THE LOCKSMITH OF THE GOLDEN

KEY

CHARLES DICKENS

FROM the workshop of the Golden Key there issued forth a tinkling sound, so merry and goodhumored, that it suggested the idea of some one working blithely, and made quite pleasant music. Tink, tink, tink — clear as a silver bell, and audible at every pause of the street's harsher noises, as though it said, "I don't care; nothing puts me out; I am resolved to be happy."

Women scolded, children squalled, heavy carts. went rumbling by, horrible cries proceeded from the lungs of hawkers. Still it struck in again, no higher, no lower, no louder, no softer; not thrusting itself on people's notice a bit the more for having been outdone by louder sounds - tink, tink, tink, tink, tink.

It was a perfect embodiment of the still small voice, free from all cold, hoarseness, huskiness, or unhealthiness of any kind. Foot-passengers slackened their pace, and were disposed to linger near it. Neighbors who had got up splenetic that morning felt good humor stealing on them as they heard it, and by degrees became quite sprightly. Mothers danced their babies to its ringing - still the same magical tink, tink, tink, came gayly from the workshop of the Golden Key.

Who but the locksmith could have made such music? A gleam of sun, shining through the unsashed window, and checkering the dark workshop with a broad patch of light, fell full upon him, as though attracted by his sunny heart. There he stood, working at his anvil, his face radiant with exercise and gladness-the easiest, freest, happiest man in all the world.

Beside him sat a sleek cat, purring and winking in the light, and falling every now and then into an idle doze, as from excess of comfort. The very locks that hung around had something jovial in their rust, and seemed like gouty old gentlemen of hearty natures, disposed to joke on their infirmities.

scene.

There was nothing surly or severe in the whole It seemed impossible that any one of the innumerable keys could fit a churlish strongbox or a prison-door. Storehouses of good things, rooms where there were fires, books, gossip, and cheering laughter - these were their proper sphere of action. Places of distrust and cruelty and restraint they would have quadruple locked forever.

Tink, tink, tink. No man who hammered on at a dull, monotonous duty could have brought such cheerful notes from steel and iron; none but a chirping, healthy, honest-hearted fellow, who made the best of everything, and felt kindly toward everybody, could have done it for an instant. He

might have been a coppersmith, and still been musical. If he had sat in a jolting wagon, full of rods of iron, it seemed as if he would have brought some harmony out of it.

hawk'er, a street pedler:

au'di ble, loud enough to be heard. em bod'i ment, representation, in one body.

splen'et ic, fretful; ill-tempered. quad'ru ple locked, locked four times

over.

mo not'on ous, unchanging, and so, tiresome.

CHARLES DICKENS (1812-1870) was a great English novelist. He often wrote in such a way as to help make life more pleasant for the poor and the unfortunate. "The Christmas Carol," "Oliver Twist," and "David Copperfield" are much read by young people. The extract given above is from "Barnaby Rudge."

SEPTEMBER

GEORGE ARNOLD

SWEET is the voice that calls

From babbling waterfalls

In meadows where the downy seeds are flying;
And soft the breezes blow,

And eddying come and go,
In faded gardens where the rose is dying.

Among the stubbled corn

The blithe quail pipes at morn,

The merry partridge drums in hidden places;
And glittering insects gleam

Above the reedy stream

Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces.

At eve, cool shadows fall

Across the garden wall,

And on the clustered grapes to purple turning; And pearly vapors lie

Along the eastern sky,

Where the broad harvest moon is redly burning.

Ah, soon on field and hill

The wind shall whistle chill,

And patriarch swallows call their flocks together,
To fly from frost and snow,

And seek for lands where blow
The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather.

The pollen-dusted bees

Search for the honey-lees

That linger in the last flowers of September;
While plaintive mourning doves

Coo sadly to their loves

Of the dead summer they so well remember.

The cricket chirps all day,

"O fairest Summer, stay!'

The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning; The wildfowl fly afar

Above the foamy bar,

And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning.

pa'tri arch, the father and ruler of a lees, that which lies settled at the family.

bottom.

a skance', with a side glance.

GEORGE ARNOLD (1834-1865) was an American poet.