The Ontario Readers Part 25

[Ill.u.s.tration: ONTARIO AGRICULTURAL COLLEGE]

WISDOM THE SUPREME PRIZE

My son, despise not the chastening of the LORD; Neither be weary of his reproof: For whom the LORD loveth he reproveth; Even as a father the son in whom he delighteth.

Happy is the man that findeth wisdom, And the man that getteth understanding.

For the merchandise of it is better than the merchandise of silver, And the gain thereof than fine gold.

She is more precious than rubies: And none of the things thou canst desire are to be compared unto her.

Length of days is in her right hand; In her left hand are riches and honour.

Her ways are ways of pleasantness, And all her paths are peace.

She is a tree of life to them that lay hold upon her: And happy is every one that retaineth her.

The LORD by wisdom founded the earth; By understanding he established the heavens.

By his knowledge the depths were broken up, And the skies drop down the dew.

PROVERBS, III.

THE ORCHARD

There's no garden like an orchard, Nature shows no fairer thing Than the apple trees in blossom In these late days o' the spring.

Here the robin redbreast's nesting, Here, from golden dawn till night, Honey bees are gaily swimming In a sea of pink and white.

Just a sea of fragrant blossoms, Steeped in suns.h.i.+ne, drenched in dew, Just a fragrant breath which tells you Earth is fair again and new.

Just a breath of subtle sweetness, Breath which holds the spice o' youth, Holds the promise o' the summer-- Holds the best o' things, forsooth.

There's no garden like an orchard, Nature shows no fairer thing Than the apple trees in blossom In these late days o' the spring.

JEAN BLEWETT

INSPIRED BY THE SNOW

The black squirrel delights in the new-fallen snow like a boy--a real boy, with red hands as well as red cheeks, and an automatic mechanism of bones and muscles capable of all things except rest. The first snow sends a thrill of joy through every fibre of such a boy, and a thousand delights crowd into his mind. The gliding, falling coasters on the hills, the pa.s.sing sleighs with niches on the runners for his feet, the flying s...o...b..a.l.l.s, the sliding-places, the broad, tempting ice, all whirl through his mind in a delightful panorama, and he hurries out to catch the elusive flakes in his outstretched hands and to shout aloud in the gladness of his heart. And the black squirrel becomes a boy with the first snow. What a pity he cannot shout! There is a superabundant joy and life in his long, graceful bounds, when his beautiful form, in its striking contrast with the white snow, seems magnified to twice its real size. Perhaps there is vanity as well as joy in his lithe, bounding motions among the naked trees, for nature seems to have done her utmost to provide a setting that would best display his graces of form and motion.

When the falling snow clings in light, airy ma.s.ses on the spruces and pines, and festoons the naked tracery and cl.u.s.tering winter buds of the maples--when the still air seems to fix every twig and branch and clinging ma.s.s of snow in a solid medium of crystal, the spell of stillness is broken by the silent but joyful leaps of the hurrying squirrel. How alive he seems, in contrast with the silence of the snow, as his outlines contrast with its perfect white! His body curves and elongates with regular undulations, as he measures off the snow with twin footprints. Away in the distance he is still visible among the naked trunks, a moving patch of animated blackness. His free, regular footprints are all about, showing where he has run hither and thither, with no apparent purpose except to manifest his joy in life.

His red-haired cousin comes to a lofty opening in a hollow tree and looks out with an expression of disappointment on his face. He does not like the snow-covered landscape spread out so artistically before him.

It makes him tired, and he has not enough energy to scold an intruder, as he would in the comfortable days of summer. No amount of coaxing or tapping will tempt him from his lofty watch-tower, or win more recognition than a silent look of weary discontent. Another cousin, the chipmunk, no longer displays his daintily-striped coat. Oblivious in his burrow, he is sleeping away the days, and waiting for a more congenial season.

But the black squirrel, now among the branches of an elm, is twitching from one rigid att.i.tude to another, electrified by the crisp atmosphere and the inspiration of the snow. Again he is leaping over the white surface to clamber up the repellent bark of a tall hickory. Among the larger limbs he disappears. As he never attempts to hide, he must have retired into his own dwelling to partake of the store laid by in the season of plenty. Hickory nuts are his favourite food, and the hard sh.e.l.ls seem but an appetizing relish. He knows the value of frugality, and gathers them before they are ripe, throwing down the shrivelled and unfilled, that the boys may not annoy him with stones and sticks. In winter he is the happiest of all the woodland family. He does not yield to the drowsy, numbing influence of the cold, nor to the depression of a season of scanty fare, but bounds along from tree to tree, inspired by the subtle spirit of winter and revelling in the joy of being alive.

S. T. WOOD

THE SQUIRREL

Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm That age or injury has hollow'd deep, Where, on his bed of wool and matted leaves, He has outslept the winter, ventures forth To frisk a while, and bask in the warm sun, The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play.

He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird, Ascends the neighbouring beech; there whisks his brush, And perks his ears, and stamps and scolds aloud, With all the prettiness of feign'd alarm, And anger insignificantly fierce.

COWPER

SOLDIER, REST

"Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking.

In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing.

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more: Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

"No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Armour's clang, or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.

Yet the lark's shrill fife may come At the daybreak from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum, Booming from the sedgy shallow.

Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here, Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans or squadrons stamping."

SCOTT: "The Lady of the Lake"

FIs.h.i.+NG

One fine Thursday afternoon, Tom, having borrowed East's new rod, started by himself to the river. He fished for some time with small success, not a fish would rise to him; but as he prowled along the bank, he was presently aware of mighty ones feeding in a pool on the opposite side, under the shade of a huge willow-tree. The stream was deep here, but some fifty yards below was a shallow, for which he made off hot-foot; and forgetting landlords, keepers, solemn prohibitions of the Doctor, and everything else, pulled up his trousers, plunged across, and in three minutes was creeping along on all fours towards the clump of willows.

It isn't often that great chub, or any other coa.r.s.e fish, are in earnest about anything; but just then they were thoroughly bent on feeding, and in half an hour Master Tom had deposited three thumping fellows at the foot of the giant willow. As he was baiting for a fourth pounder, and just going to throw in again, he became aware of a man coming up the bank not one hundred yards off. Another look told him that it was the under-keeper. Could he reach the shallow before him? No, not carrying his rod. Nothing for it but the tree. So Tom laid his bones to it, s.h.i.+nning up as fast as he could and dragging up his rod after him. He had just time to reach and crouch along upon a huge branch some ten feet up, which stretched out over the river, when the keeper arrived at the clump.

Tom's heart beat fast as he came under the tree; two steps more and he would have pa.s.sed, when, as ill-luck would have it, the gleam on the scales of the dead fish caught his eye, and he made a dead point at the foot of the tree. He picked up the fish one by one; his eye and touch told him that they had been alive and feeding within the hour.

Tom crouched lower along the branch, and heard the keeper beating the clump. "If I could only get the rod hidden," thought he, and began gently s.h.i.+fting it to get it alongside of him: "willow-trees don't throw out straight hickory shoots twelve feet long, with no leaves, worse luck." Alas! the keeper catches the rustle, and then a sight of the rod, and then of Tom's hand and arm.

"Oh, be up ther', be 'ee?" says he, running under the tree. "Now you come down this minute."