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Intermediate Language Lessons Part 3, Lesson 79, Selection To Be Memorized

This short biography was written while Henry Bennett was still alive, thus it reads in the present tense. Henry died on April 30, 1924.

 

Henry Holcomb Bennett

Henry Holcomb Bennett, son of John Briscoe Henry and Eliza (McClintock) Bennett, and elder brother of John Bennett, was born in Chillicothe, Ohio, December 5, 1863. He was educated in the public schools of his native city, and in Kenyon College, class of 1886. After leaving college he devoted himself, for a period, to various lines of business, chiefly railroading, in the West, where he lived five or six years. Returning to Chillicothe, he became a reporter for, and, later, city editor of, the Scioto Gazette. Mr. Bennett withdrew from journalism in the autumn of 1897, since which time he has given his energy chiefly to writing stories of army life and articles on ornithology, the latter illustrated by his own drawings. He has been an occasional contributor to several leading periodicals of the day, including Munsey's, McClure's, the Century, and Lippincott's; and in the last-named magazine appeared (1898-9) a series of his sketches on the National Guard.

This versatile writer is a thorough student of American history, and a specialist of recognized authority on matters pertaining to the annals of Ohio, especially in the territorial period and the period of early statehood. He was secretary of the committee in charge of the "Constitutional" Centennial of Ohio, held in 1902, and chairman of the committee on decoration, of the Ohio Centennial of 1903; and it was he who, in 1902, designed the large bronze tablet erected to mark the site of the old Capitol at Chillicothe, the first state-house in America.

As a landscape-painter, Mr. Bennett has studied under some of the best American artists, and his work in water-color and in book-illustration has secured for him a reputation which keeps his talents increasingly in demand. Though he has not yet published any book of verse, he is well known as a poet, owing to the universal popularity of his patriotic lyric, "The Flag Goes By." Poems from his pen have appeared in the Century Magazine, the Youth's Companion, and the New York Independent.

 

 

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Intermediate Language Lessons Part 3, Lesson 79, Selection To Be Memorized

The Flag Goes By - Henry Holcolm Bennett

The first truly American flag had its origin in the following resolution adopted by the American Congress, June 14, 1777:

"Resolved, That the flag of the thirteen United States be thirteen stripes alternate red and white; that the union be thirteen stars, white in a blue field, representing a new constellation."

The first flag of this general design was displayed at the siege of Fort Stanwix. It is said to have been made from strips of a red flannel petticoat, and pieces of a white skirt, and a blue jacket. The first official flag under this resolution was made by Mrs. Elizabeth Ross of Philadelphia — familiarly known as "Betsy Ross" — at the request of a Committee of Congress accompanied by General Washington. This flag consisted of thirteen stripes, alternate red and white, with thirteen white stars arranged in a circle in a blue field. From time to time, as new states are admitted, new stars have been added to the union — the official design of the flag changing each Fourth of July after the admission of new states.

As to the meaning of our flag, Henry Ward Beecher says:

"The American flag means, then, all that the fathers meant in the Revolutionary War; it means all that the Declaration of Independence meant; it means all that the Constitution of a people, organizing for justice, for liberty, and for happiness, meant. The American flag carries American ideas, American history, American feelings. Beginning with the colonies and coming down to our time, in its sacred heraldry, in its glorious insignia, it has gathered and stored chiefly this supreme idea: Divine Right of Liberty in Man. Every color, means liberty, every thread means liberty, every form of star and beam of light means liberty — liberty through law, and law for liberty. Accept it, then, in all its fullness of meaning. It is not a painted rag! It is a whole national history! It is the Constitution. It is the Government! It is the emblem of the sovereignty of the people!"

What wonder, then, that, with the poet, we instinctively throw up our hats and shout wild "huzzas" as the glorious old ensign of our republic passes by!

"Purity speaks from your folds of white,
Truth from your sky of blue,
Courage shines forth in the crimson stripes,
And leads to victories new."

--------------------------------

THE FLAG GOES BY
By Henry Holcomb Bennett

Hats off!
Along the street there comes
A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums,
A flash of color beneath the sky:
Hats off!
The flag is passing by!

Blue and crimson and white it shines
Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines.
Hats off!
The colors before us fly;
But more than the flag is passing by.

Sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great,
Fought to make and to save the State:
Weary marches and sinking ships;
Cheers of victory on dying lips;

Days of plenty and years of peace;
March of a strong land's swift increase;
Equal justice, right, and law,
Stately honor and reverend awe;

Sign of a nation, great and strong
To ward her people from foreign wrong:
Pride and glory and honor, — all
Live in the colors to stand or fall.

Hats off!
Along the street there comes
A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums;
And loyal hearts are beating high:
Hats off!
The flag is passing by!

 

SUGGESTIVE EXERCISES
1. Give a brief sketch of the history of our flag.
2. What feeling prompts the first "Hats off"?
3. What "more than the flag" is passing by?
4. Just what, in detail, does our flag stand for, or symbolize?
5. Give historic incidents to explain each of the references in stanzas three and four.
6. Why, then, is our flag regarded with such veneration?
7. Why do soldiers in battle fight till death to save a mere cloth called the flag?
8. Why repeat the first stanza in closing?
9. What effect has the appearance of our flag on all loyal hearts?

 

The Horse Fair - Rosa Bonheur

Rosa Bonheur was never content to let her last picture remain the best. The great success of her “Oxen Plowing” created in her the desire to do something better. With this in mind she set to work planning her great picture “The Horse Fair,” which was destined to become the most famous horse picture known.

Did she sit down before her canvas and proceed to sketch horses in every conceivable attitude? No. She spent just one and one-half years in preparation before she felt ready to make her picture.

Her friends placed their finest horses at her disposal to use as models, but this was not sufficient. She visited the horse markets where she studied all sorts of beautiful animals and sketched them in every imaginable position. To avoid the rude remarks made about her for entering the horse markets, she donned the attire of a man and then went about her work quietly and persistently.

Her horses were to be two-thirds life size. For that reason an immense canvas was required, and the artist had to continually use a ladder as she worked. This great piece of art was completed in 1853, and was then ready for the Salon. The admiration which this painting received, was beyond that ever received by any other modern picture.

After the picture had been exhibited, Rosa Bonheur received the rare honor of exhibiting any pictures in the future without previous examination—an honor which rarely comes even to a great artist.

Later the painting was exhibited at Ghent. The artist was offered 40,000 francs by Mr. Gambert, a picture dealer, and the offer was accepted. Finally it was bought by a wealthy man in New York who paid 300,000 francs for it, and it now hangs in the Metropolitan Art Museum.

Also of interest is this tidbit:

The French consider "Ploughing" to be Rosa Bonheur's masterpiece, perhaps because they own it. In England, however, where she is even more highly esteemed than in France, "The Horse Fair," — which they own! — is called her chef d'ceuvre. It occupied a year and a half in its painting. The studies for it were made in an old horse market. That she might not attract attention in frequenting this place, she adopted male attire.

The original painting is now in the Metropolitan Museum, New York. A replica is in London, and there exist two others, one in water colors.

"It is a group of twenty or more strong Percheron horses; they are white, dappled, black, and splendid in the energy of action and draught power indicated. Some are ridden, some led by sporting, tricky grooms, whom, notwithstanding their frequent jests at her expense while making her studies, she has as faithfully painted as exultant in the mastery of the noble brutes. The scene is a familiar spot of Paris, with the dome of the Invalides and an avenue of trees seen in the background.

"Solid and firm modelling; accuracy of action rendered with spirit; fidelity to patient observation; the representation of space above, before, and behind her figures; fine rendering of the spirit of the animals, are the qualities of the pictures, and, with the landscape of great grandeur added, represent her style." — Stranahan.

 

EXERCISES

1. Sketch briefly the life of Rosa Bonheur.
2. What honors were bestowed upon her?
3. Where did Rosa make her home in her later life?
4. How did Rosa Bonheur prepare for the painting of “The Horse Fair"?
5. Tell about the size of the painting.
6. When was it completed? Where first exhibited? Where next? How received?
7. To whom and for how much did Rosa sell this picture? To whom and for how much was it next sold?
8. Where is this picture now?
9. Describe “The Horse Fair.”
10. What do you like best about the picture?

 

 

In the quiet old town of Bordeaux, on the west coast of France, was born, October 22, 1822, one of the world’s most famous artists, Rosa Bonheur. Her father was an artist. Her mother was a musician. Rosa’s waking hours were spent in playing with the cats and dogs. She loved every animal that came along, no matter how wretched it might be.

Rosa BonheurWhen her father moved to Paris little Rosa became very homesick for the familiar scenes in her quiet old home in Bordeaux. There was a school for boys nearby, and the master, seeing the loneliness of the little girl, asked her father to send her with her brothers to his school. The boys became very fond of her, for she entered into their sports as readily and with as much spirit as one of their own number.

In 1835, Rosa’s mother died, leaving the father to care for four small children. The family now had to be separated. Juliette, Rosa’s sister, was sent to a friend of the mother in Bordeaux; the boys to one boarding school; and Rosa to another. Rosa, at least, did not feel happy with this change. She had always lived a free, unrestrained life, and to thus be held within the bonds of school life was too much for the child. She made a dash for freedom, so transgressing on the rules of the school that the authorities of the institution gave her up in despair and she went joyously home to her father.

Rosa’s father was so busy with the giving of his lessons that he had no time to instruct his little daughter. She was free to amuse herself as she wished, which she did by drawing and painting. One day, upon returning home to his studio, he was surprised to find that she had sketched a very lovely bunch of cherries. After that he took time to give her lessons, and she progressed so rapidly that she was soon able to give lessons herself. She was advancing so well that she took to copying famous masterpieces in the Louvre, and these copies were so well done that she received good prices for them in the market places.

In 1847 Rosa Bonheur received her first prize, a gold medal of the third class, presented in the king’s name. One of her best works, “Oxen Plowing”, was painted for the Salon exhibit of 1849.

After her return to Paris, she withdrew to the village of By, in the very heart of the grand old forest of Fontainebleau. Here at By, Rosa purchased a rambling old house where she kept a menagerie consisting of birds of all kinds, and animals, both wild and domestic. Here she lived the life of a peasant, rising early, and retiring at the setting of the sun, eating the simplest of food and painting to her heart’s content.

In 1893 she had bestowed upon her the greatest honor which can come to an artist, that of becoming an officer in the “Legion of Honor.” The Cross of the Legion of Honor was pinned on her by Empress Eugenie, wife of Napoleon III. She died on May 25, 1899.

 

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This is a clip about the Boston Oriole from The Handbook of Nature Study.

 

THE BALTIMORE ORIOLE
Teacher's Story

"I know his name, I know his note,
That so with rapture takes my soul;
Like flame the gold beneath his throat,
His glossy cope is black as coal.
O Oriole, it is the song
You sang me from the cottonwood,
Too young to feel that I was young.
Too glad to guess if life were good."

—WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS

Dangling from the slender, drooping branches of the elm in winter, these pocket nests look like some strange persistent fruit; and, indeed, they are the fruit of much labor on the part of the oriole weavers, those skilled artisans of the bird world. Sometimes the oriole "For the summer voyage his hammock swings" in a sapling, placing it near the main stem and near the top, otherwise it is almost invariably hung at the end of branches and is rarely less than twenty feet from the ground. The nest is pocket-shaped, and usually about seven inches long, and four and a half inches wide at the largest part, which is the bottom. The top is attached to forked twigs at the Y so that the mouth or door will be kept open to allow the bird to pass in and out; when within, the weight of the bird causes the opening to contract somewhat and protects the inmate from prying eyes. Often the pocket hangs free so that the breezes may rock it, but in one case we found a nest with the bottom stayed to a twig by guy lines. The bottom is much more closely woven than the upper part for a very good reason, since the open meshes admit air to the sitting bird. The nest is lined with hair "or other soft material, and although this is added last, the inside of the nest is woven first. The orioles like to build the framework of twine, and it is marvelous how they will loop this around a twig almost as evenly knotted as if crocheted; in and out of this net the mother bird with her long, sharp beak weaves bits of wood fibre, strong, fine grass and scraps of weeds. The favorite lining is horse hair, which simply cushions the bottom of the pocket. Dr. Detwiler had a pet oriole which built her nest of his hair which she pulled from his head; is it possible that orioles get their supply of horse hair in a similar way? If we put in convenient places, bright colored twine or narrow ribbons the orioles will weave them into the nest, but the strings should not be long, lest the birds become entangled. If the nest is strong the birds will use it a second year.

Baltimore OrioleThat Lord Baltimore found in new America a bird wearing his colors, must have cheered him greatly; and it is well for us that this brilliant bird brings to our minds kindly thoughts of that tolerant, high-minded English nobleman. The oriole's head, neck, throat and part of the back are black; the wings are black but the feathers are margined with white; the tail is black except that the ends of the outer feathers are yellow; all the rest of the bird is golden orange, a luminous color which makes him seem a splash of brilliant sunshine. The female, although marked much the same, has the back so dull and mottled that it looks olive-brown; the rump, breast, and under parts are yellow but by no means showy. The advantage of these quiet colors to the mother bird is obvious since it is she that makes the nest and sits in it without attracting attention to its location. In fact, when she is sitting, her brilliant mate places himself far enough away to distract the attention of meddlers, yet near enough for her to see the flash of his breast in the sunshine and to hear his rich and cheering song. He is a good spouse and brings her the materials for the nest which she weaves in, hanging head downward from a twig and using her long sharp beak for a shuttle. And his glorious song is for her alone; some hold that no two orioles have the same song; I know of two individuals at least whose songs were sung by no other birds; one gave a phrase from the Waldvogel's song in Sigfried; the other whistled over and over, "Sweet birdie, hello, hello." The orioles can chatter and scold as well as sing.

The oriole is a brave defender of his nest and a most devoted father, working hard to feed his ever hungry nestlings; we can hear these hollow mites peeping for more food, "Tee dee dee, Tee dee dee", shrill and constant, if we stop for a moment under the nest in June. The young birds dress in the safe colors of the mother, the males not donning their bright plumage until the second year. A brilliant colored fledgling would not live long in a world where sharp eyes are in constant quest for little birds to fill empty stomachs.

The food of the oriole places it among our most beneficial birds, since it is always ready to cope with the hairy caterpillars avoided by most birds; it has learned to abstract the caterpillar from his spines and is thus able to swallow him minus his "whiskers." The orioles are waging a great war against the terrible brown-tail and gipsy moths in New England; they also eat click beetles and many other noxious insects. Once when we were breeding big caterpillars in the Cornell insectary, an oriole came in through the open windows of the greenhouse, and thinking he had found a bonanza proceeded to work it, carrying off our precious crawlers before we discovered what he was at.

The orioles winter in Central America and give us scarcely four months of their company. They do not usually appear before May and leave in early September.

 

Below are some additional poems about the ocean.

The Secret of the Sea
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me
As I gaze upon the sea!
All the old romantic legends,
All my dreams, come back to me.

Sails of silk and ropes of sandal,
Such as gleam in ancient lore;
And the singing of the sailors,
And the answer from the shore!

Most of all, the Spanish ballad
Haunts me oft, and tarries long,
Of the noble Count Arnaldos
And the sailor's mystic song.

Like the long waves on a sea-beach,
Where the sand as silver shines,
With a soft, monotonous cadence,
Flow its unrhymed lyric lines:--

Telling how the Count Arnaldos,
With his hawk upon his hand,
Saw a fair and stately galley,
Steering onward to the land;--

How he heard the ancient helmsman
Chant a song so wild and clear,
That the sailing sea-bird slowly
Poised upon the mast to hear,

Till his soul was full of longing,
And he cried, with impulse strong,--
"Helmsman! for the love of heaven,
Teach me, too, that wondrous song!"

"Wouldst thou,"--so the helmsman answered,
"Learn the secret of the sea?
Only those who brave its dangers
Comprehend its mystery!"

In each sail that skims the horizon,
In each landward-blowing breeze,
I behold that stately galley,
Hear those mournful melodies;

Till my soul is full of longing
For the secret of the sea,
And the heart of the great ocean
Sends a thrilling pulse through me.

 

Break, Break, Break
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

 

Aboard at Ship's Helm
by Walt Whitman

Aboard at a ship's helm,
A young steersman steering with care.

Through fog on a sea-coast dolefully ringing,
An ocean-bell--O a warning bell, rock'd by the waves.

O you give good notice indeed, you bell by the sea-reefs ringing,
Ringing, ringing, to warn the ship from its wreck-place.

For as on the alert O steersman, you mind the loud admonition,
The bows turn, the freighted ship tacking speeds away under her gray sails,
The beautiful and noble ship with all her precious wealth speeds
away gayly and safe.

But O the ship, the immortal ship! O ship aboard the ship!
Ship of the body, ship of the soul, voyaging, voyaging, voyaging.

 

 

Intermediate Language Lessons Part 3, Lesson 22, Selection For Study

The poem as written in the book is incomplete. Here is the full poem.

Down to Sleep
H. H. Jackson

November woods are bare and still;
November days are clear and bright;
Each noon burns up the morning's chill;
The morning's snow is gone by night;
Each day my steps grow slow, grow light,
As through the woods I reverent creep,
Watching all things lie "down to sleep."

I never knew before what beds,
Fragrant to smell, and soft to touch,
The forest sifts and shapes and spreads;
I never knew before how much
Of human sound there is in such
Low tones as through the forest sweep
When all wild things lie "down to sleep."

Each day I find new coverlids
Tucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight;
Sometimes the viewless mother bids
Her ferns kneel down, full in my sight;
I hear their chorus of "good-night";
And half I smile, and half I weep,
Listening while they lie "down to sleep."

November woods are bare and still;
November days are bright and good;
Life's noon burns up life's morning chill;
Life's night rests feet which long have stood;
Some warm, soft bed in field or wood,
The mother will not fail to keep,
Where we can lay us "down to sleep."

 

 

Helen Hunt JacksonHELEN HUNT, THE LITTLE GIRL

Several years ago a very mischievous little girl was living in the old-fashioned town of Amherst, Massachusetts. This little girl was Helen Maria Fiske. She was mischievous to be sure and she loved fun dearly, but her frank, honest confessions always kept her from being actually naughty.

Now, if there was one thing little Helen loved more than all others it was to run wild in the fields and meadows around Amherst. Without fear she climbed high fences—so high that no other children would think of climbing them. She waded across brooks in the pasture land to find the first touches of early spring. Then she came home loaded with fresh red berries, and strange plants which she had found by the way.

On one of these trips, Helen with a little girl friend, ran from one grove to another, fairly delighting in the treasures of the woods. No one knew where they were going. As they pushed away the pine needles they found mosses, cones, and acorns which they collected in little heaps to be picked up on their way home.

They begged a lunch from a nearby farm house and seated on a sunny doorstep they ate their bread and milk with hungry relish and then hid their spoons and bowls under a lilac bush in the door yard.

When twilight came and the children had not returned, the people in the town of Amherst, the college boys and the professors all started out to search for them. Several miles from home they found the happy little girls sitting before a warm kitchen fire to dry their shoes and stockings.

A little before ten o'clock that night Helen rushed into her house exclaiming in her very merriest tones. "Oh, mother, I've had a perfectly splendid time."

Childhood days at Amherst were altogether too short. At the age of twelve, Miss Helen and her younger sister were left without father or mother. A dear old grandfather took care of them, but these little girls never knew again the joy of a childhood home. They went to school—learning a little here and a little there, wherever they happened to be.

While still a young lady, Miss Helen married Major Edward Hunt, to begin again the home life which she had dropped at the age of twelve.

HELEN HUNT JACKSON, THE WOMAN

Although Mrs. Jackson was no longer a child, she never lost her joy in things out-of-doors. Early in the morning she was up to watch the sun rise over the hilltops, and all day long she lived in its warmth and sunshine until it faded away into evening.

Everywhere she found something to delight her. The procession of garden flowers from the lily-of-the-valley to the great purple aster, the woodlands, the meadows and the hills, each poured its share of joy into her out-stretched hands.

During many summers Mrs. Jackson made her home in Bethlehem, New Hampshire, a small hamlet in the White Mountains. She wrote her friends of the beauty of the place. Many of them came to see it and stayed all summer. The next year the little village was so crowded that Mrs. Jackson could find no rooms.

"Ah," she laughingly said, "it's a bad plan to tell other boys where the birds' nests are."

The summers at Bethlehem were very happy ones for Mrs. Jackson. She tramped almost daily through fields of daisies and golden cups, or farther away over the wooded hills, —always watching for the surprises of nature.

At sight of an empty nest she would say, "Oh, an empty nest, I wonder where the little brood has flown." A tiny track showed her that a squirrel had passed that way in gathering in his nuts. A trailing vine, a stone of unusual beauty, a plant in its last flowering—nothing was too small to claim her attention.

At each fresh surprise her face would brighten and become as innocently childish as when she came home from the Amherst woods after the "perfectly splendid time."

With her marriage in 1875 to Mr. William Jackson, her home was afterwards in Colorado Springs. In those old-time days Colorado was fairly brimming with wild flowers. The ravines and slopes were covered with wide-eyed anemones, the yellow columbine, crimson and white roses, lilies, and painter's brush. Mrs. Jackson soon learned to know them all, and watched with eagerness for the return of each in its own season.

At the foot of Cheyenne Mountain there is a little plot which is still called Mrs. Jackson's Garden. To this little garden Mrs. Jackson came each day, always sure she would find just what she wanted. With loaded arms she carried flower patch and rose thicket from the mountain into her home. Great vases of flowers were in every possible place. Around her desk and pictures were trailing vines and berries, and through the wide open windows came the very breath of the fresh air in which they grew.

It was Mrs. Jackson's wish to be buried on the slope of this same mountain. In the early summer of 1884 she was laid to rest in a peaceful spot, "tree shaded and sun warmed," with only the forest birds, the mountain streams, and the wild flowers around her.

 

 

This lesson has the student write the story of David the Shepherd Boy as it is told in the Bible. Here is what my daughter wrote. I noted in the Instructor's Guide, "Answers will vary. Each student will be different as far as how much detail they put into their stories. My daughter wrote three pages double-spaced, but then she added a lot of detail and dialogue."

David and Goliath

By MaryEllen Albright

All I remember is the Philistines were at war and which ever side won got to take the other side as slaves.

Then the Philistines sent out Goliath. He was so big that the Israelites didn't dare go up to face him. Goliath dared them to come out, but they were afraid. For forty days Goliath dared them, but they didn't face him.

Then one day, David came by the camp to check on his brothers (I think that is why he went by). While he was there, Goliath came and dared the Israelites to send one of their best men to come and fight him. When no one stepped up, David asked his brothers why no one would stand up to Goliath. They said there was no one brave enough to face him. David knew he had to do something.

So, he went and picked out five small smooth stones and then took his sling and went to face Goliath.

When Goliath saw that David was going to fight him, he just laughed and said, "Is this your best man? hahaha!" David looked at him and said, "I am not afraid of you, for I know God is with me." He then took one of the five stones and put it in his sling. With one swift move, he flung the small stone at the giant man and it hit him right in the middle of his forehead.

David cut Goliath's head off with his own giant sword.

The Philistines, knowing what Goliath's defeat meant, fled.

The Israelites rejoiced in their victory.

 

 

Jean François Millet Gleaners

The Gleaners" is the greatest picture of the subject ever painted. lt is the Work of Jean Francois Millet, a celebrated French artist, and now hangs in the Louvre, Paris. ln this immortal masterpiece Millet has painted something more than mere workers gleaning in the fields. He has lovingly rendered the spirit of their work, the qualities of their thought—simplicity, dignity, patience, and forbearance.

 

Picture Study - "The Gleaners"
By Elizabeth Jane Merrill

His masterpiece, “The Gleaners,” is the greatest picture of the subject ever painted. It is the work of Jean Francois Millet and now hangs in the Louvre, Paris. How simply the master has painted this picture, showing three peasant women working in the fields. Millet knew such workers well, for his own mother had always helped with the outdoor work.

Millet loved the peasants and their simple, patient way of working. In this painting see how he has made the workers, almost entirely massed below the sky line, of first importance, and has kept the rest of the picture secondary in interest. How well he has balanced his masses. On the left the two low-bending figures, the straw stacks and the high wagons in the background, together with the unbroken horizon line, exactly balance the half-raised woman and the long sky line, broken by a few peasant homes and trees, with a horse and rider as a note of accent.

Notice the bulk, the mass, of these figures. Painting largely from memory, Millet retained and pictured the big truths and avoided petty details. With mastery he expressed moving bones and working muscles. See how strong the arms appear to be, how well they are joined to the body, how they swing in rhythmical motion as the women stoop to pick up the stray wisps of grain. The right arms swing down to earth, up to the bundle in the left, down and up; one can almost feel the swinging motion as the workers move over the fields. Such dignity and beauty is expressed by these peasants, that they remind us of some of the great sculpture.

Have you noticed that the woman on the left works with left arm across her back? This position distributes the weight and so is restful and natural.

The half-lifted figure on the right forms a beautiful sweeping curve against the fields, which is echoed or repeated by the bending backs of the other two, and again, slightly varied, by the stacks of straw in the distance. It is a simple arrangement of parts that forms a beautiful harmony, centralized in interest.

Let us see if you can imagine and place in your memory the color harmony of “The Gleaners,” as I tell it to you. The sky is gray-blue with a touch of pink, a sky that does not attract the attention from the lower part of the picture. The straw stacks are warm yellow, melting into a deeper red-brown tone on the left. On the right the yellow has faded to a lighter tint, almost gray-green, while in the far distance there is a suggestion of purple.

The figure on the right is dressed in washed-out blue, the skirt darker, with cap of yellow-brown, apron similar in color but with more red, harmonizing with the red-brown foreground which grows darker toward the lower right corner of the picture.

The middle figure wears a dark brown skirt and blouse of very pale blue, with cap and oversleeves of red.

A deep blue cap, beautiful against the yellow fields, a darker skirt, and a blouse suggestive of red-brown, are worn by the worker on the left.

The face and hands of all three are bronzed by the long hours spent in the hot sun.

You see that the pale blue skirt on the right and the blouse in the middle, so effectively paced against the dark skirt, echo the rich blue cap on the left.

Millet knew how to balance masses of color as well as masses of form. His pictures are beautiful expressions of what he loved because he knew how to compose and arrange, to balance color and masses of light and dark, so that everything keeps its proper place. They are masterpieces of art in true beauty of line, form, and color. "So it is not only what Millet painted but very largely the way he painted that gives to him a place with the great masters.

SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS
These are additional questions than the ones found in Intermediate Language Lessons Part 3 Lesson 7. They are optional and can be used to further the study.

1. Do you know the name of the artist who painted this picture and the country in which he lived?
2. Can you find on the map the country, the section in which he was born, and the big city near which he lived for so many years?
3. Can you name a man in history famous as a conqueror, who came from Normandy!
4. Do you know of any particular country which made war on France during Millet’s lifetime?
5. Can you give the name of the great art gallery in Paris in which Millet spent so much time?
6. What is the name of this masterpiece and what is the meaning of the word?
7. Millet’s pictures are not filled with pretty people; then why do we love them?
8. Do you think Millet painted the truth about the people working in the fields?