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picks up the potatoes when they are dug; he drives the cows night and morning; he brings wood and water, and splits kindling; he gets up the horse, and puts out the horse. Whether he is in the house or out of it, there is always something for him to do.

Just before school in winter he shovels paths; in summer he turns the grindstone. He knows where there are acres of wintergreens and sweet flagroot; but instead of going for them, he is to stay indoors and pare apples and stone raisins and pound something in a mortar. And yet, with his mind full of schemes of what he would like to do, and his hands full of occupations, he is an idle boy, who has nothing to busy himself with but school and chores!

He would gladly do all the work if somebody else would do the chores, he thinks; and yet I doubt if any boy ever amounted to anything in the world, or was of much use as a man, who did not enjoy the advantages of a liberal education in the way of chores.

Young men, you are the architects of your own fortunes. Rely on your own strength of body and soul. Take for your star self-reliance. Energy, invincible determination, with a right motive, are the levers that move the world. Love your God and your fellow-men. Love truth and virtue. Love your country and obey its laws.

-President Porter.

THE SPACIOUS FIRMAMENT

JOSEPH ADDISON

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JOSEPH ADDISON, a famous English writer, an essay. ist, a poet, a dramatist, and a statesman, was born in 1672 and died in 1719. He received the chief part of his school education at the "Charter House" and at "Queen's College." He is best known for his famous essays published in the Spectator, the Guardian, and the Tattler. His poem, "Peace of Ryswick," published in 1697, brought him a hundred pounds.

His essays are considered models of diction and are read by all who wish to acquire a polished style in writing.

The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,

And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim.

The unwearied sun, from day to day,

Does his Creator's power display;
And publishes to every land

The work of an almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale;
And, nightly, to the listening earth,
Repeats the story of her birth:

Whilst all the stars that round her burn
And all the planets, in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,

And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though, in solemn silence all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball;
What though no real voice, nor sound,
Amidst their radiant orbs be found?
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice:

Forever singing as they shine,

"The hand that made us is Divine."

They are never alone who are accompanied with noble thoughts.

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-Sidney.

One day a friend of St. Thomas of Aquin cried out to him: "Thomas, look at the flying ox!"

St. Thomas looked around in astonishment to see where the peculiar animal was, but saw nothing strange in any place. The friend began to laugh, and said, “How easy it is to deceive you."

St. Thomas replied: "It is much easier to believe that an ox could fly than that a Christian could tell a lie."

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TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, a noted American poet and journalist, was born in Cummington, Massachusetts, November 3, 1794; died in New York, June 12, 1878. In his twelfth year he composed verses. He studied at Williams College from 1810 until 1811, and two years later he took up the study of law. In 1815 he was admitted to the bar. The following year he published "Thanatopsis." He removed to New York in 1825 and soon became one of the editors of the New York Evening Post. This position he held for fifty years. Some of his best poems are "Thanatopsis," "The Ages," "To a Waterfowl," and "The Forest Hymn." He published a good translation of the Iliad and the Odyssey.

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Thou blossom, bright with autumn dew,
And colored with the heaven's own blue,
That openest when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night;-

Thou comest not when violets lean
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines in purple dressed,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late and com'st alone,

When weeds are bare and birds are flown

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