harsh, nor the manner, which was arrogant. This was America, where one man was as good as another. The stoop left Schmelz's shoulders. His feet came together. His hand went up to his hat-brim stiffly but quickly. He answered: "Yah, mein Prinz." Another string of gutturals evidently meant for human speech came from the Prince's throat. "Gravelotte!" said Schmelz. He stood rigid, his feet together, his hand at his hat-brim, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the Prince's. The twenty-seven years of ploughing had gone from his shoulders. Something more from the Prince. And Schmelz spoke again, the only recognizable words being: "Wörth, Fröschweiler, Mars-la-Tour, Gravelotte, Sedan, Paris" names of battles. Then the Prince turned and shouted execrations at the two men on the rear platform; like a flash they dived into the car and presently emerged on the run, followed by five others. The Prince said something to them that somehow sounded like a succession of rifleshots, short and sharp, whereupon they hastily ranged themselves into line behind their chief, who turned sharply and faced Schmelz. His heels and the heels of his suite came together with one click. At another word from him, the eight men brought their right hands smartly to their hats; their faces set, stern; their eyes unblinkingly fixed on the face of the petrified Schmelz. And then Prince Henry, his face as the face of a man who worships, said in a voice in which the respect was felt even by Bedloe: "It is our high privilege as Germans to salute a soldier thus honored for heroism on the field of battle. For the Fatherland!" They stood there, the stalwart Prince and the seven Germans behind him, stiff as ramrods, their hands raised to their hat-brims, grim-faced, stern-eyed, looking into the face of the little old German farmer there in Indiana, four thousand miles from the battle-field of Gravelotte where the old Kaiser for unusual bravery had pinned the Iron Cross on the coat of Hans Schmelz, a private in the ranks, fighting for the Fatherland. The old man's uplifted right hand began to tremble, and the mild blue eyes blinked. The engine whistled. The Prince again spoke, and the seven men behind him echoed the same word in chorus. Turning, he climbed aboard, followed by his suite. The train creaked and moved. It pulled out of Amityville Junction. And, standing on the rear platform of the last car, His Royal Highness, Prince Henry of Prussia, and seven highborn Germans took off their hats and remained bareheaded as long as Hans Schmelz was in their sight. And little Schmelz, his hand trembling but still uplifted, gazed after the diminishing Pullman through tears that could not be blinked away. FEBRUARY: SELF-CONTROL For the Teacher: THE HABIT OF HEROISM WILLIAM JAMES I may at last, as a fifth and final practical maxim about habits, offer something like this: Keep the faculty alive in you by a little gratuitous exercise every day. That is, be systematically heroic in little unnecessary points, do every day or two something for no other reason than its difficulty, so that, when the hour of dire need draws nigh, it may find you not unnerved and untrained to stand the test. Asceticism of this sort is like the insur ance which a man pays on his house and goods. The tax does him no good at the time, and possibly may never bring him a return. But, if the fire does come, his having paid it will be his salvation from ruin. So with the man who has daily inured himself to habits of concentrated attention, energetic volition, and self-denial in unnecessary things. He will stand like a tower when everything rocks around him, and his softer fellow-mortals are winnowed like chaff in the blast.1 For the Class: He that ruleth his spirit is greater than he that taketh a city. Suggestions for morning talks To show self-control in deed, let the class study: "The Loss of the Birkenhead," in A Book of Golden Deeds, Charlotte M. Yonge (The Macmillan Co.), and Fifty Famous Stories Retold, James Baldwin (American Book Co.); The Loss of the Titanic (daily papers, April 15-20, 1911), and The Loss of the SS. Titanic, Beesley (Houghton Mifflin Co.). To curb one's selfish impulses so that the welfare of the weak and helpless may be secured is to have selfcontrol. To show self-control in word, tell the story of Lee and the wounded Union soldier at Gettysburg. (See Lee, the American, by Gamaliel Bradford, Jr. Houghton, Mifflin Co.) To reply kindly to a taunt or gibe shows self-control. To bring the lesson closely home to the class tell either: "Coals of Fire," Louise Chandler Moulton, from Bedtime Stories (Roberts Bros.), or "Jo Meets 1 From Talks to Teachers (chapter on Habit). Henry Holt & Co. Apollyon," an extract from Little Women, by Louisa M. Alcott (Little, Brown & Co.). These stories paint the struggles of a boy and girl to conquer a hot temper. Give Mrs. Moulton's story to a class of boys; Miss Alcott's to a class of girls. The moral of both is that victory or self-mastery comes as the result of persistent and prayerful effort. A boy or girl shows self-control when he eats enough but not too much of simple, wholesome food. A boy shows self-control when he refuses to smoke cigarettes or cigars, knowing that they are harmful to a growing lad. In a wider sense, self-control is self-direction. You control yourself for a higher end. You must keep your soul on top. The man who loses his temper is always at a disadvantage with those who have a greater power of self-control. He should endeavor to direct his powers instead of exploding. Read or tell of Washington's receiving the news of St. Clair's defeat; of his meeting with St. Clair. (See George Washington, Henry Cabot Lodge, American Statesman Series. Houghton Mifflin Co.) We do not care for the goody-goody boy. We like boys who have plenty of force. Boys are like locomotives. It is good to have a full head of steam on, so long as the engines keep the track, and are properly directed. But if they run off the track, the more steam, the worse consequences. In football the boy must keep his temper, no matter what the situation. If he loses his self-control, the team is hurt; it stands less chance of victory. To keep his temper, let the boy or girl develop a sense of humor. A NIGHT'S ADVENTURE ON THE AN INCIDENT OF THE FLOOD OF 1832 MARTHA M. THOMAS Mr. and Mrs. Martin had gone after supper to help a sick neighbor, leaving their daughter Sally, a girl of thirteen, in charge of little Will, aged nine, and the baby; Mrs. Martin expected to be back late in the evening. The children prepared for bed; they rolled a large log on the fire and put a candle in the lantern. Soon they were fast asleep. Suddenly Sally was awakened by she knew not what. There was a groaning, creaking noise, and she thought she felt the house move. She sprang out upon the floor and ran toward the fireplace. As she reached it her feet splashed in water. The thought came, "The river is up!" She groped for a candle, touched it to a coal, and had a light. A quick glance told her the matter. The hearth had sunk several inches; up through the crevices came the water. Raising the window-curtain, Sally gazed out. The house was surrounded by water, the waves were washing over the doorstep; as far as her eyes could see was only water. Running to the bed, she shook Will. "Get up, Will, get up! The river is coming into the house!" "What are we to do?" he asked. "We must go to the loft and wait until father comes," she answered. Taking the baby in her arms, she climbed the stairway. Then, wrapped in comforters, they held each other close, not daring to go to bed. The little clock on the mantel-shelf struck two. Soon after there was a great noise, as of something tearing away. The house swayed to and fro 1 Abridged from Our Young Folks, vol. vII. Ticknor & Fields. |