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with his welcome beams he dispersed the vapor and the cold; the traveller felt the genial warmth, and as the sun shone brighter and brighter he sat down, overcome with the heat, and cast his cloak on the ground.

Thus the Sun was declared the conqueror, and it has ever been deemed that persuasion is better than force.



A NIGHTINGALE that all day long
Had cheered the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When looking eagerly around,
He spied far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glowworm by his spark ;
So, stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.

The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, right eloquent:
“Did you admire my lamp," quoth he,
“As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song:

For 'twas the self-same Power Divine
Taught you to sing, and me to shine ;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night.”
The songster heard this short oration,
And warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.



A Boy had a magnet. He wanted to keep it new and nice, so he put it into a chest away from all other iron. By and by he took it out to use. He held it to a piece of iron, but the magnet would not work any more because in its idleness it had lost all its strength.

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A COUNTRY maid was walking along with a can of milk upon her head when she fell into the following train of reflections. “ The money for which I shall sell this milk will enable me to increase my stock of eggs to three hundred. These eggs, allowing for what may prove addle and what may be destroyed by vermin will produce at least two hundred and fifty chickens. The chickens will be fit to carry to market just at the time when poultry is always dear; so that by the new year

I cannot fail of having money enough to purchase a new gown. Green — let me consider — yes, green becomes my complexion best, and green it shall be. In this dress I will go to the fair, where all the young

fellows will strive to have me for a partner; but noI shall refuse every one of them, and with a disdainful toss turn from them.” Transported with this idea she could not forbear acting with her head the thought that thus passed in her mind; when down came the can of milk! and all her imaginary happiness vanished in a moment.

Do not count your chickens before they are hatched.



In ancient times, as story tells,
The saints would often leave their cells,
And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.

It happened on a winter night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguised in tattered habits went
To a small village down in Kent;
Where, in the stroller's canting strain,

They begged from door to door in vain,
Tried every tone might pity win;
But not a soul would take them in.

Our wandering saints, in woful state, Treated at this ungodly rate, Having through all the village passed, To a small cottage came at last Where dwelt a good old honest yeoman, Calld in the neighborhood Philemon; Who kindly did these saints invite In his poor hut to pass the night; And then the hospitable sire Bid goody Baucis mend the fire; While he from out the chimney took A flitch of bacon off the hook, And freely from the fattest side Cut out large slices to be fried ; Then stepped aside to fetch them drink, Filled a large jug up to the brink, And saw it fairly twice go round; Yet (what is wonderful !) they found 'Twas still replenished to the top, As if they ne'er had touched a drop. The good old couple were amazed, And often on each other gazed ; For both were frightened to the heart, And just began to cry, “What art !” Then softly turned aside to view Whether the lights were burning blue.

“Good folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but saints,” the hermits said ;
“ No hurt shall come to you or yours :
But for that pack of churlish boors,
Not fit to live on Christian ground,
They and their houses shall be drowned ;
Whilst you shall see your cottage rise,
And grow a church before your eyes.”

They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft The roof began to mount aloft, Aloft rose every beam and rafter, The heavy wall climbed slowly after; The chimney widened and grew higher, Became a steeple with a spire.

The kettle to the top was hoist,
And there stood fastened to a joist;
Doomed ever in suspense to dwell,
'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.

A wooden jack which had almost
Lost by disuse the art to roast,
A sudden alteration feels,
Increased by new intestine wheels;
The jack and chimney, near allied,
Had never left each other's side:
The chimney to a steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone;
But up against the steeple reared,
Became a clock, and still adhered.

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