Journeys Through Bookland, Volume 4 | Page 3

on the barefoot boy!
Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can! Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew; Every evening from they feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat; All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil Up and down in ceaseless moil: Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin. Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

RAIN ON THE ROOF [Footnote: Coates Kinney, born in New York in 1826, gives this account of the way in which the song came to be written: "The verses were written when I was about twenty years of age, as nearly as I can remember. They were inspired close to the rafters of a little story- and-a-half frame house. The language, as first published, was not composed, it came. I had just a little more to do with it than I had to do with the coming of the rain. This poem, in its entirety, came to me and asked me to put it down, the next afternoon, in the course of a solitary and aimless wandering through a summer wood."]
When the humid showers hover Over all the starry spheres And the melancholy darkness Gently weeps in rainy tears, What a bliss to press the pillow Of a cottage-chamber bed, And to listen to the patter Of the soft rain overhead!
Every tinkle on the shingles. Has an echo in the heart: And a thousand dreamy fancies Into busy being start, And a thousand recollections Weave their air-threads into woof, As I listen to the patter Of the rain upon the roof.
Now in memory comes my mother, As she was long years agone, To regard the darling dreamers Ere she left them till the dawn: O! I see her leaning o'er me, As I list to this refrain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain.
Then my little seraph sister, With her wings and waving hair, And her star-eyed cherub brother-- A serene, angelic pair!-- Glide around my wakeful pillow, With their praise or mild reproof, As I listen to the murmur Of the soft rain on the roof.
Art hath naught of tone or cadence That can work with such a spell In the soul's mysterious fountains, Whence the tears of rapture well, As that melody of Nature, That subdued, subduing strain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain.

CID CAMPEADOR
INTRODUCTION
The national hero of Spain is universally known as the Cid, and around his name have gathered tales as marvelous as those of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. Some historians have doubted the existence of the Cid, while others, whom we may prefer to believe, give him a distinct place in history. According to the latter, he was a descendant of one of the noblest families of Castile, and as early as 1064 his name is mentioned as that of a great warrior. So far as we are concerned, we need not discuss the matter, for it is our purpose to see him as a great hero whose name stood for honor and bravery, and whose influence upon the youth of Spain has been wonderful. Accordingly, we must know the Cid as he appears in song and story rather than as he is known in history.
There are several prose chronicles in Spanish, which tell the story of the Cid, and numberless poems and legends. The English poet, Robert Southey, has given us the best translation of these, and from his famous work, _Chronicle of the Cid_, we take the selections which are printed in this volume. According to the Spanish accounts, Rodrigo was born in 1026 in Burgos, the son of Diego Laynez, who was then the head of the house of Layn Calvo. As a youth he was strong in arms and of high repute among his friends, for he early bestirred himself to protect the land from the Moors.
While Rodrigo was still in his early youth, his father was grievously insulted and struck in the face by Count Don Gomez. Diego was a man so old that his strength had passed from him, and he could not take vengeance, but retired to his home to dwell in solitude and lament over his dishonor. He took no pleasure in his food, neither could he sleep by night nor would he lift up his eyes from the ground, nor stir out of his house, nor commune with his friends, but