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had come he was almost heart broken. It was in honor of the language he loved that he had dressed in his best clothes.

As I was thinking of this, my name was called. It was my time to recite. I arose, tried to do my duty, could not; and, with tears in my eyes, sat down. The kind old master then said, "I will not scold you, my little Frantz; you must be punished enough already. This is how it is."

Then Mr. Hamel explained the lesson and began to speak of the dear old French language. He said it was the most beautiful language in the world-so clear, so strong, so musical that it made a people great just to use it. He told us that the French people could never be made slaves if they kept their language. "It is," said he, "the key to their prison."

The lesson ended, and the writing exercise began. The master had a new copy for this day. It was written upon the blackboard, and covered with a beautiful French flag. When he drew the flag aside we saw, in a clear, round hand, these words: France, Alsace!

[graphic]

France, Alsace! A hush
fell upon the school. The only
sound was the scratching of the
pens on the paper. Each pupil
knew it was the last time he
would ever write these words in
school.

As we were writing, the old soldier at the front of the school

arose, placed his spectacles on his nose, took his French primer in his hand, and with a trembling voice went over the lesson so dear to him in his childhood. For the land of this language he had been a brave soldier on many fields of battle. I will never forget that lesson.

As the noon hour approached the church bells began to ring. At the same moment the German soldiers began to march into the village. We could hear the trumpet and drum under the windows.

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Mr. Hamel sat pale as death in his chair. Never did he look so grand. My friends," said he, “I—I”; but something choked his words. He never finished the sentence. He turned to the blackboard, seized a piece of crayon, and, bearing on with all his might, he wrote "Long live France!" Then he leaned his head against the wall, and, without speaking, made a sign with his hand, as much as to say, "It is done. School is ended.

Depart."

LI. ARIEL'S SONG.

Where the bee sucks, there suck I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie;

There I crouch when owls do cry.

On the bat's back I do fly

After summer merrily.

Merrily, merrily shall I live now

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

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Two boys, George and Joe Brown, lived near a town. They were brothers. They were bright, cheerful lads, full of life and fond of fun.

One day, as they were sitting together, Joe said, "Say, George, I have a plan for some fun."

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Well, what is it?" answered George.

"Do you remember that pile of wood on the hillside? If we were to pull away the

prop it would come rattling down the hill with a rush."

George looked at Joe thoughtfully and asked, "Whose wood is it?"

"Oh, it belongs to old man Jones. You know nobody cares for him."

a poor old man.

Yes; I know that is so; but Mr. Jones is He works very hard to make a living for himself and his feeble old wife. I have heard that Mr. Jones once was a cheerful, happy man. He had a son whom he loved devotedly. But the boy did not do well. He wasted his father's money, and then ran away and was killed in a saloon. This almost broke the old man's heart. He has never been known to smile since he buried that boy. Now he is feeble and very poor. I shall not have fun at his expense." But, George, it would be such fun to hear the wood rattle down the hill. We can run away. Do go with me."

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"No, Joe; I can't do that. I do not think that would be fun."

"I do; and if you will not go along, I will go alone."

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