Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Hans the Shepherd Boy
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
The Miser
Monday, August 3, 2009
The Place of Brotherhood
A short time later, the younger brother slipped out of his house, gathered several sheaves of his wheat, and carried it into his brother's field, saying to himself: "My brother is all alone, with no one to help him harvest. So I'll share some of my wheat with him."
When the sun rose, each brother was amazed to find he had just as much wheat as before!
The next night they paid each other the same kindness, and still woke to find their stores undiminshed.
But on the third night, they met each othere as they carried their gidts into each other's fields. Each threw his arms around the other and shed tears of joy for his goodness.
And when Solomon heard of their love, he built the Temple of Israel there on the place of brotherhood.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
The Captain's Daughter
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Paul Revere's Ride
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."
Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,---
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,---
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
Friday, July 31, 2009
The Honest Woodman
Thursday, July 30, 2009
The Crow and the Pitcher
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
William Tell
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Results and Roses
Monday, July 27, 2009
New Friends and Old Friends
Those are silver, these are gold.
New-made friendships, like new wine,
Age will mellow and refine.
Friendships that have stood the test-
Time and change-are surely best;
Brow may wrinkle, hair grow gray;
Friendship never knows decay.
For 'mid old friends, tried and true,
Once more we our youth renew.
But old friends, alas! may die;
New friends must their place supply.
Cherish friendship in your breast-
New is good, but old is best;
Make new friends, but keep the old;
Those are silver, these are gold.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
The Chest of Broken Glass
Once there was an old man who had lost his wife and lived all alone. He had worked hard as a tailor all his life, but misfortunes had left him penniless, and now he was so old he could no longer work for himself. His hands trembled too much to thread a needle, and his vision had blurred too much for him to make a straight stitch. He had three sons, but they were all grown and married now, and they were so busy with their own lives, they only had time to stop by and eat dinner with their father once a week.
Gradually the old man grew more and more feeble, and his sons came by to see him less and less. "They don't want to be around me at all now," he told himself, "because they're afraid I'll become a burden." He stayed up all night worrying what would become of him, until at last he thought of a plan.
The next morning he went to see his friend the carpenter, and asked him to make a large chest. Then he went to see his friend the locksmith, and asked him to give him an old lock. Finally he went to see his friend the glassblower, and asked for all the old broken pieces of glass he had.
The old man took the chest home, filled it to the top with broken glass, locked it up tight, and put it beneath his kitchen table. The next time his sons came for dinner, they bumped their feet against it.
"What's in this chest?" they asked, looking under the table.
"Oh, nothing," the old man replied, "just some things I've been saving."
His sons nudged it and saw how heavy it was. They kicked it and heard a rattling inside. "It must be full of all the gold he's saved over the years," they whispered to one another.
So they talked it over, and realized they needed to guard the treasure. They decided to take turns living with the old man, and that way they could look after him, too. So the first week the youngest son moved in with his father, and cared and cooked for him. The nest week the middle son took his place, and the week afterward the eldest son took a turn. This went on for some time.
At last the old father grew sick and died. The sons gave him a very nice funeral, for they knew there was a fortune sitting beneath the kitchen table, and they could afford to splurge a little on the old man now.
When the service was over, they hunted through the house until they found the key, and unlocked the chest. And of course they found it full of broken glass.
"What a rotten trick!" yelled the eldest son. "What a cruel thing to do to your own sons!"
"But what else could he have don, really?" asked the middle son sadly. " We must be honest with ourselves. If it wasn't for this chest, we would have neglected him until the end of his days."
"I'm so ashamed of myself," sobbed the youngest. "We forced our own father to stoop to deceit, because we would not observe the very commandment he taught us when we were young."
But the eldest son tipped the chest over to make sure there was nothing valuable hidden among the glass after all. He poured the broken pieces onto the floor until it was empty. Then the three brothers silently stared inside, where they now read an inscription left for them on the bottom: HONOR THY FATHER AND MOTHER.