+The Various Objects Writers Have+.—From your study of the preceding selections you learn that a writer may have any one of several objects in writing. He may wish simply to instruct the reader, as does Darwin in what he says of earthworms. He may wish merely to amuse the reader, as does Mr. Habberton in our extract from "Helen's Babies." He may wish only to put before them a picture which, like that of George Eliot's, shall afford delight. Or he may wish to get hold of what we call our wills and lead us to do something, perform some duty. This is what the story from the Brothers Grimm aims at. And you saw how it does this—by working on our feelings. There are at least these four objects that a writer may propose to himself. Which of these four objects has Mr. Beecher in the paragraphs we quote? Does he instruct? Does he try to get us to do something? Would it help you to have clearly before you from the beginning the object you are seeking to accomplish?
+Figurative Expressions+.—In these paragraphs Mr. Beecher calls a man's stomach the citadel of health, and sleep a sponge to rub out fatigue with, and says a man's roots are planted in night. He does not use these words citadel, sponge, and roots in their first or common meaning. He uses them in what we call a +figurative+ sense. He means to say that a man's stomach is to him what a fortress is to soldiers, a source of strength; that in sleep fatigue disappears as do figures on a slate or blackboard when a wet sponge is drawn across them; and that a man gets out of night what a tree's roots draw out of the soil, nourishment and vigor. Such figurative uses of words give strength and beauty to style.
ORIGINAL COMPOSITION.
In the paragraphs quoted above you were told of the effects on health of overwork and of insufficient sleep. Perhaps you can write of exercise, of proper food, of clothes, or of some other things on which health may depend.
+Exercises on the Composition of the Sentence and the Paragraph+.
ADAPTED FROM DR. JOHN BROWN—"RAB AND HIS FRIENDS."
Rab belonged to a lost tribe—there are no such dogs now. He was old and gray and brindled; and his hair short, hard, and close, like a lion's. He was as big as a Highland bull, and his body was thickset. He must have weighed ninety pounds at least.
His large, blunt head was scarred with the record of old wounds, a series of battlefields all over it. His muzzle was as black as night, his mouth blacker than any night, and a tooth or two, all he had, gleamed out of his jaws of darkness. One eye was out, one ear cropped close. The remaining eye had the power of two; and above it, and in constant communication with it, was a tattered rag of an ear that was for ever unfurling itself, like an old flag.
And then that bud of a tail, about an inch long, if it could in any sense be said to be long, being as broad as it was long! The mobility of it, its expressive twinklings and winkings, and the intercommunications between the eye, the ear, and it, were of the oddest and swiftest.
Rab had the dignity and simplicity of great size. Having fought his way all along the road to absolute supremacy, he was as mighty in his own line as Julius Caesar or the Duke of Wellington in his, and he had the gravity of all great fighters.