aught else they may desire to figure to each other the lastingness and beauty of their love.

Item: To young men jointly, being joined in a brave, mad 70 crowd, I devise and bequeath all boisterous, inspiring sports of rivalry. I give to them the disdain of weakness and undaunted confidence in their own strength. Though they are rude and rough, I leave to them alone the power of making lasting friendships and of possessing companions; and to them exclusively I 75 give all merry songs and brave choruses to sing, with smooth voices to troll them forth.

Item: And to those who are no longer children or youths or lovers I leave Memory, and I leave to them the volumes of the poems of Burns and Shakespeare, and of other poets, if there are 80 others, to the end that they may live the old days over again freely and fully, without tithe or diminution; and to those who are no longer children or youths or lovers I leave, too, the knowledge of what a rare, rare world it is.

GLOSSARY. Appurtenances; troll.

STUDY. What do you learn about the man who made this will? Can you determine what led him to write this will himself instead of waiting for the lawyer? Notice that the remarkable fact about this will is that it does not dispose of the kind of property usually dealt with in wills. What does it do? Do you think it of more importance to be able to hand on to a new generation happiness, the power to enjoy nature and life generally, than money and possessions? Observe the particular pleasures assigned to each class mentioned in the will. Does the testator merely make a list, or does he speak of them in such a way as to suggest to the imagination the actual enjoyment itself? Point out instances in support of your answer. Notice the many pairs of law terms, such as “will and testament," and "all and every." Does their use help produce the impression that this is a real will? Do you find that you are one of the heirs under this will? Can you tell something of the writer's favorite poets? Does the writer's way of looking at things make you think more or less of the worth of living?

Clever men are good, but they are not the best.

THOMAS CARLYLE.

5

10

WORK

HENRY VAN DYKE

Let me but do my work from day to day,
In field or forest, at the desk or loom,
In roaring market place or tranquil room;
Let me but find it in my heart to say,
When vagrant wishes beckon me astray,
"This is my work; my blessing, not my doom;
Of all who live, I am the one by whom
This work can best be done in the right way."

Then shall I see it not too great, nor small,
To suit my spirit and to prove my powers;
Then shall I cheerful greet the laboring hours,
And cheerful turn, when the long shadows fall
At eventide, to play and love and rest,

Because I know for me my work is best.

GLOSSARY. Vagrant.

STUDY. What attitude toward the work that we do from "day to day" is suggested in stanza I? Is it an attitude desirable for us? Why is the poet's point of view certain to result in a useful and cheerful life? What words in line 14 make a good motto?

SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS
ELIJAH KELLOGG

It had been a day of triumph in Capua. Lentulus, returning with victorious eagles, had amused the populace with the sports of the amphitheater to an extent hitherto unknown even in that luxurious city. The shouts of revelry had died away; the roar of the lion had ceased; the last loiterer had retired from the banquet; and the lights in the palace of the victor were extinguished. The moon, piercing the tissue of fleecy clouds, silvered the dewdrop on

the corselet of the Roman sentinel, and tipped the dark waters of Volturnus with wavy, tremulous light. It was a night of holy calm, when the zephyr sways the young spring leaves, and whispers 10 among the hollow reeds its dreamy music. No sound was heard

but the last sob of some weary wave, telling its story to the smooth pebbles of the beach, and then all was still as the breast when the spirit has departed.

In the deep recesses of the amphitheater a band of gladiators 15 were crowded together, their muscles still knotted with the agony of conflict, the foam upon their lips, and the scowl of battle yet lingering upon their brows,-when Spartacus, rising in the midst of that grim assemblage, thus addressed them:

"Ye call me chief, and ye do well to call him chief who, for 20 twelve long years, has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast that the broad Empire of Rome could furnish, and has never yet lowered his arm. And if there be one among you who

can say that, ever, in public fight or private brawl, my actions 25 did belie my tongue, let him step forth and say it. If there be three in all your throng dare face me on the bloody sand, let them come on!

"Yet I was not always thus, a hired butcher, a savage chief of still more savage men. My father was a reverent man, who 30 feared great Jupiter, and brought to the rural deities his offerings of fruits and flowers. He dwelt among the vine-clad rocks and olive groves at the foot of Helicon. My early life ran quiet as the brook by which I sported. I was taught to prune the vine, to tend the flock; and, at noon, I gathered my sheep beneath the 35 shade, and played upon the shepherd's flute. I had a friend, the son of our neighbor; we led our flocks to the same pasture, and shared together our rustic meal.

"One evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were all seated beneath the myrtle that shaded our cottage, my grandsire, 40 an old man, was telling of Marathon and Leuctra, and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, withstood a whole army. I did not then know what war meant; but my cheeks burned, I knew not why; and I clasped the knees of that venerable man, till my mother, parting the hair from off 45 my brow, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest and think no more of those old tales and savage wars. And, methinks, if I could look on something other than warrior's harness and the blinding glare of burnished steel, and hear some other sound than death groans and armor clangs, could I but lay these 50 throbbing temples upon the soft green turf beside my native brook, and let my hand hang over the bank into its blessed current, and feel the broad sweep of its waters, while the leaves danced over me, methinks that I could heave this cursed crust from off my heart and be again a child. Yes, a child, a child! But what have 55 I to do with thoughts like these? I do forget my story.

"That very night the Romans landed on our shore, and the clash of steel was heard within our quiet vale. I saw the breast that had nourished me trampled by the iron hoof of the war-horse;