it about with so much violence that it broke the lance to shivers, dragging horse and rider after it, and tumbling them over on the plain in very evil plight. Sancho Panza hastened to his assistance as fast as he could; and when he came up to his master he found him unable to stir, so violent was the blow that he and Rozinante had received in their fall. "Did I not warn you," quoth Sancho, "to have a care of what you did, for that they were nothing but windmills? And nobody could mistake them but one that had the like in his head.” "Peace, friend Sancho," answered Don Quixote; "for matters of war are, of all others, most subject to continual change. Now I verily believe, and it is most certainly the fact, that the sage Freston, who stole away my chamber and my books, has metamorphosed these giants into windmills, on purpose to deprive me of the glory of vanquishing them, so great is the enmity he bears me! But his wicked arts will finally avail but little against the goodness of my sword." Sancho Panza, then helping him to rise, mounted him again upon his steed, which was almost disjointed. Habit, if not resisted, soon becomes necessity. ST. AUGUSTINE, XXX OLD IRONSIDES OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES OLIVER WENDELL. HOLMES 6. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1809, and died in 1894. He is the author of a number of poems, of the "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table," and Elsie Venner." He had a keen sense of humor and a sunny, genial disposition. He was Professor of Anatomy in the Harvard Medical School from 1847 to 1882. His writings were popular both in America and abroad. The combination of science, philosophy and humor in his works commended them to a wide audience and caused many of his expressions to pass into proverbs. Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see that banner in the sky;— Beneath it rang the battle shout, and burst the cannon's roar; The meteor of the ocean air shall sweep the clouds no more! This poem was written when it was proposed to break up a famous ship in the United States Navy. So great was the effect of the poem that the idea of dismantling the ship was abandoned. Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, and waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor's tread, or know the conquered knee; The harpies of the shore shall pluck the eagle of the sea! O, better that her shattered hulk should sink beneath the wave! Her thunders shook the mighty deep, and there should be her grave! Nail to the mast her holy flag, set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms,―the lightning and the gale! What is it to be a gentleman? It is to be honest, to be gentle, to be generous, to be brave, to be wise, and, possessing all these qualities, to exercise them in the most graceful outward manner. THACKERAY. harpies: in mythology horrible, greedy, winged monsters with the head and shoulders of a woman, and the rest of the body bird-like. god of storms: in mythology various gods were supposed to preside over the forces of nature. XXXI RIP VAN WINKLE A Posthumous Writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker WASHINGTON IRVING Few, very few, can show a long succession of volumes so pure, so graceful, and so varied as can WASHINGTON IRVING. Among his writings are the "Sketch Book," a "Life of Washington," and a "Life of Columbus." He was born in New York in 1783, in time, as related in his biography, to receive a blessing from Washington. He spent seventeen years abroad. While in England he made friends with the poets Southey, Moore, and Campbell, and with the novelist Sir Walter Scott. He died at Irvington-onthe-Hudson in 1850. He is considered the "day-star" of American literature. By Woden, God of Saxons, From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday. Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dis posthumous writing: a writing published after the death of its author. Diedrich Knickerbocker: Washington Irving's pen name. membered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory. At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village, of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!), and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weather-cocks. In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which to tell the precise truth was sadly time-worn Peter Stuyvesant: Last Dutch governor of New York. |