De La Salle Fifth Reader Part 6

_12_

con' script in dis pen' sa ble im' ple ment in de fea' si bly

TWO LABORERS.

Two men I honor, and no third. First, the toil worn craftsman, that with earth-made implement laboriously conquers the earth, and makes her man's. Venerable to me is the hard hand, crooked, coa.r.s.e, wherein, notwithstanding, lies a cunning virtue, indefeasibly royal, as of the scepter of this planet. Venerable, too, is the rugged face, all weather tanned, besoiled, with its rude intelligence; for it is the face of a man living manlike.

Oh, but the more venerable for thy rudeness, and even because I must pity as well as love thee! Hardly entreated brother! For us was thy back so bent, for us were thy straight limbs and fingers so deformed. Thou wert our conscript on whom the lot fell and, fighting our battles, wert so marred. Yet toil on, toil on; ... thou toilest for the altogether indispensable,--for daily bread.

A second man I honor, and still more highly; him who is seen toiling for the spiritually indispensable; not daily bread, but the bread of life.

Is not he, too, in his duty; endeavoring towards inward harmony; revealing this, by act or word, through all his outward endeavors, be they high or low? Highest of all, when his outward and his inward endeavor are one; when we can name him artist; not earthly craftsman only, but inspired thinker, that with heaven-made implement conquers heaven for us!

If the poor and humble toil that we may have food, must not the high and glorious toil for him, in return, that he may have light and guidance, freedom, immortality?--these two, in all their degrees, I honor; all else is chaff and dust, which let the wind blow whither it listeth.

Unspeakably touching it is, however, when I find both dignities united; and he, that must toil outwardly for the lowest of man's wants, is also toiling inwardly for the highest. Sublimer in this world know I nothing than a peasant saint. Such a one will take thee back to Nazareth itself; thou wilt see the splendor of heaven spring forth from the humblest depths of earth like a light s.h.i.+ning in great darkness.

_Thomas Carlyle._

Laws are like cobwebs, where the small flies are caught, and the great break through.

_Bacon_.

_13_

gust thief mop' ing awk' ward pet' tish ly in dig' nant un bear' a ble med' dle some en light' ened in quis' i tive

THE GRUMBLING PUSS.

"What's the matter?" said Growler to the gray cat, as she sat moping on the top of the garden wall.

"Matter enough," said the cat, turning her head another way, "Our cook is very fond of talking of hanging me. I wish heartily some one would hang _her_."

"Why, what _is_ the matter?" repeated Growler.

"Hasn't she beaten me, and called me a thief, and threatened to be the death of me?"

"Dear, dear!" said Growler; "pray what has brought it about?"

"Oh, nothing at all; it is her temper. All the servants complain of it.

I wonder they haven't hanged her long ago."

"Well, you see," said Growler, "cooks are awkward things to hang; you and I might be managed much more easily."

"Not a drop of milk have I had this day!" said the gray cat; "and such a pain in my side!"

"But what," said Growler, "what is the cause?"

"Haven't I told you?" said the gray cat, pettishly; "it's her temper:--oh, what I have had to suffer from it! Everything she breaks she lays to me; everything that is stolen she lays to me. Really, it is quite unbearable!"

Growler was quite indignant; but, being of a reflective turn, after the first gust of wrath had pa.s.sed, he asked: "But was there no particular cause this morning?"

"She chose to be very angry because I--I offended her," said the cat.

"How, may I ask?" gently inquired Growler.

"Oh, nothing worth telling,--a mere mistake of mine."

Growler looked at her with such a questioning expression, that she was compelled to say, "I took the wrong thing for my breakfast."

"Oh!" said Growler, much enlightened.

"Why, the fact is," said the gray cat, "I was springing at a mouse, and knocked down a dish, and, not knowing exactly what it was, I smelt it, and it was rather nice, and--"

"You finished it," hinted Growler.

"Well, I believe I should have done so, if that meddlesome cook hadn't come in. As it was, I left the head."

"The head of what?" said Growler.

"How inquisitive you are!" said the gray cat.

"Nay, but I should like to know," said Growler.

"Well, then, of a certain fine fish that was meant for dinner."

"Then," said Growler, "say what you please; but, now that I've heard the whole story, I only wonder she did _not_ hang you."