general satisfaction, to assign my reasons. The truth is, that I am tired of ticking." Upon hearing this, the old clock became so enraged that it was upon the very point of striking. "Lazy wire!" exclaimed the dial-plate, holding up its hands.

3. "Very good!" replied the pendulum; "it is vastly easy for you, Mistress Dial, who have always, as every body knows, set yourself up above me,—it is vastly easy for you, I say, to accuse other people of laziness! you, who have had nothing to do all your life but to stare people in the face, and to amuse yourself with watching all that goes on in the kitchen. Think, I beseech you, how you would like to be shut up for life in this dark closet, and to wag backward and forward year after year, as I do."

4. "As to that," said the dial, is there not a window in your house on purpose for you to look through?" "For all that," resumed the pendulum, "it is very dark here; and, although there is a window, I dare not stop even for an instant to look out at it. Besides, I am really tired of my way of life; and, if you wish, I'll tell you how I took this disgust at my employment. I happened, this morning, to be calculating how many times I should have to tick in the course of only the next twenty-four hours; perhaps some one of you above there can give me the exact sum."

66

5. The minute hand being quick at figures, presently replied, "Eighty-six thousand four hundred times." Exactly so," replied the pendulum. "Well, I appeal to you all, if the very thought of this was not enough to fatigue any one; and when I began to multiply the strokes of one day by those of months and years, really it was no wonder if I felt discouraged at the prospect. So, after a great deal of reasoning and hesitation, thinks I to myself, I'll stop."

6. The dial could scarcely keep its countenance during this harangue; but, resuming its gravity, thus replied: "Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that such

a useful, industrious person as yourself should have been seized by this sudden weariness. It is true, you have done a great deal of work in your time; so have we all, and are likely to do; which, although it may fatigue us to think of, the question is, whether it will fatigue us to do. Would you now do me the favor to give about half a dozen strokes to illustrate my argument?"

7. The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at its usual pace. "Now," resumed the dial, "may I be allowed to inquire if that exertion is at all fatiguing or disagreeable to you?" "Not in the least," replied the pendulum; "it is not of six strokes that I complain, nor of sixty, but of millions."

8. "Very good," replied the dial; "but recollect that, although you may think of a million of strokes in an instant, you are required to execute but one; and that, however often you may hereafter have to swing, a moment will always be given you to swing in." "That consideration staggers me, I confess," said the pendulum." "Then

I hope," resumed the dial-plate, "that we shall all return to our duty immediately; for the maids will lie in bed if we stand idling thus."

9. Upon this, the weights, who had never been accused of light conduct, used all their influence in urging him to proceed; when, as if with one consent, the wheels began to turn, the hands began to move, the pendulum began to swing, and, to its credit, ticked as loud as ever; while a red beam of the rising sun, that streamed through a hole in the kitchen, shining full upon the dial-plate, it brightened up as if nothing had been the matter.

10. When the farmer came down to breakfast that morning, upon looking at the clock, he declared that his watch had gained half an hour in the night.

DEFINITIONS.-1. In'sti-tut-ed, commenced, began. Pro-těst ́ed, solemnly declared. 4. Căl'eu-lāt-ing, reckoning, computing. 5. Pros pect, anticipation, that to which one looks forward. 6. Ha-răngue'

(pro. ha-răng), speech. Il-lus'trate, to make clear, to exemplify. 7. Ex-er'tion (pro. egz-er ́shun), effort. 8. Ex'e-cute, to complete, to finish. Con-sid-er-a'tion, reason.

Hee Jasl. read

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by Hthroom chorf

XXXIV. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

William Cullen Bryant (b. 1794, d. 1878) was born in Cummington, Mass. He entered Williams College at the age of sixteen, but was honorably dismissed at the end of two years. At the age of twenty-one he was admitted to the bar, and practiced his profession successfully for nine years. In 1826 he removed to New York, and became connected with the "Evening Post"-a connection which continued to the time of his death. His residence for more than thirty of the last years of his life was at Roslyn, Long Island. He visited Europe several times; and, in 1849, he continued his travels into Egypt and Syria.

In all his poems, Mr. Bryant exhibits a remarkable love for, and a careful study of, nature. His language, both in prose and verse, is always chaste, correct, and elegant. "Thanatopsis," perhaps the best known of all his poems, was written when he was but nineteen. His excellent translations of the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey" of Homer, and some of his best poems were written after he had passed the age of seventy. He retained his powers and his activity till the close of his life.

1. THE melancholy days are come,
The saddest of the year,

Of wailing winds, and naked woods,
And meadows, brown and sear.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove,
The autumn leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust,

And to the rabbit's tread.
The robin and the wren are flown,
And from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow
Through all the gloomy day.

2. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers,
That lately sprang and stood

In brighter light and softer airs,
A beauteous sisterhood?

Alas! they all are in their graves;
The gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds

With the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie;
But the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth
The lovely ones again.

3. The wind-flower and the violet,
They perished long ago,

And the brier-rose and the orchis died

Amid the summer's glow;

But on the hill, the golden-rod,

And the aster in the wood,

And the yellow sunflower by the brook,
In autumn beauty stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven,
As falls the plague on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone
From upland, glade, and glen.

4. And now, when comes the calm, mild day, As still such days will come,

To call the squirrel and the bee

From out their winter home;

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard,
Though all the trees are still,

And twinkle in the smoky light

The waters of the rill,

The south wind searches for the flowers

Whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood
And by the stream no more.

5. And then I think of one, who in
Her youthful beauty died,

The fair, meek blossom that grew up
And faded by my side.

In the cold, moist earth we laid her,
When the forest cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so lovely
Should have a life so brief;
Yet not unmeet it was that one,
Like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful,

Should perish with the flowers.

DEFINITIONS.-1. Wail'ing, lamenting, mourning. Sear, dry, withered. 3. Glāde, an open place in the forest. Glěn, a valley, a dale. 5. Un-meet', improper, unfitting.

XXXV. THE THUNDER-STORM.

Washington Irving (b. 1783, d. 1859). This distinguished author, whose works have enriched American literature, was born in the city of New York. He had an ordinary school education, and began his literary career, at the age of nineteen, by writing for a paper published by his brother. His first book, "Salmagundi," was published in 1807. Two years later he published "Knickerbocker's History of New York." In 1815 he sailed for Europe, and remained abroad seventeen years, during which time he wrote several of his works. From 1842 to 1846 he was minister to Spain. The last years of his life were passed at "Sunnyside," near Tarrytown, N. Y. He was never married. "The Life of Washington," his last work, was completed in the same year in which he died. Mr. Irving's works are characterized by humor, chaste sentiment, and elegance and correctness of expression. The following selection is from "Dolph " in "Bracebridge Hall."

1. In the second day of the voyage, they came to the Highlands. It was the latter part of a calm, sultry day, that they floated gently with the tide between these stern mountains. There was that perfect quiet which prevails over nature in the languor of summer heat. The turning of a plank, or the accidental falling of an oar, on deck, was echoed from the mountain side and reverberated along the shores; and, if by chance the captain gave a shout of