THE CANADIAN FLAG

THE ALEXANDRA READERS

THIRD READER

BY

W. A. McINTYRE, B.A., LL.D.
PRINCIPAL, NORMAL SCHOOL, WINNIPEG

JOHN DEARNESS, M.A.
VICE-PRINCIPAL, NORMAL SCHOOL, LONDON

AND

JOHN C. SAUL, M.A.

Authorized by the Departments of Education
for Use in the Schools of Alberta
and Saskatchewan

PRICE 45 CENTS

TORONTO
MORANG EDUCATIONAL COMPANY LIMITED
1908

Copyright by
MORANG EDUCATIONAL COMPANY LIMITED
1908

Copyright in Great Britain

CONTENTS

THIRD READER

CANADA! MAPLE LAND!

Canada! Maple land! Land of great mountains!

Lake-land and River-land! Land ’twixt the seas!

Grant us, God, hearts that are large as our heritage,

Spirits as free as the breeze!

Grant us Thy fear that we walk in humility—

Fear that is reverent—not fear that is base;

Grant to us righteousness, wisdom, prosperity,

Peace—if unstained by disgrace.

Grant us Thy love and the love of our country;

Grant us Thy strength, for our strength’s in Thy name;

Shield us from danger, from every adversity,

Shield us, O Father, from shame!

Last born of Nations! the offspring of freedom!

Heir to wide prairies, thick forests, red gold!

God grant us wisdom to value our birthright,

Courage to guard what we hold!

THE SHOEMAKER AND THE ELVES

There was once an honest shoemaker who worked very hard at his trade; yet through no fault of his own he grew poorer and poorer. At last he had only just enough leather left to make one pair of shoes. In the evening he cut out the leather so as to be ready to make the shoes the next day.

He rose early in the morning, and went to his bench. But what did he see? There stood the pair of shoes, already made. The poor man could hardly believe his eyes, and he did not know what to think. He took the shoes in his hand to look at them closely. Every stitch was in its right place. A finer piece of work was never seen.

Very soon a customer came, and the shoes pleased him so well that he willingly paid a higher price than usual for them. The shoemaker now had enough money to buy leather for two pairs of shoes. In the evening he cut them out with great care, and went to bed early so that he might be up in good time the next day. But he was saved all trouble; for when he rose in the morning, two pairs of well-made shoes stood in a row upon his bench.

Presently in came customers, who paid him a high price for the shoes, and with the money that he received, he bought enough leather to make four pairs of shoes. Again he cut the work out overnight and again he found it finished in the morning. The shoemaker’s good fortune continued. All the shoes he cut out in the day were finished at night. The good man rose early, and he was busy every moment of the day. Every pair found ready sale. “Never did shoes wear so long,” said the buyers.

One evening, about Christmas time, the shoemaker said to his wife, “Let us watch to-night and see who it is that does this work for us.” So they left a light burning and hid themselves behind a curtain which hung in the corner of the room. As soon as it was midnight there came two little dwarfs. They sat down upon the shoemaker’s bench, and began to work with their tiny fingers, stitching and rapping and tapping away. Never had the good shoemaker and his wife seen such rapid work. The elves did not stop till the task was quite finished, and the shoes stood ready for use upon the table. This was long before daybreak, and then they bustled away as quick as lightning.

The next day the shoemaker’s wife said to her husband: “These little folks have made us rich, and we ought to be thankful to them and do them a service in return. They must be cold, for they have nothing on their backs to keep them warm. I shall make each of them a suit of clothes, and you shall make some shoes for them.”

This the shoemaker was very glad to do. When the little suits and the new shoes were finished, they were laid on the bench instead of the usual work. Again the good people hid themselves in the corner of the room to watch. About midnight the elves appeared. When they found the neat little garments waiting for them, they showed the greatest delight. They dressed in a moment, and jumped and capered and sprang about until they danced out of the door and over the green.

Never were they seen again, but everything went well with the shoemaker and his wife from that time forward as long as they lived.—Jacob Grimm.

I am only one;

But still I am one.

I cannot do everything;

But still I can do something.

And because I cannot do everything,

I will not refuse to do the something that I can do.

SONG OF THE GOLDEN SEA

Sing, ye ripening fields of wheat,

Sing to the breezes passing by,

Sing your jubilant song and sweet,

Sing to the earth, the air, the sky!

Earth that held thee and skies that kissed

Morning and noon and night for long,

Sun and rain and dew and mist,

All that has made you glad and strong!

The harvest fields of the far, far west

Stretch out a shimmering sea of gold!

Every ripple upon its breast

Sings peace, and plenty and wealth untold!

Far as the eye can reach it goes,

Farther yet, ’till there seems no end,

Under a sky where blue and rose

With the gold and turquoise softly blend.

Here, where sweep the prairies lone,

Broad and beautiful in God’s eyes,

Here in this young land, all our own,

The garner-house of the old world lies.

—Jean Blewett.

From “The Cornflower and Other Poems,” by permission.

WORK

Sweet wind, fair wind, where have you been?

“I’ve been sweeping the cobwebs out of the sky;

I’ve been grinding a grist in the mill hard by;

I’ve been laughing at work while others sigh;

Let those laugh who win!”

Sweet rain, soft rain, what are you doing?

“I’m urging the corn to fill out its cells;

I’m helping the lily to fashion its bells;

I’m swelling the torrent and brimming the wells;

Is that worth pursuing?”

Redbreast, redbreast, what have you done?

“I’ve been watching the nest where my fledglings lie;

I’ve sung them to sleep with a lullaby;

By and by I shall teach them to fly,

Up and away, every one!”

Honeybee, honeybee, where are you going?

“To fill my basket with precious pelf;

To toil for my neighbor as well as myself;

To find out the sweetest flower that grows,

Be it a thistle or be it a rose,—

A secret worth the knowing!”

—Mary N. Prescott.

FORTUNE AND THE BEGGAR

One day a ragged beggar was creeping along from house to house. He carried an old wallet in his hand, and was asking at every door for a few cents to buy something to eat. As he was grumbling at his lot, he kept wondering why it was that people who had so much money were never satisfied, but were always wanting more.

“Here,” said he, “is the master of this house—I know him well. He was always a good business man, and he made himself wondrously rich a long time ago. Had he been wise he would have stopped then. He would have turned over his business to some one else, and then he could have spent the rest of his life in ease. But what did he do instead? He began building ships and sending them to sea to trade with foreign lands. He thought he would get mountains of gold.

“But there were great storms on the water; his ships were wrecked, and his riches were swallowed up by the waves. Now his hopes all lie at the bottom of the sea, and his great wealth has vanished like the dreams of a night. There are many such cases. Men seem never to be satisfied unless they can gain the whole world. As for me, if I had only enough to eat and to wear I would not wish anything more.”

Just at that moment Fortune came down the street. She saw the beggar and stopped. She said to him: “Listen! I have long desired to help you. Hold your wallet and I shall pour this gold into it. But I shall pour only on this condition: All that falls into the wallet shall be pure gold, but every piece that falls upon the ground shall become dust. Do you understand?”

“Oh, yes, I understand,” said the beggar.

“Then have a care,” said Fortune. “Your wallet is old; so do not load it too heavily.”

The beggar was so glad that he could hardly wait. He quickly opened his wallet, and a stream of yellow dollars was poured into it. The wallet soon began to grow heavy.

“Is that enough?” asked Fortune.

“Not yet.”

“Isn’t it cracking?”

“Never fear.”

The beggar’s hands began to tremble. Ah, if the golden stream would only pour forever!

“You are the richest man in the world now!”

“Just a little more,” said the beggar; “add just a handful or two.”

“There, it’s full. The wallet will burst.”

“But it will hold a little more, just a little more!”

Another piece was added and the wallet split. The treasure fell upon the ground and was turned to dust. Fortune had vanished.

The beggar had now nothing but his empty wallet, and it was torn from top to bottom. He was as poor as before.

—From the Russian of Ivan Kriloff.

THE SPRITE

A little sprite sat on a moonbeam

When the night was waning away,

And over the world to the eastwards

Had spread the first flush of the day.

The moonbeam was cold and slippery,

And a fat little fairy was he;

Around him the white clouds were sleeping,

And under him slumbered the sea.

Then the old moon looked out of her left eye,

And laughed when she thought of the fun,

For she knew that the moonbeam he sat on

Would soon melt away in the sun;

So she gave a slight shrug of her shoulder,

And winked at a bright little star—

The moon was remarkably knowing,

As old people always are.

“Great madam,” then answered the fairy,

“No doubt you are mightily wise,

And know possibly more than another

Of the ins and the outs of the skies.

But to think that we don’t in our own way

An interest in sky-things take

Is a common and fatal blunder

That sometimes you great ones make.

“For I’ve looked up from under the heather,

And watched you night after night,

And marked your silent motion

And the fall of your silvery light.

I have seen you grow larger and larger,

I have watched you fade away;

I have seen you turn pale as a snowdrop

At the sudden approach of day.

“So don’t think for a moment, great madam,

Though a poor little body I be,

That I haven’t my senses about me,

Or am going to drop into the sea.

I have had what you only could give me—

A pleasant night ride in the sky;

But a new power arises to eastwards,

So, useless old lady, good-by.”

He whistled a low, sweet whistle,

And up from the earth so dark,

With its wings bespangled with dewdrops,

There bounded a merry lark.

He’s mounted the tiny singer

And soared through the heavens away,

With his face all aglow in the morning,

And a song for the rising day.

—Frederick George Scott.

A CRUST OF BREAD

The boy was lying under a big shady tree eating a large crust of bread. He had been romping with his dog in the garden, enjoying the sweet flowers and the bright sunshine. Now he rested in the cool shade of the apple-tree with the dog curled up at his feet. The birds were warbling their gayest songs in the topmost branches, and the leaves cast their dancing shadows on the soft carpet of green below.

As the dog was fast asleep, the boy had no one with whom to play. Just then a lady, beautifully dressed and holding a wand in her hand, stood before him. She smiled, and then placed her wand on the crust of bread, after which she at once vanished. She had no sooner gone than the boy rubbed his eyes in wonder, for the crust of bread was talking in a gentle voice.

“Would you like to hear my story?” it said. The boy nodded his head, as if to say yes, and the crust began:—

“Once upon a time I was a little baby seed. I lived in a large home called a granary. In this home were many other baby seeds just like me. No one could tell one from the other, as we all belonged to the same family and looked so much alike. We lived there very quietly until one day my sister cried, ‘Hark! do you hear that noise? The mice are coming!’ Then she told us the mice were fond of little grains of wheat, and that if they were to eat us we would never grow to be like our mother. We heard them many times after that, but we never saw them.

“One day a farmer came and put us into a large sack. It was so dark in the sack, and we lay so very near together that I thought we should smother. Soon I felt myself sliding. I tried to cling to the sack, but the other grains in their rush to the sunlight took me along with them. In our wild race we ran into a tube, and, going faster and faster, we soon fell into the seed-drill.

“Then I felt myself sliding again, for the seed-drill was moving forward. I could hear the driver call out in loud tones to the horses, ‘Get up!’ and round and round went the big wheels of the drill. All at once I went under cover in the rich ground. At first I did not like to be shut in from the sunlight. But one day when I heard the crows, I was glad that I was under the coverlet of the ground. I heard their cry of ‘Caw, caw,’ and how frightened I was! I knew that the crows were near, and that they liked the little baby wheat grains. This made me thank the farmer and Mother Nature for giving me such a good home. The crows could not find me, and by and by they flew away.

“Mother Nature now warmed me, and the rains fed me. I went to sleep, but one bright morning I awoke. The rain had been tapping on our great brown house, telling us to awake from our nap. I had grown so large while sleeping that my brown coat burst open. The sun had warmed my bed. I put a little white rootlet out and sent it down into the ground. The gentle spring breeze and the warm days brought my first blade into the sunlight above the ground, and peeping out I was glad to see everything growing fresh and green. I could see the tender sprouting grass and the opening buds. I could hear the bluebird’s song and the robin’s warble. I could smell the balmy air of spring.

“Mother Nature sent her children every day to help me. The rain came through the soil, and brought me food and drink. The sun fairies warmed my sprouting leaves, and the wind brought me fresh air. In June I wore a dainty green dress of slender, graceful leaves. As my sisters and I stood in the great field on the plain, and were wafted to and fro by the winds, we looked like the waves of the rolling deep.

“So I grew and grew, and one morning after the dew had given me my cool bath, and the sun fairies had dried my leaves, the south wind whispered her song to me, and I found myself a full-grown plant. I was proud of my spikelets of flowers, and now could wave with my sisters in the rolling seas of wheat. Down at the base of our little spikelets were seed cups in which slept the little baby seeds. The wind rocked them to sleep, and, sleeping, they grew to the full-sized wheat grain.

“By and by we became tall stalks of golden wheat, and the farmer was glad to look at us. When we were fully ripe, the great reaping-machine drawn by a number of horses came along and cut us down. Then we were picked up and sent whirling through the buzzing jaws of the thrasher. Our grains of wheat were screened from the chaff and straw, and fell into sacks. Then we were put on trains and transported to the mammoth granaries to be stored away until the flour-mills wanted us.

“At last we reached the mills. There we were turned into beautiful white flour and shipped to the market. So in time we, as flour, reached the housewife’s or baker’s well-stocked kitchen, where we were put into trays, and, being mixed with a little salt, yeast, and some water, were kneaded into loaves of bread and baked. This is the story of my life from a little grain of wheat until I became the crust of bread that you are eating.”

The sun was sinking in the west, the birds were winging their flight homewards, and night was fast coming on. The dog yawned, and, stretching himself out, was ready for another romp with his master. The boy awoke from his dream and hurried home to help with the evening meal, and to do his share of the world’s work.

—Selected.

From “The New Education Readers,” by permission of the American Book Company.

TWO SURPRISES

A workman plied his clumsy spade

As the sun was going down;

The German king with his cavalcade

Was coming into town.

The king stopped short when he saw the man—

“My worthy friend,” said he,

“Why not cease work at eventide,

When the laborer should be free?”

“I do not slave,” the old man said,

“And I am always free;

Though I work from the time I leave my bed

Till I can hardly see.”

“How much,” said the king, “is thy gain in a day?”

“Eight groschen,” the man replied.

“And canst thou live on this meagre pay?”—

“Like a king,” he said with pride.

“Two groschen for me and my wife, good friend,

And two for a debt I owe;

Two groschen to lend and two to spend

For those who can’t labor, you know.”

“Thy debt?” said the king. Said the toiler, “Yea,

To my mother with age oppressed,

Who cared for me, toiled for me, many a day,

And now hath need of rest.”

“To whom dost lend of thy daily store?”

“To my three boys at school. You see,

When I am too feeble to toil any more,

They will care for their mother and me.”

“And thy last two groschen?” the monarch said.

“My sisters are old and lame;

I give them two groschen for raiment and bread,

All in the Father’s name.”

Tears welled up in the good king’s eyes—

“Thou knowest me not,” said he;

“As thou hast given me one surprise,

Here is another for thee.

“I am thy king; give me thy hand”—

And he heaped it high with gold—

“When more thou needest, I command

That I at once be told.

“For I would bless with rich reward

The man who can proudly say,

That eight souls he doth keep and guard

On eight poor groschen a day.”

—Anonymous.

THE RICH MAN AND THE COBBLER

In old Paris, very rich people and quite poor people used to live close by each other. Up one stair might be found a very rich man; up two stairs a man not quite so rich; up three stairs a man who had not very much money. On the very lowest floor, a little below the street, were to be found the poorest folks of all. It was on this low floor that a cobbler used to live and mend shoes and sing songs. For he was a very happy cobbler, and went on singing all day, and keeping time with his hammer or his needle.

The Rich Man and his Friend

Up one stair, or on what is called the first floor, lived a very rich man, so rich that he did not know how rich he was—so rich that he could not sleep at nights for trying to find out how much money he had, and if it were quite safe.

Everybody knows that it is easier to sleep in the morning than at night. So nobody will wonder when I say that this rich man lay awake all night and always fell asleep in the morning. But no sooner did he fall asleep than he was wakened again. It was not his money that wakened him this time—it was the cobbler. Every morning, just as the rich man fell asleep the cobbler awoke, and in almost no time was sitting at his door, sewing away and singing like a lark.

The rich man went to a friend and said, ”I can’t sleep at night for thinking of my money, and I can’t sleep in the morning for listening to that cobbler’s singing. What am I to do?” This friend was a wise man, and told him of a plan.

Next forenoon, while the cobbler was singing away as usual, the rich man came down the four steps that led from the pavement to the cobbler’s door.

“Now here’s a fine job,” thought the happy cobbler. “He’s going to get me to make a grand pair of boots, and won’t he pay me well!”

But the rich man did not want boots or anything. He had come to give, not to get. In his hand he had a leather bag filled with something that jingled. “Here, cobbler,” said the rich man, “I have brought you a present of a hundred crowns.”

“A hundred crowns!” cried the cobbler; “but I’ve done nothing. Why do you give me this money?”

“Oh, it’s because you’re always so happy.”

“And you’ll never ask it back?”

“Never.”

“Nor bring lawyers about it and put me in prison?”

“No, no. Why should I?”

“Well, then, I’ll take the money, and I thank you very, very much.”

When the rich man had gone the cobbler opened the bag, and was just about to pour out the money into his leather apron to count how much it was, when he saw a man in the street looking at him. This would never do, so he went into the darkest part of his house and counted the hundred crowns. He had never seen so much money in his life before, but somehow he did not feel so happy as he felt he should.

Just then his wife came in quietly, and gave the poor cobbler such a fright that he lost his temper and scolded her, a thing he had never done in his life.

Next he hid the bag below the pillow of the bed, because he could see that place from the door where he worked. But by and by he began to think that if he could see it from the door so could other people. So he went in and changed the bag to the bottom of the bed. Two or three times every hour he went in to see that the bag was all right. His wife wanted to know what was the matter with the bed, but he told her to mind her own business. The next time she was not looking he slipped the bag into the bottom of an old box, and from that time he kept changing it about from place to place whenever he got a chance. If he had told his wife it would not have been so bad, but he was afraid even of her.

Next morning the rich man fell asleep as usual, and was not disturbed by the cobbler’s song. The next morning was the same, and the next, and the next. Everybody noticed what a change had come over the cobbler. He no longer sang. He did little work, for he was always running out and in to see if his money was all right; and he was very unhappy.

On the sixth day he made up his mind what to do. I think he talked it over with his wife at last, but I am not sure. Anyway, he went up his four steps, and then up the one stair that led to the rich man’s room. When he had entered, he went up to the table and laid down the bag, and said, “Sir, here are your hundred crowns; give me back my song.”

Next morning things were as bad as ever for the poor rich man, who had to remove, they say, to another part of Paris where the cobblers are not so happy.

—From the French of Jean de la Fontaine.

THE DROUGHT

Hath Heaven’s blessing passed away?

The sky’s sweet smile quite gone?

There is no sacred rain by day,

No beaded dew at dawn.

How can Thy helpless creatures live

When drought destroys the sod?

Upon our knees we pray Thee give

Thy creatures food, O God!

The little stream hath ceased to run,

The clover-bloom is dead,

The meadows redden in the sun,

The very weeds are fled.

Their heads the mournful cattle shake

Beside the thirsting wood.

Lord, hear the humble prayer we make,

To give Thy creatures food.

The panting sheep gasp in the shade,

Their matted wool is wet,

And where the cruel share is laid

The striving horses sweat;

They welcome death—’tis pain to live—

Restore Thy blessed sod;

Oh, hear our humble prayer and give

Thy creatures food, O God!

—R. K. Kernighan.

By special permission.

THE EAGLE

He clasps the crag with hookèd hands;

Close to the sun in lonely lands,

Ringed with the azure world, he stands.