A SECOND READER

THE ALDINE READERS

A SECOND READER

By
Frank E. Spaulding
Superintendent of Schools, Newton, Mass.

and

Catherine T. Bryce
Supervisor of Primary Schools, Newton, Mass.

With Illustrations by
Margaret Ely Webb

NEW YORK
NEWSON & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1907, by
Newson and Company

All rights reserved

The authors and publishers desire to acknowledge their obligation to Mr. Nathaniel L. Berry, Supervisor of Drawing in the Public Schools of Newton, Massachusetts, for valuable assistance in planning and arranging the illustrations in this book.

PREFACE

This Second Reader, like the two preceding books of the Aldine Series, combines material and method in such a way that the former does not suffer, while the latter gains by the combination. That is, the subject-matter of the book, both the text and the illustrations, is just as suitable and just as interesting as it could be made were there no such thing as method; indeed, the sole sign of method, as one reads the book, is the parenthesis about certain words preceding the stories. At the same time, this subject-matter, both the text and the illustrations, embodies in systematic arrangement the most effective principles of mastering the mechanics of reading.

Children who have read thoroughly the preceding books of this Series have acquired independence, the habit of self-reliance, and the power of self-help to such a degree that they will be able to master this book with little or no direct aid from the teacher. And when they have thus mastered this book, they will be good readers. That is, so far as the mechanics of reading is concerned, they will be able to read unaided anything which they can understand; so far as the subject-matter is concerned, they will be able to understand from the printed page anything which they can understand through the spoken word. More than this, if the teacher has contributed her part, most such children will have realized the utility and tasted the real delights of reading to such an extent that they will continue to read of their own accord; most of them will also be good oral readers, reading with appropriate expression and genuine enthusiasm.

These statements are not mere predictions of the hoped-for results of untried theories; they are simple, unexaggerated expressions of facts which have been observed in the work of thousands of children of a score of nationalities.

To secure such results a complete mastery and intelligent observation is necessary of the principles and plans described in the authors’ Manual for Teachers, entitled “Learning to Read.”

The authors gratefully acknowledge their indebtedness to Miss Marie Van Vorst for the use of “Three of us Know” and “The Sandman”; to Mrs. Emily Huntington Miller for “The Bluebird”; to Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co. for the use of the poem “Discontented,” by Sarah Orne Jewett, and “Calling the Violet,” by Lucy Larcom; to Messrs. Charles Scribner’s Sons for “The Wind,” by Robert Louis Stevenson.

CONTENTS

Out of Door Neighbors

THE CAT AND THE BIRDS

• (hap py)
• rap

• doc tor
• words
• door

An old cat lived near a bird house.

Every day he saw the birds flying in and out.

Every day he said to himself, “How I wish I had one of those nice fat birds for my dinner!”

One day he heard that the birds were ill.

“Now is my time,” he said. “I will get a bird to eat to-day.”

So he put on a tall hat and a coat.

He took a cane in one hand and a box of pills in the other.

Then he went to the bird house and rapped at the door.

“Who is there?” asked an old bird.

“It is I, the doctor,” said the cat. “I heard that you were ill. So I have come to see you. I have some pills that will make you well. Open the door.”

The old bird looked out.

“Your words are kind,” he said, “like the words of the good doctor. Your hat, coat, cane, and box of pills are like his. But your paws are those of the old cat. Go away! We will not let you in. We do not want your pills. We are more likely to get well without your help than with it.”

Then all the birds flew at him.

They pecked at his eyes; they pecked at his ears.

They tore his coat.

Away flew his high hat; away flew his cane; away flew his box of pills.

Then away flew the old cat himself, and he never went back.

WHY RAVENS CROAK

• wash es
• wa ter
• pret ty

• (w eather)
• f eather
• (ought)
• th ought

• (am)
• sw am
• swan
• use

A raven was very unhappy because his feathers were black.

One day he saw a beautiful white swan swimming in a lake.

“How beautiful and white her feathers are,” he thought. “It must be because she washes them so much. Why, she almost lives in the water. If I should wash my feathers all day long, they might get white, too. I will try it.”

So he flew from his nest in the woods, and lived for days near the lake.

Every day he washed his feathers from morning to night.

But his feathers did not get white.

They were just as black as ever.

But as the raven was not used to living in water, he caught a very bad cold.

So, at last, he flew back to his nest in the wood.

“It is no use,” he croaked. “I can never be white. I do not want to be white. Black feathers are pretty enough for me. Croak! Croak!”

All ravens have said “Croak! Croak!” ever since.

THE PROUD CROW

• (p ea)
• sp eak
• l uck y
• st uck
• laughed
• on ly

• (l oud)
• pr oud
• (c ool)
• f ool ish
• a mong
• steal

• (r ock)
• pea c ock
• (n ot)
• l ot
• (f ull)
• p ull ed

One day a crow found a lot of peacock feathers.

“My,” cried the silly crow, “how lucky I am. No other crow in the world will look as fine as I. How all my old friends will envy me!”

And the proud crow stuck the peacock feathers all over his back.

Then he flew away to show himself to his friends.

He strutted up and down before them.

But they only laughed at him.

“Just look at that silly bird!” they cried. “See him strut! Did you ever see anything so proud? Caw, caw, caw!”

The proud crow was now very angry.

“Do not speak to me,” he said. “I have fine feathers. I am a peacock. I will have nothing to do with you crows.”

So off he strutted to the peacocks.

“How do you do, my dear friends?” he said in his sweetest voice.

“Who are you?” cried the peacocks scornfully.

“Do you not see that I am a peacock?” answered the crow. “Look at my fine feathers.”

“Fine feathers, indeed! We threw those old feathers away long ago. You are no peacock. Yon are just an old black crow.”

Then the peacocks fell upon the old crow, and pulled off all his fine feathers.

They tore out many of his own feathers, too.

The foolish crow was a sight!

He crept back to his old friends.

He tried to steal in among them without being seen.

But they all cried out, “Who are you? What do you want here?”

“Don’t you see that I am your old friend?” croaked the crow. “I am going to live with you always.”

“No, you are not,” answered a wise old crow. “You are no friend of ours. A few old peacock feathers made you think you were a peacock. So you left your old friends. The peacocks saw you were a cheat and drove you away. Hereafter you must live alone. Be off with you!”

And all the crows said, “Caw, caw, caw! Caw, caw, caw!”

THE WOLF AND THE KID

• (h ark)
• d ark
• (m uch)
• s uch
• noise
• e nough
• trot ted

• (h ive)
• l ive ly
• (l eg)
• b eg ged
• (p ea)
• pl ea se

• (k ind)
• find
• hun gry
• oft en
• wolf
• (n ow)
• gr ow led

One day a little kid was lost in a dark wood.

He ran on and on, but could not find his way out.

At last he became frightened and began to bleat.

A hungry wolf heard him.

How glad the wolf was to find such a good dinner!

“Oh, Mr. Wolf!” cried the little kid, “please show me the way home.”

“Show you the way home!” growled the wolf. “I am hungry and I’m going to eat you.”

“Oh, please, please, Mr. Wolf,” begged the frightened kid, “please let me go!”

“No, no, I’ll eat you,” growled the wolf.

And he sprang at the kid, now almost dead with fright.

Just then a lucky thought came to the little kid.

“Oh, Mr. Wolf,” said he, “I have heard that you make very fine music. I love to dance. Will you not sing for me, so that I may have one more dance before I die? It is not much to ask.”

This pleased the wolf, for he was proud of his voice.

“Well,” he growled, “music is good before eating. I often sing before my dinner. To-day I was too hungry to think of it. But I will sing just one song. Then I will eat you. Dance lively, now!”

So the wolf sang a song, and the kid danced his best.

When the wolf stopped, the kid cried, “That was good. But you did not sing loud enough or fast enough for me. Is that the best you can do?”

“No,” said the wolf. “I can sing louder and faster than any one in the woods. Listen!”

So the wolf sang louder and faster.

And the kid danced livelier and better than before.

But the wolf made so much noise that the dogs heard it.

They came running into the woods to see what the matter was.

The wolf had to run for his life.

But the wise little kid trotted safely home to his mother.

“I have to go without my dinner,” growled the wolf. “I alone am to blame. I should kill and eat kids, not sing for them.”

QUEER CHICKENS

• (qu ick)
• ch ick
• ch ick en
• (c are)
• d are
• (d eer)
• qu eer
• splash

• (th ank)
• b ank
• (r ose)
• th ose
• each
• e ven
• sail
• a fraid

• (th en)
• h en
• t en
• (t ook)
• br ook
• (east)
• l east
• stream

An old hen found a nest behind the gate.

It was full of eggs. Such beautiful eggs!

They would make any old hen’s heart glad.

“I will sit on these eggs. I will keep them warm,” thought the hen. “Then a little chicken will come out of each one.”

So the old hen spread her wings over the eggs.

How very wide she had to spread them!

For many days she sat there waiting.

One morning she awoke to find her nest full of little ones.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, there were.

“Cluck, cluck, what dear little chickens,” said the hen.

“Come and get breakfast. Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck! What hungry chickens!

Now I will let you play in the meadow. Come down to the brook first and get a drink.

The water is clear and cool. Do not go too near, or you will fall in.”

Now, what do you think those little ones did?

You never could guess, so I will tell you.

As soon as they saw the brook they ran to it. They ran as fast as ever they could go.

They rushed right into the water.

“Cluck, cluck! Cluck, cluck! Come back! Come back!” called the old hen. “Come back, come back to your mother!”

But they did not come back.

They did not even listen.

They sailed clear across the stream.

They sailed up stream and they sailed down stream.

But they did not come back to their mother.

She could only run up and down the bank, looking and calling.

“What shall I do? What shall I do?” she cried. “Come back! Come back, you naughty chickens. You will drown, every one of you. I know you will drown. O, why will you not mind your mother?”

How frightened she was!

She just knew all her dear chicks would drown.

Still she did not dare to follow them into the water. She never swam a stroke in all her life. She never even waded in the water.

But such fun as her little ones were having!

They were not the least bit afraid. They swam and splashed around all day.

All day the old mother hen ran up and down the bank calling and begging, “Come back! Come back! Come right back to your mother!”

At last the little ones were tired.

Then they came back to their frightened mother.

One after another came up the bank and ran to her.

How glad she was to gather them again under her warm wings.

But what queer chickens they were.

LITTLE DUCKS

• (who)
• who se
• sure

• (c aught)
• n aught y
• be lieve

• once
• roam
• Ma’am

“My dears, whatever are you at?

You ought to be at home;

I told you not to wet your feet,

I told you not to roam.

Oh, dear! I’m sure you will be drowned,

I never saw such tricks;

Come home at once and go to bed,

You naughty, naughty chicks!”

Now most of them were five days old,

But one, whose age was six—

“Please, ma’am,” said he, “I think we’re ducks;

I don’t believe we’re chicks.”

—Robert Mack.

Once Upon a Time

THE CATERPILLAR

• ugly
• push

• (w ise)
• r ise

I creep upon the ground, and the children say,

“You ugly old thing!” and push me away.

I lie in my bed, and the children say,

“The fellow is dead; we’ll throw him away.”

At last I awake, and the children try

To make me stay, as I rise and fly.

WHO IS STRONGEST?

• (age)
• c age
• (f ellow)
• b ellow
• (high)
• s igh ed
• breathes
• bear

• (h ouse)
• m ouse
• (sp eak)
• cr eak
• squ eak
• climbed
• roared
• Tum tol lo

• (ice)
• m ice
• (b ox)
• ox
• (th ink)
• dr ink
• uprooted
• bur rowed

Once upon a time Tumtollo climbed a tree.

The wind blew hard and uprooted the tree.

Tumtollo was thrown to the ground.

“Oh, oh, oh!” he cried with pain, “oh, oh, oh!”

“My, isn’t the tree strong!” cried he; “it can throw Tumtollo to the ground.”

“You are wrong,” creaked the tree. “I am not strong. If I were, could I be uprooted by the wind?”

“Ah, I see,” said Tumtollo, “it is the wind that is strong.

The wind uprooted the tree.

The tree threw Tumtollo to the ground.”

“No, friend, you are wrong,” sighed the wind. “If I were strong, could I be stopped by the hill?”

“Oh, I see now,” said Tumtollo, “it is the hill that is strong.

The hill stopped the wind.

The wind uprooted the tree.

The tree threw Tumtollo to the ground.”

“Wrong again,” said the hill. “I am not strong. If I were, I should not be burrowed by mice.”

“Oh,” said Tumtollo, “then it is the mouse that is strong.

The mouse burrowed the hill.

The hill stopped the wind.

The wind uprooted the tree.

The tree threw Tumtollo to the ground.”

“Still wrong,” squeaked the mouse. “It is not I who am strong. If I were, could the cat catch me?”

“Well, then, it is the cat that is strong,” said Tumtollo.

“The cat caught the mouse.

The mouse burrowed the hill.

The hill stopped the wind.

The wind uprooted the tree.

The tree threw Tumtollo to the ground.”

“No, Tumtollo, I am not strong,” mewed the cat. “If I were, could the dog frighten me?”

“Then it is the dog who is strong,” said Tumtollo.

“The dog frightened the cat.

The cat caught the mouse.

The mouse burrowed the hill.

The hill stopped the wind.

The wind uprooted the tree.

The tree threw Tumtollo to the ground.”

“It is not I who am strong,” barked the dog. “If I were, would the ox hook me with his horns?”

“Then it must be the ox who is strong,” said Tumtollo.

“The ox hooked the dog.

The dog frightened the cat.

The cat caught the mouse.

The mouse burrowed the hill.

The hill stopped the wind.

The wind uprooted the tree.

The tree threw Tumtollo to the ground.”

“No,” bellowed the ox, “I am not strong. If I were, would the bee sting me?”

“Ah, ha! it is the little bee that is strong,” said Tumtollo.

“The bee stung the ox.

The ox hooked the dog.

The dog frightened the cat.

The cat caught the mouse.

The mouse burrowed the hill.

The hill stopped the wind.

The wind uprooted the tree.

The tree threw Tumtollo to the ground.”

“No, no!” buzzed the bee, “it is not I who am strong. If I were, would the bear steal my honey?”

“Indeed, then it is the bear who is strong,” said Tumtollo.

“The bear robbed the bee.

The bee stung the ox.

The ox hooked the dog.

The dog frightened the cat.

The cat caught the mouse.