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mirage, though the name is generally applied to the unreal lakes of the desert. The Persian and Arabian poets make frequent allusions to these magical effects of 11 terrestrial refraction.

'phenomenon, properly any appearance; a remarkable or striking appearance. 2 alternations, successive changes from one thing to another. 3 Burckhardt, see App. felicity, happiness; good fortune. Here it means good fortune in finding the right words to express his meaning. azure, the clear blue colour of the sky. "refraction, being broken or bent. When rays of light pass from one medium to another, as from air to water, they are bent, or refracted, from one straight line into another. atmospheric, belonging to the atmosphere, or air. modification, a change of form. 9 Humboldt, see App. 10 Niebuhr, see App. terrestrial, belonging to the earth.

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MOTHER Nature does not always, like other mothers, lay her pet children on downy pillows and under silken canopies. She seems to delight in showing that money shall buy everything but brains. At any rate, she not only opened our poet's big lustrous eyes in a clay cottage put roughly together by his father's own hands, but, shortly after his birth, she blew it down over his head, and the mother and child were picked out from among the ruins, and carried to a neighbour's for safe keeping.

But the poor little baby and his mother, happy in their mutual love, knew little enough of all this. A good, loving mother she was, Agnes by name; keeping her house in order with a matron's pride; chanting old songs and ballads to her baby-boy as she glided cheerfully about,

not discouraged when things went wrong on the farm; and the crops failed, and the table was scantily supplied with food--singing, hoping, trusting, loving still: a very woman, over whose head cottages might tumble, so that her heart was but satisfied.

2Robert's father was a good man, who performed each day's duty as carefully as though each day brought other reward than that of having done his duty. It is a brave strong heart, my dear children, which can do this. All can labour when success follows: it is disaster, defeat, difficulties, which prove what a man's soul is made of. It is just here that the ranks grow thin in life's battlejust here that the faint-hearted perish by the wayside, or desert, like cowards, to the enemy. William Burns stood manfully to his duty, plodding on year after year; when one plan failed, trying another; never saying, when his day's work was done, "Ah! but this is too discouraging! I'll to the alehouse, to drown my griefs in strong drink." Neither did he go home moody and disconsolate, to drive his children into corners, and bring tears to the eyes of his toiling wife. But he gathered his children about his arm-chair on long winter evenings, and read to them, and taught them, and answered their simple yet deep questions. One of Robert's sweetest poems, "The Cotter's Saturday Night," was written about this. Oh! how much were these peasant children to be envied above the children of richer parents, kept in the nursery in the long intervals when their parents, forgetful of these sweet duties, were seeking their own pleasure and amusement.

Nor-poor as they were-did they lack books. Dainties they could forego, but not books. And so the years passed on, as does the life of so many human beings, quiet but not uneventful.

Who sneers at "old women"? I should like to trace

the influence of that important person in the Burns family. Old Jenny Wilson! Little she herself knew her power when, with Robert Burns upon her knee, she poured into his listening ear her never-ending store of tales about fairies, and "brownies," and witches, and giants, and dragons. So strong was the impression these 5 supernatural stories made upon the mind of the boy, that

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he declared that, in later life, he could never go through a suspicious-looking place without expecting to see some unearthly shape appear. Who shall determine how much this withered old woman had to do with making the boy a poet? And yet, poor, humble soul! that is an idea which seldom enters the mind of his admirers.

Robert's mother, the good Agnes, had a voice sweet as

her name. The ballads she sang him were all of a serious cast. She had learnt them when a girl, from her mother. Oh, these songs! Many a simple hymn thus listened to by childhood's ear has been that soul's last utterance on this side the grave. All other childish impressions may have faded away, but "mother's hymn" is never forgotten. That strain, heard by none else, will sometimes come an unbidden, unwelcome guest; and neither in noise nor wine can that bearded man drown it-this mother's hymn! Sing on, sing on, ye patient toiling mothers; over the cradle-by the fireside. Angels smile as they listen. The lark whom the cloud covers is not lost.

The father of Robert Burns did not consider, because he was a poor man, that it was an excuse for depriving his boys of any advantages of education within his reach, as many a farmer similarly situated, and intent only on gain, has thought it right to do. His good sense in this respect was well rewarded; for Robert's first teacher said of him, "He took such pleasure in learning, and I in teaching, that it was difficult to say which of the two was most zealous in the business." It is such scholars as these who brighten the otherwise dreary lot of the teacher: pupils who study, not because they must, and as little as possible at that, but because they have an appetite for it, and crave knowledge. Of course, a good teacher endeavours to be equally faithful to all the pupils who are entrusted to him—the stupid and wayward as well as the studious. But there must be to him a peculiar pleasure in helping, guiding, and watching over a pupil eager to acquire.

Robert, however, had not always the good luck to have an intelligent, appreciative teacher. There was a certain Hugh Rodgers, to whose school Robert was sent. It was the very bad custom of those times, when pupils of his

age first entered a school, to take the master to a tavern, and treat him to some liquor. This Robert did, in company with another boy, named Willie, who entered at the same time. Do you suppose that schoolmaster ever thought remorsefully about this in after years, when he heard what a wreck strong drink had made of poor Robert? Well, the boys Willie and Robert became great friends from that day; often staying at each other's houses, and always spending the intervals between morning and afternoon school in each other's company. When the other boys were playing ball, they would talk together on subjects to improve their minds. These two disputatious youngsters sharpened their wits on all sorts of "knotty subjects, and also invited several of their companions to join their debating society-whether to improve them, or to have an audience to approve their skill, I can't say; perhaps a little of both.

By-and-by the master heard of it. He did not like it. He thought that boys should have no ideas that the master did not put into their heads for them. So one day, when the school was assembled, he walked up to the desks of Robert and Willie, and began very unwisely to taunt them about it, before all the scholars-something in this style: "So, boys, I understand that you consider yourselves qualified to decide upon matters of importance which wiser heads usually let alone. I trust from debating you won't come to blows, young gentlemen," etc., etc. Now, the boys who had not joined their debating society set up a laugh at the rebuked Robert and Willie. This, of course, as the teacher should have known, stung them to the quick; and Robert, with a flushed face, resolved to "speak up" to the master. I find no fault with his reply, which was this: that both he and Willie rather thought that the master would be pleased, instead of

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