ing current with desperate strength.

Three times he was on the point of grasping the child, when the waters
whirled the prize from him. The third effort was made above the fall;
and when it failed, the mother groaned, fully expecting the youth to
give up his task. But no; he only pressed forward the more eagerly.

And now, like an arrow from the bow, pursuer and pursued shot to the
brink of the precipice. An instant they hung there, distinctly visible
amid the foaming waters. Every brain grew dizzy at the sight. But a
shout of exultation burst from the spectators, when they saw the boy
held aloft by the right arm of the young hero. And thus he brought the
child back to the distracted mother.

With a most fervent blessing, she thanked the young man for his heroic
deed. And was this blessing heard? Most assuredly; for the
self-sacrificing spirit which characterized the life of this youth was
none other than that of George Washington, the First President of the
United States.

LESSON XLI

AUTUMN

September has come. The fierce heat of summer is gone. Men are at
work in the fields cutting down the yellow grain, and binding it up
into sheaves. The fields of corn stand in thick ranks, heavy with ears.

The boughs of the orchard hang low with the red and golden fruit.
Laughing boys are picking up the purple plums and the red-cheeked
peaches that have fallen in the high grass. Large, rich melons are on
the garden vines, and sweet grapes hang in clusters by the wall.

The larks with their black and yellow breasts stand watching you on the
close-mown meadow. As you come near, they spring up, fly a little
distance, and light again. The robins, that long ago left the gardens,
feed in flocks upon the red berries of the sumac, and the soft-eyed
pigeons are with them to claim their share. The lazy blackbirds follow
the cows and pick up crickets and other insects.

At noon, the air is still, mild, and soft. You see blue smoke off by
the distant wood and hills. The brook is almost dry. The water runs
over the pebbles with a soft, low murmur. The goldenrod is on the
hill, the aster by the brook, and the sunflower in the garden.

The twitter of the birds is still heard. The sheep graze upon the
brown hillside. The merry whistle of the plowboy comes up from the
field, and the cow lows in the distant pasture.

As the sun sinks in the October haze, the low, south wind creeps over
the dry tree-tops, an