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two living creatures who have so few sympathies that they cannot possibly be friends?
Here sits a great white bear whom common observers would call a very stupid beast, though I perceive him to be only absorbed in contemplation; he is thinking of his voyages on an iceberg, and of his comfortable home in the vicinity of the north pole, and of the little cubs whom he left rolling in the eternal snows. In fact, he is a bear of sentiment. But, oh, those unsentimental monkeys! the ugly, grinning, aping, chattering, ill-natured, mischievous, and queer little brutes.
Annie does not love the monkeys. Their ugliness shocks her pure, instinctive delicacy of taste, and makes her mind unquiet because it bears a wild and dark resemblance to humanity. But here is a little pony, just big enough for Annie to ride, and round and round he gallops in a circle, keeping time with his trampling hoofs to a band of music. And here, with a laced coat and a cocked hat and a riding whip in his hand, comes a little gentleman small enough to be king of the fairies, and takes a flying leap into the saddle. Merrily, merrily plays the music, and merrily gallops the pony, and merrily rides the little old gentleman.
Come, Annie, into the street again; perchance we may see monkeys on horseback there!
Mercy on us, what a noisy world we quiet people live in! Did Annie ever read the cries of London city? With what lusty lungs doth yonder man proclaim that his wheelbarrow is full of lobsters! Here comes another mounted on a cart, and blowing a hoarse and dreadful
blast from a tin horn, as much as to say, "Fresh fish!" And hark! a voice on high, like that of a muezzin from the summit of a mosque, announcing that some chimney sweeper has emerged from smoke and soot, and darksome caverns, into the upper air.
What cares the world for that? But, well-a-day! we hear a shrill voice of affliction, the scream of a little child, rising louder with every repetition of that smart, sharp, slapping sound produced by an open hand on tender flesh. Annie sympathizes, though without experience of such direful woe.
Lo! the town-crier again, with some new secret for the public ear. Will he tell us of an auction, or of a lost pocketbook, or of a show of beautiful wax figures, or of some monstrous beast more horrible than any in the caravan? I guess the latter. See how he uplifts the bell in his right hand, and shakes it slowly at first, then with a hurried motion, till the clapper seems to strike both sides at once, and the sounds are scattered forth in quick succession, far and near.
Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!
Now he raises his clear loud voice above all the din of the town; it drowns the buzzing talk of many tongues, and draws each man's mind from his own business; it rolls up and down the echoing street, and ascends to the hushed chamber of the sick, and penetrates downward to the cellar kitchen, where the hot cook turns from the fire to listen. What saith the people's orator?
"Strayed from her home, a LITTLE GIRL, of five years old, in a blue silk frock and white apron, with brown curling hair and hazel eyes. Whoever will bring her back to her afflicted mother
Stop, stop, town-crier! The lost is found. Oh, my pretty Annie, we forgot to tell your mother of our ramble, and she is in despair, and has sent the town-crier to bellow up and down the streets, affrighting old and young, for the loss of a little girl who has not once let go my hand! Well, let us hasten homeward; and, as we go, forget not to thank Heaven, my Annie, that after wandering a little way into the world, you may return at the first summons, with an untainted and unwearied heart, and be a happy child again.
DEFINITIONS.-Im'pulse, incentive, motive. Mys'te ry, something not well understood. At tire', dress. En tiçe', draw away from. Mõr'al ize, make moral reflections. Jos'tles, knocks against. U'ni şon, in the same time. Pon'der ous, very heavy. Spruce, active. Pär ti ăl'i tieş, likings. Tōmeş, volumes. Sa'ber, a curved sword. Mặn da rin', a Chinese officer. E there al, airy. Gaudi lý, gayly. Jungles, dense thickets. Mū ĕz'zin, a Mohammedan crier of the hour of prayer. Mosque, a Mohammedan place of worship.
NOTES. This selection is from "Twice-Told Tales," a collection of stories and sketches first published in 1837.
"Peter Parley” was the pen-name of Samuel G. Goodrich, the writer of a large number of popular books, many of them for children. The Juvenile Miscellany was a child's paper, published at the time this story was written.
THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.
BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
"Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he;
"Have naught but the bearded grain?
He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
It was for the Lord of Paradise,
He bound them in his sheaves.
"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"
"Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where he was once a child.
They shall all bloom in the fields of light,
And saints, upon their garments white,
And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
She knew she should find them all again
Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
DEFINITIONS.Sheaves, bundles of grain. Tō'ken (pro. tō'kn), a souvenir, that which is to recall some person, thing, or event. Transplănt'ed, removed and planted in another place.
Stop, stop, town-crier!
The lost is found.
pretty Annie, we forgot to tell your mother of c she is in despair, and has sent the tow bellow up and down the streets, affrighting old a loss of a little girl who has not once Well, let us hasten homeward; and not to thank Heaven, my Annie, that af little way into the world, you may re summons, with an untainted and unw
At tire', dress.
DEFINITIONS.-Im'pulse, incentive, motive. My not well understood. Moralize, make moral reflections. Jos'tles, knocks in the same time. Pon'der ous, very heary. Spruce, a Sa'ber, a curved swo Tomes, volumes.
E the're al, airy. Gau'di lỹ, ga
thic kets. Mūĕz'zin, a Mohammedan crier of the hour Mohammedan place of worship.
NOTES. - This selection is from "Twice-Told stories and sketches first published in 1837. Peter Parley" was the pen-name of Sam ooks, man writer of a large number of paper, The Juvenile Miscellany this story was written.