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them, from the light of which he read far into the night.

When the boy was ten years of age, his father was so poor that his land was sold.

The family then went to Vermont and lived in a poor little cabin. little cabin. Horace still loved books, and walked seven miles on one occasion to borrow a book.

The boy had grown tall. His hair was white. He was shabbily dressed, and very poor. But he longed to be a printer. He thought it would be a great thing to make books and papers.

One day he heard that a Mr. Bliss, the owner of a newspaper, wanted a boy to learn the printer's trade. Horace walked many miles to see about it. He found Mr. Bliss at work in his garden.

"I heard you wanted a boy," said Horace. "Do you want to learn to print?" asked Mr. Bliss.

"I do," was the boy's answer.

"But a printer ought to know a great many things," said Mr. Bliss. "Have you been to

school much?"

"No; I have not had much chance at school, but I have read some books," answered

the boy.

Then Mr. Bliss began to ask Horace questions. He was surprised to find that this tow-headed boy knew a great deal more than most men know. Horace was set to work in the office. The other boys laughed at him. But he worked on, day after day, and said nothing.

Years afterward the world honored Horace Greely as the greatest newspaper editor in America. He had not spent the long winter nights with books and pine knots for nothing. His youthful industry made possible his useful life.

LXVIII.-DUTY.

I must take my turn at the mill,
I must grind out the golden grain,

I must work at my task with a resolute will
Over and over again.

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LXIX.--PIPING DOWN THE VALLeys wild.

Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:-

Pipe a song about a lamb:”

So I piped with merry cheer, "Piper, pipe that song again :"

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So I piped; he wept to hear.

Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe,

Sing thy songs of happy cheer:" So I sang the same again,

While he wept with joy to hear.

Piper, sit thee down and write

In a book that all may read " So he vanish'd from my sight; And I pluck'd a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,

And I stain'd the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.

LXX.-WRITTEN IN MARCH.

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The cock is crowing,

The stream is flowing,

The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter,

The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest ;
The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,

And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill ; The ploughboy is whooping-anon-anon : There's joy in the mountains ; There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone!

stretched howling bȧ rom'e ter pro vide' pranks tuft ad vise'

LXXI. THE STORY OF A FROG.

I.

Just seventy years ago a French gentleman, named Alexandre De Camps, decided to spend a few days in the meadows hunting birds. He did not own a dog. He went to a man who sold dogs and bought one named Love. The dealer declared that Love was a first-class bird dog, and Alexandre took the dog home with him.

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