Part 3 — PART III

GREAT AMERICAN AUTHORS

A man lives in the last half of life on the memory of things read in the first half of life.

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

GREAT AMERICAN AUTHORS

A FORWARD LOOK

When Mother used to tell you a story about when she was a little girl, you were interested only in the story and in the pictures her words called up in your mind. Suppose some older person had been listening while she told one of these tales, and had been interested not alone in the adventure that she was telling about, as you were, but in the way in which she told it. This person, your uncle, let's say, would notice how Mother planned her story so as to keep the very most exciting thing to the last, and how you grew more and more excited about it, and how your eyes shone, and her eyes too, and how without knowing it she was letting him see what kind of people they were in her story, and what kind of little girl she was-very brave, you know-and when at the end you drew a long breath and had that delightful little thrill that you always have at the end of a perfectly wonderful story-after all this, suppose your uncle should look at Mother in a funny kind of way and should say, "Bless me, Sis, I had no idea you were an author."

What would you say? Mother an author? Why, an author is a person who writes big books in words that no one can understand, but Mother, she-why, she is Mother!

Yet your uncle is right. Mother is an author when she thinks back over her life and picks out something that is interesting, and then tells it in her very most interesting way to please you. If she would only write out that story, and a printer would print it in a book, and in the front of the book you should read "When I Was a Little Girl." By Mother"-that would be a Book, and Mother would be a real author.

Now long, long ago, there weren't any books. When Mother told you a story, if you had lived then, you would remember it and would tell it to other people, and after you grew up you would tell it to your children, and when they had grown up, they would tell it to your grandchildren, and so on and on. Who wrote Cinderella, or Sleeping Beauty, or the Three Bears? You don't know. Nobody knows. They just happened. They were told by mothers to their children and so on and so on, and after centuries, perhaps, when printing had been invented, some printer man thought, like your uncle, that here was a story that ought to be printed and so he made a book of it. But he didn't claim to be the author of it, for he was not.

So, some of the stories you have read in this book do not have any author's name attached to them. And even if they did, you were not thinking, while you were reading, about the man who wrote them. You just thought of the story and whether you liked it or not. Yet no small part of the advantage that you enjoy because you live now, instead of in the days when there were no books, lies in the fact that you can become acquainted with the men and women who have written the stories and poems that you read.

Let's put it this way. In those old days that we have been speaking about, you would have had to depend upon your Mother, or some other mother, or some village weaver of tales, for your stories. But they were busy, and you couldn't get enough stories to satisfy your appetite. Then one-time, let's say, a strange, wandering fellow came to your village. And he had yards and yards of the most wonderful stories to tell. And he went home with you, let's say, and stayed there, and did nothing but tell you stories whenever you wanted them, first thing in the morning, and after school, and bedtime, and all. And he was never too busy. And you learned to know him, what an interesting man he was, and what fine eyes he had, and what a smile that made you smile back before he said a word, and how he loved Truth and hated lies, and loved Honor and hated shameful things. He was your author, your book, your book of books. And he was as dear to you, in himself, as his stories were.

Now you can have just such a friend, no, you can have a whole company of just such friends, for yourself. How? In books, of course. Only they won't be merely books; they will be friends. Washington Irving, teller of wonderful stories, and Robert Louis Stevenson are there, in those books, and you can learn them as well as their stories. And Henry W. Longfellow, writer of stories in verse; and John G. Whittier, writer of poems about barefoot boys and corn huskings; and Benjamin Franklin, a kindly philosopher-there, that word is too hard for you, but it just slipped out, and so you will have to be told that a philosopher is a person who thinks about life and its meaning.

That's what all authors are, in a way. That's what makes them authors. They don't just eat and sleep and do their work, whatever it is-they think about life. And what they see and think they set down for you. To know them is to know delightful friends who will tell you what everything means and will answer all your questions.

There they are, on your bookshelf. They won't speak to you unless you speak first. If you want to do something else and don't wish to be bothered, they won't bother you. But when you want to talk with them, they are ready. Call upon them often, and you will learn one of the blessedest things about life, the companionship of boobs.

Some of them, men of our own America, are to be introduced to you in the following pages. From now on you are to do three things. First, you are to listen and enjoy when they tell you what they have to say. Next, you are to begin to do just what your uncle was doing when he listened to Mother telling you that story-you are to see that there is a way to tell something that is good, and that if one has learned this way, like Mother, he is an author. And last, you are to find that these authors are real persons whom you can learn to know. Then you will love them, just as you love Mother, not alone for what they say, but for what they are.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790) was born in Boston in the early colonial days. While still a boy, he learned the printer's trade, but, having difficulty with his brother, for whom he worked, he went to Philadelphia,-where later he became owner and editor of the Philadelphia Gazette, the city's leading newspaper. Later he established another periodical, called Poor Richard's Almanac.

Franklin was greatly interested in the study of science. He "snatched lightning from the skies" by the use of a key and a kite with a silk string. This experiment led to his invention of the lightning rod, which was soon placed on public and private buildings not only in America but also in England and France. He invented the "Franklin Stove," which is still in use in some places. This is an open stove made in such a way as to economize heat and save fuel. Franklin invented a street lamp which was used for lighting the streets of Philadelphia.

Franklin was big-hearted and wished to be of real service to his fellow-citizens. He organized a debating club, a night watch, a volunteer fire company, a street-cleaning department, and a public library-the first of its kind in America.

His-services to the new government that the Americans were just setting up were equally noteworthy. He went to England to represent the colonies and did all that he could to patch up the quarrel between the colonies and the mother country. When all these attempts failed, he gave himself heart and soul to the business of making a new government. He was one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. Later, as a special minister to France he delighted Frenchmen by his humor and his common sense, and he even succeeded in securing the promise of the French government to acknowledge the independence of the colonies and to send ships and men to their assistance.

In a letter to a friend in 1779, Franklin tells the story, "The Whistle." "An Ax to Grind" is from his autobiography.

THE WHISTLE

When I was a child seven years old, my friends on a holiday filled my pocket with coppers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys for children, and, being charmed with the sound of a whistle that I met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered and gave all my money for one. I then ran home and went whistling all over the house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family.

My brothers and sisters and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth; put me in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money; and laughed at me so much for my folly that I cried with vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure.

This, however, was afterwards of use to me, the impression continuing on my mind; so that often when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, "Don't give too much for the whistle";' and I saved my money.

As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions of men, I thought I met with many, very many, who gave too much for the whistle.

When I saw one too ambitious of court favor, sacrificing his time in attendance on levees-his repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his friends, to attain it-I have said to myself, "This man gives too much for his whistle."

When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in political bustles, neglecting his own affairs, and ruining them by that neglect, "He pays indeed," said I, "too much for his whistle."

If I knew a miser who gave up every kind of comfortable living, all the pleasure of doing good to others, all the esteem of his fellow citizens, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake of accumulating wealth, "Poor man," said I, "you pay too much for your whistle."

When I met with a man of pleasure, sacrificing every laudable improvement of the mind or of his fortune to mere corporeal sensations, and ruining his health in their pursuit, "Mistaken man," said I, "you are providing pain for yourself instead of pleasure; you give too much for your whistle."

If I see one fond of appearance, or fine clothes, fine houses, fine furniture, fine equipages, all above his fortune, for which he contracts debts and ends his career in a prison, "Alas!" say I, "he has paid dear, very dear, for his whistle."

In short, I conceive that a great part of the miseries of mankind are brought upon them by the false estimates they have made of the value of things, and by their giving too much for their whistles.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

Discussion. 1. Why did Franklin say that lie paid too much for his whistle' 2. How was this incident of use to him afterwards? 3. How does it apply to a man too fond of popularity? To the miser? To the man of pleasure? To the one who cares too much for appearance? 4. Can you think of other incidents that illustrate what Franklin had in mind? 5. Extravagance has been called the great fault of Americans. During the World war what efforts were made by our people to. Correct this fault? Why were the efforts successful? 6. Why is it necessary to continue these efforts now? If all Americans would practice what Franklin advises, what would be the effect on the cost of living, and why? 7. In what ways can you save some of the pennies you might spend foolishly? S. What do you know about Postal Savings deposits? 9. Write a letter to your teacher, proposing that the children in your class save as many pennies as possible for savings accounts, pointing out some ways in which children may save their pennies; bring in a part of Franklin's story in the most interesting way that you can. 10. Tell what you can about the author. 11. Find in the Glossary the meaning of: coppers; voluntarily; vexation; ambitious; esteem; contracts. 12. Pronounce: directly: chagrin; sacrificing; levee; accumulating; laudable; equipage.

Phrases for Study

impression continuing, corporeal sensations, political bustles, above his fortune.

AN AX TO GRIND

When I was a little boy, I remember, one cold winter morning, I was accosted by a smiling man with an ax on his shoulder. "My pretty boy," said he, "has your father a grindstone?"

"Yes, sir," said I.

"You are a fine little fellow!" said he. "Will you, let me grind my ax on it?"

Pleased with the compliment of "fine little fellow," "Oh, yes, sir," I answered. "It is down in the shop."

"And will you, my man," said he, patting me on the head, "get me a little hot water?"

How could I refuse? I ran, and soon brought a kettleful.

"How old are you-and what's your name?" continued he, without waiting for a reply. "I'm sure you are one of the finest lads that I have ever seen. Will you just turn a few minutes for me?"

Tickled with the flattery, like a little fool, I went to work, and bitterly did I rue the day. It was a new ax, and I toiled and tugged till I was almost tired to death. The school bell rang, and I could not get away. My hands were blistered, and the ax was not half ground.

At length, however, it was sharpened, and the man turned to me with, "Now, you little rascal, you've played truant! Scud to school, or you'll rue it!"

"Alas!" thought I, "it was hard enough to turn a grindstone this cold day, but now to be called a little rascal is too much." It sank deep into my mind, and often have I thought of it since.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

Discussion. 1. In this story Franklin advises you to be on your guard against flatterers who wish to make use of you in order to gain their o"-n ends. What made Franklin do as the man wanted him to? What do you think of the man? 2. How would you have sought the boy's help? 3. In what way was this incident of use to Franklin afterwards? 4. What is meant when we say of a person that he has "an ax to grind"? 5. How do you think Franklin valued sincerity? 6. How do you value it? 7. Tell the story as the man would have told it to a friend. 8. Pronounce: accosted.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) was born in the rugged hill country of western Massachusetts. From infancy he showed remarkable powers of mind. He could read by the time he was two years old, wrote verses at nine, and when scarcely eighteen wrote his most noted poem, "Thanatopsis," now one of the world's classics. He had a wonderful memory, and it is said he could repeat "by heart" every poem he had written.

Bryant removed to New York, where in 1825 he became editor of the Evening Post. Through the remainder of—his long life he devoted his energy and great gifts to building up one of the most forceful of American newspapers, but he found time also to study Nature and to write so many poems that we now think of him as a poet, not as an editor. He was also a student, and we are indebted to him for some excellent translations from old authors. And, finally, he was a public-spirited American, interested in all matters that have to do with the honor of our country. Imagine yourself in New York City during the latter part of the last century. If you were walking up Broadway almost any morning, your attention would be attracted to a venerable looking man, with heavy, flowing, snow-white hair and beard, whom you would be quite likely to meet swinging along at a vigorous pace. You would not need to be told that this man is our first American poet, with whose verses you are already familiar; and you would probably know, too, that he is also the editor of the Evening Post and that, although now past eighty, he is on his way to his office, walking from his home some two miles away, as he has done, rain or shine, for over half a century.

This great man was not too busy with affairs, or too learned, to look for the joy that comes from companionship with Nature. Like Irving he chose American subjects taken from his own surroundings: the scenes of his boyhood, the flowers, birds, and hills of his old New England home. He found pleasure in the simplest things, and he wrote about this pleasure in the simplest way. In this simplicity and the variety of his interests his wealth consisted; a treasure that made rich not only the poet who possessed it but all Americans, to whom he left his life and works for an inheritance.

THE YELLOW VIOLET

When beechen buds begin to swell, And woods the bluebird's warble know, The yellow violet's modest bell Peeps from the last year's leaves below.

Ere russet fields their green resume, Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare, To meet thee, when thy faint perfume; Alone is in the virgin air.

Of all her train, the hands of Spring First plant thee in the watery mold; And I have seen thee blossoming Beside the snow-bank's edges cold.

Thy parent sun, who bade thee view dale-skies, and chilling moisture sip, Has bathed thee in his own bright hue, And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, And earthward bent thy gentle eye, Unapt the passing view to meet, When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.

Oft, in the sunless April day, Thy early smile has stayed my walk, But 'midst the gorgeous blooms of May I passed thee on thy humble stalk.

So they who climb to wealth forget The friends in darker fortunes tried. I copied them—but I regret That I should ape the ways of pride.

And when again the genial hour Awakes the painted tribes of light, I'll not o'erlook the modest flower That made the weds of April bright.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

Discussion. 1. When does the poet say the violet makes its appearance? 2. Why is the violet called a "modest" flower? 3. Why does the violet make glad the heart of the poet? When the woods and fields are full of flowers, does he notice the violet? 4. What does "alone" add to the meaning of line 8, page 298? 5. What is meant by "her train," line 9, page 298? 6. What are "the hands of Spring"? 7. In what sense is the sun the "parent" of the violet? 8. Why does Bryant say the violet's seat is low? 9. What does the poet say the violet's "early smile" has often done for him? 10. Point out the stanzas in which the poet tells you where he finds the violet; the stanzas in which he tells you about the appearance and character of the flower; the stanzas in which he rebukes himself for passing it by, and makes a promise. 11. Why does Bryant stop to view the violet in April and pass it by in May? 12. With what does the poet compare this treatment of the violet? 13. What does the poet say he regrets? 14. What other flowers come very early in the spring? How do you feel when you see them? 15. Which stanza of the poem do you like best? 16. What other poem on the violet have you read? 17. Tell what you can about the author. 18. Find in the Glossary the meaning of: beechen; russet; train; jet; unapt. 19. Pronounce: ere; parent; gorgeous; humble; genial.

Phrases for Study

modest bell, stayed my walk, their green resume, in darker fortunes tried, virgin air, ape the ways of pride, pale skies, genial hour, flaunting nigh, painted tribes of light.

THE GLADNESS OF NATURE

Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, When our Mother Nature laughs around, When even the deep blue heavens look glad, And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?

There are notes of joy from the hangbird and wren, And the gossip of swallows through all the sky; The ground squirrel gayly chirps by his den, And the wilding bee hums merrily by.

The clouds are at play in the azure space, And their shadows at play on the bright green vale, And here they stretch to the frolic chase, And there they roll on the easy gale.

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower; There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree; There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower, And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, On the leaping waters and gay young isles, Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

Discussion. 1. What season is described here? 2. What are the signs that Nature is glad? How do all these things affect the poet? How do you sometimes feel on a cold, rainy day? 3. What signs of gladness are mentioned in the first two stanzas? 4. Which of these have you seen in springtime? 5. Have you ever seen clouds that seemed to chase one another? 6. What is meant by "a laugh from the brook"? 7. What does the poet say the sun will do for us? 8. Do you think spring is "a time to be cloudy and sad"? Why? 9. Why do city boys and girls like to visit the country? 10. Read again "A Forward Look," pages 19-20, and then point out fancies that Bryant uses in this poem to help us see the beauty and wonder of Nature. 11. Commit to memory the stanza that you like best. 12. Pronounce: wilding; azure; isles; ay.

Phrases for Study

gladness breathes, frolic chase, blossoming ground, aspen bower, gossip of swallows, titter of winds, azure space, broad-faced sun.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892) was born near the town of Haverhill, Massachusetts, not far from Hawthorne's birthplace. He had very little opportunity for education beyond what the district school afforded, for his parents were too poor to send him away to school. His two years' attendance at Haverhill Academy was paid for by his own work at making ladies' slippers for twenty-five cents a pair. He began writing verses almost as soon as he learned to write at all, but his father discouraged this ambition as frivolous, saying it would never give him bread. His family were Quakers, sturdy of stature as of character. He is called "The Quaker Poet."

Whittier led the life of a New England farm boy, used to hard work and few pleasures. His library consisted of practically one book, the family Bible. Later, a copy of Burns's poems was loaned to him by the district schoolmaster. Like Burns he had great sympathy with the humble and the poor. In his poems. Whittier described the scenes and told the legends of his own locality. Home Ballads and Songs of Labor, in which "The Huskers" and "The Corn-Song" appear, are among his most widely read books. They picture country life and the scenes of the simple occupations common in his part of the country. Whittier was intensely patriotic and religious by nature. His happiness lay in his association with his friends, with children, animals, and the outdoor world.

In these respects he was like Bryant, a man who found pleasure in simple things. Like Bryant, also, he was interested in public affairs. Any injustice to the poor he opposed passionately. He wrote many poems in protest against slavery. He wrote, also, ballads of early New England history, and some of our most beautiful religious poetry comes from his pen. His life was less filled with business cares than that of Bryant, but it was equally full of interests that made him happy and source of help and joy to others.

THE HUSKERS

It was late in mild October, and the long autumnal rain Had left the summer harvest-fields all green with grass again; The first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving all the woodlands gay With the hues of summer's rainbow or the meadow flowers of May.

Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, the sun rose broad and red; At first a rayless disk of fire, he brightened as he sped; Yet even his noontide glory fell chastened and subdued On the cornfields and the orchards and softly pictured wood.

And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to the night, He wove with golden shuttle the haze with yellow light; Slanting through the tented beeches, he glorified the hill; And, beneath it, pond and meadow lay brighter, greener still.

And shouting boys in woodland haunts caught glimpses of that sky, Flecked by the many-tinted leaves, and laughed, they knew not why; And schoolgirls, gay with aster-flowers, beside the meadow brooks, Mingled the glow of autumn with the sunshine of sweet looks.

From spire and barn looked westerly the patient weathercocks; But even the birches on the hill stood motionless as rocks. No sound was in the woodlands save the squirrel's dropping shell, And the yellow leaves among the boughs, low rustling as they fell.

The summer grains were harvested; the stubble-fields lay dry, Where June winds rolled, in light and shade, the pale green waves of rye; But still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys fringed with wood, ungathered, bleaching in the sun, the heavy corn crop stood.

Bent low by autumn's wind and rain, through husks that, dry and sear, Unfolded from their ripened charge, shone out the yellow ear; Beneath, the turnip lay concealed in many a verdant fold, And glistened in the slanting light the pumpkin's sphere of gold.

There wrought the busy harvester, and many a creaking wain Bore slowly to the long barn-floor its load of husk and grain; Till broad and red, as when he rose, the sun sank down at last, And like a merry guest's farewell the day in brightness passed.

And lo! as through the western pines, on meadow, stream, and pond, Flamed the red radiance of a sky set all afire beyond, Slowly o'er the eastern sea-bluffs a milder glory shone, And the sunset and the moonrise were mingled into one!

As thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed away, And deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil shadows lay, From many a brown old farmhouse and hamlet without name, Their milking and their home-tasks done, the merry huskers came.

Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in the mow, Shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene below, The glowing pile of husks behind, the golden ears before, And laughing eyes and busy hands and brown cheeks glimmering o'er.

Half hidden in a quiet nook, serene of look and heart, Talking their old times over, the old men sat apart; While up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling in its shade, At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy children played.

Urged by the good host's daughter, a maiden young and fair, Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of soft brown hair, The master of the village school, sleek of hair and smooth of tongue, To the quaint tune of some old psalm, a husking-ballad sung.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

Discussion. 1. What is the difference between the sunshine of October and that of May? 2. Why does it seem to the poet as if the sun wove with golden shuttle the yellow haze? 3. What had the frost done that made the woodlands gay? 4. What words in the second stanza make you feel that the wood was some distance away? 5. To whom does "he" in the third stanza refer? 6. What words in the second stanza explain the word "haze" in the third stanza? 7. What gave the beeches the appearance of being painted? 8. What are the colors of the woods and sky in this poem? What colors are they in the poem "The Yellow Violet"? Find the words and phrases that tell you. How many times, in this poem, does the poet use the words golden and yellow, or speak of things that suggest these colors? 9. What do you think was the reason the boys laughed when they looked up to the sky? 10. What "summer grain" is mentioned in line 11, page 304? 11. What crop was still ungathered? 12. Where were the harvesters at work? 13. What was it that set the sky "all afire beyond"? 14. Where did the husking take place? What tells you this? 15.. How did the old men spend the evening? 16. What things that we eat depend on the work of the huskers? 17. Tell what you can about the author. 18. Find in the Glossary the meaning of: shuttle; spire; sear; verdant; wain; lapsed. 19. Pronounce: autumnal; chastened; beneath; sphere; wrought; radiance; tranquil; mow; serene; psalm.

Phrases for Study

hues of summer's rainbow, patient weathercocks, rayless disk of fire, ripened charge, brightened as he sped; sphere of gold, glory fell chastened, milder glory shone, softly pictured wood, mingled into one, slow sloping to the night, hamlet without name, glorified the hill, golden ears before, sunshine of sweet looks, glimmering o'er, looked westerly, serene of look and heart.

THE CORN-SONG

Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard! Heap high the golden corn! No richer gift has Autumn poured From out her lavish horn!

Let other lands, exulting, glean The apple from the pine, The orange from its glossy green, The cluster from the vine;

We better love the hardy gift Our rugged vales bestow, To cheer us when the storm shall drift Our harvest-fields with snow.

Through vales of grass and meads of flowers Our plows their furrows made, While on the hills the sun and showers Of changeful April played.

We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain, Beneath the sun of May, And frightened from our sprouting grain The robber crows away.

All through the long, bright days of June Its leaves grew green and fair, And waved in hot midsummer's noon Its soft and yellow hair.

And now, with Autumn's moonlit eves, Its harvest-time has come; We pluck away the frosted leaves, And bear the treasure home.

Then shame on all the proud and vain Whose folly laughs to scorn The blessing of our hardy grain, Our wealth of golden corn!

Let earth withhold her goodly root, Let mildew blight the rye, Give to the worm the orchard's fruit, The wheat-field to the fly;

But let the good old crop adorn The hills our fathers trod; Still let us, for his golden corn, Send up our thanks to God!

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

Discussion. 1. In "A Forward Look," you read that poets help you to see beauty in things that might otherwise seem common. The yellow violet is less showy than the chrysanthemum, but the poet writes of the violet. The pineapple, the orange, the grape, seem more interesting than the yellow corn of the fields, but here is a poem about one of the commonest of farm crops. To whom is the poet speaking in the first two stanzas? Point out some of the poet's fancies in this poem. 2. Is all corn "golden"? What other kinds have you seen? 3. Name other gifts autumn brings us. 4. Why is the corn a "hardy gift"? What other words or phrases in the poem suggest the same idea? 5. What do we call the "apple from the pine"? 6. What clusters are picked from vines? 7. In what "other lands" do these fruits grow? 8. Where was Whittier's home? 9. What do you know of the soil and climate of New England? 10. Find the line that tells when we plant the corn. 11. Find the lines that tell when we harvest the corn. 12. What is the "yellow hair" the corn waves in summer? 13. What does the poet mean by "frosted leaves"? 14. What does he think of those who scorn the blessing of the corn? 15. What wish does the poet express in the last stanza? 16. What service did our farmers and boys and girls on the farms perform during the World War? 17. On page 291 you were asked to notice the way in which these American authors have expressed their thoughts; does Whittier's use of rime add to the beauty of his "song" about corn? Point out some of the lines that rime. 18. Find in the Glossary the meaning of: glean; hardy; meads; furrows; frosted; mildew; adorn.

Pronounce: hoard; lavish; glossy; root.

Phrases for Study

wintry hoard, rugged vales bestow, lavish horn, changeful April, exulting, glean, folly laughs to scorn, hardy gift, goodly root.