Phrase Exercise.
1. Battle’s wreck.—2. To rule the storm.—3. A creature of heroic blood.—4. Lay unconscious of his son.—5. Booming shots.—6. Lone post of death.—7. Brave despair.—8. Wreathing fires.—9. Wrapped in wild splendor.—10. Gallant child.—11. Streamed like banners.—12. Fair pennon.—13. Noblest thing.—14. Faithful heart.
III.—THE GIRAFFE OR CAMELOPARD.
There are few sights more pleasing than a herd of tall, graceful giraffes. With their heads reaching a height of from twelve to eighteen feet, they move about in small herds on the open plains of Africa, eating the tender twigs and leaves of the mimosa and other trees.
The legs of a large giraffe are about nine feet long and its neck nearly six feet; while its body measures only seven feet in length and slopes rapidly from the neck to the tail. The graceful appearance of the giraffe is increased by the beauty of its skin, which is orange red in color, and mottled with dark spots. Its long tail has at the end a tuft of thick hair, which serves the purpose of keeping off the flies and stinging insects, so plentiful in the hot climate of Africa.
Its tongue is very wonderful. It is from thirteen to seventeen inches in length, is slender and pointed, and is capable of being moved in so many ways, that it is almost as useful to the giraffe as the trunk is to the elephant.
The horns of the giraffe are very short and covered with skin. At the ends there are tufts of short hair. The animal has divided hoofs somewhat resembling those of the ox.
The head of the giraffe is small, and its eyes large and mild looking. These eyes are set in such a way that the animal can see a great deal of what is behind it, without turning its head. In addition to its wonderful power of sight, the giraffe can scent danger from a great distance; so that there is no animal more difficult of approach.
Strange to relate, the giraffe has no voice. In London, some years ago, two giraffes were burned to death in their stables, when the slightest sound would have given notice of their danger, and have saved their lives.
The giraffe is naturally both gentle and timid, and he will always try to avoid danger by flight. It is when running that he exposes his only ungraceful point. He runs swiftly, but since he moves his fore and hind legs on each side at the same time, the movement gives him a very awkward gait. But though timid, he will, when overtaken, turn even upon the lion or panther, and defend himself successfully by powerful kicks with his strong legs.
The natives of Africa capture the giraffe in pitfalls, which are deep holes covered over with branches of trees and dirt. When captured, the giraffe can be tamed, and during its captivity it gives scarcely any trouble.
Fifty years ago, but little was known about the giraffe in America or Europe. Now it is to be found in menageries and the public gardens of large cities. The giraffe thrives in captivity and seems to be well satisfied with a diet of corn and hay. It is a source of great satisfaction to those who admire this beautiful animal, that there is nothing to prevent it from living in a climate so different from that of its African home.
IV.—THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL.
R. W. Emerson.
The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel,
And the former called the latter “Little Prig.”
Bun replied:
“You are doubtless very big,
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together
To make up a year,
And a sphere:
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I am not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry:
I’ll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track.
Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut.”
V.—THE PET LAMB.
Wordsworth.
The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
I heard a voice; it said, “Drink, pretty creature, drink!”
And, looking o’er the hedge, before me I espied
A snow-white mountain lamb with a maiden at its side.
No other sheep were near, the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;
With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel,
While to that mountain lamb she gave its evening meal.
The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took,
Seemed to feast with head and ears, and his tail with pleasure shook.
“Drink, pretty creature, drink,” she said in such a tone
That I almost received her heart into my own.
’Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare!
I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair.
Now with her empty can the maiden turned away;
But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.
Towards the lamb she looked; and from that shady place
I unobserved could see the workings of her face:
If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,
Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid might sing:—
“What ails thee, young one? What? Why pull so at thy cord?
Is it not well with thee? Well both for bed and board?
Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be;
Rest, little young one, rest; what is’t that aileth thee?
“What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy heart?
Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art.
This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers;
And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears!
“If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,
This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain;
For rain and mountain storms, the like thou need’st not fear—
The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here.
“Rest, little young one, rest; thou hast forgot the day
When my father found thee first in places far away;
Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none,
And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone.
“He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home:
A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam?
A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean
Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been.
“Thou know’st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can
Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran;
And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew,
I bring thee draughts of milk,—warm milk it is, and new.
“Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now;
Then I’ll yoke thee to my cart, like a pony in the plough:
My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold,
Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.
“It will not, will not rest!—Poor creature, can it be
That ’tis thy mother’s heart which is working so in thee?
Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,
And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.
“Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair!
I’ve heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there;
The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play,
When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.
“Here thou need’st not dread the raven in the sky;
Night and day thou art safe,—our cottage is hard by.
Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain?
Sleep,—and at break of day I will come to thee again!”
As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,
This song unto myself did I oftentimes repeat;
And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line,
That but half of it was hers, and one-half of it was mine.
Again, and once again, did I repeat the song;
“Nay,” said I, “more than half to the damsel must belong;
For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone,
That I almost received her heart into my own.”