quiet little river; but at intervals it broke into a low, rippling laugh over rocks and trunks of fallen trees. There had, so tradition said, once been a witchmeeting on its banks, of six little old women in short, sky-blue cloaks; and if a drunken teamster could be credited, a ghost was once seen bobbing for eels under Country Bridge. It ground our corn and rye for us, at its two grist-mills; and we drove our sheep to it for their spring washing, an anniversary which was looked forward to with intense delight. On its banks we could always find the earliest and the latest wild flowers, from the pale blue, three-lobed hepatica,° and small, delicate wood-anemone,° to the yellow bloom of the witch-hazel burning in the leafless October woods. 6 Yet, after all, I think the chief attraction of the Brook to my brother and me was the fine fishing it afforded us. Our bachelor uncle who lived with us was a quiet, genial man, much given to hunting and fishing. It was one of the great pleasures of our young life to accompany him on his expeditions to Great Hill, Brandy-brow Woods, the Pond, and, best of all, to the Country Brook. We were quite willing to work hard in the cornfield or the haying-lot to finish the necessary day's labor in season for an afternoon stroll through the woods and along the brookside. 7 I remember my first fishing excursion as if it were but yesterday. I have been happy many times in my life, but never more intensely so than when I received that first fishing-pole from my uncle's hand, and trudged off with him through the woods and meadows. It was a still sweet day of early summer; the long afternoon shadows of the trees lay cool across our path; the leaves seemed greener, the flowers brighter, the birds merrier, than ever before. My uncle, who knew by long experience where were the best haunts of pickerel, placed me at the most favorable point. I threw out my line as I had so often seen others and waited anxiously for a bite, moving the bait in rapid jerks on the surface of the water in imitation of the leap of a frog. Nothing came of it. "Try again," said my uncle. |