The Ontario Readers Third Book . THIRD READER Such was the oak trees Christmas all the while a mighty storm swept thesea and land; the ocean rolled his heavy bil-lows on the shore, the tree cracked, and wasrent and torn up by the roots at the verymoment when he dreamed that he was soaringto the skies. Next day the sea was calm again, and a largevessel that had weathered the storm hoisted allits flags for Merry Christmas. The tree isgone—the old oak tree, our beacon! How canits place ever be supplied? said the was the trees funeral eulogium, while theChristmas hymn re-echoed
The Ontario Readers Third Book . THIRD READER Such was the oak trees Christmas all the while a mighty storm swept thesea and land; the ocean rolled his heavy bil-lows on the shore, the tree cracked, and wasrent and torn up by the roots at the verymoment when he dreamed that he was soaringto the skies. Next day the sea was calm again, and a largevessel that had weathered the storm hoisted allits flags for Merry Christmas. The tree isgone—the old oak tree, our beacon! How canits place ever be supplied? said the was the trees funeral eulogium, while theChristmas hymn re-echoed from the wood. Hans Christian Andersen(Adapted) A PRAYER The day returns and brings us the petty roundof irritating concerns and duties. Help us toplay the man, help us to perform them withlaughter and kind faces; let cheerfulnessabound with industry. Give us to go blithelyon our business all this day, bring us to ourresting beds weary and content and undishon-oured ; and grant us in the end the gift of sleep. R. L. Stevenson. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS 267 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbits robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs,the jay,And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stoodIn brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ?Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowersAre lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rainCalls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. 268 THIRD READER The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;But on the hill the goldenrod, and
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