NOTES.-I. Lord Francis Bacon (1561-1626), the great English philosopher. 2. Jonathan Swift (1667-1745), English author and satirist. 3. Dugald Stewart (1753-1828) was a celebrated Scottish philosopher. 4. Socrates (B. C. 470-B. C. 399), a wise Grecian philosopher. 5. See Acts v. 15. 6. Cato (B. C. 234–B. C. 149) was a noted Roman patriot, and Aristides (B. C. 468) a Greek statesman known as the Just.

57. UPON THE THRESHOLD.

I. ONCE more we stand with half-reluctant feet,
Upon the threshold of another year;

That line where Past and Present seem to meet
In stronger contrast than they do elsewhere.
2. Look back a moment. Does the prospect please,
Or does the weary heart but sigh regret?

Can Recollection smile, or, ill at ease
With what is past, wish only to forget?

3. Say, canst thou smile when Memory's lingering gaze
Once more recalls the dying year to sight?
Wouldst thou live o'er again those changing days,
Or bid them fade forever into night?

"No";

4. A solemn question, and the faltering heart
Scarce dare say "Yes," yet will not quite say
For joy and sadness both have played their part
In making up the tale of "long ago."

5. Here Memory sees the golden sunlight gleam
Across the path of life, and shine a while;
And now the picture changes like a dream,
And sorrow dims the eyes, and kills the smile.
6. Here ends the checkered page of prose and verse,
Of shapely words, and lines writ all awry;
So they must stand for better or for worse;

So shut the book, and bid the year good-by.

58. A WINTER WALK.

HENRY DAVID THOREAU (1817-1862) was born in Massachusetts, and graduated from Harvard in 1837. For a time he assisted his father in the manufacture of lead-pencils, and later became a surveyor, a teacher, and a lecturer. He was also, at times, connected with several newspapers, and was the author of Cape Cod, Walden, The Maine Woods, etc. Thoreau's eccentricity manifested itself early. In 1845 he retired from the world and lived for two years in a house of his own construction on the shore of Walden Pond. Here "he came very near to nature. Nothing escaped his notice, and over birds and beasts and fishes his influence was almost magical. He knew also the ways of the water and the nature of every tree." Thoreau excelled especially in descriptions of natural objects.

I. THE wind has gently murmured through the blinds, or puffed with feathery softness against the windows, and occasionally sighed like a summer zephyr lifting the leaves along the livelong night. The meadow-mouse has slept in his snug gallery in the sod, the owl has sat in a hollow tree in the depth of the swamp, the rabbit, the squirrel, and the fox have all been housed. The watch-dog has lain quiet on the hearth, and the cattle have stood silent in their stalls. The earth itself has slept, as it were its first, not its last, sleep, save when some street-sign or wood-house door has faintly creaked upon its hinge, cheering forlorn nature at her midnight work.

2. We sleep, and at length awake to the still reality of a winter morning. The snow lies warm as cotton or down upon the window-sill; the broadened sash and frosted panes admit a dim and private light, which enhances the snug cheer within. The stillness of the morning is impressive. The floor creaks under our feet as we move toward the window to look abroad through some clear space over the fields. We see the roofs stand under their snow burden. From the eaves and fences hang stalactites of snow, and in the yard stand stalagmites covering some concealed core. The trees and shrubs rear white arms to the sky on every

side, and where were walls and fences, we see fantastic forms stretching in frolic gambols across the dusky landscape, as if nature had strewn her fresh designs over the fields by night as models for man's art.

3. Opening the gate, we tread briskly along the lone country road, crunching the dry and crisped snow under our feet, or aroused by the sharp, clear creak of the wood-sled just starting for the distant market from the early farmer's door, where it has lain the summer long, dreaming amid the chips and stubble. For through the drifts and powdered windows we see the farmer's early candle, like a paled star, emitting a lonely beam, as if some severe virtue were at its matins there. And one by one the smokes begin to ascend from the chimneys amidst the trees and snows.

4. We hear the sound of wood-chopping at the farmers' doors, far over the frozen earth, the baying of the house-dog, and the distant clarion of the cock. The thin and frosty air conveys only the finer particles of sound to our ears, with short and sweet vibrations, as the waves subside soonest on the purest and brightest liquids in which gross substances. sink to the bottom. They come clear and bell-like, and from a greater distance in the horizon, as if there were fewer impediments than in summer to make them faint and ragged.

5. The sun at length rises through the distant wood as if with the faint clashing, swinging sound of cymbals, melting the air with his beams, and with such rapid steps the morning travels, that already his rays are gilding the distant western mountains. We step hastily along through the powdery snow, warmed by an inward heat, enjoying an Indian summer still, in the increased glow of thought and feeling.

6. The wonderful purity of nature at this season is a most pleasing fact. Every decayed stump and moss-grown stone and rail, and the dead leaves of autumn are concealed by a clean napkin of snow. In the bare fields and tinkling woods, see what virtue survives. In the coldest and bleakest

places, the warmest charities still maintain a foothold. A cold and searching wind drives away all contagion, and nothing can withstand it but what has a virtue in it; and accordingly whatever we meet with in cold and bleak places, as the tops of mountains, we respect for a sort of sturdy innocence, -a Puritan toughness. All things beside seem to be called in for shelter, and what stays out must be part of the original frame of the universe, and of such valor as God himself. It is invigorating to breathe the cleansed air. Its greater fineness and purity are visible to the eye, and we would fain stay out long and late that the gales may sigh through us, too, as through the leafless trees, and fit us for the winter.

7. At length we have reached the edge of the woods, and shut out the gadding town. We enter into their covert as we go under the roof of a cottage, and cross its threshold, all ceiled and banked up with snow. They are glad and warm still, and as genial and cheery in winter as in summer. As we stand in the midst of the pines, in the flickering and checkered light which straggles but little way into their maze, we wonder if the towns have ever heard their simple story. It seems to us that no traveler has ever explored them, and notwithstanding the wonders which science is elsewhere revealing every day, who would not like to have their annals? Our humble villages in the plain are their contribution. We borrow from the forest the boards which shelter, and the sticks which warm us. How important is their evergreen to the winter, that portion of the summer which does not fade, the permanent year, the unwithered grass. Thus simply, and with little expense of altitude, is the surface of the earth diversified.

8. There is a slumbering, subterranean fire in nature which never goes out, and which no cold can chill. It finally melts the great snow, and in January or July is only buried under a thicker or thinner covering. In the coldest

day it flows somewhere, and the snow melts around every tree. This field of winter rye which sprouted late in the fall, and now speedily dissolves the snow, is where the fire is very thinly covered. We feel warmed by it. In the winter, warmth stands for all virtue, and we resort in thought to a trickling rill with its bare stones shining in the sun, and to warm springs in the woods, with as much eagerness as rabbits and robins.

Definitions.—1. Zěph ́yr, a soft, mild, gentle breeze. 2. Stalǎe'tītes, hanging cones of lime resembling an icicle in form, and hanging from the roofs of caves, etc. Stalagmites, deposits of limy matter made in caves by water dropping on the ground. 3. Măt'ing, morning prayers or songs. 4. Clăr'ion, a loud and shrill note. 6. In vigor at ing, strengthening. 7. Găd'ding, idle, without fixed purpose. Cov'ert, a place which shelters and protects.

59. MUSIC.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616) was born in England.

He received

a limited education, knew "little Latin and less Greek," went to London, and rose from a player of minor parts to the joint proprietorship of the largest theater in London. He retired to his native town of Stratford-on-Avon in 1612, where he died. Shakespeare is regarded as "the greatest observer of human nature," the most august of human intellects," etc. His powers may be judged by the fact that his vocabulary numbered over 15,000 words-larger than that of any other writer in any language, and twice as large as that of Milton. Dr. Johnson said: Shakespeare has united the powers of exciting laughter and sorrow not only in one mind, but in one composition. Almost all his plays are divided between serious and ludicrous characters, and in the successive evolutions of the design sometimes produce seriousness and sorrow, and sometimes levity and laughter." This selection is from The Merchant of Venice.

Jessica. I AM never merry when I hear sweet music. Lorenzo. The reason is, your spirits are attentive,

For do but note a wild and wanton herd,

ALT. V.-13.