cataract far down the mountain; far, far away the tawny Tulare harvest fields, cities here and there, churches like little chessmen, a thread like a spider's web along the ground, puffs of smoke, but never a sound or sign of life in this awful porch of heaven save the roar of the foamy cataract far below; only this and a little brown-bellied Douglas squirrel hulling a pine nut on the top of a prone monarch hollowed out by fire and in which the troop of cavalry stable their horses when on guard here a few sultry weeks in summer. Leave all, all behind when you enter this temple; go alone, though you have to go at midnight. What you may say I do not know, but you will feel, you will know that God is there.

-Joaquin Miller.

Pronunciations. — Tu lâr'e; na'tion al; Yo sem'i te; Se quoi'a.

Definitions. - National reservation, land set apart by the United States for some purpose, as for a park, and not allowed to be sold. Spike, a straight stalk with flowers growing out from its side,.like the hyacinth. Bulk, body. Tawny, a dark yellow. Five score, one hundred. Tunneled, having a passage opened or cut through. Sequoia, name given to the big trees of California. Insignificant, of little account. Prone, lying down. Prone monarch, a fallen Sequoia. Sultry, hot and usually moist.

Write tawny, sultry, prone, insignificant, each in a sentence of your own.

Spell: ascent; hollowed; cinnamon; bough; Sequoia.

If you have seen the snow-flower, describe it to the class. Relate to the class an account of any visit you have made to the forest or the mountains.

DRILL IN QUICK MOVEMENT.

Up the airy mountain,

Down the rushy glen,

We dare n't go a-hunting,
For fear of little men:
Wee folk, good folk,

Trooping all together;
Green jackets, red cap,

And white owl's feather.

When the wind came one morning whispering to each of them, "What will you choose? What is your dream?" all the trees broke into soft clamors: "I would help to build a palace." "I, a pilgrim's staff." "I, a wayside shrine."

And the wind caressed them all, but marked the one that did not speak. Day after day came the wind, and

the trees whispered their great wishes over and over. Still the maple said nothing.

"Is it not strange that this sprig has no ideas?" the others murmured. "See how she turns as the wind passes."

"Hush," said the wind, softly. "There is a great dream in her heart."

"Has she told you?" they asked.

"No," answered the wind. "But I know; for I, too, have a great dream that I have never told."

"O, wind, do you wish, too?” they cried.

"O, yes," said the wind. "There is no one who does not wish. I once knew a king, and he cried continually in his heart, "I have been only a king. I wish that I could live again, and play the lute.'”

"The lute, what is that?" said the trees.

"A wondrous singing thing made from a tree," the wind answered. "It is so cut and crossed with silver strings that the wind, brushing through, makes melody; and at the touch of man, the unspoken language of music echoes real and perfect."

"Does it make men better?" the trees murmured.

"This music is a prayer," the wind said. "It is the soul of nature and the soul of man rising in one voice." The young maple tree trembled as it listened, and it cried, "O, wind, this is my dream—I would sing."

The wind whispered softly to the tree, and sinking down she sang to it low, wild melodies, taught by the changes of the sea, and the song that lives in silence, until the songs and the soul of the tree were made one.

And then, when the life of the tree had grown perfect in all things, and had drank in the sun and frost and rain and bird songs, she was made free, and with the others floated down the river. In the great market at

Cremona the maker found her, and in the mystery of his art he wrought the violin.

That was long ago. The other trees lived out their dreams, but where are they? Who can find the wayside shrine, or the pilgrim's staff? But here is still the violin, and to this day no man hears its living voice but there stirs in his heart sweet longings after the pure and endless. - Maud Menefee.

To be memorized:

'Tis God gives skill,

But not without men's hands. He could not make
Antonio Stradivarius violins without Antonio.

- From Stradivarius, by George Eliot.

Then deep in the greenwood rode he,

And asked of every tree,

"O, if you have ever a singing leaf
I pray you to give it me."
But the trees all kept their counsel
And never a word said they,

Only there sighed from the pine tops

A music of seas far away.

- From The Singing Leaves, by J. R. Lowell.

PERSONIFICATION.

Name the things supposed to be talking in this Lesson. Can the wind or the trees speak in words as persons do? What are the wind and the trees here represented to be?

When the lower animals and inanimate objects are represented as persons, we say they are personified.

In the following paragraphs what things are personified, and how?

And Wind, that grand old harper, smote his thunder harp of pines. Alexander Smith.

The River glideth at his own sweet will. Wordsworth.

There is a reaper whose name is Death. - Longfellow.

23. MOUNTAINS AND SEA.

I have lived by the sea-shore and by the mountains. No, I am not going to say which is best. The one where your place is, is best for you. But this difference there is: you can tame the mountains, but the sea is of fierce nature.

You may have a hut, or know the owner of one, on the mountain side; you see a light half way up its ascent in the evening, and you know there is a home there, and that you might share it. You have noted. certain trees, perhaps; you know when the hemlocks look so black, when the maples and beeches have faded. These things you may remember.

The sea remembers nothing. It licks your feet, but it will crack your bones and eat you for all that, and wipe its jaws as if nothing had happened.

The mountains give their lost children berries and water. The sea mocks their thirst and lets them die. Yet I should love a little home by the sea-shore. I should love to gaze on the ocean, as I should love to look on a caged panther, and see it stretch its shining length, and then curl over and lap its smooth sides, and, by and by, lash itself into rage, and show its white teeth, and spring at its bars, and howl the cry of its mad fury.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar.
I love not man the less, but nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before.

Holmes.

- From Apostrophe to the Ocean, by Lord Byron.

Which of the trees of this Lesson do we see upon our California mountains?