Nor must I forget the suddenly changing seasons of the northern clime. There is no long and lingering spring, unfolding leaf and blossom one by one; no long and lingering autumn, pompous with many-coloured leaves and the glow of Indian summers. But winter and summer are wonderful, and pass into each other. The quail has hardly ceased piping in the corn, when winter, from the folds of trailing clouds, sows broadcast over the land snow, icicles, and rattling hail. The days wane apace. Ere long the sun hardly rises above the horizon, or does not rise at all. The moon and the stars shine through the day; only, at noon, they are pale and wan, and in the southern sky a red, fiery glow, as of sunset, burns along the horizon, and then goes out. And pleasantly under the silver moon, and under the silent solemn stars, ring the steel shoes of the skaters on the frozen sea, and voices, and the sound of bells.

And now the glad leafy midsummer, full of blossoms and the song of nightingales, is come! The sun does not set till ten o'clock at night, and the children are at play in the streets an hour later. The windows and doors are all open, and you may sit and read till midnight without a candle.

Oh! how beautiful is the summer night, which is not night, but a sunless yet unclouded day, descending upon earth with dews, and shadows, and refreshing coolness ! How beautiful

F

the long wild twilight, which, like a silver clasp, unites to-day with yesterday! How beautiful the silent hour when morning and evening thus sit together, hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight! From the church tower in the public square the bell tolls the hour, with a soft, musical chime; and the watchman, whose watchtower is in the belfry, blows a blast on his horn for each stroke of the hammer; and four times, to the four corners of the heavens, in a sonorous voice he chants:

"Ho! watchman, ho!

Twelve is the clock!
God keep our town
From fire and brand,

And hostile hand!

Twelve is the clock!"

From his swallow's nest in the belfry he can see the sun all night long; and farther north the priest stands at his door in the warm midnight, and lights his pipe with a common burning-glass. LONGFELLOW.

Henry W. Longfellow was the greatest American poet. He was born in 1807, travelled much in Europe, and was a distinguished Professor in Harvard College. QUESTIONS:-1. Who was Longfellow? 2. What is meant by patriarchal? 3. Who were the patriarchs? 4. Why were they so called? 5. What is a tavern? 6. How do the peasants of Sweden show their politeness? 7. What kinds of food do they set before travellers? 8. What is the peculiarity of the seasons in Sweden? 9. What is the quail? 10. What curious custom prevails among the night watchmen? 11. Repeat their cry.

LESSON XX.

Napoleon and the Sailor.
A True Story.

ban'-ish'd, driven away.

doat'-ing, fondly dreaming.
e-quipp'd', furnished, pre-
pared.

hogs'-head, a large barrel.
im-pas'-sion'd, in love with.

in-ter-laced', woven in and

out.

la-bor'-i-ous, hard-working.

lurk'-ing, hiding.
rud'-der, helm.
se-rene', calm, unmoved.
so'-journ, stay, residence.
un-com'-pass'd, having no
compass.

wat'-tled, interwoven, twisted.
wher'-ry, a small rude boat
generally used on rivers.

NAPOLEON'S banners at Boulogne
Arm'd in our island every freeman.
His navy chanced to capture one
Poor British seaman.

They suffer'd him-I know not how-
Unprison'd on the shore to roam;
And aye was bent his longing brow
On England's home.

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight
Of birds to Britain half-way over;
With envy, they could reach the white

Dear cliffs of Dover.

A stormy midnight watch, he thought,

Than this sojourn would have been dearer,

If but the storm his vessel brought

To England nearer.

At last, when care had banish'd sleep,
He saw one morning-dreaming-doating,
An empty hogshead from the deep
Come shoreward floating;

He hid it in a cave, and wrought

The livelong day laborious; lurking Until he launch'd a tiny boat

By mighty working.

Heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyond
Description wretched: such a wherry
Perhaps ne'er ventur'd on a pond,
Or cross'd a ferry.

For ploughing in the salt sea-field,

It would have made the boldest shudder; Untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd, No sail-no rudder.

From neighbouring woods he interlaced
His sorry skiff with wattled willows;
And thus equipp'd he would have pass'd
The foaming billows-

But Frenchmen caught him on the beach,
His little Argo sorely jeering;

Till tidings of him chanced to reach

Napoleon's hearing.

With folded-arms Napoleon stood,
Serene alike in peace and danger;

And in his wonted attitude,
Address'd the stranger:-

"Rash man that wouldst yon channel pass On twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd; Thy heart with some sweet British lass Must be impassion'd."