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- Journeys Through Bookland - 2/71 -


THE BLACK KNIGHT AT THE GATE OF THE CASTLE Louis Grell

ULRICA LOCKS THE DOOR Louis Grell

BEFORE HIS BREAST THE FLAMING SHIELD HE BEARS Roy Appel

THE WOODEN HORSE Roy Appel

LAOCO÷N (Halftone)

ULYSSES OUTWITTED THE CYCLOPS Arthur Henderson

ULYSSES GAVE THE ARROW WING Arthur Henderson

JOHN BUNYAN (Halftone)

HE LOOKED NOT BEHIND HIM Donn P. Crane

IN THE SLOUGH OR DESPOND Donn P. Crane

THE FIGHT WITH APOLLYON Donn P. Crane

IN DOUBTING CASTLE Donn P. Crane

THE CELESTIAL CITY Donn P. Crane

WENT TEAM, LITTLE BREECHES, AND ALL Herbert N. Rudeen

"FOR DON'T YOU SEE THAT YOU CAN'T COOK ME?" Herbert N. Rudeen

TRADING FOR HORSES R. F. Babcock

RETURN OF THE WARRIORS R. F. Babcock

BETTER THAN GOLD

Better than grandeur, better than gold, Than rank and titles a thousand fold, Is a healthy body, a mind at ease, And simple pleasures' that always please. A heart that can feel for another's woe, And share his joys with a genial glow, With sympathies large enough to enfold All men as brothers, is better than gold.

Better than gold is a conscience clear, Though toiling for bread in an humble sphere, Doubly blessed with content and health, Untried by the lusts and cares of wealth, Lowly living and lofty thought Adorn and ennoble a poor man's cot; For mind and morals in nature's plan Are the genuine tests of a gentleman.

Better than gold is the sweet repose Of the sons of toil when the labors close; Better than gold is the poor man's sleep, And the balm that drops on his slumbers deep. Bring sleeping draughts to the downy bed, Where luxury pillows its aching head, The toiler simple opiate deems A shorter route to the land of dreams.

Better than gold is a thinking mind, That in the realm of books can find A treasure surpassing Australian ore, And live with the great and good of yore. The sage's lore and the poet's lay, The glories of empires passed away; The world's great drama will thus unfold And yield a pleasure better than gold.

Better than gold is a peaceful home Where all the fireside characters come, The shrine of love, the heaven of life, Hallowed by mother, or sister, or wife. However humble the home may be, Or tried with sorrow by heaven's decree, The blessings that never were bought or sold, And center there, are better than gold.

MY HEART LEAPS UP

_By_ WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky; So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.

THE BAREFOOT BOY

_By_ JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; From my heart I give thee joy,-- I was once a barefoot boy! Prince thou art,--the grown-up man Only is republican. Let the million-dollared ride! Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye,-- Outward sunshine, inward joy; Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

O for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries blow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans! For, eschewing books and tasks Nature answers all he asks;

Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy,-- Blessings on the barefoot boy!

O for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night,-- Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides! Still as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

O for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread; Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude! O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy!

Cheerily, then, my little man,


Journeys Through Bookland - 2/71

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