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 sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove the withered leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit's tread. The 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 sprung and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, -William Cullen Bryant. CARCASSONNE How old I am! I'm eighty year! A dream I had when life was new Alas, our dreams! They come not true; One sees it dimly from the height Fain would I walk five weary leagues- Our Vicar's right; he preaches loud, He says: "O, guard the weakest part, They say it is as gay all time, The gentles ride in gay attire, Shoots up like those of Rome! Alas! I saw not Carcassonne! My God and Father! pardon me, One sees some hope more high than he, To which his heart ascends. My wife, my son have seen Narbonne, Thus sighed a peasant, bent with age, I said, "My friend, come go with me, Who has not known a Carcassonne? - M. E. W. Sherwood. FUNERAL HYMN How still and peaceful is the grave, The wicked there from troubling cease,- All, leveled by the hands of death, Till God in judgment call them forth To meet their final doom. -James Montgomery. CROSSING THE BAR Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning at the bar, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar. -Lord Tennyson. The pleasant effect produced by this combination was called by the ancients, the "Silvery tone." The quietude and delicacy of this class of selections demand especial care in securing a pure, musical and effusive quality of voice. The more pure, gentle and continuous the tones can be made, the more effective and pleasant will be the results of the reading. To secure high pitch, let the voice ascend the musical scale three or four notes, beginning with the pitch of ordinary conversation. SELECTIONS OF SERENITY, BEAUTY, LOVE ENDYMION The rising moon has hid the stars; Lie on the landscape green, And silver white the river gleams, Had dropt her silver bow On such a tranquil night as this, Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, |