Standard Classic Reader: Book- for the -grade, Book 2

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Educational Publishing Company, 1912

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Page 256 - 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.
Page 254 - Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the blossoms, the Blue; Under the garlands, the Gray No more shall the war-cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever, When they laurel the graves of our dead. Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Love and tears for the Blue; Tears and love for the Gray.
Page 255 - THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. 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.
Page 79 - Should you ask me, whence these stories? Whence these legends and traditions, With the odors of the forest, With the dew and damp of meadows, With the curling smoke of wigwams, With the rushing of great rivers, With their frequent repetitions, And their wild reverberations, As of thunder in the mountains?
Page 256 - 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.
Page 261 - Like a poet hidden in the light of thought, singing hymns unbidden till the world is wrought to sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not.
Page 251 - Came through the jaws of Death Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade ? O the wild charge they made ! All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made ! Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred ! ALFRED TENNYSON.
Page 263 - We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Page 249 - Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die : Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them...
Page 255 - 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. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers...

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