certain kinds of birds, which ordinarily travel only in the night, continue their route during the day, and scarcely allow themselves time to eat; yet the singing-birds, properly so called, never migrate by day, whatever may happen to them. And it may here be inquired, with astonishment, how these feeble, but enthusiastic animals, are able to pass the time, thus engaged, without the aid of recruiting sleep? But so powerful is this necessity for travel, that its incentive breaks out equally in those which are detained in captivity; so much so, that, although during the day they are no more alert than usual, and only occupied in taking nourishment, at the approach of night, far from seeking repose, as usual, they manifest great agitation, sing without ceasing in the cage, whether the apartment is lighted or not; and, when the moon shines, they appear still more restless, as it is their custom, at liberty, to seek the advantage of its light for facilitating their route. 7. Some birds, while engaged in their journey, still find means to live without halting; the swallow, while traversing the sea, pursues its insect prey; those which can subsist on fish, without any serious effort, feed as they pass or graze the surface of the deep. If the wren, the creeper, and the titmouse rest for an instant on a tree, to snatch a hasty morsel, in the next, they are on the wing, to fulfil their destination. 8. Of all migrating birds, the cranes appear to be endowed with the greatest share of foresight. They never undertake to journey alone; throughout a circle of several miles, they appear to communicate the intention of commencing their route. Several days previous to their departure, they call upon each other with a peculiar cry, as if giving warning to assemble at a central point; the favorable moment being at length arrived, they betake themselves to flight, and, in military style, fall into two lines, which unite in such a manner as to form an extended angle, with two equal sides. 9. At the central point of the phalanx, the chief takes his station, to whom the whole troop, by their subordination, appear to have pledged their obedience. The commander has not only the painful task of breaking the path through the air, but he has also the charge of watching for the common safety; to avoid the attacks of birds of prey; to range THE BLIND MUSICIAN. 65 the two lines in a circle at the approach of a tempest, in order to resist with more effect the squalls, which menace the disposition of the linear ranks; and lastly, it is to the leader, that the fatigued company look up to appoint the most convenient places for nourishment and repose. 10. Still, important as is the station and function of the aërial director, its existence is but momentary. As soon as he feels sensible of fatigue, he cedes his place to the next in file, and retires himself to its extremity. During the night, their flight is attended with considerable noise; the loud cries which we hear seem to be the marching orders of the chief, answered by the ranks, who follow his commands. 11. Wild geese, and several kinds of ducks, also make their aërial voyage nearly in the same manner as the cranes. The loud call of the passing geese, as they soar securely through the higher regions of the air, is familiar to all; but, as an additional proof of their sagacity and caution, we may remark, that, when fogs in the atmosphere render their flight necessarily low, they steal along in silence, as if aware of the danger to which their lower path now exposes them. LESSON XXI. The Blind Musician. 1. SILENT and still, Lucy and her lover sat together. The streets were utterly deserted, and the loneliness as they looked below, made them feel the more intensely not only the emotions which swelled within them, but the undefined and electric sympathy, which, in uniting them, divided them from the world. 2. The quiet around was broken by a distant strain of rude music; and, as it came nearer, two forms of no poetical order, grew visible. The one was a poor blind man, who was drawing from his flute tones in which the melancholy beauty of the air compensated for any deficiency in the execution. A woman, much younger than the musician, and with something of beauty in her countenance, accompanied him, holding a tattered hat, and looking wistfully up at the windows of the silent street. 3. We said two forms; we did the injustice of forgetful ness to another; a rugged and simple friend, it is true, but one that both minstrel and wife had many and moving reasons to love. This was a little wiry terrier, with dark piercing eyes, that glanced quickly and sagaciously in all quarters, from beneath the shaggy covert that surrounded them. Slowly the animal moved forward, pulling gently against the string by which it was held, and by which he guided his master: Once his fidelity was tempted; another dog invited him to play; the poor terrier looked anxiously and doubtingly round, and then, uttering a low growl of denial, pursued "The noiseless tenor of his way." 4. The little procession stopped beneath the window where Lucy and Clifford sat; for the quick eye of the woman had perceived them, and she laid her hand on the blind man's arm, and whispered to him. He took the hint, and changed his air into one of love. Clifford glanced at Lucy; her cheek was dyed with blushes. The air was over, another succeeded, it was of the same kind; a third, the burden was still unaltered, and then Clifford threw into the street a piece of money, and the dog wagged his abridged and dwarfed tail, and, darting forward, picked it up in his mouth, and the woman (she had a kind face!) patted the officious friend, even before she thanked the donor, and then she dropped the money with a cheering word or two into the blind man's pocket, and the three wanderers moved slowly on. 5. Presently, they came to a place where the street had been mended, and the stones lay scattered about. Here, the woman no longer trusted to the dog's guidance, but anxiously hastened to the musician, and led him with evident tenderness, and minute watchfulness, over the rugged way. When they had passed the danger, the man stopped, and before he released the hand which had guided him, he pressed it gratefully, and then both the husband and the wife stooped down and caressed the dog. 6. This little scene, one of those rough copies of the loveliness of human affections, of which so many are scattered about the highways of the world, both the lovers had involuntarily watched; and now, as they withdrew, those eyes settled on each other, Lucy's swam in tears. FRANKLIN'S ARRIVAL AT PHILADELPHIA. 67 7. "To be loved and tended by the one I love," said Clifford, in a low voice, I would walk blind and barefoot over the whole earth." LESSON XXII. Franklin's First Entrance into DR. FRANKLIN was at first a printer, and had few opportunities for education but by his industry, good sense, and discretion, he advanced to distinction, and became one of the most useful and celebrated men of his time. The following account is nearly in his own words. 1. I HAVE entered into the particulars of my voyage, and shall, in like manner, describe my first entrance into this city, that you may be able to compare beginnings, so little auspicious, with the figure I have since made. 2. On my arrival at Philadelphia, I was in my working dress; my best clothes being to come by sea. I was covered with dirt; my pockets were filled with shirts and stockings; I was unacquainted with a single soul in the place, and knew not where to seek a lodging. Fatigued with walking, rowing, and having passed the night without sleep, I was extremely hungry, and all my money consisted of a Dutch dollar, and about a shilling's worth of coppers, which I gave to the boatmen for my passage. As I had assisted them in rowing, they refused it at first; but I insisted on their taking it. 3. A man is sometimes more generous when he has little, than when he has much money; probably, because, in the first case, he is desirous of concealing his poverty. I walked towards the top of the street, looking eagerly on both sides, till I came to Market Street, where I met with a child with a loaf of bread. Often had I made my dinner on dry bread. I inquired where he had bought it, and went straight to the baker's shop, which he pointed out to me. 4. I asked for some biscuits, expecting to find such as we had at Boston; but they made, it seems, none of that sort at Philadelphia. I then asked for a threepenny loaf. They made no loaves of that price. Finding myself ignorant of the prices, as well as of the different kinds, of bread, I desired him to let me have threepenny-worth of bread of some kind or other. He gave me three large rolls. I was surprised at receiving so much. I took them, however, and, having no room in my pockets, I walked on with a roll under each arm, eating a third. 5. In this manner, I went through Market Street to Fourth Street, and passed the house of Mr. Read, the father of my future wife. She was standing at the door, observed me, and thought, with reason, that I made a very singular and grotesque appearance. 6. I then turned the corner, and went through Chestnut Street, eating my roll all the way; and, having made this round, I found myself again on Market Street wharf, near the boat in which I arrived. I stepped into it to take a draught of water; and, finding myself satisfied with my first roll, I gave the other two to a woman and her child, who had come down with us in the boat, and was waiting to continue her journey. 7. Thus refreshed, I regained the street, which was now full of well-dressed people, all going the same way. I joined them, and was thus led to a large Quaker meetinghouse near the market-place. I sat down with the rest, and, after looking round me for some time, hearing nothing said, and being drowsy from my last night's labor and want of rest, I fell into a sound sleep. In this state I continued, till the assembly dispersed, when one of the congregation had the goodness to wake me. This was, consequently, the first house I entered, or in which I slept, at Philadelphia. LESSON XXIII. Lake Superior. 1. "FATHER of Lakes!" thy waters bend, 2. Boundless and deep the forests weave |