Journeys Through Bookland, Volume 4 | Page 3

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, 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