form you are sending the money, i.e. by stamps, or money order, and that you are adding your friend's street-car fare to the price of the knife. Close by expressing your regret at giving trouble, and your appreciation of his kindness in attending to the matter.

You want to sell some weekly paper in your town. Write to the firm that publishes the paper, asking for the right. State your qualifications as to age, success, if any, in a similar line and your reasons for thinking you will succeed in this undertaking, then stop and sign yourself “Very truly yours," followed by your name on the line below.

Write a letter to the principal of your school asking for a recommendation that you can use in applying for a position.

Write thanking him for his letter of recommendation.

A schoolmate is ill. Write expressing your sympathy, and offering your services. Close with the school news.

You wish a friend to become a member of the literary society or club to which you belong, but some of the members have objected. Write to the committee on membership, admitting that your friend has faults, but showing that he has qualities that would make his election beneficial both for him and for the club.

Write an imaginary reply by General Hooker to Lincoln's letter.


Lincoln, the Great Commoner (verse). Edwin Markham.
Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson. Sidney Colvin.
Success in Letter-Writing. Sherwin Cody.
Letters from Colonial Children. Eva March Tappan.
The Gentlest Art. E. V. Lucas.
Life and Letters of Miss Alcott. E. D. Cheney.
Children's Letters. Colson and Chittenden.



(For biographical sketch see page 122.]

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,

I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came

And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulcher

In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me;-

Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we,

Of many far wiser than we;
And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the nighttide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling - my darling — my life and my bride,

In her sepulcher there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.


This exquisite poem was written after the death of Poe's idolized wife. They were married when she was only fourteen, and they had six years of rare companionship, despite ill health and hardships of every kind. Why does he think that the seraphs “coveted her and me"? Is there any note of triumph in the poem? Which thought in it do you consider the most beautiful? Give as many reasons as you can to account for the fact that this poem is almost a universal favorite. Read it aloud as musically as you can.


For the teacher to read to the class :
Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field One Night. Walt Whitman.



[For biographical sketch see page 254.]

I HAVE just touched my dog. He was rolling on the grass, with pleasure in every muscle and limb. I wanted to catch a picture of him in my fingers, and I touched him as lightly as I would cobwebs; but lo, his fat body revolved, stiffened, and solidified into an upright position, and his tongue gave my hand a lick! He pressed close to me, as if he were fain to crowd himself into my hand. He loved it with his tail, with his paw, with his tongue. If he could speak, I believe he would say with me that paradise is attained by touch; for in touch is all love and intelligence.

This small incident started me on a chat about hands, and if my chat is fortunate I have to thank my dog-star. In any case it is pleasant to have something to talk about that no one else has monopolized; it is like making a new path in the trackless woods, blazing the trail where no foot has pressed before. I am glad to take you by the hand and lead you along an untrodden way into a world where the hand is supreme. But at the very outset we encounter a difficulty. You are so accustomed to light, I fear you will stumble when I try to guide you through the land of darkness and silence. The blind are not supposed to be the best of guides. Still, though I cannot warrant not to lose you, I promise that you shall not be led into fire or water, or fall into a deep pit. If you will follow me patiently, you will 1 From The World I Live In. Used by permission of the Century Company.

find that “there's a sound so fine, nothing lives 'twixt it and silence,” and that there is more meant in things than meets the eye.

My hand is to me what your hearing and sight together are to you. In large measure we travel the same highways, read the same books, speak the same language, yet our experiences are different. All my comings and goings turn on the hand as on a pivot. It is the hand that binds me to the world of men and women. The hand is my feeler with which I reach through isolation and darkness and seize every pleasure, every activity that my fingers encounter. With the dropping of a little word from another's 1 hand into mine, a slight flutter of the fingers, began the intelligence, the joy, the fullness of my life. Like Job, I feel as if a hand had made me, fashioned me together round about, and molded my very soul.

In all my experiences and thoughts I am conscious of a hand. Whatever moves me, whatever thrills me, is as a hand that touches me in the dark, and that touch is my reality. You might as well say that a sight which makes you glad, or a blow which brings the stinging tears to your eyes, is unreal as to say that those impressions are unreal which I have accumulated by means of touch. The delicate tremble of a butterfly's wings in my hand, the soft petals of violets curling in the cool folds of their leaves or lifting sweetly out of the meadow grass, the clear, firm outline of face and limb, the smooth arch of a horse's neck and the velvety touch of his nose all these, and a thousand resultant combinations, which take shape in my mind, constitute my world.

Ideas make the world we live in, and impressions furnish ideas. My world is built of touch-sensations, devoid of physical color and sound; but without color and sound it

1 Miss Sullivan's (now Mrs. Macy), when she began teaching Helen Keller.

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