For Memorizing

Rest, comrades, rest and sleep!

The thoughts of men shall be
As sentinels to keep

Your rest from danger free.

Your silent tents of green

We deck with fragrant flowers;

Yours has the suffering been,

The memory shall be ours.

-Longfellow.

SOMEBODY'S MOTHER.

The woman was old and ragged and gray,
And bent with the chill of a winter's day
The street was wet with a recent snow,
And the woman's feet was aged and slow;
She stood at the crossing and waited long,
Alone, uncared for, amid a throng.

Past the woman so old and gray,
Hastened some children on their way,
Nor offered a helping hand to her,
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir

Lest the carriage wheels or horses' feet
Should crowd her down in the slippery street.

At last came one of the merry troop,-
The gayest laddie of all the group;

He paused beside her and whispered low,
"I'll help you across, if you wish to go.”

For Memorizing

Her aged hand on his strong young arm
She placed; and so, without hurt or harm,
He guided the trembling feet along,
Proud that his own were firm and strong.

—Author unknown.

THE HERITAGE.

The rich man's son inherits lands,

And piles of brick and stone, and gold,

And he inherits soft white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold,

Nor dares to wear a garment old;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares;

The banks may break, the factory burn,
A breath may burst his bubble shares,
And soft white hands could hardly earn
A living that would serve his turn;

A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants,

His stomach craves for dainty fare;
With sated heart, he hears the pants

Of toiling hands with brown arms bare,
And wearies in his easy-chair;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

For Memorizing

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,
A rank adjuged by toil-won merit,
Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labor sings;

A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
A patience learned of being poor,
Courage, if sorrow come, to hear it,

A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door;

A heritage, it seems to me
A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man's son! there is a toil
That with all others level stands;
Large charity doth never soil,

But only whiten, soft white hands
This is the best crop from thy lands,

A heritage, it seems to me,

Worth being rich to hold in fee.

For Memorizing

poor man's son, scorn not thy state;
There is worse weariness than thine,
In merely being rich and great;

Toil only gives the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and benign;
A heritage, it seems to me,

Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the earth at last;
Both, children of the same dear God,
Prove title to your heirship vast
By record of a well-filled past;

A heritage, it seems to me,

Well worth a life to hold in fee.

PSALM XXIII.

-Lowell.

1. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

2. He maketh me lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters.

3. He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake.

4. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me, Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.

5. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

6. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

SIXTH GRADE.

THANKSGIVING HYMN FOR CALIFORNIA

Our forefathers gave thanks to God

In the land by the stormy sea,

For bread hard wrung from the iron sod
In cold and misery.

Though every day meant toil and strife

In the land by the stormy sea;

They thanked their God for the gift of life,
How much the more should we!

Stern frost had they, full many a day,

Strong ice on the stormy sea;

Long months of snow, grey clouds hung low,

And a cold wind endlessly;

Winter and war with an alien race,

But they were alive and free!

And they thanked their God for His good graceHow much the more should we!