LESSON I 
MANCHURIA AND JAPAN 
At a small station in a lonely town in Siberia, there was once a railway man whose name was Mitchurin. Not only was he almost living alone, but Nature in Siberia offered him next to nothing. One thing he particularly missed there was good fruit, of which he was very fond. There was nothing for it but to discover some kind of apple that would grow under such unfavorable conditions. 
He knew nothing about botany, but bravely he set to work. He rented a small piece of ground outside the town, sent for young apple-trees from all parts of the world, and read many books on the subject. He made up his mind to develop some kind of apple-tree that would produce good fruit in the coldest weather. All he could save out of his salary he spent on his study, which he continued day and night; when he was not doing his duties, he was either working in his garden or reading his books. People thought he was gone mad, but he cared nothing what other people thought about him. 
He worked and waited for twenty years, and at last his study and patience were rewarded. He discovered what he wanted, but his own country paid no attention to his wonderful achievement. So it was left to America to honor this truly remarkable man. 
One year a cold wave swept over California, and the apples fell from all the trees. Only one kind seemed little the worse for this natural misfortune. The origin of those trees was traced to Siberia, and America sent her experts to that part of the world to be taught by Mitchurin. Thus this humble railway man came to be known all over the world. When later he died, his own country honored him with a state funeral. 
This story shows how man conquered the unfavorable conditions of Nature. At one time, man could find those countries which were filled with natural favors. But nowadays that is not always the case. There is now, so to speak, an earth-hunger. We cannot all get the sort of land we want, and therefore man must use his brain and make the most of that earth which was once regarded as barren. 
Manchuria has not been too well favored by Nature, but Manchuria is land, and land is what is needed now. Japan has been destined to change the barren land of Manchuria into a good earth, which will produce good fruits and crops, and to reform the land of lawlessness and bandits into a country where peace and order are prevalent.  
How much we have achieved so far in Manchuria, is not what we want to tell here. It is much better to leave the task to a foreign witness. 

LESSON II 
MANCHOUKUO AS I SAW IT (I) 
My trip to Manchoukuo was an eye-opener. I had thought of a wild, barren, undeveloped country where lawlessness and bandits were prevalent and where, to be safe, one must stay closely, at all times, with the group of teachers conducted through the country by the Japan Tourist Bureau. My ideas have been completely changed. 
I found a quiet, peaceful country with no sign of lawlessness or bandits. People, living in strongly built houses, industriously cultivate the deep rich soil or work in the various industries in a spirit of good will. Chinese, Koreans, Mongolians, White Russians as well as Japanese are, so far as I can see, living under a well-organized government in peace and harmony. 
My false ideas in regard to travel and travel facilities in Manchoukuo were driven away when I took the train for Mukden and my admiration for the travel services increased as my journey through that country progressed. The South Manchuria Railway Company has a magnificent net of railways provided with modern steel cars, sleeping-cars, observation-cars, and dining-cars that would be a credit to any railway company in Europe and America. My admiration reached the highest point when, at Hsinking, I got on the stream-line express train "Asia" for Dairen. This train is the top of perfection in modern railway improvement. From the car window, stretching back from the railroad, as far as the eye could see, were level tracts of beautiful farm land with a rich, black soil, producing abundant crops of soy-beans, potatoes, peanuts and of kaoliang which forms the chief food of the people. The land through which we traveled presented a scene similar to our own rich farming districts of the Middle West. There should be no under-nourished people in this land of abundant food supply. 
I am told that 82 per cent. of Manchoukuo is suitable for farming, yet of this possible farm land, only 43 per cent. or less than one-half is under cultivation due to thinly scattered population. It seemed to me that, with increased population, Manchoukuo would be one of the great food producing countries of the world. 

LESSON III 
MANCHOUKUO AS I SAW IT (2) 
My visit to the coal-mine at Fushun (the largest open-pit coal-mine in the world) and the near-by plant for the production of oil found in connection with the coal seams, gave me an insight into the mineral resources of the country and the activity that is taking place in developing these resources. I am told that, in addition to coal and oil-shale, iron, gold, copper, lead, and silver are found, so it is only a matter of time, under the new government and the activity of the South Manchuria Railway Company, that minerals will be mined in increasingly large quantities. 
Manchoukuo is not only an agricultural country of great promise and large mineral resources, but it has possibilities of becoming a first-rate stock-raising country. Cattle, horses, pigs, goats, chickens, ducks and geese are found in large numbers. The government is taking an active part in improving stock-raising by importing and distributing better breeds, by preventing diseases, and by making better pastures. 
I was much surprised at the well-paved streets and the modern buildings in the new part of each city we visited. This was particularly true in the new capital Hsinking. Driving first through the old part of the city, and then through the new part, we saw a wonderful change and a remarkable building program going on. I was greatly impressed with the wonderful plans along which the new capital city is rapidly being developed. I saw with interest the magnificent government buildings and the wide streets, as well as the modern appearance and beauty of the buildings already completed and the building activity in progress. Built according to a well-laid-out plan, Hsin-king seems to become one of the really beautiful cities of the world as it develops. 
When we visited the Premier at the Foreign Office, I was deeply impressed by the artistic beauty of the room in which we were received. As I listened to the Premier's talk to the teachers, I was surprised to find the spirit of friendship that seems to exist between his newly formed country Manchoukuo, and Japan. 
--Adapted from Eda Burlack 

LESSON IV
THE SAILOR UNCLE (I) 
My father is the parson of a village church about five miles from Amwell. I was born in the parson-age, which joins the churchyard. The first thing I can remember was my father teaching me the alphabet from the letters on a tombstone that stood at the head of my mother's grave. I used to knock at my father's study-door; I think I now hear him say, ' Who is there? -- What do you want, little girl?' 'Go and see mamma. Go and learn pretty letters.' Many times in the day would my father lay aside his books and his papers to lead me to this spot, and make me point to the letters, and then set me to spell the words: in this manner, I learned to read. 
I was one day sitting on a step placed across the churchyard stile, when a gentleman passing by heard me repeat the letters which formed my mother's name, and then say Elizabeth Villiers very proudly as if I had done some great matter. This gentleman was my uncle James, my mother's brother; he was a lieutenant in the Navy, and had left England a few weeks after the marriage of my father and mother, and now, returned home from a long sea-voyage, he was coming to visit my mother-- no news of her death having reached him, though she had been dead more than a year.  
When my uncle saw me sitting on the stile, and heard me say my mother's name, he looked me in the face, and began to fancy a resemblance to his sister, and to think I might be her child. I was too intent on my task to observe him, and went on spelling. 'Who has taught you to spell so prettily, my little maid?' said my uncle. 'Mamma,' I replied; for I had an idea that the words on the tombstone were somehow a part of mamma, and that she had taught me. 'And who is mamma?' asked my uncle. 'Elizabeth Villiers,' I replied; and then my uncle called me his dear little niece, and said he would go with me to mamma; he took hold of my hand, intending to lead me home, because he thought it would be such a pleasant surprise to his sister to see her little daughter bringing home her long-lost sailor uncle. 
I agreed to take him to mamma, but we had a quarrel about the way to that place. My uncle was for going along the road which led directly up to our house; I pointed to the churchyard, and said that was the way to mamma. Though impatient of any delay, he did not want to contest the point with his new relation; so he lifted me over the stile, and was then going to take me along the path to a gate which he knew was at the end of our garden; but no, I would not go that way either; letting go his hand, I said, 'You do not know the way,-- I will show you;' and jumping over the low graves, he said, 'What a positive child this little niece of mine is! I knew the way to your mother's house before you were born, child.' 
At last I stopped at my mother's grave, and pointing to the tombstone, said, 'Here is mamma!' in a proud voice, as if I had now convinced him that I knew the way best. I looked up in his face to see him acknowledge his mistake; but oh! what a face of sorrow did I see! I was so frightened, that I have but an imperfect memory of what followed. I remember I pulled his coat and cried 'Sir, sir!' and tried to move him. I knew not what to do. My mind was in a strange confusion; I thought I had done something wrong in bringing the gentleman to mamma, to make him cry so sadly; but what it was I could not tell. 
This grave had always been a scene of delight to me. In the house my father would often be weary of my childish talk, and send me from him; but here he was all my own. I might say anything, and be as merry as I pleased here; all was cheerfulness and good-humor in our visits to mamma. My father would tell me how quietly mamma slept there, and that he and his little Betsy would one day sleep beside mamma in that grave; and when I went to bed, I used to wish I was sleeping in the grave with my papa and mamma; and in my childish dreams I used to fancy myself there; and it was a place within the ground, all smooth, and soft, and green. 

LESSON V 
THE SAILOR UNCLE (2) 
How long my uncle remained in this grief I know not-- to me it seemed a very long time; at last he took me in his arms, and held me so tight that I began to cry, and ran home to my father and told him that a gentleman was crying about mamma's pretty letters. 
No doubt it was a very affecting meeting between my father and my uncle. I remember that it was the very first day I ever saw my father cry-- that I was in sad trouble, and went into the kitchen and told Susan, our servant, that papa was crying; and she wanted to keep me with her, that I might not disturb the conversation; but I would go back to the parlor to poor papa, and I went in softly and crept between my father's knees. My uncle offered to take me in his arms, but I turned away from him, and clung closer to my father, because he had made my father cry. Now I first learned that my mother's death was a heavy affliction; for I heard my father tell a melancholy story of her loss. My uncle said what a sad thing it was for my father to be left with such a young child; but my father replied that his little Betsy was all his comfort, and that, but for me, he should have died with grief. I had no idea that he had ever been unhappy; his voice was always kind and cheerful; I had never before seen him weep, or show any such signs of grief as I used to show in my little troubles. My thoughts on these subjects were confused and childish; but from that time I never ceased pondering on the sad story of my dead mamma. 
The next day I went, by mere habit, to the study-door, to call papa to the grave, but I could not knock at the door. I went backwards and forwards between the kitchen and the study, and what to do with myself I did not know. My uncle met me in the passage, and said, 'Betsy, will you come and walk with me in the garden?’ This I refused, for this was not what I wanted, but the old delight of sitting on the grave and talking to papa. My uncle tried to persuade me, but still I said, no, no,and ran crying into the kitchen. 
As he followed me in there, Susan said, 'This child is so fretful to-day that I do not know what to do with her.' 'Yes,' said my uncle, 'I suppose my poor brother spoils her, having but one.' This blame on my papa made me quite angry, for I had not forgotten that with this new uncle sorrow had first come into our house; I screamed loudly, till my father came out to know what it was all about. He sent my uncle into the parlor, saying he would manage the difficult child by himself. When my uncle was gone I stopped crying; my father forgot to lecture me for my ill-humor, or to inquire into the cause, and we were soon seated by the side of the tombstone. 
No lesson went on that day; no talking of pretty mamma sleeping in the green grave; no jumping from the tombstone to the ground; no merry jokes or pleasant stories. I?sat upon my father's knee, looking up in his face and thinking, ' How sorry papa looks,' till having been quite tired with crying, I fell fast asleep. 

LESSON VI 
THE SAILOR UNCLE (3) 
My uncle soon learned from Susan that this place was our constant haunt; she told him she did really believe her master would never get the better of the death of her mistress while he continued to teach the child to read at the tombstone; for though it might soothe his grief, it would keep her memory for ever fresh in his mind. The sight of his sister's grave had been such a shock to my uncle, that he at once understood Susan's apprehensions; and concluding that if I was set to study by some other means, there would no longer be an excuse for these visits to the grave, away my kind uncle hurried to the nearest market-town to buy me some books. 
I heard the conversation between my uncle and Susan, and I did not approve of his interfering in our pleasure. I saw him take his hat and walk out, and I secretly hoped he was gone beyond seas again from which Susan had told me he had come. Where beyond seas was, I could not tell; but I concluded it was somewhere a great way off. I took my seat on the churchyard stile, and kept looking down the road, and saying, 'I hope I shall not see my uncle again. I hope my uncle will not come from beyond seas any more; 'but I said this very softly. 
Here I sat till my uncle returned from the market-town with his new purchases. I saw him come walking very fast, with a parcel under his arm. I was very sorry to see him, and I frowned and tried to look very angry. He untied his parcel, and said, Betsy, I have brought you a pretty book.' I turned my head away, and said, 'I don't want a book; 'but I could not help peeping again to look at it. In the hurry of opening the parcel, he had scattered all the books upon the ground, and there I saw fine covers and gay pictures all fluttering about. What a fine sight! All my anger vanished, and I held up my face to kiss him, that being my way of thanking my father for any special favor. 
My uncle had heard me spell so well, that he thought there was nothing to do but to put books into my hand and I should read; and though I spelt pretty well, the letters in my new library were so much smaller than I had been accustomed to; they were like Greek letters to me; I could make nothing at all of them. The kind man was not to be discouraged by this difficulty; he was not accustomed to playing the schoolmaster, and yet he taught me to read the small print with patience; and whenever he saw my father and me look as if we wanted to go to the grave again, he would propose some pleasant walk; and if my father said it was too far for the child to walk, he would set me on his shoulder and say, 'Then Betsy shall ride!' and in this manner has he carried me many, many miles. 
It must have been early in the spring when my uncle went away, for the crocuses were just blown in the garden, and the primroses had begun to peep from under the young budding trees. I cried as if my heart would break when I had the last sight of him through a little opening among the trees, as he went down the road. My father went with him to the market-town from which he was to proceed in the stage-coach to London. How tedious I thought all Susan's endeavors to comfort me were! The stile where I first saw my uncle came into my mind, and I thought I would go and sit there, and think about that day; but I was no sooner seated there, than I remembered how I had frightened him by taking him so foolishly to my mother's grave, and then again how very bad I had been when I sat muttering to myself at this same stile, wishing that he who had gone so far to buy me books might never come back any more; all my little quarrels with my uncle came into my mind now that I could never play with him again, and it almost broke my heart. I was obliged to run into the house to Susan for that consolation I had just before despised. 
--Adapted from Mary Lamb: The Sailor Uncle 

LESSON VII 
THE LIGHTING OF THE HOME 
Many people plan, build, and equip homes, but give very little thought to the lighting of the various rooms. Since health, happiness, and cheerfulness depend on the lighting effect, it would pay to give more thought to this problem. To be convinced of the fact that study should be given to this side of homemaking, one has only to visit a poorly lighted and a well-lighted home, and note the contrast. This problem divides into two parts: admitting the natural light into the home, and establishing artificial means of lighting the home after dark. 
In arranging for the natural light, thought must be given as to whether the light to be used is direct sunlight or reflected and diffused light (north side of a house) and what surroundings there are that will obstruct direct sunlight, such as buildings, shade trees, over-hanging roofs, or porches. 
Large window space should be given according to surrounding conditions. In providing window space, allowance should be made for changes that are likely to occur, such as increased leaves and new buildings. If reflected light or diffused light is to be used, more window space is necessary, and the walls should be finished in light color so that most of the light may be reflected in order to make the room lighter. Artificial lighting is done in three ways: direct, semi-direct, and indirect. In order to get nearly the full illuminating force of the lamp, an opaque or translucent reflector should be placed above the lamp to direct the light waves down, so that a small space may be brightly illuminated for reading or working. 
A semi-direct effect can be secured by suspending a translucent reflector under the lamp. A part of the light comes through the reflector and a part strikes the ceiling and is reflected. If the ceiling is nearly white and rough, the light will be reflected and diffused to a better advantage.  
An indirect effect can be secured by suspending an opaque reflector under the lamp. All the light is thrown up against the ceiling and is reflected and diffused to all parts of the room. 
At no time should the lights be dazzling, because this produces strain of the muscles of the eye in adjusting itself to exclude too much light. On the other hand, if the lights were too dim, eye strain would be produced in adjusting even for objects close at hand. When objects are not distinct, a habit is formed of bringing them too close to the eye. -Adapted from Science of the Home 

LESSON VIII
Four Ducks on a Pond 
Four ducks on a pond, 
A grass-bank beyond, 
A blue sky of spring, 
White clouds on the wing: 
What a little thing 
To remember for years—
To remember with tears. 
--By William Allingham

The Night Has a Thousand Eyes 
The Night has a thousand eyes 
And the day but one 
Yet the light of the bright world dies 
With the dying sun. 

The Mind has a thousand eyes 
And the heart but one; 
Yet the light of a whole life dies 
When love is done. 
--F. W. Bourdillon 

LESSON IX 
THE STORY OF ANTS ( I ) 
Just as we keep cattle and milk them, so some ants keep ant-cows and collect honeydew from them. If it is spring or summer, you may see hundreds of the ant-cows in their pastures on the stems of dandelions and roadside weeds, or the leaves of many shrubs. Not all of them are watched by herdsmen, though sooner or later the ants are likely to discover them and become their owners. Those watched over by the ants are much safer than when "running wild." For there are other insects which will attack them just as wolves or lions will attack man's cattle when they can. 
But the ants are good herdsmen or herds maids. They will fight fiercely to protect their little cows. If you know of an ant-cow pasture and want to test their courage, take a dry grass stem and rub its end between your fingers. Then push it gently among the tiny cattle and watch how fiercely the herdsman's jaws will open to bite the grass that smells like a giant. 
You will see the ant-cows ' calves there too. You may even see some of them being born. They are born like real calves, alive, from their mothers, for they hatch from the eggs in her body before she has time to lay them. In about two short weeks they are grown ant-cows, giving honeydew and having calves of their own. All summer long this goes on until the autumn when the sap they suck flows more slowly. Then other things are slower also. The little calves don't hatch so quickly. They wait inside the eggs which their mother lays. The ants gather eggs and mothers, taking them all down into their sheltered town, safe from the cold and wet of winter. 
As spring comes they dig tunnels to the roots of smartweed and other early plants, hollowing out rooms around them. These rooms are their barns, for here they bring their cows, placing them on the roots to suck the juice, still sheltered from the chilly spring weather. New calves hatch from the eggs saved so carefully all winter, and are placed in these barns with their mothers. 
By the time farmers' corn plants are up a little way the ants have tunneled to them. They hollow barns around these and move their cattle to the juicy new sweet roots. This spoils the corn plant's growth and makes the farmer as angry as you made the herdsman on the dandelion stalk. The ants which bother farmers most this way are known as cornfield ants and their cattle are called corn root lice. These prefer to stay underground in their comfortable barns even after good warm weather comes. Other kinds of ant-cow plant-lice are carried out and placed again in the places where you will find them. 

LESSON X 
THE STORY OF ANTS ( 2 ) 
When ant-cows don't give as much honeydew as the ants would like, they are taken to some other plant where more sap flows. Just as though a farmer should say to his hired man, "John, you'd better turn the cows into the north pasture today. South one's gettin' too short!" The farmer's cows are always glad to get into new fields, but ant-cows are hard to move. 
Each has a beak like a hollow needle through which it sucks the sap just as you use a straw at a soda-fountain. But it is not as simple as that. For the beak is thrust deep under the bark or skin on the plant the ant-cow is living on, and pulling it free is not like lifting a straw from your soda. The ants have to tug and work very hard sometimes to get these needle-beaks out without hurting the cows which are very delicate and could very easily be torn to pieces with a little carelessness. 
Ants have other honey-giving cows besides the plant-lice kinds. They use quite a number of different sap-sucking bugs, some of which look very odd as you can see in their pictures. There seem to be about as many kinds of bugs to give honeydew to ants as there are animals to give milk to people. In America we get our milk from cows and goats. In other lands people milk these as well as mares, sheep, camels and reindeer. And of course, new born babies have their mothers' milk before they learn to drink the other kinds. Ants take honeydew from plant-lice, root-lice, mealy-bugs, and several other insects. Many of these are stroked and coaxed for their honeydew, but the ants just go among some of them, picking up small hardened drops of it where the bug-cows have let it f all.
There are places in the world where the bug-cows drop so much honeydew to harden on the leaves and ground beneath, that a person can collect several pounds of it in a day. It is as good for people as it is for ants. The wild people of Australia eat all they can get of it.  
When Moses was leading the Children of Israel to the Promised Land, and they had gotten lost in the wilderness, they would have starved to death if they had not found some of this food. They did not know that tiny insects had sucked it from the wilderness bushes and dropped it there, but thought it fell direct from Heaven. They needed no explanation. It was a gift from God. They called it Manna, and as such it is collected and sold and eaten in Near East countries to this very day. 
--Adapted from wilfrid Bronson: 
The Wonder World of Ants 

LESSON XI 
A LITTLE ASTRONOMER ( I ) 
When I was a schoolboy, somebody told me how to make a telescope, and in my spare time and out of my pocket-money, I made myself quite a good one. I use it still. The tubes are only made of card-board; but they have the advantage of being very light. The lenses I bought, of course; they were cheap second-hand ones. I don't think that the whole thing cost me more than fifteen shillings. But it would magnify up to sixty times (or make something sixty yards off seem only one yard off). I could easily read a book sixty yards away, for instance. In fact, this little telescope of mine was as powerful as the one Galileo used when he made the discoveries that completely changed the whole science of astronomy! 
With it I could see quite distinctly that the moon is a world like our own, above which I seemed to be flying in an aero plane. The bare peaks, the large ring-mountains, that great cleft known as the Valley of the Alps, all glittering in the sunlight-- far, far they seemed beneath me. In time, I grew so familiar with the surface of the moon, exploring it night after night, that I felt that if I had somehow been landed on it, I could have found my way more easily than I could on my own world! Yet it is a world very different from ours in many ways. There are no clouds, nor even air, to dim the view. There is no water, no plant, no life at all, so far as it is possible to discover-- and there are telescopes now powerful enough to discover St. Paul's Cathedral, if it were on the moon. 
But my telescope could carry me much farther than that. It showed me the planets also, which appear to the bare eye almost indistinguishable from stars, as bright, small balls. I could just make out the rings of Saturn. I could see some at least of the moons of Jupiter. I could see Venus (because it lies between us and the sun,) go through phases--crescent, half, and full-- as you have all seen our moon do. When I turned my telescope on to the sun itself, instead of looking at it through a smoked glass because of its intense brilliance, I found it more convenient to let the telescope throw an image of it on to a sheet of paper. Thus I was able to observe easily those strange dark marks which appear and disappear on its surface, and are called sun-spots. Then it occurred to me that, if I used photographic paper instead of ordinary paper, I could make this image permanent. So I attached an old camera that had lost its lens to the end of the telescope. I used gaslight paper instead of a film. By taking photographs like this day after day, I was able to observe the changes in the spots far more easily than if I had only my memory to go on.  

LESSON XII 
A LITTLE ASTRONOMER (2) 
Then I turned my telescope on to the stars. 
When, I looked at the planets, they appeared, as I have told you, like little bright balls. But the distance from us to the nearest stars is so great that no telescope, not the strongest ever made, can make them look like this-- even stars much larger than our sun! But if a telescope cannot make them look larger, what it can do is to make them appear very much brighter. Some of the stars which ordinarily appear-- bright such as Sirius and Vega-- twinkled through my telescope with a most intense and lovely brilliance. And in the dark spaces between, where the bare eye saw no stars, new stars were revealed. Indeed, even with the small instrument I was using, hundreds of times as many stars were visible as can be seen by the naked eye. 
On a fine night you can see the Milky Way, like a wisp of luminous white mist, stretching right across the sky. I turned my telescope on this too, and found (as Galileo had found) that what looked like mist was in reality uncountable thousands of faint stars crowded closely together. 
If, instead of my little home-made instrument, I had had the most powerful telescope in the world, I should have seen incalculably more stars, it is true. I should have found that, whereas some of the "nebulae" I had seen turned out to be really star-clusters, others really did seem to be of a cloud-like nature. With the aid of camera I might also have discovered, if I could have taken photographs over a long enough period, that some stars seem to be in pairs, and move round each other. But apart from this I should, by direct vision alone, have discovered little that my own small telescope could not have taught me. To discover more I should have needed a spectroscope. 
--Adapted from Richard Hughes: 
Physics, Astronomy, and Mathematics 

LESSON XIII 
THE JAPANESE HOUSE AND GARDEN 
The Japanese regard the room and the garden as a unit. There cannot be a picture of the Roman Forum or the Egyptian Sphinx inside if there is no such thing outside. The house is not to be a museum for the study of world history and geography, useful as museums may be. It is to be a home, in harmony with its surroundings. Its chief decoration is nature without. 
Even when the syozi are shut, the sun throws upon the glowing paper the soft shadows of pine, bamboo and butterfly. The pane of glass in the centre of each syozi frames a lovely natural picture. 
But we clap, and the servant appears and slides back the syozi, or removes them entirely by lifting them out of their grooves. 
Now we are in a house not of paper but of glass. Outside the narrow veranda which surrounds our room on three sides are sliding glass doors. The older Japanese houses had no glass doors, but they are of advantage when it is cold. 
We are now in the garden although still in the house! Three glass walls are, so to speak, a continuous mural landscape. 
If the day is pleasant and we wish to open the house entirely, the glass doors may be lifted out. Then the garden comes into the house on a wave of fragrance. 
Leaves and butterflies drift in. Birds fly in on one side of the house and out on the other. Indeed, birds often honor a Japanese house by building their nest in it, much to the delight of the children. 
An Englishman's house is his castle. But to the Japanese, the house is not a fort against nature with one narrow door like a drawbridge to the outside world. 
The house is a continuation of the garden. 
And the garden is a continuation of the distant scene. 
For every tree, bush, hillock and rock in the garden is placed to harmonise with those trees that tower beyond the garden and those mountains in the distance. On one side of our house we look out over a river-valley to a range of mountains; on another, over terraced rice-fields; on another, up a heavily-wooded mountain-side; and on the fourth, over a baby of the sea to peerless, towering Huzi, snow-crowned. In each case the designer of the garden has used his skill to make the near view blend with the far.
--Adapted from Willard Price

LESSON XIV 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE-- I 
Antonio was the name of a very rich merchant who lived in Venice long ago and traded with foreign countries. 
Though Antonio was so rich, his great friend, Bassanio, was so poor that he once said of himself, "All the wealth I have runs in my veins," meaning that he was a gentleman but had very little money. 
Now, this Bassanio loved very deeply a lady, both beautiful and rich, named Portia, who lived in a distant place called Belmont, and when once he wished to visit her, he told Antonio that he could not go there for lack of money. 
On hearing this, Antonio, ever ready to help a friend, began to arrange for Bassanio to get the necessary gold. 
Unfortunately, at that time Antonio's ships were all at sea, so that his wealth was on the waters, and for that reason he had no ready money. At last he made up his mind to borrow upon the credit of those ships from an old Jew, who was a money-lender.  
Shylock was his name, and he disliked Antonio because the kind merchant would always lend his money without interest, and injure Shylock's trade. He also knew that Antonio despised him, and above all, he disliked Antonio because he was a Christian. 
So when his enemy came to borrow money from him, thoughts of revenge passed through the Jew's mind. 
"If Antonio's ships were wrecked, Antonio would not be able to repay the money," said Shylock to himself.  
But the cunning Jew then pretended to make a bargain in jest, and offered to lend the money on condition that Antonio repaid it in three months' time, or else lost a pound of his own flesh!  
Antonio believed that his ships would return in time, so he agreed cheerfully to this strange bargain, and got the money, which enabled Bassanio to go on his visit to Portia with his friend Gratiano. 
When Portia's father died, he left a will in which he said that his daughter was to choose a husband in a very odd manner.  
She was to have three caskets made-- one of gold, one of silver, and one of lead-- and in the last she was to place her portrait. 
Every suitor who sough her hand was to be required to choose the casket which contained the portrait. If he chose in the right way. Portia had to marry him. 
On the other hand, before choosing, he was to swear that, if he was not successful in deciding which casket held the picture, he would leave at once and would never marry any woman. 
Up to the present none had been so fortunate as to decide upon the leaden casket. 
As soon as Bassanio with Gratiano arrived at Portia's house, she was very much impressed by his handsome and manly form. Her maid Nerissa was equally pleased with Gratiano. 
The trial of the caskets, however, was put off for a few weeks, in order that they might enjoy one another's company. 
When the appointed day came, Portia was very anxious. But Bassanio, who was as wise as he was handsome, opened the leaden casket and found the portrait, which showed him that Portia was to become his wife. 

LESSON XV
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE-- 2 
In the midst of all their joy at this happy choice, Bassanio received a letter from Antonio, who said that all his ships were lost, and Shylock was asking for his pound of flesh. But he said that he would gladly die for his friend if only Bassanio were there to say good-bye to him. When Bassanio told his lady the unhappy story, she bade him hasten away to be with his friend, also bidding him offer to Shylock the value of his debt six times over if he would let Antonio go. 
As soon as he left, she sent to her cousin Doctor Bellario, a famous lawyer, to borrow his robes, and with these for herself, and the dress of a lawyer's clerk which she had borrowed for Nerissa, Portia and her maid set out for Venice. 
Assembled in the Court of Justice there were all those concerned in the strange case,--the Duke of Venice, Antonio, Shylock and many others-- when Nerissa, dressed as a lawyer's clerk, entered and presented a letter from Doctor Bellario. 
The famous Doctor wrote that he was ill, but his young friend, Doctor Balthazar (so he called Portia), from Rome, would defend the case very well, and that he had never known "so young a body with so old a head." Now Portia was as wise as she was beautiful. She asked Shylock to be merciful, but the Jew refused to listen to her. 
Then Portia told the Court that the Jew had the right to a pound of Antonio's flesh, according to the written bond which the unhappy merchant had given him. 
When he heard this Shylock was very pleased, and praised her, saying: "A Daniel is come to judgment! O wise young judge, how I do honor you!" Once again she asked him to be merciful, to take three times as much as his money, and to give up the bond.  
But he said, "I will not surrender it till I have the forfeit named in it. Let us go on to judgment. There is no power on earth that can change my mind. I want what is named in the bond, and nothing else." At the sound of these dreadful words Antonio bared his breast, and then Shylock took up his knife. 
But Portia said, "Wait a moment. You shall have what is named in the bond, and nothing else. The bond promised you a pound of flesh. Take it, then; but, if you cut more than a pound, or less than a pound, or if you shed a drop of blood, you are guilty of murder if Antonio dies, and all your money will be taken." 
Shylock was thunderstruck at what Portia said, and, quickly changing his mind, said, "Give me my money and let me go." 
But Portia would not let him go so easily. She drew the Court's attention to another law, which laid down that, if anyone plotted against the life of a Venetian citizen, he should be punished with death, and that his goods should go, half to the State, and half to the person against whom he had plotted. 
Thus Shylock lost his bond and might have lost his life; but that was spared on condition that he gave his fortune to his own daughter Jessica, whom he had ill-treated, and also that he became a Christian. 
When Shylock had left the Court, and Bassanio wished to pay the lawyer's fee, Portia would take nothing except the ring upon his finger. This was the ring which Bassanio had promised he would never give up to anyone. It was quite impossible for him to refuse anything to the wise lawyer who had just saved Antonio's life, and he was obliged to part with the ring. In the same way Nerissa got her own ring from Gratiano. Without any delay Portia and Nerissa hastened to Belmont, to which they were followed a day later, by Bassanio, Antonio, and Gratiano. 
As soon as Nerissa saw her husband, she asked him where was the ring that she had given him as a pledge of a constant heart, and she refused to believe that he had given it to a lawyer's clerk as a fee. Portia heard the two talking, and joining in, blamed Gratiano for his action. Then Bassanio had to acknowledge that he also had given his ring away. Portia at first pretended to be very angry, but after much jesting, she handed Bassanio the ring which he thought he had given the lawyer, and let him know that she herself was the doctor of law who had rescued Antonio from the Jew. 
And so all ended happily for everyone except Shylock, who was justly punished for his wickedness. 
--Adapted from Arthur Mee: The Merchant of Venice 

LESSON XVI 
FOR THE FALLEN 
1.
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, 
England mourns for her dead across the sea. 
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, 
Fallen in the cause of the free. 
2. 
Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal  
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres. 
There is music in the midst of desolation 
And a glory that shines upon our tears. 
3. 
They went with songs to the battle, they were young, 
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. 
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted, 
They fell with their faces to the foe. 
4. 
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: 
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. 
At the going down of the sun and in the morning, 
We will remember them. 
5. 
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again; 
They sit no more at familiar tables of home; 
They have no lot in our labor of the day-time:
They sleep beyond England's foam. 
6. 
But where our desires are and our hopes profound, 
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, 
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known 
As the stars are known to the Night;  
7. 
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, 
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain, 
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, 
To the end, to the end, they remain. 
-- Laurence Binyon 

LESSON XVII 
SCIENCE OF CLOTHING ( I ) 
The selection and care of clothing for the family usually becomes the duty of the housewife. 
The price and popularity of the material may influence the selection, but a wise housewife will also consider the science of clothing in relation to the body. 
Now the general problem may be divided as follows: A, Learning to distinguish the various textile fibers used for clothing so that economical selection may be made; B, Selection of clothing in relation to health.  

Problem A -- LEARNING TO DISTINGUISH THE VARIOUS TEXTILE FIBERS USED FOR CLOTHING SO THAT ECONOMICAL SELECTION MAY BE MADE. 
The housewife meets face to face with the problem of being able to recognize materials and to know when her money is being well spent. It is not always possible to distinguish materials by their appearance. A piece of material may look like wool and be a combination of wool and cotton. Cotton can be made to look like linen; rayon may be mixed with cotton; and poor silk may be made to look like a good piece by being heavily weighted. 
The common fibers used for clothing may be divided into the following classes: animal fibers, such as wool and silk; vegetable fibers, such as cotton, flax (linen), and rayon. These fibers have distinct characteristics which make it possible to tell one from another. These characteristics also determine to a large extent the wearing qualities of the finished material and the way it may be used. 

SOURCE AND LENGTH OF FIBER.  
Wool is an animal fiber obtained from the sheep. The fibers vary in length from 1 to 8 inches. The shorter fiber wool is used for coarse worsted materials. The long coarse fiber wool is used for rugs, carpets, etc. The long fine fiber wool is used for dress materials. 
Silk is an animal fiber obtained from the silkworm. The fiber is a continuous double thread fastened together with gum, the length varying from 300 to even 2,000 yards. An average cocoon contains about 600 yards and nearly 3,000 cocoons are required to make a pound of silk. 
Cotton is a vegetable fiber from the cotton plant. The fibers vary from 1/2 inch to two and one-half inches in length, depending upon the kind of cotton. 
Linen is a vegetable fiber obtained from the stems of the flax plant. The fibers vary from 20 to 40 inches in length. 
Rayon is made from wood pulp. The cellulose is changed to a liquid which is forced through a very fine screen. These fibers harden into tiny threads. 

SIMPLE HOME TESTS. 
BURNING TEST -- Because one piece of material may be made up of more than one kind of fiber, it is best to separate the warp and woof threads and burn each separately. 
Wool chars and burns slowly with a flickering flame which goes out easily leaving a residue and gives a smell of burning hair. Wool can be used to put out fires because it burns so slowly. 
Silk burns quickly with a flickering, bluish flame and gives a smell of burning feathers. The quantity and shape of residue depends upon the weighting. Pure silk leaves little residue. 
Cotton burns very rapidly with a smell like burning wood. The residue is a fine ashy powder. 
Linen burns quickly with a bright flame, has the smell of wood, and leaves an ashy residue. 
Rayon burns similarly to cotton, but more quickly. 
TEARING TEST -- Cotton can be distinguished from linen by tearing the material; because cotton threads are fuzzy when torn and linen threads are pointed and of uneven length. 

LESSON XVIII 
SCIENCE OF CLOTHNIG ( 2 ) 
Problem, B-- SELECTION OF CLOTHING IN RELATION TO HEALTH. 
Clothing is very important in maintaining a healthy condition of the body and in building up body resistance. The body must be maintained at a constant temperature, be dry, clean, well ventilated, and unrestricted. Clothing must be selected which will meet these requirements. 

MAINTAINING CONSTANT BODY TEMPERATURE. The usual temperature of the body is 98.6°F. and this is maintained summer and winter. We wear?clothing of different materials in order to keep the body heat from escaping in winter and to hasten the escape during the summer. Because wool is a poor conductor of heat and linen is a good conductor, wool is worn in the winter and linen in the summer. 
The warmth of wool is due largely to the air held in the tiny spaces, because air is a poor conductor of heat. Being poor conductors, woolen garments protect the body from sudden changes of temperature, because they will not allow the body heat to escape or the cold from the outside to reach the body. For this reason, small children and weak people should wear woolen or a combination of wool and silk or wool and cotton undergarments. The body heat can be kept better by two or three garments of light weight than it can by one heavy weight garment. The layers of air between the light garments are poor conductors which prevent the body heat from escaping. For this reason, it is better to wear light weight clothing in the house and put on heavier wraps when going outside. These extra layers of clothing and air prevent sudden changes of temperature in the body. 
EFFECT OF COLOR ON THE ABSORPTION OF HEAT. White materials are the coolest because they reflect all of the sun's rays; black materials are the hottest because they absorb nearly all of the sun's rays. This is one reason why winter clothing is usually made of dark colors and summer clothing of light. 
KEEPING THE BODY DRY. The sweat glands of a person give off daily a large quantity of moisture or perspiration. This must be taken up by the clothing and it is very important to know how the different fibers absorb this moisture. 
Wool will absorb the most moisture rapidly, but allows it to evaporate very slowly. This prevents evaporation from the body and keeps the body warm. 
Silk will absorb moisture almost as rapidly as wool, but it loses its moisture much more rapidly. 
Cotton and linen take up practically the same quantity of moisture, but linen absorbs it more rapidly and gives it up the most readily of all textile fibers. For this reason linen is an ideal material for undergarments in the summer. 
Rayon absorbs moisture very readily and helps in keeping the body dry. In addition to the fiber used, it is important that the garment be loosely woven or knit for summer wear; if loosely woven, air will pass freely about the body and the evaporation will be more rapid, and the body kept cooler. For winter the garment should be more closely woven so as to prevent too rapid evaporation. 
-- Adapted from Science of the Home 

LESSON XIX 
THE STORY OF A FOUNTAIN-PEN 
A short time ago, a certain well-known Japanese writer received a letter and a parcel from Berlin. On opening the letter he found, to his surprise, a broken fountain-pen. He identified the pen as a very valued one that he had lost three years before in Berlin. 
He had been traveling through Europe, and while passing a few days in the German capital, had gone on a sight-seeing tour with other visitors in a large char-a-banc. On arrival at a famous thoroughfare called Unter den Linden, they all got out for a short rest. Some of them sat down on a seat under the trees and watched the children playing. After a short time, a boy of about twelve or thirteen years old came up to them, holding out a book, and by signs made them understand that he wanted their autographs. The Japanese gentleman at once complied, and taking out his pen, wrote his name, "Ikeda, Tokyo" in Kanzi. The five or six other visitors were also anxious to write in the lad's book, and so it happened that the fountain-pen was passed, one to another.  
Suddenly, the signal for starting was given by the driver, and all rushed to take their seats. The char-a-banc started off. "It was at that moment" Mr. Ikeda writes "that I found I had lost my pen. Of course, it was possible that one of the sight-seers had got it, for it was a very good one, but I could hardly accuse them without proof, so I had to resign myself to its loss. As the char-a-banc drove off I happened to look back, and saw the little boy of the autograph book running hard after us, holding out something in his hand, but he was too far off for me to see what it was, and he was soon out of sight. And now, after all these years, here was the very pen." 
Mr. Ikeda opened the letter. The writer was clearly not well educated; and in several places the writing was blurred as though with tears. The letter read as follows:-- 
"Sir, you will be surprised to receive a letter from a complete stranger, but I must write you something about your fountain-pen which my poor son was so anxious about up to the last moment of his life. Some years ago when you came to Unter den Linden, a German boy asked for your autograph. I am his mother. My son died, and till he breathed his last, he was always worried about your pen. Karl was my youngest son. His brothers are away from home and his father was killed in the war. He was my favorite, and I always looked forward to his growing up to be a splendid man. But now he is dead! 
"Ever since you left your pen behind, my boy had been thinking of nothing but how to return it to you. The thought that, if he did not do this, it would reflect shame on the honor of all German boys seemed to haunt him. After three years' searching he found your address. He wrapped it up and went out to post it. While he was running to the post-office he was knocked down by a motor-car. 
"He had tried every way to find out where you lived. Every day he used to go out into the streets, searching for a Japanese who might read what was written on the pen, but when he found one, he was told that it was only your name, and 'Tokyo' written on it, and that was no good. He was advised to go to the Embassy, and this he did, but again he was disappointed. His distress at not being able to do what he knew to be right, and his sensitiveness over the honor of German boys, caused many of his friends, old and young, to help him in his search, for he refused to be discouraged.  
"One day he returned home, wild with joy. 'Mother, I've found out his address!' he cried. With his friends' help he had found a list of names kept at 'The Foreign Friends Association,' and your name and address were among them. At once he made up a parcel and ran out to the post office. 
"Soon after, a motor-car stopped before my house. I heard heavy footsteps coming up to the door. It was opened. Two or three men came in, conducted by a policeman in his helmet. I saw my poor son carried between them. When I saw the ghastly state he was in, I fainted. My always happy Karl-- a moment ago rushing out with delight-- now a silent, white, still form, with blood trickling down from his forehead. The doctor was sent for, and everything possible done for him, but he grew weaker and weaker, and after two or three days, he died.  
"But up to the last moment, he kept on repeating, over and over again, the broken sentences--'Fountain-parcel-- post it-- honor of a German boy--Finally he said just one word-- 'Mother'-- It was his last-- he died." 
Mr. Ikeda writes. "Here the letter was all blurred with tears, and I myself was too choked with tears to read any more." 
--Adapted from Thomas Lyell and K. Sudo 

Madame Curie (Part 1) 
1.
Madame Marie Curie, discoverer of radium, twice winner of the Nobel Prize for Science, is one of the greatest of all scientists and one of the world's most brilliant women. Her work in science changed the course of men's thinking, as another great French-woman, Joan of Arc, changed the course of history. When Madame Curie visited America, President Harding addressed her as the "noble creature, the devoted wife and loving mother who, aside from her crushing toil, had fulfilled all the duties of womanhood." 
Recently her second daughter Eve Curie published a biography of the great woman, in which you will find the following short sketch of Madame Curie's life: "She was a woman; she was poor; she was beautiful. A powerful vocation summoned her from her motherland, Poland, to study in Paris, where she lived through years of poverty and solitude. There she met a man whose genius was akin to hers. She married him; their happiness was unique. By the most desperate effort they discovered a magic element, radium. This discovery not only gave birth to a new science and a new philosophy: it provided mankind with the means of treating a dreadful disease. 
At the moment when the fame of the two scientists and benefactors was spreading through the world, grief overtook Marie: her husband, her wonderful companion, was taken from her by death in an instant. But in spite of distress and physical illness, she continued alone the work that had been begun with him and brilliantly developed the science they had created together. 
"The rest of her life turned itself into a kind of perpetual giving. To the war wounded she gave her devotion and her health. Later on she gave her advice, her wisdom and all the hours of her time to her pupils, to future scientists who came to her from all parts of the world. 
"When her mission was accomplished she died exhausted, having refused wealth and endured her honors with indifference." 

2. 
The whole of Madame Curie's life is full of incidents and life philosophies in which young women will surely find an everlasting fountain of encouragement. Most moving are her early days in Paris, where she, Manya Sklodovski, a Polish girl, had a long series of struggles for the love of study. Eve Curie has provided us with quite an interesting story of her mother in those days. 
For more than three years she was to lead a life devoted to study alone; a life she had dreamt of up to that time, a "perfect" life in the sense in which the life of the monk is perfect. 
Her life had to be simple like that of a monk in any case: for since Marie had, of her own free will, deprived herself of the board and lodging she had had at her sister's house, she had to meet her expenses herself. And her income-- made up of her own savings and the small sums her father could send her-- was no more than one hundred francs a month. 
How could a woman; a foreigner, live decently in Paris in 1892 with one hundred francs a month, three francs a day, paying for her own room, meals, clothes, paper and books, as well as her fees at the university? Such was the question the young student had to solve. 
Manya to her brother Joseph, March 17th, 1892: You have no doubt learned from Father that I decided to live nearer to the schools, as it had become necessary for several reasons. 
The plan is now realised: I am writing to you, in fact, from my new lodgings. It is a little room, very suitable, and also very cheap. In a quarter of an hour I can be in the chemistry laboratory, in twenty minutes at the Sorbonne. . . . 
Marie was not the only student who lived on a hundred francs a month in the Latin Quarter; most of her Polish friends were as poor as she was. Some lived by threes or fours in the same lodging and took their meals together; others, who lived alone, devoted several hours a day to housekeeping, cooking and sewing; thus they got as much comfort as they wanted. This was the method adopted earlier by her sister, whose talents as a cook had been celebrated among her friends. 
Marie did not like to follow such wise examples: she was too fond of her solitude to share her lodging with a friend or two and too busy studying to bother about her own comfort. Even if she had wished to do so, for that matter, she would have been incapable of it; the girl who had been a governess in strange families at seventeen, giving seven or eight hours of lessons a day, had never found time or occasion for learning how to keep house. It was being said among her friends that Mademoiselle Sklodovska didn't know what you use to make soup.  
She did not know, and she did not want to know. Why should she pass a morning inquiring into the mysteries of a broth, when she might have been learning several pages of physics or making an interesting analysis in the laboratory? 

Madame Curie (Part 2) 
3. 
Later on the girl, in search of absolute calm, was to take an attic like a servant's room at the top of a middle-class house. For fifteen or twenty francs a month she found a tiny nook which was lit from a loop-hole on the slope of the roof. Through this sky-light appeared a small square of the sky. 
Neither car nor bus could she use. She went to the Sorbonne on foot in all weathers. Coal was kept down to a minimum; one or two sacks of "lumps" for the winter, which the girl bought from the merchant on the corner and lifted up the steep stairs herself to the sixth floor, bucketful by bucketful, stopping at each floor to breathe. Lights were at a minimum: as soon as night fell, the student went out to hide herself in the neighboring library, where the gas was lighted and it was warm. Seated at one of the big tables with her head in her hands, a poor Polish girl could work until they closed the doors at ten o'clock. From then on all that was needed was enough oil to keep the light going in her room until two in the morning. Then, with her eyes reddened by fatigue, Marie left her books and threw herself on the bed. 
Marie did not admit that she could be cold or hungry. In order not to buy coal-- and through carelessness too-- she often neglected to light the little stove, and wrote figures and equations without knowing her fingers were getting numb and her shoulders shaking. Hot soup or a bit of meat would have comforted her; but Marie did not know how to make soup. Marie could not spend a franc and lose half an hour to cook herself a chop. She hardly ever entered the butcher's shop, much less the restaurant; it was too dear. For weeks at a time she ate nothing but buttered bread and tea. When she wanted a nice thing, she went into a creamery in the Latin Quarter and ate two eggs, or else bought herself a piece of chocolate or some fruit. 
On this diet, the fresh, solid girl who had left War-saw a few months before rapidly grew anaemic. Often, as she was getting up from her table, her head would go round. She had just time to get to her bed when she would lose her senses. Coming back to herself, she would ask why she had fainted; she would think herself ill, but it never occurred to her that her only disease was that of starvation. 

4. 
One day, when Marie fainted in front of one of her friends, the latter hurried to the house of Marie's brother-in-law, who was a young doctor. Two hours later her sister's husband was leaping up the six flights of stairs to the attic where the girl, a little pale, was already studying to-morrow's lesson. He examined his sister-in-law. He examined even more carefully the clean plates, the empty stewpan, and the whole room, in which he could discover only one kind of foodstuff, a packet of tea. All at once he understood-- and the questioning began. 
"What have you eaten to-day?" 
"To-day? I don't know. I lunched a while ago." 
"What did you eat?"  
"Some cherries and . . . and all sorts of things." 
In the end Marie was obliged to confess: since the evening before, she had nibbled at a bundle of radishes and half a pound of cherries. She had worked until three that morning and had slept four hours. Then she had gone to the Sorbonne. On her return she had finished the radishes. Then she had fainted. 
The doctor made no long speeches. He was furious-- furious against Marie, whose ash-grey eyes looked at him innocently, and furious at himself too, for he thought that it was his fault. Without listening to his sister-in-law's protests, he handed her hat and coat, and ordered her to take the books and papers she would need for the coming week. Then he carried her off to his house. At once her sister ran into the kitchen. Twenty minutes passed, and Marie swallowed, mouthful by mouthful, the medicines ordered for her by her kind doctor: an enormous beefsteak and a plateful of fried potatoes. As if by a miracle, the color came back to her cheeks. On the same evening her sister herself came at eleven o'clock to put the light out in the narrow room where Marie's bed had been set up. After several days Marie, well fed and cared for, took back her strength. Then, anxious about the approaching examinations, she returned to her attic, promising to be reasonable in the future. And the next day she began again to live on air! 
-- Adapted from Eve Curie: Madame Curie 

The Example
Here's an example from 
A Butterfly; 
That on a rough, hard rock 
Happy can lie; 
Friendless and all alone 
On this unsweetened stone. 

Now let my bed be hard, 
No care take I; 
I'll make my joy like this 
Small Butterfly; 
Whose happy heart has power 
To make a stone a flower. 
--W. H. Davies 

Home, Sweet Home 
1. 
'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home! 
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, 
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.  
Home! Home! Sweet, sweet Home! 
There's no place like Home! 
There's no place like Home! 

2. 
I gaze on the moon as I tread the drear wild, 
And feel that my mother now thinks of her child, 
As she looks on the moon from our own cottage door,  
Thro' the woodbine, whose fragrance shall cheer me no more. 
Home! Home! Sweet, sweet Home! 
There's no place like Home! 
There's no place like Home! 

3. 
An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain; 
Oh, give me my lowly, thatch'd cottage again! 
The birds singing gaily, that came at my call—
Give me them,-- and the peace of mind, dearer than all! 
Home! Home! Sweet, sweet Home! 
There's no place like Home! 
There's no place like Home! 
--John Howard Payne