The Ontario Readers: Third Book
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Title: The Ontario Readers: Third Book
Author: Ontario. Department of Education
Release date: June 12, 2006 [eBook #18561]
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ONTARIO READERS: THIRD BOOK ***
Produced by Suzanne Lybarger, Karina Aleksandrova and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
[Illustration: One Flag
One Fleet
One Throne
The Union Jack]
THE ONTARIO READERS
THIRD BOOK
AUTHORIZED BY
THE MINISTER OF EDUCATION
The price of this book to the purchaser is not the total cost.
During the present period of abnormal and fluctuating
trade conditions, an additional sum, which may vary
from time to time, is paid to the Publisher
by the Department of Education.
Entered, according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year 1909,
in the office of the Minister of Agriculture by the
Minister of Education for Ontario.
TORONTO:
THE T. EATON Co LIMITED
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
THE MINISTER OF EDUCATION is indebted to Rudyard Kipling, Henry
Newbolt, Beckles Willson, E. B. Osborn, F. T. Bullen, Flora Annie Steel;
Charles G. D. Roberts, W. Wilfred Campbell, Ethelwyn Wetherald, Jean
Blewett, Robert Reid, "Ralph Connor," John Waugh, S. T. Wood; Henry Van
Dyke, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward, and Richard Watson Gilder for
special permission to reproduce, in this Reader, selections from their
writings.
He is indebted to Lord Tennyson for special permission to reproduce the
poems from the works of Alfred, Lord Tennyson; to Lloyd Osbourne for
permission to reproduce the selection from the works of Robert Louis
Stevenson; and to J. F. Edgar for permission to reproduce one of Sir
James D. Edgar's poems.
He is also indebted to Macmillan & Co., Limited, for special permission,
to reproduce selections from the works of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Rudyard
Kipling, and Flora Annie Steel; to Smith, Elder & Co., for the extract
from F. T. Bullen's "The Cruise of the Cachalot"; to Elkin Mathews for
Henry Newbolt's poem from "The Island Race"; to Sampson Low, Marston &
Company for the extract from R. D. Blackmore's "Lorna Doone"; to Thomas
Nelson & Sons for the extract from W. F. Collier's "History of the
British Empire"; to Chatto and Windus for the extract from E. B. Osborn's
"Greater Canada"; to Houghton Mifflin Company for "The Chase" from
Charles Dudley Warner's "A-Hunting of the Deer," "Mary Elizabeth" by
Mrs. Phelps Ward, and the poems by Celia Thaxter and by Richard Watson
Gilder; to The Century Company for Jacob A. Riis' "The Story of a Fire"
from "_The Century Magazine_"; to The Copp Clark Co., Limited, for the
selections from Charles G. D. Roberts' works; to The Westminster Co.,
Limited, for the extract from "Ralph Connor's" "The Man from Glengarry."
The Minister is grateful to these authors and publishers and to others,
not mentioned here, through whose courtesy he has been able to include
in this Reader so many copyright selections.
Toronto, May, 1909.
CONTENTS
PAGE
_To-day_
_Thomas Carlyle_
1
Fortune and the Beggar
_Ivan Kirloff_
2
_The Lark and the Rook_
_Unknown_
4
The Pickwick Club on the Ice
_Charles Dickens_
6
_Tubal Cain_
_Charles Mackay_
11
Professor Frog's Lecture
_M. A. L. Lane_
14
_A Song for April_
_Charles G. D. Roberts_
25
How the Crickets Brought Good Fortune
_P. J. Stahl_
26
_The Battle of Blenheim_
_Robert Southey_
31
The Ride for Life
_"Ralph Connor"_
34
_Iagoo, the Boaster_
_Henry W. Longfellow_
39
The Story of a Fire
_Jacob A. Riis_
40
_The Quest_
_Eudora S. Bumstead_
43
The Jackal and the Partridge
_Flora Annie Steel_
44
_Hide and Seek_
_Henry Van Dyke_
50
The Burning of the "Goliath"
_Dean Stanley_
52
_Hearts of Oak_
_David Garrick_
55
_A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea_
_Allan Cunningham_
56
The Talents
_Bible_
57
_A Farewell_
_Charles Kingsley_
59
_An Apple Orchard in the Spring_
_William Martin_
60
The Bluejay
_"Mark Twain"_
61
_A Canadian Camping Song_
_Sir James David Edgar_
65
The Argonauts
_John Waugh_
66
_The Minstrel-Boy_
_Thomas Moore_
71
Mary Elizabeth
_Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward_
72
_The Frost_
_Hannah Flagg Gould_
83
_Corn-fields_
_Mary Howitt_
84
South-West Wind, Esq.
_John Ruskin_
86
_The Meeting of the Waters_
_Thomas Moore_
97
Love
_Bible_
98
_The Robin's Song_
_Unknown_
99
Work or Play
_"Mark Twain"_
100
_Burial of Sir John Moore_
_Charles Wolfe_
106
The Whistle
_Benjamin Franklin_
108
_A Canadian Boat Song_
_Thomas Moore_
109
The Little Hero of Haarlem
_Sharpe's London Magazine_
110
_Father William_
_"Lewis Carroll"_
115
David and Goliath
_Bible_
117
_Charge of the Light Brigade_
_Alfred, Lord Tennyson_
123
Maggie Tulliver
_George Eliot_
125
_The Corn Song_
_John G. Whittier_
134
Sports in Norman England
_William Fitzstephen_
136
_A Song of Canada_
_Robert Reid_
140
A Mad Tea Party
_"Lewis Carroll"_
142
_The Slave's Dream_
_Henry W. Longfellow_
149
The Chase
_Charles Dudley Warner_
152
_The Inchcape Rock_
_Robert Southey_
158
A Rough Ride
_Richard D. Blackmore_
161
_The Arab and His Steed_
_The Honourable Mrs. Norton_
169
_The Poet's Song_
_Alfred, Lord Tennyson_
173
Adventure with a Whale
_Frank T. Bullen_
174
_The Maple_
_H. F. Darnell_
179
Damon and Pythias
_Charlotte M. Yonge_
181
_The Wreck of the Orpheus_
_C. A. L._
184
_The Tide River_
_Charles Kingsley_
185
Wisdom the Supreme Prize
_Bible_
187
_The Orchard_
_Jean Blewett_
188
Inspired by the Snow
_Samuel T. Wood_
189
_The Squirrel_
_William Cowper_
192
_Soldier, Rest_
_Sir Walter Scott_
192
Fishing
_Thomas Hughes_
193
_The Fountain_
_James Russell Lowell_
199
_Break, Break, Break_
_Alfred, Lord Tennyson_
201
The Bed of Procrustes
_Charles Kingsley_
202
_"Bob White"_
_George Cooper_
208
Radisson and the Indians
_Beckles Willson_
209
_The Brook_
_Alfred, Lord Tennyson_
212
"Do Seek Their Meat From God"
_Charles G. D. Roberts_
215
_A Song of the Sea_
_"Barry Cornwall"_
222
Little Daffydowndilly
_Nathaniel Hawthorne_
223
_The Sandpiper_
_Celia Thaxter_
234
From "The Sermon on the Mount"
_Bible_
236
_The Legend of Saint Christopher_
_Helen Hunt Jackson_
237
William Tell and His Son
_Chamber's "Tracts"_
241
_A Midsummer Song_
_Richard Watson Gilder_
244
The Relief of Lucknow
_"Letter from an officer's wife"_
246
_The Song in Camp_
_Bayard Taylor_
250
_Afterglow_
_William Wilfred Campbell_
252
King Richard and Saladin
_Sir Walter Scott_
253
_England's Dead_
_Felicia Hemans_
258
_Hohenlinden_
_Thomas Campbell_
260
The Dream of the Oak Tree
_Hans Christian Andersen_
262
A Prayer
_Robert Louis Stevenson_
266
_The Death of the Flowers_
_William Cullen Bryant_
267
_'Tis the Last Rose of Summer_
_Thomas Moore_
269
A Roman's Honour
_Charlotte M. Yonge_
270
_The Fighting Téméraire_
_Henry Newbolt_
273
Don Quixote's Fight with the Windmills
_Miguel de Cervantes_
275
_The Romance of the Swan's Nest_
_Elizabeth Barrett Browning_
281
Moonlight Sonata
_Unknown_
285
_The Red-Winged Blackbird_
_Ethelwyn Wetherald_
290
_To the Cuckoo_
_John Logan_
291
The Story of a Stone
_D. B._
293
_The Snow-Storm_
_John G. Whittier_
298
The Heroine of Verchères
_Francis Parkman_
301
_Jacques Cartier_
_Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee_
307
Ants and Their Slaves
_Jules Michelet_
310
_Lead, Kindly Light_
_John Henry Newman_
315
The Jolly Sandboys
_Charles Dickens_
316
_The Gladness of Nature_
_William Cullen Bryant_
324
Old English Life
_William F. Collier_
325
_Puck's Song_
_Rudyard Kipling_
330
The Battle of Queenston Heights
_Unknown_
332
_The Bugle Song_
_Alfred, Lord Tennyson_
337
Charity
_Bible_
338
_A Christmas Carol_
_James Russell Lowell_
339
The Barren Lands
_E. B. Osborn_
341
_A Spring Morning_
_William Wordsworth_
345
_Crossing the Bar_
_Alfred, Lord Tennyson_
346
EMPIRE DAY
I want you to remember what Empire Day means. Empire Day is the festival
on which every British subject should reverently remember that the
British Empire stands out before the whole world as the fearless
champion of freedom, fair play and equal rights; that its watchwords are
responsibility, duty, sympathy and self-sacrifice, and that a special
responsibility rests with you individually to be true to the traditions
and to the mission of your race.
I also want you to remember that one day Canada will become, if her
people are faithful to their high British traditions, the most powerful
of all the self-governing nations, not excluding the people of the
United Kingdom, which make up the British Empire, and that it rests with
each one of you individually to do your utmost by your own conduct and
example to make Canada not only the most powerful, but the noblest of
all the self-governing nations that are proud to owe allegiance to the
King.
Earl Grey.
Governor-General of Canada
THIRD READER
TO-DAY
So here hath been dawning
Another blue day;
Think, wilt thou let it
Slip useless away?
Out of Eternity
This new day is born;
Into Eternity
At night will return.
Behold it aforetime
No eye ever did;
So soon it forever
From all eyes is hid.
Here hath been dawning
Another blue day;
Think, wilt thou let it
Slip useless away?
CARLYLE
FORTUNE AND THE BEGGAR
One day a ragged beggar was creeping along from house to house. He
carried an old wallet in his hand, and was asking at every door for a
few cents to buy something to eat. As he was grumbling at his lot, he
kept wondering why it was that folks who had so much money were never
satisfied but were always wanting more.
"Here," said he, "is the master of this house--I know him well. He was
always a good business man, and he made himself wondrously rich a long
time ago. Had he been wise he would have stopped then. He would have
turned over his business to some one else, and then he could have spent
the rest of his life in ease. But what did he do instead? He built ships
and sent them to sea to trade with foreign lands. He thought he would
get mountains of gold.
"But there were great storms on the water; his ships were wrecked, and
his riches were swallowed up by the waves. Now all his hopes lie at the
bottom of the sea, and his great wealth has vanished.
"There are many such cases. Men seem to be never satisfied unless they
gain the whole world.
"As for me, if I had only enough to eat and to wear, I would not want
anything more."
Just at that moment Fortune came down the street. She saw the beggar and
stopped. She said to him:
"Listen! I have long wished to help you. Hold your wallet and I will
pour this gold into it, but only on this condition: all that falls into
the wallet shall be pure gold; but every piece that falls upon the
ground shall become dust. Do you understand?"
"Oh, yes, I understand," said the beggar.
"Then have a care," said Fortune. "Your wallet is old, so do not load it
too heavily."
The beggar was so glad that he could hardly wait. He quickly opened his
wallet, and a stream of yellow dollars poured into it. The wallet grew
heavy.
"Is that enough?" asked Fortune.
"Not yet."
"Isn't it cracking?"
"Never fear."
The beggar's hands began to tremble. Ah, if the golden stream would only
pour for ever!
"You are the richest man in the world now!"
"Just a little more, add just a handful or two."
"There, it's full. The wallet will burst."
"But it will hold a little, just a little more!"
Another piece was added, and the wallet split. The treasure fell upon
the ground and was turned to dust. Fortune had vanished. The beggar had
now nothing but his empty wallet, and it was torn from top to bottom. He
was as poor as before.
IVAN KIRLOFF
THE LARK AND THE ROOK
"Good-night, Sir Rook!" said a little lark,
"The daylight fades; it will soon be dark;
I've bathed my wings in the sun's last ray;
I've sung my hymn to the parting day;
So now I haste to my quiet nook
In yon dewy meadow--good-night, Sir Rook!"
"Good-night, poor Lark," said his titled friend
With a haughty toss and a distant bend;
"I also go to my rest profound,
But not to sleep on the cold, damp ground.
The fittest place for a bird like me
Is the topmost bough of yon tall pine tree.
"I opened my eyes at peep of day
And saw you taking your upward way,
Dreaming your fond romantic dreams,
An ugly speck in the sun's bright beams,
Soaring too high to be seen or heard;
And I said to myself: 'What a foolish bird!'
"I trod the park with a princely air;
I filled my crop with the richest fare;
I cawed all day 'mid a lordly crew,
And I made more noise in the world than you!
The sun shone forth on my ebon wing;
I looked and wondered--good-night, poor thing!"
"Good-night, once more," said the lark's sweet voice,
"I see no cause to repent my choice;
You build your nest in the lofty pine,
But is your slumber more sweet than mine?
You make more noise in the world than I,
But whose is the sweeter minstrelsy?"
UNKNOWN
What stronger breast-plate than a heart untainted?
Thrice is he armed, that hath his quarrel just;
And he but naked, though locked up in steel,
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.
SHAKESPEARE
THE PICKWICK CLUB ON THE ICE
"You skate, of course, Winkle?" said Wardle.
"Ye-yes; oh, yes," replied Mr. Winkle. "I--I--am _rather_ out of
practice."
"Oh, _do_ skate, Mr. Winkle," said Arabella. "I like to see it so much."
"Oh, it is _so_ graceful," said another young lady. A third young lady
said it was elegant, and a fourth expressed her opinion that it was
"swan-like."
"I should be very happy, I'm sure," said Mr. Winkle, reddening; "but I
have no skates."
This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had got a couple of pair,
and the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more downstairs,
whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely
uncomfortable.
Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and the fat boy
and Mr. Weller, having shovelled and swept away the snow which had
fallen on it during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a
dexterity which to Mr. Winkle seemed perfectly marvellous, and described
circles with his left leg, and cut figures of eight, and inscribed upon
the ice, without once stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant
and astonishing devices, to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick,
Mr. Tupman, and the ladies; which reached a pitch of positive
enthusiasm, when old Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by the
aforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions, which they
called a reel.
All this time, Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold,
had been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his feet, and putting his
skates on with the points behind, and getting the straps into a very
complicated and entangled state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass,
who knew rather less about skates than a Hindoo. At length, however,
with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly
screwed and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet.
"Now, then, sir," said Sam in an encouraging tone; "off vith you, and
show 'em how to do it."
"Stop, Sam, stop," said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and clutching
hold of Sam's arms with the grasp of a drowning man. "How slippery it
is, Sam!"
"Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir," replied Mr. Weller. "Hold up,
sir."
This last observation of Mr. Weller's bore reference to a demonstration
Mr. Winkle made at the instant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet
into the air and dash the back of his head on the ice.
"These--these--are very awkward skates; ain't they, Sam?" inquired Mr.
Winkle, staggering.
"I'm afeerd there's an orkard gen'lm'n in 'em, sir," replied Sam.
"Now, Winkle," cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was
anything the matter. "Come, the ladies are all anxiety."
"Yes, yes," replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. "I'm coming."
"Just a goin' to begin," said Sam, endeavouring to disengage himself.
"Now, sir, start off."
"Stop an instant, Sam," gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionately
to Mr. Weller. "I find I've a couple of coats at home that I don't want,
Sam. You may have them, Sam."
"Thank'ee, sir," replied Mr. Weller.
"Never mind touching your hat, Sam," said Mr. Winkle, hastily. "You
needn't take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you five
shillings this morning for a Christmas-box, Sam. I'll give it to you
this afternoon, Sam."
"You're wery good, sir," replied Mr. Weller.
"Just hold me at first, Sam; will you?" said Mr. Winkle. "There--that's
right. I shall soon get into the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam; not
too fast."
Mr. Winkle, stooping forward with his body half doubled up, was being
assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a very singular and un-swan-like
manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite
bank--
"Sam!"
"Sir?" said Mr. Weller.
"Here. I want you."
"Let go, sir," said Sam. "Don't you hear the governor a-callin'? Let go,
sir!"
With a violent effort, Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of
the agonized Pickwickian; and, in so doing, administered a considerable
impetus to the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of
dexterity or practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman
bore swiftly down into the centre of the reel, at the very moment when
Mr. Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty. Mr.
Winkle struck wildly against him, and with a loud crash they both fell
heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his
feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind in
skates. He was seated on the ice making spasmodic efforts to smile; but
anguish was depicted on every lineament of his countenance.
"Are you hurt?" inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety.
"Not much," said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard.
"I wish you'd let me bleed you," said Mr. Benjamin, with great
eagerness.
"No, thank you," replied Mr. Winkle hurriedly.
"I really think you had better," said Allen.
"Thank you," replied Mr. Winkle "I'd rather not."
"What do _you_ think, Mr. Pickwick?" inquired Bob Sawyer.
Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller, and
said in a stern voice:
"Take his skates off."
The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it in
silence.
"Lift him up," said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise.
Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the bystanders; and,
beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and
uttered in a low but distinct and emphatic tone these remarkable words:
"You're a humbug, sir."
"A what?" said Mr. Winkle, starting.
"A humbug, sir. I will speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor, sir."
With these words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel and rejoined
his friends.
DICKENS: "The Pickwick Papers."
TUBAL CAIN
Old Tubal Cain was a man of might,
In the days when earth was young;
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright,
The strokes of his hammer rung:
And he lifted high his brawny hand
On the iron glowing clear,
Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers,
As he fashioned the sword and spear.
And he sang--"Hurrah for my handiwork!
Hurrah for the spear and sword!
Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well,
For he shall be king and lord!"
To Tubal Cain came many a one,
As he wrought by his roaring fire;
And each one prayed for a strong steel blade,
As the crown of his desire;
And he made them weapons sharp and strong,
Till they shouted loud for glee;
And they gave him gifts of pearls and gold,
And spoils of the forest free.
And they sang--"Hurrah for Tubal Cain,
Who hath given us strength anew!
Hurrah for the smith, hurrah for the fire,
And hurrah for the metal true!"
But a sudden change came o'er his heart,
Ere the setting of the sun;
And Tubal Cain was filled with pain
For the evil he had done:
He saw that men, with rage and hate,
Made war upon their kind,
That the land was red with the blood they shed,
In their lust for carnage blind.
And he said--"Alas! that I ever made,
Or that skill of mine should plan,
The spear and the sword for men whose joy
Is to slay their fellow-man!"
And for many a day old Tubal Cain
Sat brooding o'er his woe;
And his hand forbore to smite the ore,
And his furnace smouldered low.
But he rose at last with a cheerful face,
And a bright courageous eye,
And bared his strong right arm for work,
While the quick flames mounted high.
And he sang--"Hurrah for my handiwork!"
And the red sparks lit the air;
"Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made,"
And he fashioned the first ploughshare.
And men, taught wisdom from the past,
In friendship joined their hands;
Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,
And ploughed the willing lands:
And sang--"Hurrah for Tubal Cain!
Our stanch good friend is he;
And for the ploughshare and the plough,
To him our praise shall be.
But while oppression lifts its head,
Or a tyrant would be lord;
Though we may thank him for the plough,
We'll not forget the sword!"
CHARLES MACKAY
PROFESSOR FROG'S LECTURE
Bobby was not quite sure that he was awake, but when he opened his eyes
there was the blue sky, with the soft, white clouds drifting across it,
the big pine waving its spicy branches over his head, and beyond, the
glint of sunshine on the waters of the pond. Presently Bobby heard
voices talking softly.
"This is a good specimen," said one voice. "See how stout and strong he
looks!"
"I wonder who that is, and what he has found," thought Bobby. "I wish it
wasn't such hard work to keep my eyes open." He made a great effort,
however, and raised his heavy lids. At first he could see nothing. Then
he caught a glimpse of a mossy log, with a row of frogs and toads
sitting upon it. They were looking solemnly at him. Bobby felt a little
uncomfortable under that steady gaze.
"The toads are making their spring visit to the pond to lay their eggs,"
thought the boy. "I forgot that they were due this week."
"He must have done a good deal of mischief in his day," said an old
bull-frog, gravely. A chill crept over Bobby. "In his day."--What did
that mean?
A toad hopped out from the line and came so close to Bobby that he could
have touched her but for the strange spell which held him fast.
"Yes," said she; "this is one of the species. We are very fortunate to
have caught him. Now we shall be ready to listen to Professor Rana's
remarks."
Still Bobby could not move. What were they going to do? In a moment
there was a rustling among the dry leaves and dozens of frogs and toads
were seen hurrying towards the pine tree. Among them was a ponderous
frog, carrying a roll of manuscript under his arm. He wore huge goggles,
and looked so wise that Bobby did not dare to laugh.
"I am very sleepy," murmured a portly toad near Bobby's left ear. "I
laid over eight thousand eggs last night, and I have a long journey
before me. But I must stay to hear this. We may never have such a chance
again."
"Ladies and gentlemen," began the professor, in a sonorous tone that was
easily heard for several feet, "this is a specimen of the creature known
to us as the human tadpole. You will kindly observe his long legs. They
were doubtless given to him for the purpose of protection. Being
possessed of a most mischievous and reckless spirit, the species is
always getting into difficulties, and would probably become extinct if
it had not the power to run away."
"Nonsense!" said Bobby under his breath. There was a murmur of interest
and curiosity among the crowd. Bobby felt his legs twitch nervously, but
his power over them was gone.
"Otherwise," went on the lecturer, "he is not at all adapted to his
surroundings. Observe how carefully we are dressed. The frogs have the
green and brown tints of their homes by the water-side. The toads look
like lumps of dirt, so that they may not be too readily snapped up by
birds of prey. But the Boy--to call him by his scientific name--has no
such protection. Look at this red shirt and these white trousers, and
this hat as big as a trout pool! Could anything be more ridiculous? Even
a giraffe does not look so absurd as this."
A red flush mounted to Bobby's freckled cheeks, but this time he did not
try to speak.
"Now," said the professor, "as far as we have been able to learn, the
human tadpole is absolutely useless. We are, therefore, doing no harm in
experimenting upon this specimen. There are plenty of them, and this one
will not be a serious loss."
"Stop!" said Bobby, so unexpectedly that everybody jumped. "What are you
going to do with me?"
"You will be so kind as to lie still," said the professor severely. "At
present you are only a specimen."
There was no help for it. Bobby found it impossible to move hand or
foot. He could wriggle a little,--but that was all.
"Not only is the Boy entirely useless," went on the professor, "but he
is often what might be called a pest, even to his own kind. He is
endured in the world for what he may become when he is full-grown, and
even then he is sometimes disappointing. You are familiar with many of
his objectionable ways towards the animal world, but I am sure you would
be surprised if you knew what a care and trouble he frequently is to his
own people. He can be trusted to do few kinds of work. It is difficult
to keep him clean. He doesn't know how to get his own dinner. He has a
genius for making weaker things miserable. He likes fishing, and he
longs for a gun; he collects birds' eggs; he puts butterflies on pins;
he teases his little sisters."
"Why isn't the species exterminated?" asked another frog angrily.
Then the toad near Bobby's ear spoke timidly: "I think you are a little
unjust, Professor. I have known boys who were comparatively harmless."
"It is true there may be a few, Mrs. Bufo," said the professor with
great politeness, "but as a class they may be fairly set down as of very
doubtful value. Speak up, Tadpole, and say if I have made any false
statements so far."
Bobby fairly shouted in his eagerness to be heard.
"We do work," he said. "We have to go to school every day."
"What a help that must be to your parents and to the world at large!"
said the frog with sarcasm. "I am surprised that we never see the
results of such hard labour. Do you know how useful even our smallest
tadpoles are? Without them this pond would be no longer beautiful, but
foul and ill-smelling. As for what we do when we are grown up, modesty
forbids me to praise the frogs, but you know what a toad is worth to
mankind?"
"No," said Bobby. "About two cents, I guess." Bobby didn't intend to be
rude. He thought this a liberal valuation.
"Twenty dollars a year, as estimated by the Department of Agriculture!"
cried the frog triumphantly. "What do you think of that?"
"I should like to know why," said Bobby, looking as if he thought
Professor Rana was making fun of him.
"What are the greatest enemies of mankind?" asked the professor, peering
over his goggles at poor Bobby.
"Tigers," said Bobby, promptly; "or wolves."
"Wrong," said the lecturer. "Insects. Insects destroy property on this
continent to the amount of over four hundred million dollars annually.
Insects destroy the crops upon which man depends for his food. Going to
school hasn't made you very wise, has it? Well, the toads are insect
destroyers. That's their business. If the State only knew enough to make
use of them, millions of dollars might be saved every year. Does it seem
to you that the human animal is so clever as it might be, when it allows
such numbers of toads to be destroyed?"
"It's a shame!" chimed in a voice from the front seats. "We keep out of
the way as much as we can; we eat every kind of troublesome worm and
insect,--the cutworm, canker-worm, tent caterpillar, army-worm,
rose-beetle, and the common house-fly; we ask for no wages or food or
care,--and what do we get in return? Not even protection and common
kindness. If we had places where we could live in safety, who could tell
the amount of good we might do? Yet I would not have this poor boy hurt
if a word of mine could prevent it."
"This is a scientific meeting," observed the professor; "and benevolent
sentiments are quite out of place. We will now proceed to notice the
delicate nervous system of the creature. Stand closer, my friends, if
you please."
"Nervous system, indeed!" said Bobby. "Boys don't have such silly things
as nerves!"
Suddenly Bobby felt a multitude of tiny pin pricks over the entire
surface of his body. The suffering was not intense, but the irritation
made him squirm and wince. He could not discover the cause of his
discomfort, but at the professor's command it suddenly ceased.
"That will do," said the frog. "Each hair on his head is also connected
with a nerve. Pull his hair, please!"
"Oh, don't!" said Bobby. "That hurts!"
Nobody listened to him. It did hurt, more than you would think, for tiny
hands were pulling each hair separately. When the ordeal was over,
Bobby heard a faint noise in the grass as if some very small creatures
were scurrying away, but he could see nothing. He was winking his eyes
desperately to keep from crying.
"The assistants may go now," said the professor; and the sound of little
feet died away in the distance.
"How interesting this is!" murmured a plain-looking toad who had been
watching the experiments attentively.
"I think it's mean," protested poor Bobby, "to keep a fellow fastened up
like this, and then torment him."
"Does it hurt as much as being skinned, or having your legs cut off?"
demanded the professor.
"Or should you prefer to be stepped on, or burned up in a rubbish pile?"
asked Mrs. Bufo.
"How should you like to be stoned or kicked, for a change?" said another
toad sharply.
"Perhaps you would choose a fish-hook in the corner of your mouth?" said
a voice from the pond.
"Or one run the entire length of your body?" came a murmur from the
ground under Bobby's head.
"Wait a minute," said the professor, more gently. "We will give you a
chance to defend yourself. It is not customary to inquire into the moral
character of specimens, but we do not wish to be unjust. Perhaps you can
explain why you made a bonfire the very week after the toads came out of
their winter-quarters. Dozens of lives were destroyed before that fire
was put out."
"I forgot about the toads," began Bobby.
"Carelessness!" said the professor. "Now you may tell us why you like to
throw stones at us."
"To see you jump," said Bobby, honestly.
"Thoughtlessness!" said the professor. "That's worse."
"Why do you kick us, instead of lifting us gently when we are in your
way?" inquired a toad in a stern voice.
"Because you will give me warts if I touch you," said Bobby, pleased to
think that he had a good reason at last.
"Ignorance!" cried the professor. "The toad is absolutely harmless. It
has about it a liquid that might cause pain to a cut finger or a
sensitive tissue like that of the mouth or eye, but the old story that a
toad is poisonous is a silly fable."
"Will you tell me, please," asked a toad in a plaintive voice, "if you
are the boy who, last year, carried home some of my babies in a tin pail
and let them die?"
"I'm afraid I am," said Bobby, sorrowfully.
"Do explain why you dislike us!" said Mrs. Bufo in such a frank fashion
that Bobby felt that he must tell the truth.
"I suppose it's your looks," said the boy, unable to frame his answer in
more polite terms.
"Well, upon my word!" interrupted the professor. "I thought better of a
boy than that. So you prefer boys with pretty faces and soft, curling
hair, and nice clothes, to those who can climb and jump and who are not
afraid of a day's tramp in the woods."
"Of course I don't," said indignant Bobby. "I hate boys who are always
thinking about their clothes."
"Oh, you do!" said the frog. "Now answer me a few more questions. Have
you ever stolen birds' eggs?"
"Yes," said truthful Bobby.
"Have you collected butterflies?"
"Yes," said Bobby.
"Have you taken nuts from the squirrels' cupboards?"
"Yes," said Bobby.
"Do you think we ought to have a very friendly feeling towards you?"
went on the questioner.
"No," said Bobby; "I don't."
"We have shown that you are not only useless, but careless and
thoughtless and ignorant," said the frog. "Is there any very good reason
why we should let you go?"
Poor Bobby racked his brains to think of something that should appeal to
his captors.
"I have a right to live, haven't I?" he said at last.
"Because you are so pretty?" suggested the professor, and Bobby's eyes
fell with shame.
"Any better right than we have?" came a chorus of voices. Bobby was
silent. He felt very helpless and insignificant. There was a long pause.
Then the frog professor smiled broadly at Bobby.
"Come," he said; "I like you. You are not afraid to be honest, and
that's something."
"If you will let me go," said Bobby, "I'll see that the boys don't hurt
you any more."
"I felt pretty sure that we'd converted you," said the professor; "and
I'm going to let you go back and preach to the heathen, as the grown
people say. You can see for yourself how much harm a boy can do if he
doesn't think."
Bobby felt that he was free, and scrambled to his feet, rubbing first
one arm and then the other to take the prickly feeling out of them. The
frogs had vanished; there was only the blue sky, the waving pine tree,
and the quiet pond.
"Well!" said Bobby with a long breath of amazement.
"Kerjunk!" came the warning voice of a frog, somewhere near the water's
edge.
"Yes sir, I'll remember," said Bobby in the meekest of meek tones.
M. A. L. LANE
A SONG FOR APRIL
List! list! The buds confer.
This noonday they've had news of her;
The south bank has had views of her;
The thorn shall exact his dues of her;
The willows adream
By the freshet stream
Shall ask what boon they choose of her.
Up! up! The world's astir;
The would-be green has word of her;
Root and germ have heard of her,
Coming to break
Their sleep and wake
Their hearts with every bird of her.
See! see! How swift concur
Sun, wind, and rain at the name of her,
A-wondering what became of her;
The fields flower at the flame of her;
The glad air sings
With dancing wings
And the silvery shrill acclaim of her.
CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS
[Illustration: ALEXANDRA THE QUEEN MOTHER]
HOW THE CRICKETS BROUGHT GOOD FORTUNE
My friend Jacques went into a baker's shop one day to buy a little cake
which he had fancied in passing. He intended it for a child whose
appetite was gone, and who could be coaxed to eat only by amusing him.
He thought that such a pretty loaf might tempt even the sick. While he
waited for his change, a little boy six or eight years old, in poor but
perfectly clean clothes, entered the baker's shop.
[Illustration: UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO]
"Ma'am," said he to the baker's wife, "Mother sent me for a loaf of
bread." The woman took from the shelf a four-pound loaf, the best one
she could find, and put it into the arms of the little boy.
My friend Jacques then first observed the thin and thoughtful face of
the little fellow. It contrasted strongly with the round, open
countenance of the large loaf, of which he was taking the greatest care.
"Have you any money?" said the baker's wife.
The little boy's eyes grew sad.
"No, ma'am," said he, hugging the loaf closer to his thin blouse; "but
mother told me to say that she would come and speak to you about it
to-morrow."
"Run along," said the good woman; "carry your bread home, child."
"Thank you, ma'am," said the poor little fellow.
My friend Jacques came forward for his money. He had put his purchase
into his pocket, and was about to go, when he found the child with the
big loaf, whom he had supposed to be half-way home, standing stock-still
behind him.
"What are you doing there?" said the baker's wife to the child, whom she
also had thought to be fairly off. "Don't you like the bread?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am!" said the child.
"Well, then, carry it to your mother, my little friend. If you wait any
longer, she will think you are playing by the way, and you will get a
scolding."
The child did not seem to hear. Something else absorbed his attention.
The baker's wife went up to him and gave him a friendly tap on the
shoulder. "What are you thinking about?" said she.
"Ma'am," said the little boy, "what is that that sings?"
"There is no singing," said she.
"Yes!" cried the little fellow. "Hear it! Queek, queek, queek, queek!"
My friend and the woman both listened, but they could hear nothing,
unless it was the song of the crickets, frequent guests in bakers
houses.
"It is a little bird," said the dear little fellow; "or perhaps the
bread sings when it bakes, as apples do?"
"No, indeed, little goosey!" said the baker's wife; "those are crickets.
They sing in the bake-house because we are lighting the oven, and they
like to see the fire."
"Crickets!" said the child; "are they really crickets?"
"Yes, to be sure," said she, good-humouredly. The child's face lighted
up.
"Ma'am," said he, blushing at the boldness of his request, "I would like
it very much if you would give me a cricket."
"A cricket," said the baker's wife, smiling; "what in the world would
you do with a cricket, my little friend? I would gladly give you all
there are in the house, to get rid of them, they run about so."
"O, ma'am, give me one, only one, if you please!" said the child,
clasping his little thin hands under the big loaf. "They say that
crickets bring good luck into houses; and perhaps if we had one at home,
mother, who has so much trouble, wouldn't cry any more."
"Why does your poor mamma cry?" said my friend, who could no longer help
joining in the conversation.
"On account of her bills, sir," said the little fellow. "Father is dead,
and mother works very hard, but she cannot pay them all."
My friend took the child, and with him the large loaf, into his arms,
and I really believe he kissed them both. Meanwhile the baker's wife,
who did not dare to touch a cricket herself, had gone into the
bake-house. She made her husband catch four, and put them into a box
with holes in the cover, so that they might breathe. She gave the box to
the child, who went away perfectly happy.
When he had gone, the baker's wife and my friend gave each other a good
squeeze of the hand. "Poor little fellow!" said they both together. Then
she took down her account-book, and, finding the page where the mother's
charges were written, made a great dash all down the page, and then
wrote at the bottom, "Paid."
Meanwhile my friend, to lose no time, had put up in paper all the money
in his pockets, where fortunately he had quite a sum that day, and had
begged the good wife to send it at once to the mother of the little
cricket-boy, with her bill receipted, and a note, in which he told her
that she had a son who would one day be her pride and joy.
They gave it to a baker's boy with long legs, and told him to make
haste. The child, with his big loaf, his four crickets, and his little
short legs, could not run very fast, so that when he reached home, he
found his mother, for the first time in many weeks, with her eyes raised
from her work, and a smile of peace and happiness upon her lips.
The boy believed that it was the arrival of his four little black things
which had worked this miracle, and I do not think he was mistaken.
Without the crickets, and his good little heart, would this happy change
have taken place in his mother's fortunes?
P. J. STAHL
THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM
It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found:
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by:
And then the old man shook his head,
And, with a natural sigh,
"'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,
"Who fell in the great victory.
"I find them in the garden,
For there's many here about;
And often when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out!
For many thousand men," said he,
"Were slain in that great victory."
"Now tell me what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin, he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
"Now tell us all about the war,
And what they fought each other for."
"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for,
I could not well make out;
But everybody said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory.
"My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.
"They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun;
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.
"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
And our good prince Eugene."
"Why 'twas a very wicked thing!"
Said little Wilhelmine.
"Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he,
"It was a famous victory.
"And everybody praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win."
"But what good came of it at last?"
Quoth little Peterkin.
"Why, that I cannot tell," said he,
"But 'twas a famous victory."
SOUTHEY
THE RIDE FOR LIFE
Away off towards the swamp, which they were avoiding, the long,
heart-chilling cry of a mother-wolf quavered on the still night air. In
spite of herself, Mrs. Murray shivered, and the boys looked at each
other.
"There is only one," said Ranald in a low voice to Don, but they both
knew that where the she-wolf is there is a pack not far off. "And we
will be through the bush in five minutes."
"Come, Ranald! Come away, you can talk to Don any time. Good-night,
Don." And so saying she headed her pony toward the clearing and was off
at a gallop, and Ranald, shaking his head at his friend, ejaculated:
"Man alive! what do you think of that?" and was off after the pony.
Together they entered the bush. The road was well beaten and the horses
were keen to go, so that before many minutes were over they were half
through the bush. Ranald's spirits rose and he began to take some
interest in his companion's observations upon the beauty of the lights
and shadows falling across their path.
"Look at that very dark shadow from the spruce there, Ranald," she
cried, pointing to a deep, black turn in the road. For answer there came
from behind them the long, mournful hunting-cry of the wolf. He was on
their track. Immediately it was answered by a chorus of howls from the
bush on the swamp side, but still far away. There was no need of
command; the pony sprang forward with a snort and the colt followed, and
after a few minutes' running, passed her.
"Whow-oo-oo-oo-ow," rose the long cry of the pursuer, summoning help,
and drawing nearer.
"Whw-ee-wow," came the shorter, sharper answer from the swamp, but much
nearer than before and more in front. They were trying to head off their
prey.
Ranald tugged at his colt till he got him back with the pony.
"It is a good road," he said, quietly; "you can let the pony go. I will
follow you." He swung in behind the pony, who was now running for dear
life and snorting with terror at every jump.
"God preserve us!" said Ranald to himself. He had caught sight of a dark
form as it darted through the gleam of light in front.
"What did you say, Ranald?" The voice was quiet and clear.
"It is a great pony to run," said Ranald, ashamed of himself.
"Is she not?"
Ranald glanced over his shoulder. Down the road, running with silent,
awful swiftness, he saw the long, low body of the leading wolf flashing
through the bars of moonlight across the road, and the pack following
hard.
"Let her go, Mrs. Murray," cried Ranald. "Whip her and never stop." But
there was no need; the pony was wild with fear, and was doing her best
running.
Ranald meantime was gradually holding in the colt, and the pony drew
away rapidly. But as rapidly the wolves were closing in behind him. They
were not more than a hundred yards away, and gaining every second.
Ranald, remembering the suspicious nature of the brutes, loosened his
coat and dropped it on the road; with a chorus of yelps they paused,
then threw themselves upon it, and in another minute took up the chase.
But now the clearing was in sight. The pony was far ahead, and Ranald
shook out his colt with a yell. He was none too soon, for the pursuing
pack, now uttering short, shrill yelps, were close at the colt's heels.
Lizette, fleet as the wind, could not shake them off. Closer and ever
closer they came, snapping and snarling. Ranald could see them over his
shoulder. A hundred yards more and he would reach his own back lane. The
leader of the pack seemed to feel that his chances were slipping swiftly
away. With a spurt he gained upon Lizette, reached the saddle-girths,
gathered himself into two short jumps, and sprang for the colt's throat.
Instinctively Ranald stood up in his stirrups, and kicking his foot
free, caught the wolf under the jaw. The brute fell with a howl under
the colt's feet, and next moment they were in the lane and safe.
The savage brutes, discouraged by their leader's fall, slowed down their
fierce pursuit, and hearing the deep bay of the Macdonalds' great
deer-hound, Bugle, up at the house, they paused, sniffed the air a few
minutes, then turned and swiftly and silently slid into the dark
shadows. Ranald, knowing that they would hardly dare enter the lane,
checked the colt, and wheeling, watched them disappear.
"I'll have some of your hides some day," he cried, shaking his fist
after them. He hated to be made to run.
He had hardly set the colt's face homeward when he heard something
tearing down the lane to meet him. The colt snorted, swerved, and then
dropping his ears, stood still. It was Bugle, and after him came Mrs.
Murray on the pony.
"Oh, Ranald!" she panted, "thank God you are safe. I was afraid
you--you--" Her voice broke in sobs. Her hood had fallen back from her
white face, and her eyes were shining like two stars. She laid her hand
on Ranald's arm, and her voice grew steady as she said: "Thank God, my
boy, and thank you with all my heart. You risked your life for mine. You
are a brave fellow! I can never forget this!"
"Oh, pshaw!" said Ranald, awkwardly. "You are better stuff than I am.
You came back with Bugle. And I knew Liz could beat the pony." Then they
walked their horses quietly to the stable, and nothing more was said by
either of them; but from that hour Ranald had a friend ready to offer
life for him, though he did not know it then nor till years afterward.
RALPH CONNOR: "The Man from Glengarry."
Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his
friends.
ST. JOHN, XV. 13
IAGOO, THE BOASTER
And Iagoo, the great boaster,
He the marvellous story-teller,
He the friend of old Nokomis,
Saw in all the eyes around him,
Saw in all their looks and gestures,
That the wedding guests assembled,
Longed to hear his pleasant stories,
His immeasurable falsehoods.
Very boastful was Iagoo;
Never heard he an adventure
But himself had met a greater;
Never any deed of daring
But himself had done a bolder;
Never any marvellous story
But himself could tell a stranger.
Would you listen to his boasting,
Would you only give him credence,
No one ever shot an arrow
Half so far and high as he had;
Ever caught so many fishes,
Ever killed so many reindeer,
Ever trapped so many beaver!
None could run so fast as he could,
None could dive so deep as he could,
None could swim so far as he could;
None had made so many journeys,
None had seen so many wonders,
As this wonderful Iagoo,
As this marvellous story-teller!
Thus his name became a by-word
And a jest among the people;
And whene'er a boastful hunter
Praised his own address too highly,
Or a warrior, home returning,
Talked too much of his achievements,
All his hearers cried: "Iagoo!
Here's Iagoo come among us!"
LONGFELLOW: "Hiawatha."
THE STORY OF A FIRE
Thirteen years have passed since, but it is all to me as if it had
happened yesterday,--the clanging of the fire-bells, the hoarse shouts
of the firemen, the wild rush and terror of the streets; then the great
hush that fell upon the crowd; the sea of upturned faces with the fire
glow upon it; and up there, against the background of black smoke that
poured from roof to attic, the boy clinging to the narrow ledge, so far
up that it seemed humanly impossible that help could ever come.
But even then it was coming. Up from the street, while the crew of the
truck company were labouring with the heavy extension ladder that at its
longest stretch was many feet too short, crept four men upon long,
slender poles with cross-bars, iron-hooked at the end. Standing in one
window, they reached up and thrust the hook through the next one above,
then mounted a story higher. Again the crash of glass, and again the
dizzy ascent. Straight up the wall they crept, looking like human flies
on the ceiling, and clinging as close, never resting, reaching one
recess only to set out for the next; nearer and nearer in the race for
life, until but a single span separated the foremost from the boy. And
now the iron hook fell at his feet, and the fireman stood upon the step
with the rescued lad in his arms, just as the pent-up flames burst lurid
from the attic window, reaching with impotent fury for their prey. The
next moment they were safe upon the great ladder waiting to receive them
below.
Then such a shout went up! Men fell on each other's necks, and cried and
laughed at once. Strangers slapped one another on the back with
glistening faces, shook hands, and behaved generally like men gone
suddenly mad. Women wept in the street. The driver of a car stalled in
the crowd, who had stood through it all speechless, clutching the reins,
whipped his horses into a gallop and drove away, yelling like a
Comanche, to relieve his feelings. The boy and his rescuer were carried
across the street without anyone knowing how. Policemen forgot their
dignity and shouted with the rest. Fire, peril, terror, and loss were
alike forgotten in the one touch of nature that makes the whole world
kin.
Fireman John Binns was made captain of his crew, and the Bennett medal
was pinned on his coat on the next parade day.
JACOB A. RIIS
Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,
Our hearts in glad surprise
To higher levels rise.
LONGFELLOW
THE QUEST
There once was a restless boy
Who dwelt in a home by the sea,
Where the water danced for joy,
And the wind was glad and free;
But he said: "Good mother, O let me go!
For the dullest place in the world, I know,
Is this little brown house,
This old brown house,
Under the apple tree.
"I will travel east and west;
The loveliest homes I'll see;
And when I have found the best,
Dear mother, I'll come for thee.
I'll come for thee in a year and a day,
And joyfully then we'll haste away
From this little brown house,
This old brown house,
Under the apple tree."
So he travelled here and there,
But never content was he,
Though he saw in lands most fair
The costliest homes there be.
He something missed from the sea or sky,
Till he turned again with a wistful sigh
To the little brown house,
The old brown house,
Under the apple tree.
Then the mother saw and smiled,
While her heart grew glad and free.
"Hast thou chosen a home, my child?
Ah, where shall we dwell?" quoth she.
And he said: "Sweet mother, from east to west,
The loveliest home, and the dearest and best,
Is a little brown house,
An old brown house,
Under an apple tree."
EUDORA S. BUMSTEAD
THE JACKAL AND THE PARTRIDGE
A Jackal and a Partridge swore eternal friendship; but the Jackal was
very exacting and jealous. "You don't do half as much for me as I do for
you," he used to say, "and yet you talk a great deal of your friendship.
Now my idea of a friend is one who is able to make me laugh or cry,
give me a good meal, or save my life if need be. You couldn't do that!"
"Let us see," answered the Partridge; "follow me at a little distance,
and if I don't make you laugh soon you may eat me!"
So she flew on till she met two travellers trudging along, one behind
the other. They were both foot-sore and weary, and the first carried his
bundle on a stick over his shoulder, while the second had his shoes in
his hand.
Lightly as a feather the Partridge settled on the first traveller's
stick. He, none the wiser, trudged on; but the second traveller, seeing
the bird sitting so tamely just in front of his nose, said to himself:
"What a chance for a supper!" and immediately flung his shoes at it,
they being ready to hand. Whereupon the Partridge flew away, and the
shoes knocked off the first traveller's turban.
"What a plague do you mean?" cried he, angrily turning on his companion.
"Why did you throw your shoes at my head?"
"Brother!" replied the other, mildly, "do not be vexed. I didn't throw
them at you, but at a Partridge that was sitting on your stick."
"On my stick! Do you take me for a fool?" shouted the injured man, in a
great rage. "Don't tell me such cock-and-bull stories. First you insult
me, and then you lie like a coward; but I'll teach you manners!"
Then he fell upon his fellow-traveller without more ado, and they fought
until they could not see out of their eyes, till their noses were
bleeding, their clothes in rags, and the Jackal had nearly died of
laughing.
"Are you satisfied?" asked the Partridge of her friend.
"Well," answered the Jackal, "you have certainly made me laugh, but I
doubt if you could make me cry. It is easy enough to be a buffoon; it is
more difficult to excite the higher emotions."
"Let us see," retorted the Partridge, somewhat piqued; "there is a
huntsman with his dogs coming along the road. Just creep into that
hollow tree and watch me; if you don't weep scalding tears, you must
have no feeling in you!"
The Jackal did as he was bid, and watched the Partridge, who began
fluttering about the bushes till the dogs caught sight of her, when she
flew to the hollow tree where the Jackal was hidden. Of course the dogs
smelled him at once, and set up such a yelping and scratching that the
huntsman came up and, seeing what it was, dragged the Jackal out by the
tail. Whereupon the dogs worried him to their hearts' content, and
finally left him for dead.
By and by he opened his eyes--for he was only foxing--and saw the
Partridge sitting on a branch above him.
"Did you cry?" she asked anxiously. "Did I rouse your higher emo--"
"Be quiet, will you!" snarled the Jackal; "I'm half-dead with fear!"
So there the Jackal lay for some time, getting the better of his
bruises, and meanwhile he became hungry.
"Now is the time for friendship!" said he to the Partridge. "Get me a
good dinner, and I will acknowledge you are a true friend."
"Very well!" replied the Partridge; "only watch me, and help yourself
when the time comes."
Just then a troop of women came by, carrying their husbands' dinners to
the harvest-field.
The Partridge gave a little plaintive cry, and began fluttering along
from bush to bush as if she were wounded.
"A wounded bird!--a wounded bird!" cried the women; "we can easily catch
it!"
Whereupon they set off in pursuit, but the cunning Partridge played a
thousand tricks, till they became so excited over the chase that they
put their bundles on the ground in order to pursue it more nimbly. The
Jackal, meanwhile, seizing his opportunity, crept up, and made off with
a good dinner.
"Are you satisfied now?" asked the Partridge.
"Well," returned the Jackal, "I confess you have given me a very good
dinner; you have also made me laugh--and cry--ahem! But, after all, the
great test of friendship is beyond you--you couldn't save my life!"
"Perhaps not," acquiesced the Partridge, mournfully. "I am so small and
weak. But it grows late--we should be going home; and as it is a long
way round by the ford, let us go across the river. My friend, the
crocodile, will carry us over."
Accordingly, they set off for the river, and the crocodile kindly
consented to carry them across; so they sat on his broad back, and he
ferried them over. But just as they were in the middle of the stream the
Partridge remarked: "I believe the crocodile intends to play us a trick.
How awkward if he were to drop you into the water!"
"Awkward for you, too!" replied the Jackal, turning pale.
"Not at all! not at all! I have wings, you haven't."
On this the Jackal shivered and shook with fear, and when the crocodile,
in a grewsome growl, remarked that he was hungry and wanted a good meal,
the wretched creature hadn't a word to say.
"Pooh!" cried the Partridge, airily, "don't try tricks on us--I should
fly away, and as for my friend, the Jackal, you couldn't hurt _him_. He
is not such a fool as to take his life with him on these little
excursions; he leaves it at home locked up in the cupboard."
"Is that a fact?" asked the crocodile, surprised.
"Certainly!" retorted the Partridge. "Try to eat him if you like, but
you will only tire yourself to no purpose."
"Dear me! how very odd!" gasped the crocodile; and he was so taken aback
that he carried the Jackal safe to shore.
"Well, are you satisfied now?" asked the Partridge.
"My dear madam!" quoth the Jackal, "you have made me laugh, you have
made me cry, you have given me a good dinner, and you have saved my
life; but upon my honour I think you are too clever for a friend: so,
good-bye!"
And the Jackal never went near the Partridge again.
FLORA ANNIE STEEL: "Tales from the Punjab."
HIDE AND SEEK
All the trees are sleeping, all the winds are still,
All the flocks of fleecy clouds have wandered past the hill;
Through the noonday silence, down the woods of June,
Hark! a little hunter's voice comes running with a tune.
"Hide and seek!
"When I speak,
"You must answer me:
"Call again,
"Merry men,
"Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!"
Now I hear his footsteps, rustling through the grass:
Hidden in my leafy nook, shall I let him pass?
Just a low, soft whistle,--quick the hunter turns,
Leaps upon me laughing, rolls me in the ferns.
"Hold him fast,
"Caught at last!
"Now you're it, you see.
"Hide your eye,
"Till I cry,
"Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!"
Long ago he left me, long and long ago:
Now I wander through the world and seek him high and low;
Hidden safe and happy, in some pleasant place,--
Ah, if I could hear his voice, I soon should find his face.
Far away,
Many a day,
Where can Barney be?
Answer, dear,
Don't you hear?
"Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!"
Birds that in the spring-time thrilled his heart with joy,
Flowers he loved to pick for me, 'mind me of my boy.
Surely he is waiting till my steps come nigh;
Love may hide itself awhile, but love can never die.
Heart be glad,
The little lad
Will call some day to thee:
"Father dear,
"Heaven is here,
"Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!"
HENRY VAN DYKE
THE BURNING OF THE "GOLIATH"
(Owing to the excellent discipline which Captain Bourchier had
established, and to the courage of the boys, only twelve lives
were lost out of the crew of five hundred).
Let me give you an example of self-denial which comes from near home. I
will speak to you of what has been done by little boys of seven, of
eight, of twelve, of thirteen;--little English boys, and English boys
with very few advantages of birth; not brought up, as most of you are,
in quiet, orderly homes, but taken from the London workhouses. I will
speak to you of what such little boys have done, not fifteen hundred, or
even two hundred years ago, but last week--last Wednesday, on the river
Thames.
Do you know of whom I am thinking? I am thinking of the little boys,
nearly five hundred, who were taken from different workhouses in London,
and put to school to be trained as sailors on board the ship which was
called after the name of the giant whom David slew--the training-ship
Goliath.
About eight o'clock on Wednesday morning that great ship suddenly caught
fire, from the upsetting of a can of oil in the lamp-room. It was hardly
daylight. In a very few minutes the ship was on fire from one end to the
other, and the fire-bell rang to call the boys to their posts. What did
they do? Think of the sudden surprise, the sudden danger--the flames
rushing all around them, and the dark, cold water below them! Did they
cry, or scream, or fly about in confusion? No; they ran each to his
proper place.
They had been trained to do that--they knew that it was their duty; and
no one forgot himself; no one lost his presence of mind. They all, as
the captain said: "behaved like men." Then, when it was found impossible
to save the ship, those who could swim jumped into the water by order of
the captain, and swam for their lives. Some, also at his command, got
into a boat; and then, when the sheets of flame and the clouds of smoke
came pouring out of the ship, the smaller boys for a moment were
frightened, and wanted to push away.
But there was one among them--the little mate: his name was William
Bolton: we are proud that he came from Westminster: a quiet boy, much
loved by his comrades--who had the sense and courage to say: "No; we
must stay and help those that are still in the ship." He kept the barge
alongside the ship as long as possible, and was thus the means of saving
more than one hundred lives!
There were others who were still in the ship while the flames went on
spreading. They were standing by the good captain, who had been so kind
to them all, and whom they all loved so much. In that dreadful crisis
they thought more of him than of themselves. One threw his arms round
his neck and said: "You'll be burnt, Captain;" and another said: "Save
yourself before the rest." But the captain gave them the best of all
lessons for that moment. He said: "That's not the way at sea, my boys."
He meant to say--and they quite understood what he meant--that the way
at sea is to prepare for danger beforehand, to meet it manfully when it
comes, and to look at the safety, not of oneself, but of others. The
captain had not only learned that good old way himself, but he also knew
how to teach it to the boys under his charge.
DEAN STANLEY
HEARTS OF OAK
Come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer,
To add something more to this wonderful year,
To honour we call you, not press you like slaves,
For who are so free as the sons of the waves?
Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men,
We always are ready,
Steady, boys, steady,
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.
Still Britain shall triumph, her ships plough the sea,
Her standard be justice, her watchword "Be free;"
Then, cheer up, my lads, with one heart let us sing
Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, our king.
Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men,
We always are ready,
Steady, boys, steady,
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.
DAVID GARRICK
A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee!
"O for a soft and gentle wind!"
I heard a fair one cry;
But give to me the snoring breeze
And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free,--
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon hornèd moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners,
The wind is piping loud!
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashes free,--
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM
THE TALENTS
The kingdom of heaven is as a man travelling into a far country, who
called his own servants, and delivered unto them his goods. And unto one
he gave five talents, to another two, and to another one; to every man
according to his several ability; and straightway took his journey.
Then he that had received the five talents went and traded with the
same, and made them other five talents. And likewise he that had
received two, he also gained other two. But he that had received one
went and digged in the earth, and hid his lord's money. After a long
time the lord of those servants cometh, and reckoneth with them.
And so he that had received five talents came and brought other five
talents saying, "Lord, thou deliveredst unto me five talents: behold, I
have gained beside them five talents more." His lord said unto him,
"Well done, thou good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over
a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into
the joy of thy lord."
He also that had received two talents came and said, "Lord, thou
deliveredst unto me two talents: behold, I have gained two other talents
beside them." His lord said unto him, "Well done, good and faithful
servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee
ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord."
Then he which had received the one talent came and said, "Lord, I knew
thee that thou art an hard man, reaping where thou hast not sown, and
gathering where thou hast not strawed; and I was afraid, and went and
hid thy talent in the earth: lo, there thou hast that is thine." His
lord answered and said unto him, "Thou wicked and slothful servant, thou
knewest that I reap where I sowed not, and gather where I have not
strawed: thou oughtest therefore to have put my money to the
exchangers, and then at my coming I should have received mine own with
usury. Take therefore the talent from him, and give it unto him which
hath ten talents. For unto every one that hath shall be given, and he
shall have abundance: but from him that hath not shall be taken away
even that which he hath. And cast ye the unprofitable servant into outer
darkness: there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth."
ST. MATTHEW, XXV. 14-30
A FAREWELL
My fairest child, I have no song to give you;
No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray;
Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you
For every day.
I'll tell you how to sing a clearer carol
Than lark who hails the dawn or breezy down,
To earn yourself a purer poet's laurel
Than Shakespeare's crown.
Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long:
And so make life, death, and that vast forever,
One grand, sweet song.
KINGSLEY
AN APPLE ORCHARD IN THE SPRING
Have you seen an apple orchard in the spring?
In the spring?
An English apple orchard in the spring?
When the spreading trees are hoary
With their wealth of promised glory,
And the mavis sings its story,
In the spring.
Have you plucked the apple blossoms in the spring?
In the spring?
And caught their subtle odours in the spring?
Pink buds pouting at the light,
Crumpled petals baby white
Just to touch them a delight--
In the spring.
Have you walked beneath the blossoms in the spring?
In the spring?
Beneath the apple blossoms in the spring?
When the pink cascades are falling,
And the silver brooklets brawling,
And the cuckoo bird soft calling,
In the spring.
If you have not, then you know not, in the spring,
In the spring,
Half the colour, beauty, wonder of the spring,
No sweet sight can I remember
Half so precious, half so tender,
As the apple blossoms render,
In the spring.
WILLIAM MARTIN
THE BLUEJAY
Said Jim Baker: "There's more to a bluejay than to any other creature.
He has more kinds of feeling than any other creature; and mind you,
whatever a bluejay feels, he can put into words. No common words either,
but out-and-out book-talk. You never see a jay at a loss for a word.
"You may call a jay a bird. Well, so he is, because he has feathers on
him. Otherwise, he is just as human as you are.
"Yes, sir; a jay is everything that a man is. A jay can laugh, a jay can
gossip, a jay can feel ashamed, just as well as you do, maybe better.
And there's another thing: in good, clean, out-and-out scolding, a
bluejay can beat anything alive.
"Seven years ago the last man about here but me moved away. There stands
his house--a log house with just one big room and no more: no ceiling,
nothing between the rafters and the floor.
"Well, one Sunday morning I was sitting out here in front of my cabin,
with my cat, taking the sun, when a bluejay flew down on that house with
an acorn in his mouth.
"'Hello,' says he, 'I reckon here's something.' When he spoke, the acorn
fell out of his mouth and rolled down on the roof. He didn't care; his
mind was on the thing he had found.
"It was a knot-hole in the roof. He cocked his head to one side, shut
one eye, and put the other to the hole, like a 'possum looking down a
jug.'
"Then he looked up, gave a wink or two with his wings, and says: 'It
looks like a hole, it's placed like a hole--and--if I don't think it is
a hole!'
"Then he cocked his head down and took another look. He looked up with
joy, this time winked his wings and his tail both, and says: 'If I ain't
in luck! Why it's an elegant hole!'
"So he flew down and got that acorn and dropped it in, and was tilting
his head back with a smile when a queer look of surprise came over his
face. Then he says: 'Why, I didn't hear it fall.'
"He cocked his eye at the hole again and took a long look; rose up and
shook his head; went to the other side of the hole and took another look
from that side; shook his head again. No use.
"So after thinking awhile, he says: 'I reckon it's all right. I'll try
it, anyway.'
"So he flew off and brought another acorn and dropped it in, and tried
to get his eye to the hole quick enough to see what became of it. He was
too late. He got another acorn and tried to see where it went, but he
couldn't.
"He says: 'Well, I never saw such a hole as this before. I reckon it's a
new kind.' Then he got angry and walked up and down the roof. I never
saw a bird take on so.
"When he got through, he looked in the hole for half a minute; then he
says: 'Well, you're a long hole, and a deep hole, and a queer hole, but
I have started to fill you, and I'll do it if it takes a hundred
years.'
"And with that away he went. For two hours and a half you never saw a
bird work so hard. He did not stop to look in any more, but just threw
acorns in and went for more.
"Well, at last he could hardly flap his wings he was so tired out. So he
bent down for a look. He looked up, pale with rage. He says: 'I've put
in enough acorns to keep the family thirty years, and I can't see a sign
of them.'
"Another jay was going by and heard him. So he stopped to ask what was
the matter. Our jay told him the whole story. Then he went and looked
down the hole and came back and said: 'How many tons did you put in
there?' 'Not less than two,' said our jay.
"The other jay looked again, but could not make it out; so he gave a
yell and three more jays came. They all talked at once for awhile, and
then called in more jays.
"Pretty soon the air was blue with jays, and every jay put his eye to
the hole and told what he thought. They looked the house all over, too.
The door was partly open, and at last one old jay happened to look in.
There lay the acorns all over the floor.
"He flapped his wings and gave a yell: 'Come here, everybody! Ha! Ha!
He's been trying to fill a house with acorns!'
"As each jay took a look, the fun of the thing struck him, and how he
did laugh. And for an hour after they roosted on the housetop and trees,
and laughed like human beings. It isn't any use to tell me a bluejay
hasn't any fun in him. I know better."
SAMUEL L. CLEMENS (Mark Twain)
A CANADIAN CAMPING SONG
A white tent pitched by a glassy lake,
Well under a shady tree,
Or by rippling rills from the grand old hills,
Is the summer home for me.
I fear no blaze of the noontide rays,
For the woodland glades are mine,
The fragrant air, and that perfume rare,
The odour of forest pine.
A cooling plunge at the break of day,
A paddle, a row, or sail,
With always a fish for a mid-day dish,
And plenty of Adam's ale.
With rod or gun, or in hammock swung,
We glide through the pleasant days;
When darkness falls on our canvas walls,
We kindle the camp fire's blaze.
From out the gloom sails the silv'ry moon,
O'er forests dark and still,
Now far, now near, ever sad and clear,
Comes the plaint of the whip-poor-will;
With song and laugh, and with kindly chaff,
We startle the birds above,
Then rest tired heads on our cedar beds,
To dream of the ones we love.
SIR J. D. EDGAR: "This Canada of Ours."
THE ARGONAUTS
Now, when the building of the ship Argo was finished, the fifty heroes
came to look upon her, and joy filled their hearts. "Surely," said they,
"this is the greatest ship that ever sailed the sea."
So eager were they to make trial of the long oars that some, leaping on
the shoulders of their comrades and grasping the shrouds, clambered over
the bulwarks upon the thwarts and drew the rest in after them. Orpheus,
upon the mighty shoulders of Jason the leader of the expedition, seized
hold of the arm of the azure-eyed goddess, the figure-head of the ship,
and, as he climbed on board, her whisper reached his ear. "Orpheus, sing
me something." This was the song:
"How sweet upon the surge to ride,
And leap from wave to wave,
While oars flash fast above the tide
And lordly tempests rave.
How sweet it is across the main,
In wonder-land to roam,
To win rich treasure, endless fame,
And earn a welcome home."
Then the good ship Argo stirred in all her timbers and longing for the
restless sea came upon her and she rushed headlong down the grooves till
the lips of the goddess tasted the salt sea spray.
Many a day they sailed through laughing seas and ever they spoke
together of the glory of the Golden Fleece which they hoped to bring
home from far off Colchis.
When they were come to the land of Colchis, King Æetes summoned them to
his palace. Beside him was seated his daughter, the beautiful witch
maiden, Medea. She looked upon the Greeks and upon Jason, fairest and
noblest of them all, and her spirit leaped forth to meet his. And
knowing what lay before them, "surely," she thought, "it were an evil
thing that men so bold and comely should perish."
When Jason demanded the Golden Fleece, the rage of the King rushed up
like a whirlwind, but he curbed his speech and spake a fair word.
"Choose ye now him who is boldest among you and let him perform the
labours I shall set."
That night Medea stole from the palace to warn the hero of the toils and
dangers that awaited him,--to tame a span of brazen-footed
fire-breathing bulls, with them to plough four acres of unbroken land in
the field of Ares, to sow the tilth with serpents' teeth, to slay its
crop of warriors, to cross a river, and climb a lofty wall, to snatch
the Fleece from a tree round which lay coiled the sleepless dragon. "How
can these things be accomplished and that before the setting of another
sun?" But Jason used flattering words, singing the song of Chiron:
"No river so deep but an arm may swim,
No wall so steep but a foot may climb,
No dragon so dread but a sword may slay,
No fiend so fierce but your charms may stay."
Medea, seeing that he knew not fear, gave him a magic ointment which
should give him the strength of seven men and protect him from fire and
steel.
All the people assembled at sunrise in the field of Ares. When the
fire-breathing bulls saw Jason standing in the middle of the field, fury
shot from their eyes. Fierce was their onset and the multitude waited
breathless to see what the end would be. As the bulls came on with
lowered heads, and tails in air, Jason leaped nimbly to one side, and
the monsters shot past him with bellowings that shook the earth. They
turned and Jason poised for the leap. As they passed a second time, he
grasped the nearest by the horn and lightly vaulted upon its back. The
bull, unused to the burden, sank cowering to the ground. Jason patted
its neck caressing it, and gladly it shared the yoke with its fellow.
When the ground was ploughed and sown with the teeth of the serpent, a
thousand warriors sprang full-armed from the brown earth. Then King
Æetes greatly rejoiced, but Medea, trembling at the sight, laid a spell
upon them that they might not clearly distinguish friend from foe.
One among them came forth and Jason advanced to meet him, walking with a
halt. His adversary laughed aloud, but Jason with a mighty bound sprang
upon the shoulders of his enemy and bore him helmetless to the ground.
The hero quickly replaced the fallen helmet with his own, giving a
golden helmet for a brazen. The other rose and fled back among his
fellows who, thinking it was Jason come among them, fell upon and slew
him and strove with each other for the golden helmet until all were
slain but one who, wounded unto death, rose up from the fray and
shouting "Victory" sank upon knee and elbow never to rise again.
The rest of the task was quickly accomplished, for Medea by her spells
cast a deep sleep upon the dragon. So the Golden Fleece was won and
brought once more to Iolchos with a prize still more precious, for Jason
bore home with him Medea, the beautiful witch maiden, who became his
bride and ruled with him, let us hope, many happy years.
JOHN WAUGH
In the elder days of Art,
Builders wrought with greatest care
Each minute and unseen part;
For the Gods see everywhere.
Let us do our work as well,
Both the unseen and the seen;
Make the house, where Gods may dwell,
Beautiful, entire and clean.
LONGFELLOW
THE MINSTREL-BOY
The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.
"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,
"Tho' all the world betrays thee,
_One_ sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
_One_ faithful harp shall praise thee!"
The Minstrel fell! but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said: "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
They shall never sound in slavery."
MOORE
Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide,
In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side;
Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside.
LOWELL
MARY ELIZABETH
Mary Elizabeth was a little girl with a long name. She was poor, she was
sick, she was ragged, she was dirty, she was cold, she was hungry, she
was frightened. She had no home, she had no mother, she had no father.
She had no supper, she had had no dinner, she had had no breakfast. She
had no place to go and nobody to care where she went.
In fact, Mary Elizabeth had not much of anything but a short pink calico
dress, a little red cotton-and-wool shawl, and her long name. Besides
this, she had a pair of old rubbers, too large for her.
She was walking up Washington Street. It was late in the afternoon of a
bitter January day.
"God made so many people," thought Mary Elizabeth, "He must have made so
many suppers. Seems as if there'd ought to be one for one extry little
girl."
But she thought this in a gentle way. She was a very gentle little girl.
All girls who hadn't anything were not like Mary Elizabeth.
* * * * *
So now she was shuffling up Washington Street, not knowing exactly what
to do next,--peeping into people's faces, timidly looking away from
them, heart-sick (for a very little girl can be very heart-sick),
colder, she thought, every minute, and hungrier each hour than she was
the hour before.
The child left Washington Street at last, where everybody had homes and
suppers without one extra one to spare for a little girl, and turned
into a short, bright, showy street, where stood a great hotel.
Whether the door-keeper was away, or busy, or sick, or careless, or
whether the head-waiter at the dining-room was so tall that he couldn't
see so short a beggar, or whether the clerk at the desk was so noisy
that he couldn't hear so still a beggar, or however it was, Mary
Elizabeth did get in; by the door-keeper, past the head-waiter, under
the shadow of the clerk, over the smooth, slippery marble floor the
child crept on.
She came to the office door and stood still. She looked around her with
wide eyes. She had never seen a place like that. Lights flashed over it,
many and bright. Gentlemen sat in it smoking and reading. They were all
warm. Not one of them looked as if he had had no dinner and no
breakfast and no supper.
"How many extry suppers," thought the little girl, "it must ha' taken to
feed 'em all. I guess maybe there'll be one for me in here."
Mary Elizabeth stood in the middle of it, in her pink calico dress and
red plaid shawl. The shawl was tied over her head and about her neck
with a ragged tippet. Her bare feet showed in the old rubbers. She began
to shuffle about the room, holding out one purple little hand.
One or two of the gentlemen laughed; some frowned; more did nothing at
all; most did not notice, or did not seem to notice, the child. One
said: "What's the matter here?"
Mary Elizabeth shuffled on. She went from one to the other, less
timidly; a kind of desperation had taken possession of her. The odours
from the dining-room came in, of strong, hot coffee, and strange roast
meats. Mary Elizabeth thought of Jo.
It seemed to her she was so hungry that, if she could not get a supper,
she should jump up and run and rush about and snatch something and steal
like Jo. She held out her hand, but only said: "I'm hungry!"
A gentleman called her. He was the gentleman who had asked: "What's the
matter here?" He called her in behind his daily paper which was big
enough to hide three of Mary Elizabeth, and when he saw that nobody was
looking he gave her a five-cent piece in a hurry, as if he had committed
a sin, and said quickly: "There, there, child! go now, go!"
Then he began to read his newspaper quite hard and fast and to look
severe, as one does who never gives anything to beggars, as a matter of
principle.
But nobody else gave anything to Mary Elizabeth. She shuffled from one
to another, hopelessly. Every gentleman shook his head. One called for a
waiter to put her out. This frightened her and she stood still.
Over by a window, in a lonely corner of the great room, a young man was
sitting apart from the others. He sat with his elbows on the table and
his face buried in his arms. He was a well-dressed young man, with
brown, curling hair.
Mary Elizabeth wondered why he looked so miserable and why he sat alone.
She thought, perhaps, that if he weren't so happy as the other
gentlemen, he would be more sorry for cold and hungry girls. She
hesitated, then walked along and directly up to him.
One or two gentlemen laid down their papers and watched this; they
smiled and nodded to each other. The child did not see them to wonder
why. She went up and put her hand upon the young man's arm.
He started. The brown, curly head lifted itself from the shelter of his
arms; a young face looked sharply at the beggar girl,--a beautiful young
face it might have been.
It was haggard now and dreadful to look at,--bloated and badly marked
with the unmistakable marks of a wicked week's debauch. He roughly said:
"What do you want?"
"I'm hungry," said Mary Elizabeth.
"I can't help that. Go away."
"I haven't had anything to eat for a whole day--a whole day!" repeated
the child.
Her lip quivered. But she spoke distinctly. Her voice sounded through
the room. One gentleman after another laid down his paper or his pipe.
Several were watching this little scene.
"Go away!" repeated the young man, irritably. "Don't bother me. I
haven't had anything to eat for three days!"
His face went down into his arms again. Mary Elizabeth stood staring at
the brown, curling hair. She stood perfectly still for some moments. She
evidently was greatly puzzled. She walked away a little distance, then
stopped and thought it over.
And now paper after paper and pipe after cigar went down. Every
gentleman in the room began to look on. The young man with the beautiful
brown curls, and dissipated, disgraced, and hidden face was not stiller
than the rest.
The little figure in the pink calico and the red shawl and big rubbers
stood for a moment silent among them all. The waiter came to take her
out but the gentlemen motioned him away.
Mary Elizabeth turned her five-cent piece over and over in her purple
hand. Her hand shook. The tears came. The smell of the dinner from the
dining-room grew savoury and strong. The child put the piece of money to
her lips as if she could have eaten it, then turned and, without further
hesitation, went back.
She touched the young man--on the bright hair this time--with her
trembling little hand.
The room was so still now that what she said rang out to the corridor,
where the waiters stood, with the clerk behind looking over the desk to
see.
"I'm sorry you are so hungry. If you haven't had anything for three
days, you must be hungrier than me. I've got five cents. A gentleman
gave it me. I wish you would take it. I've only gone one day. You can
get some supper with it, and--maybe--I--can get some somewheres! I wish
you'd please to take it!"
Mary Elizabeth stood quite still, holding out her five-cent piece. She
did not understand the stir that went all over the bright room. She did
not see that some of the gentlemen coughed and wiped their spectacles.
She did not know why the brown curls before her came up with such a
start, nor why the young man's wasted face flushed red and hot with a
noble shame.
She did not in the least understand why he flung the five-cent piece
upon the table, and, snatching her in his arms, held her fast and hid
his face on her plaid shawl and sobbed. Nor did she seem to know what
could be the reason that nobody seemed amused to see this gentleman
cry.
The gentleman who had given her the money came up, and some more came
up, and they gathered around, and she in the midst of them, and they all
spoke kindly, and the young man with the bad face that might have been
so beautiful stood up, still clinging to her, and said aloud:
"She's shamed me before you all, and she's shamed me to myself! I'll
learn a lesson from this beggar, so help me God!"
So then he took the child upon his knee, and the gentlemen came up to
listen, and the young man asked her what her name was.
"Mary Elizabeth, sir."
"Names used to mean things--in the Bible--when I was as little as you. I
read the Bible then. Does Mary Elizabeth mean angel of rebuke?"
"Sir?"
"Where do you live, Mary Elizabeth?"
"Nowhere, sir."
"Where do you sleep?"
"In Mrs. O'Flynn's shed, sir. It's too cold for the cows. She's so kind,
she lets us stay."
"Whom do you stay with?"
"Nobody, only Jo."
"Is Jo your brother?"
"No, sir. Jo is a girl. I haven't got only Jo."
"What does Jo do for a living?"
"She--gets it, sir."
"And what do you do?"
"I beg. It's better than to--get it, sir, I think."
"Where's your mother?"
"Dead."
"What did she die of?"
"Drink, sir," said Mary Elizabeth, in her distinct and gentle tone.
"Ah--well. And your father?"
"He is dead. He died in prison."
"What sent him to prison?"
"Drink, sir."
"Oh!"
"I had a brother once," continued Mary Elizabeth, who grew quite
eloquent with so large an audience, "but he died, too."
"I do want my supper," she added, after a pause, speaking in a whisper,
as if to Jo or to herself, "and Jo'll be wondering for me."
"Wait, then," said the young man. "I'll see if I can't beg enough to get
you your supper."
"I thought there must be an extry one among so many folks!" cried Mary
Elizabeth; for now, she thought, she should get back her five cents.
And, truly, the young man put the five cents into his hat, to begin
with. Then he took out his purse, and put in something that made less
noise than the five-cent piece and something more and more and more.
Then he passed around the great room, walking still unsteadily, and the
gentleman who gave the five cents and all the gentlemen put something
into the young man's hat.
So, when he came back to the table, he emptied the hat and counted the
money, and, truly, it was forty dollars.
"Forty dollars!"
Mary Elizabeth looked frightened.
"It's yours," said the young man. "Now come to supper. But see! this
gentleman who gave you the five-cent piece shall take care of the money
for you. You can trust him. He's got a wife, too. But we'll come to
supper now."
* * * * *
So the young man took her by the hand, and the gentleman whose wife knew
all about what to do with orphans took her by the other hand, and one or
two more gentlemen followed, and they all went into the dining-room, and
put Mary Elizabeth in a chair at a clean white table, and asked her
what she wanted for her supper.
Mary Elizabeth said that a little dry toast and a cup of milk would do
nicely. So all the gentlemen laughed. And she wondered why.
And the young man with the brown curls laughed, too, and began to look
quite happy. But he ordered chicken and cranberry sauce and mashed
potatoes and celery and rolls and butter and tomatoes and an ice cream
and a cup of tea and nuts and raisins and cake and custard and apples
and grapes.
And Mary Elizabeth sat in her pink dress and red shawl and ate the
whole; and why it didn't kill her nobody knows; but it didn't.
The young man with the face that might have been beautiful--that might
be yet, one would have thought who had seen him then--stood watching the
little girl.
"She's preached me the best sermon," he said below his breath, "I ever
heard. May God bless her! I wish there were a thousand like her in this
selfish world!"
And when I heard about it I wished so, too.
ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD
Oh, there is nothing on earth half so holy
As the innocent heart of a child.
DICKENS
THE FROST
The Frost looked forth, one still clear night,
And whispered: "Now I shall be out of sight;
So through the valley and over the height,
In silence I'll take my way:
I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain,
But I'll be as busy as they."
Then he flew to the mountain and powdered its crest;
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed
In diamond beads--and over the breast
Of the quivering lake he spread
A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The downward point of many a spear
That he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock could rear its head.
He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept;
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stept,
By the light of the moon were seen
Most beautiful things:--there were flowers and trees;
There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees:
There were cities with temples and towers; and these
All pictured in silver sheen.
But he did one thing that was hardly fair;
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there
That all had forgotten for him to prepare--
"Now just to set them a-thinking,
I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he,
"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three,
And the glass of water they've left for me
Shall 'Tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking."
H. F. GOULD
CORN-FIELDS
When on the breath of Autumn's breeze,
From pastures dry and brown,
Goes floating, like an idle thought,
The fair, white thistle-down,--
Oh, then what joy to walk at will
Upon the golden harvest-hill!
What joy in dreaming ease to lie
Amid a field new shorn;
And see all round, on sunlit slopes,
The piled-up shocks of corn;
And send the fancy wandering o'er
All pleasant harvest-fields of yore!
I feel the day; I see the field;
The quivering of the leaves;
And good old Jacob, and his house,--
Binding the yellow sheaves!
And at this very hour I seem
To be with Joseph in his dream!
I see the fields of Bethlehem,
And reapers many a one
Bending unto their sickles' stroke,
And Boaz looking on;
And Ruth, the Moabitess fair,
Among the gleaners stooping there!
Again, I see a little child,
His mother's sole delight,--
God's living gift of love unto
The kind, good Shunammite;
To mortal pangs I see him yield,
And the lad bear him from the field.
The sun-bathed quiet of the hills,
The fields of Galilee,
That eighteen hundred years ago
Were full of corn, I see;
And the dear Saviour take his way
'Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath day.
Oh, golden fields of bending corn,
How beautiful they seem!
The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves,
To me are like a dream;
The sunshine, and the very air
Seem of old time, and take me there!
MARY HOWITT
SOUTH-WEST WIND, ESQ.
Treasure Valley belonged to three brothers--Schwartz, Hans, and Gluck.
The two elder brothers were rich, cruel, quarrelsome men who never gave
anything in charity. The youngest brother, Gluck, was twelve years old,
and kind to everyone. He had to act as cook and servant to his brothers.
One cold, wet day the brothers went out, telling Gluck to roast a leg of
mutton on the spit, let nobody into the house, and let nothing out.
After a time some one knocked at the door. Gluck went to the window,
opened it, and put his head out to see who it was.
It was the most extraordinary-looking little gentleman. He had a very
large nose, slightly brass-coloured; very round and very red cheeks;
merry eyes, long hair, and moustaches that curled twice round like a
corkscrew on each side of his mouth. He was four feet six inches high,
and wore a pointed cap as long as himself. It was decorated with a black
feather about three feet long. Around his body was folded an enormous
black, glossy-looking cloak much too long for him. As he knocked again
he caught sight of Gluck.
"Hollo!" said the little gentleman, "that's not the way to answer the
door; I'm wet, let me in."
To do the little gentleman justice, he _was_ wet. His feather hung down
between his legs like a beaten puppy's tail, dripping like an umbrella;
and from the ends of his moustaches the water was running into his
waistcoat pockets, and out again like a mill stream.
"I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck, "I'm very sorry, but I really can't."
"Can't what?" said the old gentleman.
"I can't let you in, sir,--I can't, indeed; my brothers would beat me to
death, sir, if I thought of such a thing. What do you want, sir?"
"Want?" said the old gentleman, petulantly, "I want fire and shelter;
and there's your great fire there blazing, crackling, and dancing on the
walls, with nobody to feel it. Let me in, I say; I only want to warm
myself."
Gluck had had his head, by this time, so long out of the window that he
began to feel it was really unpleasantly cold, and when he turned and
saw the beautiful fire rustling and roaring, and throwing long, bright
tongues up the chimney, as if it were licking its chops at the savoury
smell of the leg of mutton, his heart melted within him that it should
be burning away for nothing. "He does look _very_ wet," said little
Gluck; "I'll just let him in for a quarter of an hour." Round he went to
the door, and opened it; and as the little gentleman walked in, through
the house came a gust of wind that made the old chimneys totter.
"That's a good boy," said the little gentleman. "Never mind your
brothers. I'll talk to them."
"Pray, sir, don't do any such thing," said Gluck. "I can't let you stay
till they come; they'd be the death of me."
"Dear me," said the old gentleman, "I'm very sorry to hear that. How
long may I stay?"
"Only till the mutton's done, sir," replied Gluck, "and it's very
brown."
Then the old gentleman walked into the kitchen, and sat himself down on
the hob, with the top of his cap accommodated up the chimney, for it
was a great deal too high for the roof. "You'll soon dry there, sir,"
said Gluck, and sat down again to turn the mutton. But the old gentleman
did _not_ dry there, but went on drip, drip, dripping among the cinders,
and the fire fizzed and sputtered, and began to look very black and
uncomfortable; never was such a cloak; every fold in it ran like a
gutter.
"I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck at length, after watching the water
spreading in long quicksilver-like streams over the floor for a quarter
of an hour; "mayn't I take your cloak?"
"No, thank you," said the old gentleman.
"Your cap, sir?"
"I am all right, thank you," said the old gentleman, rather gruffly.
"But--sir--I'm very sorry," said Gluck, hesitatingly; "but--really,
sir--you're putting the fire out."
"It'll take longer to do the mutton, then," replied his visitor, dryly.
Gluck was very much puzzled by the behaviour of his guest; it was such a
strange mixture of coolness and humility. He turned away at the string
meditatively for another five minutes.
"That mutton looks very nice," said the old gentleman, at length. "Can't
you give me a little bit?"
"Impossible, sir," said Gluck.
"I'm very hungry," continued the old gentleman; "I've had nothing to eat
yesterday, nor to-day. They surely couldn't miss a bit from the
knuckle!"
He spoke in so very melancholy a tone that it quite melted Gluck's
heart. "They promised me one slice to-day, sir," said he; "I can give
you that, but not a bit more."
"That's a good boy," said the old gentleman again.
Then Gluck warmed a plate and sharpened a knife. "I don't care if I do
get beaten for it," thought he. Just as he had cut a large slice out of
the mutton, there came a tremendous rap at the door. The old gentleman
jumped off the hob, as if it had suddenly become inconveniently warm.
Gluck fitted the slice into the mutton again, with desperate efforts at
exactitude, and ran to open the door.
"What did you keep us waiting in the rain for?" said Schwartz, as he
walked in, throwing his umbrella in Gluck's face.
"Ay! what for, indeed, you little vagabond?" said Hans, administering an
educational box on the ear, as he followed his brother into the kitchen.
"Bless my soul!" said Schwartz, when he opened the door.
"Amen," said the little gentleman, who had taken his cap off, and was
standing in the middle of the kitchen, bowing with the utmost possible
velocity.
"Who's that?" said Schwartz, catching up a rolling-pin, and turning to
Gluck with a fierce frown.
"I don't know, indeed, brother," said Gluck, in great terror.
"How did he get in?" roared Schwartz.
"My dear brother," said Gluck, deprecatingly, "he was so _very_ wet!"
The rolling-pin was descending on Gluck's head; but at the instant the
old gentleman interposed his conical cap, on which it crashed with a
shock that shook the water out of it all over the room. What was very
odd, the rolling-pin no sooner touched the cap than it flew out of
Schwartz's hand, spinning like a straw in a high wind, and fell into the
corner at the farther end of the room.
"Who are you, sir?" demanded Schwartz, turning upon him.
"What's your business?" snarled Hans.
"I'm a poor, old man, sir," the little gentleman began very modestly,
"and I saw your fire through the window, and begged shelter for a
quarter of an hour."
"Have the goodness to walk out again, then," said Schwartz. "We've quite
enough water in our kitchen, without making it a drying-house."
"It is a cold day to turn an old man out in, sir; look at my gray
hairs." They hung down to his shoulders.
"Ay!" said Hans, "there are enough of them to keep you warm. Walk!"
"I'm very, very hungry, sir; couldn't you spare me a bit of bread before
I go?"
"Bread, indeed!" said Schwartz; "do you suppose we've nothing to do with
our bread but to give it to such red-nosed fellows as you?"
"Why don't you sell your feather?" said Hans, sneeringly. "Out with
you!"
"A little bit," said the old gentleman.
"Be off!" said Schwartz.
"Pray, gentlemen--"
"Off, and be hanged!" cried Hans, seizing him by the collar. But he had
no sooner touched the old gentleman's collar, than away he went after
the rolling-pin, spinning round and round, till he fell into the corner
on the top of it. Then Schwartz was very angry, and ran at the old
gentleman to turn him out; but he also had hardly touched him, when away
he went after Hans and the rolling-pin, and hit his head against the
wall as he tumbled into the corner. And so there they lay, all three.
Then the old gentleman spun himself round with velocity in the opposite
direction; continued to spin until his long cloak was all wound neatly
about him; clapped his cap on his head, very much on one side (for it
could not stand upright without going through the ceiling), gave an
additional twist to his corkscrew moustaches, and replied with perfect
coolness: "Gentlemen, I wish you a very good-morning. At twelve o'clock
to-night I'll call again; after such a refusal of hospitality as I have
just experienced, you will not be surprised if that visit is the last I
ever pay you."
"If I ever catch you here again," muttered Schwartz, coming,
half-frightened, out of the corner--but before he could finish his
sentence, the old gentleman had shut the house door behind him with a
great bang; and past the window, at the same instant, drove a wreath of
ragged cloud, that whirled and rolled away down the valley in all manner
of shapes; turning over and over in the air, and melting away at last in
a gush of rain.
"A very pretty business, indeed, Mr. Gluck!" said Schwartz. "Dish the
mutton, sir. If ever I catch you at such a trick again--bless me, why
the mutton's been cut!"
"You promised me one slice, brother, you know," said Gluck.
"Oh! and you were cutting it hot, I suppose, and going to catch all the
gravy. It'll be long before I promise you such a thing again. Leave the
room, sir; and have the kindness to wait in the coal-cellar till I call
you."
Gluck left the room melancholy enough. The brothers ate as much mutton
as they could, locked the rest in the cupboard, and proceeded to get
very drunk after dinner.
Such a night as it was! Howling wind and rushing rain, without
intermission.
The brothers had just sense enough left to put up all the shutters, and
double-bar the door, before they went to bed. They usually slept in the
same room. As the clock struck twelve, they were both awakened by a
tremendous crash. Their door burst open with a violence that shook the
house from top to bottom.
"What's that?" cried Schwartz, starting up in his bed.
"Only I," said the little gentleman.
The two brothers sat up on their bolster, and stared into the darkness.
The room was full of water, and by a misty moonbeam, which found its way
through a hole in the shutter, they could see, in the midst of it, an
enormous foam globe, spinning round, and bobbing up and down like a
cork, on which, as on a most luxurious cushion, reclined the little old
gentleman, cap and all. There was plenty of room for it now, for the
roof was off.
"Sorry to incommode you," said their visitor, ironically. "I'm afraid
your beds are dampish; perhaps you had better go to your brother's room;
I've left the ceiling on there."
They required no second admonition, but rushed into Gluck's room, wet
through, and in an agony of terror.
"You'll find my card on the kitchen table," the old gentleman called
after them. "Remember, the _last_ visit."
"Pray Heaven it may be!" said Schwartz, shuddering. And the foam globe
disappeared.
Dawn came at last, and the two brothers looked out of Gluck's little
window in the morning. The Treasure Valley was one mass of ruin and
desolation. The inundation had swept away trees, crops, and cattle, and
left, in their stead, a waste of red sand and gray mud. The two brothers
crept, shivering and horror-struck, into the kitchen. The water had
gutted the whole first floor: corn, money, almost every movable thing
had been swept away, and there was left only a small white card on the
kitchen table. On it, in large, breezy, long-legged letters, were
engraved the words:--
SOUTH-WEST WIND, ESQUIRE.
RUSKIN: "The King of the Golden River."
(Adapted)
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
SHAKESPEARE
THE MEETING OF THE WATERS
There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
Yet it _was_ not that Nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'Twas _not_ her soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh! no,--it was something more exquisite still.
'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of Nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.
MOORE
LOVE
Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you. Bless them that curse
you, and pray for them which despitefully use you. And as ye would that
men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise. For if ye love them
which love you, what thank have ye? for sinners also love those that
love them. And if ye do good to them which do good to you, what thank
have ye? for sinners also do even the same. And if ye lend to them of
whom ye hope to receive, what thank have ye? for sinners also lend to
sinners, to receive as much again. But love ye your enemies, and do
good, and lend, hoping for nothing again; and your reward shall be
great, and ye shall be the children of the Highest: for he is kind unto
the unthankful and to the evil. Be ye therefore merciful, as your
Father also is merciful. Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn
not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.
Give, and it shall be given unto you; good measure, pressed down, and
shaken together, and running over, shall men give into your bosom. For
with the same measure that ye mete withal it shall be measured to you
again.
ST. LUKE, VI. 27-38
THE ROBIN'S SONG
"When the willows gleam along the brooks,
And the grass grows green in sunny nooks,
In the sunshine and the rain
I hear the robin in the lane
Singing, 'Cheerily,
Cheer up, cheer up;
Cheerily, cheerily,
Cheer up.'
"But the snow is still
Along the walls and on the hill.
The days are cold, the nights forlorn,
For one is here and one is gone.
'Tut, tut. Cheerily,
Cheer up, cheer up;
Cheerily, cheerily,
Cheer up.'
"When spring hopes seem to wane,
I hear the joyful strain--
A song at night, a song at morn,
A lesson deep to me is borne,
Hearing, 'Cheerily,
Cheer up, cheer up;
Cheerily, cheerily,
Cheer up.'"
UNKNOWN
WORK OR PLAY
Saturday morning was come, and all the summer world was bright and fresh
and brimming with life. There was a song in every heart; and if the
heart was young the music issued at the lips. There was cheer in every
face, and a spring in every step. The locust trees were in bloom, and
the fragrance of the blossoms filled the air.
Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a
long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and the gladness went out of
nature, and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards
of board fence nine feet high! It seemed to him that life was hollow,
and existence but a burden. Sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it
along the topmost plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared
the insignificant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of
unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged.
He began to think of the fun he had planned for this day, and his
sorrows multiplied. Soon the free boys would come tripping along on all
sorts of delicious expeditions, and they would make a world of fun of
him for having to work--the very thought of it burnt him like fire.
He got out his worldly wealth and examined it--bits of toys, marbles and
trash; enough to buy an exchange of work maybe, but not enough to buy so
much as half an hour of pure freedom. So he returned his straitened
means to his pocket, and gave up the idea of trying to buy the boys.
At this dark and hopeless moment an inspiration burst upon him. Nothing
less than a great, magnificent inspiration. He took up his brush and
went tranquilly to work. Ben Rogers hove in sight presently; the very
boy of all boys whose ridicule he had been dreading. Ben's gait was the
hop, skip, and jump--proof enough that his heart was light and his
anticipations high. He was eating an apple, and giving a long melodious
whoop at intervals, followed by a deep-toned ding dong dong, ding dong
dong, for he was personating a steamboat.
Tom went on whitewashing--paid no attention to the steamer. Ben stared a
moment, and then said--
"Hi-yi! You're a stump, ain't you!"
No answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist; then
he gave his brush another gentle sweep, and surveyed the result as
before. Ben ranged up alongside of him. Tom's mouth watered for the
apple, but he stuck to his work. Ben said--
"Hello, old chap; you got to work, hey?"
"Why, it's you, Ben! I warn't noticing."
"Say, I'm going in a-swimming, I am. Don't you wish you could? But of
course you'd druther work, wouldn't you? 'Course you would!"
Tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said--
"What do you call work?"
"Why ain't that work?"
Tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered carelessly--
"Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know is, it suits Tom
Sawyer."
"Oh, come now, you don't mean to let on that you like it?"
The brush continued to move.
"Like it? Well, I don't see why I oughtn't to like it. Does a boy get a
chance to whitewash a fence every day?"
That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nibbling his apple. Tom
swept his brush daintily back and forth--stepped back to note the
effect--added a touch here and there--criticised the effect again, Ben
watching every move, and getting more and more interested, more and more
absorbed. Presently he said--
"Say, Tom, let me whitewash a little."
Tom considered; was about to consent; but he altered his mind: "No, no;
I reckon it wouldn't hardly do, Ben. You see, Aunt Polly's awful
particular about this fence--right here on the street, you know--but if
it was the back fence I wouldn't mind, and she wouldn't. Yes, she's
awful particular about this fence; it's got to be done very careful; I
reckon there ain't one boy in a thousand, maybe two thousand, that can
do it the way it's got to be done."
"No--is that so? Oh, come now; lemme just try, only just a little. I'd
let you, if you was me, Tom."
"Ben, I'd like to, honest injun; but Aunt Polly--well, Jim wanted to do
it, but she wouldn't let him. Sid wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let
Sid. Now, don't you see how I am fixed? If you was to tackle this fence,
and anything was to happen to it--"
"Oh, shucks; I'll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say--I'll give you
the core of my apple."
"Well, here. No, Ben; now don't; I'm afeard--"
"I'll give you all of it!"
Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity in his
heart. And while Ben worked and sweated in the sun, the retired artist
sat on a barrel in the shade close by, dangled his legs, munched his
apple, and planned the slaughter of more innocents. There was no lack of
material; boys happened along every little while; they came to jeer, but
remained to whitewash.
By the time Ben was fagged out, Tom had traded the next chance to Billy
Fisher for a kite in good repair; and when he played out, Johnny Miller
bought in for a dead rat and a string to swing it with; and so on, and
so on, hour after hour. And when the middle of the afternoon came, from
being a poor, poverty-stricken boy in the morning, Tom was literally
rolling in wealth.
He had, besides the things I have mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a
jew's harp, a piece of blue bottle-glass to look through, a
spool-cannon, a key that wouldn't unlock anything, a fragment of chalk,
a glass stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six
fire-crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass door-knob, a
dog-collar--but no dog--the handle of a knife, four pieces of
orange-peel, and a dilapidated old window-sash. He had had a nice, good,
idle time all the while--plenty of company--and the fence had three
coats of whitewash on it! If he hadn't run out of whitewash, he would
have bankrupted every boy in the village.
Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world after all. He
had discovered a great law of human action, without knowing it, namely,
that, in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only
necessary to make the thing difficult to attain. If he had been a great
and wise philosopher, he would have comprehended that Work consists of
whatever a body is _obliged_ to do, and that Play consists of whatever a
body is _not_ obliged to do.
MARK TWAIN: "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer."
BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moon-beam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin inclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow.
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,--
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.
C. WOLFE
THE WHISTLE
When I was a boy of seven years old, my friends, on a holiday, filled my
pocket with coppers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys for
children, and being charmed with the sound of a whistle, that I met by
the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered and gave all
my money for one. I then came home, and went whistling all over the
house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My
brothers, and sisters, and cousins, understanding the bargain I had
made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth; put
me in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest of the
money; and laughed at me so much for my folly, that I cried with
vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave
me pleasure.
This, however, was afterwards of use to me, the impression continuing in
my mind; so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary
thing, I said to myself: "Don't give too much for the whistle;" and I
saved my money.
As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions of men, I
thought I met with many, very many, who gave too much for the whistle.
When I saw any one fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in
politics, neglecting his own affairs and ruining them by that neglect,
"He pays, indeed," said I, "too much for his whistle."
If I saw one fond of fine clothes, fine furniture, fine horses, all
above his fortune, for which he contracted debts and ended his career in
poverty, "Alas!" said I, "he has paid dear, very dear, for his whistle."
In short, I believed that a great part of the miseries of mankind were
brought upon them by the false estimates they had made of the value of
things, and by their giving too much for their whistles.
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
A CANADIAN BOAT SONG
Faintly as tolls the evening chime
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.
Why should we yet our sail unfurl?
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl;
But, when the wind blows off the shore,
Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.
Utawas' tide! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers,
Oh, grant us cool heavens and favouring airs.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.
MOORE
THE LITTLE HERO OF HAARLEM
At an early period in the history of Holland, a boy was born in Haarlem,
a town remarkable for its variety of fortune in war, but happily still
more so for its manufactures and inventions in peace.
His father was a sluicer--that is, one whose employment it was to open
and shut the sluices or large oak gates which, placed at certain regular
distances, close the entrances of the canals, and secure Holland from
the danger to which it seems exposed, of finding itself under water,
rather than above it. When water is wanted, the sluicer raises the
sluices more or less, as required, as the cook turns the cock of a
fountain, and closes them again carefully at night; otherwise the water
would flow into the canals, then overflow them, and inundate the whole
country; so that even the little children in Holland are fully aware of
the importance of a punctual discharge of the sluicer's duties.
The boy was about eight years old when, one day, he asked permission to
take some cakes to a poor blind man, who lived at the other side of the
dike. His father gave him leave, but charged him not to stay too late.
The child promised, and set off on his little journey. The blind man
thankfully partook of his young friend's cakes, and the boy, mindful of
his father's orders, did not wait, as usual, to hear one of the old
man's stories, but as soon as he had seen him eat one muffin, took leave
of him to return home.
As he went along by the canals, then quite full, for it was in October,
and the autumn rains had swelled the waters,--the boy now stooped to
pull the little blue flowers which his mother loved so well, now, in
childish gaiety, hummed some merry song. The road gradually became more
solitary, and soon neither the joyous shout of the villager returning to
his cottage home, nor the rough voice of the carter grumbling at his
lazy horses, was any longer to be heard. The little fellow now perceived
that the blue of the flowers in his hands was scarcely distinguishable
from the green of the surrounding herbage, and he looked up in some
dismay. The night was falling; not, however, a dark, winter night, but
one of those beautiful, clear, moonlight nights, in which every object
is perceptible, though not as distinctly as by day.
The child thought of his father, of his injunction, and was preparing to
quit the ravine in which he was almost buried, and to regain the beach,
when suddenly a slight noise, like the trickling of water upon pebbles,
attracted his attention. He was near one of the large sluices, and he
now carefully examined it, and soon discovered a hole in the wood,
through which the water was flowing. With the instant perception which
every child in Holland would have, the boy saw that the water must soon
enlarge the hole through which it was now only dropping, and that utter
and general ruin would be the consequence of the inundation of the
country that must follow. To see, to throw away the flowers, to climb
from stone to stone till he reached the hole, and to put his finger into
it, was the work of a moment, and to his delight he found that he had
succeeded in stopping the flow of the water.
This was all very well for a little while, and the child thought only of
the success of his device. But the night was closing in, and with the
night came the cold. The little boy looked around in vain. No one came.
He shouted--he called loudly--no one answered. He resolved to stay there
all night, but alas! the cold was becoming every moment more biting, and
the poor finger fixed in the hole began to feel benumbed, and the
numbness soon extended to the hand, and thence throughout the whole arm.
The pain became still greater, still harder to bear, but yet the boy
moved not. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he thought of his father, of
his mother, of his little bed, where he might now be sleeping so
soundly; but still the little fellow stirred not, for he knew that did
he remove the small slender finger which he had opposed to the escape of
the water, not only would he himself be drowned, but his father, his
brothers, his neighbours--nay, the whole village.
We know not what faltering of purpose, what momentary failures of
courage there might have been during that long and terrible night; but
certain it is, that at daybreak he was found in the same painful
position by a clergyman returning from attendance on a deathbed, who, as
he advanced, thought he heard groans, and bending over the dike,
discovered a child seated on a stone, writhing from pain, and with pale
face and tearful eyes.
"In the name of wonder, boy," he exclaimed, "what are you doing there?"
"I am hindering the water from running out," was the answer, in perfect
simplicity, of the child, who, during that whole night, had been
evincing such heroic fortitude and undaunted courage.
The Muse of History has handed down to posterity many a warrior, the
destroyer of thousands of his fellow-men--but she has left us in
ignorance of the name of this real little hero of Haarlem.
SHARPE'S LONDON MAGAZINE
Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know,
Are a substantial world, both pure and good.
WORDSWORTH
FATHER WILLIAM
"Repeat 'You are old, Father William,'" said the Caterpillar.
Alice folded her hands, and began:--
"You are old, Father William," the young man said,
"And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head--
Do you think, at your age, it is right?"
"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,
"I feared it might injure the brain;
But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again."
"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door--
Pray, what is the reason of that?"
"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,
"I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box--
Allow me to sell you a couple."
"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak.
Pray, how did you manage to do it?"
"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life."
"You are old," said the youth; "one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose--
What made you so awfully clever?"
"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you down-stairs!"
"That is not said right," said the Caterpillar.
"Not _quite_ right, I'm afraid," said Alice timidly; "some of the words
have got altered."
"It is wrong from beginning to end," said the Caterpillar decidedly, and
there was silence for some minutes.
LEWIS CARROLL: "The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland."
DAVID AND GOLIATH
Now the Philistines gathered together their armies to battle, and Saul
and the men of Israel were gathered together, and pitched by the valley
of Elah, and set the battle in array against the Philistines. And the
Philistines stood on a mountain on the one side, and Israel stood on a
mountain on the other side: and there was a valley between them.
And there went out a champion out of the camp of the Philistines, named
Goliath, of Gath, whose height was six cubits and a span. And he had an
helmet of brass upon his head, and he was armed with a coat of mail; and
the weight of the coat was five thousand shekels of brass. And he had
greaves of brass upon his legs, and a target of brass between his
shoulders. And the staff of his spear was like a weaver's beam; and his
spear's head weighed six hundred shekels of iron: and one bearing a
shield went before him.
And he stood and cried unto the armies of Israel, and said unto them,
Why are ye come out to set your battle in array? Am not I a Philistine,
and ye servants to Saul? Choose you a man for you, and let him come down
to me. If he be able to fight with me, and to kill me, then will we be
your servants: but if I prevail against him, and kill him, then shall ye
be our servants, and serve us. And the Philistine said, I defy the
armies of Israel this day; give me a man, that we may fight together.
When Saul and all Israel heard those words of the Philistine, they were
dismayed, and greatly afraid.
And David rose up early in the morning, and left the sheep with a
keeper, and took, and went, as Jesse had commanded him; and he came to
the trench, as the host was going forth to the fight, and shouted for
the battle. For Israel and the Philistines had put the battle in array,
army against army. And David left his carriage in the hand of the keeper
of the carriage, and ran into the army, and came and saluted his
brethren. And as he talked with them, behold, there came up the
champion, the Philistine of Gath, Goliath by name, out of the armies of
the Philistines, and spake according to the same words: and David heard
them. And all the men of Israel, when they saw the man, fled from him,
and were sore afraid. And the men of Israel said, Have ye seen this man
that is come up? surely to defy Israel is he come up: and it shall be,
that the man who killeth him, the king will enrich him with great
riches, and will give him his daughter, and make his father's house free
in Israel. And David spake to the men that stood by him, saying, What
shall be done to the man that killeth this Philistine, and taketh away
the reproach from Israel? For who is this Philistine, that he should
defy the armies of the living God? And the people answered him after
this manner, saying, So shall it be done to the man that killeth him.
And when the words were heard which David spake, they rehearsed them
before Saul: and he sent for him.
And David said to Saul, Let no man's heart fail because of him; thy
servant will go and fight with this Philistine. And Saul said to David,
Thou art not able to go against this Philistine to fight with him: for
thou art but a youth, and he a man of war from his youth. And David said
unto Saul, Thy servant kept his father's sheep, and there came a lion,
and a bear, and took a lamb out of the flock: And I went out after him,
and smote him, and delivered it out of his mouth: and when he arose
against me, I caught him by his beard, and smote him, and slew him. Thy
servant slew both the lion and the bear: and this Philistine shall be as
one of them, seeing he hath defied the armies of the living God. David
said moreover, The Lord that delivered me out of the paw of the lion,
and out of the paw of the bear, he will deliver me out of the hand of
this Philistine. And Saul said unto David, Go, and the Lord be with
thee.
And Saul armed David with his armour, and he put a helmet of brass upon
his head; also he armed him with a coat of mail. And David girded his
sword upon his armour, and he assayed to go; for he had not proved it.
And David said unto Saul, I cannot go with these; for I have not proved
them. And David put them off him. And he took his staff in his hand, and
chose him five smooth stones out of the brook, and put them in a
shepherd's bag which he had, even in a scrip; and his sling was in his
hand: and he drew near to the Philistine.
And the Philistine came on and drew near unto David; and the man that
bare the shield went before him. And when the Philistine looked about,
and saw David, he disdained him: for he was but a youth, and ruddy, and
of a fair countenance. And the Philistine said unto David, Am I a dog,
that thou comest to me with staves? And the Philistine cursed David by
his gods.
And the Philistine said to David, Come to me, and I will give thy flesh
unto the fowls of the air, and to the beasts of the field.
Then said David to the Philistine, Thou comest to me with a sword, and
with a spear, and with a shield: but I come to thee in the name of the
Lord of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, whom thou hast defied.
This day will the Lord deliver thee into mine hand; and I will smite
thee, and take thine head from thee; and I will give the carcases of the
host of the Philistines this day unto the fowls of the air, and to the
wild beasts of the earth; that all the earth may know that there is a
God in Israel. And all this assembly shall know that the Lord saveth not
with sword and spear: for the battle is the Lord's, and he will give you
into our hands.
And it came to pass, when the Philistine arose, and came and drew nigh
to meet David, that David hasted, and ran toward the army to meet the
Philistine. And David put his hand in his bag, and took thence a stone,
and slang it, and smote the Philistine in his forehead, that the stone
sunk into his forehead; and he fell upon his face to the earth. So David
prevailed over the Philistine with a sling and with a stone, and smote
the Philistine, and slew him; but there was no sword in the hand of
David. Therefore David ran, and stood upon the Philistine, and took his
sword, and drew it out of the sheath thereof, and slew him, and cut off
his head therewith. And when the Philistines saw their champion was
dead, they fled.
I. SAMUEL, XVII.
[Illustration: AT THE END OF THE MEAL]
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
TENNYSON
MAGGIE TULLIVER
Maggie and Tom came in from the garden with their father and their Uncle
Glegg. Maggie had thrown her bonnet off very carelessly, and, coming in
with her hair rough as well as out of curl, rushed at once to Lucy. The
contrast between the two cousins was like the contrast between a rough,
dark, overgrown puppy and a white kitten. Lucy put up the neatest little
rosebud mouth to be kissed: everything about her was neat.
"Heyday!" said Aunt Glegg, with loud emphasis. "Do little boys and girls
come into a room without taking notice of their uncles and aunts? That
wasn't the way when I was a little girl."
"Go and speak to your aunts and uncles, my dears," said Mrs. Tulliver.
She wanted to whisper to Maggie a command to go and have her hair
brushed.
"Well, and how do you do? And I hope you're good children, are you?"
said Aunt Glegg, in the same loud, emphatic way. "Look up, Tom, look up.
Look at me now. Put your hair behind your ears, Maggie, and keep your
frock on your shoulder."
Aunt Glegg always spoke to them in this loud, emphatic way, as if she
considered them deaf.
"Well, my dears," said Aunt Pullet, "you grow wonderfully fast,--I doubt
they'll outgrow their strength. I think the girl has too much hair. I'd
have it thinned and cut shorter, sister, if I were you; it isn't good
for her health. It's that makes her skin so brown,--don't you think so,
sister Deane?"
"I can't say, I'm sure, sister," said Mrs. Deane, shutting her lips
close and looking at Maggie.
"No, no," said Mr. Tulliver, "the child's healthy enough: there's
nothing ails her. There's red wheat as well as white, for that matter,
and some like the dark grain best. But it would be as well if Bessie
would have the child's hair cut so it would lie smooth."
"Maggie," said Mrs. Tulliver, beckoning Maggie to her, and whispering in
her ear, "go and get your hair brushed,--do, for shame! I told you not
to come in without going to Martha first; you know I did."
"Tom, come out with me," whispered Maggie, pulling his sleeve as she
passed him; and Tom followed willingly enough.
"Come upstairs with me, Tom," she whispered, when they were outside the
door. "There's something I want to do before dinner."
"There's no time to play at anything before dinner," said Tom.
"Oh, yes, there is time for this--_do_ come, Tom."
Tom followed Maggie upstairs into her mother's room, and saw her go at
once to a drawer from which she took out a large pair of scissors.
"What are they for, Maggie?" said Tom, feeling his curiosity awakened.
Maggie answered by seizing her front locks and cutting them straight
across the middle of her forehead.
"Oh, my buttons, Maggie, you'll catch it!" exclaimed Tom; "you'd better
not cut any more off."
Snip! went the great scissors again while Tom was speaking; and he could
hardly help feeling it was rather good fun--Maggie looking so queer.
"Here, Tom, cut it behind for me," said Maggie, excited by her own
daring, and anxious to finish the deed.
"You'll catch it, you know," said Tom, hesitating a little as he took
the scissors.
"Never mind--make haste!" said Maggie, giving a little stamp with her
foot. Her cheeks were quite flushed.
The black locks were so thick,--nothing could be more tempting to a lad
who had already tasted the forbidden pleasure of cutting the pony's
mane. One delicious grinding snip, and then another and another, and the
hinder locks fell heavily on the floor. Maggie stood cropped in a
jagged, uneven manner, but with a sense of clearness and freedom, as if
she had emerged from a wood into the open plain.
"Oh, Maggie," said Tom, jumping round her and slapping his knees as he
laughed; "oh, my buttons, what a queer thing you look! Look at yourself
in the glass."
Maggie felt an unexpected pang. She had thought beforehand chiefly of
her own deliverance from her teasing hair and teasing remarks about it,
and something also of the triumph she should have over her mother and
her aunts by this very decided course of action. She didn't want her
hair to look pretty--that was out of the question--she only wanted
people to think her a clever little girl and not to find fault with her.
But now, when Tom began to laugh at her, the affair had quite a new
aspect. She looked in the glass, and still Tom laughed and clapped his
hands, and Maggie's flushed cheeks began to pale, and her lips to
tremble a little.
"Oh, Maggie, you'll have to go down to dinner directly," said Tom. "Oh,
my!"
"Don't laugh at me, Tom," said Maggie, in a passionate tone, and with an
outburst of angry tears, stamping, and giving him a push.
"Now, then, spitfire!" said Tom. "What did you cut it off for, then? I
shall go down: I can smell the dinner going in."
Tom hurried down-stairs and left poor Maggie. As she stood crying before
the glass, she felt it impossible that she should go down to dinner and
endure the severe eyes and severe words of her aunts, while Tom, and
Lucy, and Martha, who waited at table, and perhaps her father and her
uncles, would laugh at her. If Tom had laughed at her, of course every
one else would; and, if she had only let her hair alone, she could have
sat with Tom and Lucy, and had the apricot pudding and the custard! What
could she do but sob?
"Miss Maggie, you're to come down this minute," said Kezia, entering the
room hurriedly. "What have you been a-doing? I never saw such a fright!"
"Don't, Kezia," said Maggie, angrily. "Go away!"
"But I tell you, you're to come down, Miss, this minute: your mother
says so," said Kezia, going up to Maggie and taking her by the hand to
raise her from the floor.
"Get away, Kezia; I don't want any dinner," said Maggie, resisting
Kezia's arm. "I shan't come."
"Oh, well, I can't stay. I've got to wait at dinner," said Kezia, going
out again.
"Maggie, you little silly," said Tom, peeping into the room ten minutes
after, "why don't you come and have your dinner? There's lots o'
goodies, and mother says you're to come. What are you crying for?"
Oh, it was dreadful! Tom was so hard and unconcerned; if _he_ had been
crying on the floor, Maggie would have cried, too. And there was the
dinner, so nice; and she was _so_ hungry. It was very bitter.
But Tom was not altogether hard. He went and put his head near her, and
said, in a lower, comforting tone: "Won't you come, then, Maggie? Shall
I bring you a bit of pudding when I've had mine--and a custard and
things?"
"Ye-e-es," said Maggie, beginning to feel life a little more tolerable.
"Very well," said Tom, going away. But he turned again at the door and
said: "But you'd better come, you know. There's the dessert, you know."
Maggie's tears had ceased, and she looked reflective as Tom left her.
His good nature had taken off the keenest edge of her suffering.
Slowly she rose from among her scattered locks, and slowly she made her
way down-stairs. Then she stood leaning with one shoulder against the
frame of the dining-parlour door, peeping in when it was ajar. She saw
Tom and Lucy with an empty chair between them, and there were the
custards on a side-table--it was too much. She slipped in and went
towards the empty chair. But she had no sooner sat down than she
repented, and wished herself back again.
Mrs. Tulliver gave a little scream as she saw her, and dropped the large
gravy-spoon into the dish with the most serious results to the
tablecloth.
Mrs. Tulliver's scream made all eyes turn towards the same point as her
own, and Maggie's cheeks and ears began to burn, while Uncle Glegg, a
kind-looking, white-haired old gentleman, said: "Heyday! what little
girl's this? Why, I don't know her. Is it some little girl you've picked
up in the road, Kezia?"
"Why, she's gone and cut her hair herself," said Mr. Tulliver in an
undertone to Mr. Deane, laughing with much enjoyment.
"Why, little Miss, you've made yourself look very funny," said Uncle
Pullet.
"Fie, for shame!" said Aunt Glegg, in her severest tone of reproof.
"Little girls that cut their own hair should be whipped and fed on bread
and water, not come and sit down with their aunts and uncles."
"Aye, aye," said Uncle Glegg, meaning to give a playful turn, "she must
be sent to jail, I think, and they'll cut the rest of her hair off
there, and make it all even."
"She's more like a gypsy than ever," said Aunt Pullet in a pitying tone.
"She's a naughty child, that'll break her mother's heart," said Mrs.
Tulliver, with the tears in her eyes.
Maggie seemed to be listening to a chorus of reproach and derision. Her
first flush came from anger. Tom thought she was braving it out,
supported by the recent appearance of the pudding and custard.
He whispered: "Oh, my! Maggie, I told you you'd catch it." He meant to
be friendly, but Maggie felt convinced that Tom was rejoicing in her
ignominy.
Her feeble power of defiance left her in an instant, her heart swelled,
and, getting up from her chair, she ran to her father, hid her face on
his shoulder, and burst out into loud sobbing. "Come, come," said her
father, soothingly, putting his arm round her, "never mind; give over
crying: father'll take your part."
Delicious words of tenderness! Maggie never forgot any of these moments
when her father "took her part"; she kept them in her heart, and thought
of them long years after, when every one else said that her father had
done very ill by his children.
GEORGE ELIOT: "The Mill on the Floss."
(Adapted)
THE CORN SONG
Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard!
Heap high the golden corn!
No richer gift has Autumn poured
From out her lavish horn!
Let other lands, exulting, glean
The apple from the pine,
The orange from its glossy green,
The cluster from the vine;
We better love the hardy gift
Our rugged vales bestow,
To cheer us when the storm shall drift
Our harvest-fields with snow.
Through vales of grass and meads of flowers,
Our ploughs their furrows made,
While on the hills the sun and showers
Of changeful April played.
We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain,
Beneath the sun of May,
And frightened from our sprouting grain
The robber crows away.
All through the long, bright days of June
Its leaves grew green and fair,
And waved in hot midsummer's noon
Its soft and yellow hair.
And now, with autumn's moon-lit eves,
Its harvest-time has come,
We pluck away the frosted leaves,
And bear the treasure home.
There, richer than the fabled gift
Apollo showered of old,
Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,
And knead its meal of gold.
Let vapid idlers loll in silk
Around their costly board;
Give us the bowl of samp and milk,
By homespun beauty poured!
Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth
Sends up its smoky curls,
Who will not thank the kindly earth,
And bless our farmer girls!
WHITTIER
SPORTS IN NORMAN ENGLAND
After dinner all the youth of the city go into the field of the suburbs,
and address themselves to the famous game of football. The scholars of
each school have their peculiar ball; and the particular trades have,
most of them, theirs. The elders of the city, the fathers of the
parties, and the rich and wealthy, come to the field on horseback, in
order to behold the exercises of the youth, and in appearance are
themselves as youthful as the youngest; seeming to be revived at the
sight of so much agility, and in a participation of the diversion of
their festive sons.
At Easter the diversion is prosecuted on the water; a target is strongly
fastened to a trunk or mast fixed in the middle of the river, and a
youngster standing upright in the stern of a boat, made to move as fast
as the oars and current can carry it, is to strike the target with his
lance; and if, in hitting it, he breaks his lance and keeps his place in
the boat, he gains his point and triumphs; but if it happens the lance
is not shivered by the force of the blow, he is, of course, tumbled into
the water, and away goes his vessel without him.
However, a couple of boats full of young men are placed one on each side
of the target, so as to be ready to take up the unsuccessful adventurer
the moment he emerges from the stream and comes fairly to the surface.
The bridge and the balconies on the banks are filled with spectators,
whose business is to laugh. On holidays, in summer, the pastime of the
youth is to exercise themselves in archery, in running, leaping,
wrestling, casting of stones, and flinging to certain distances, and,
lastly, with bucklers.
In the winter holidays when that vast lake which waters the walls of the
City towards the north is hard frozen, the youth, in great numbers, go
to divert themselves on the ice. Some, taking a small run, place their
feet at the proper distance, and are carried, sliding sideways, a great
way; others will make a large cake of ice, and seating one of their
companions upon it, they take hold of one another's hands, and draw him
along: when it sometimes happens that, moving so swiftly on so slippery
a plain, they all fall down headlong.
Others there are who are still more expert in these amusements on the
ice; they place certain bones, the leg bones of some animal, under the
soles of their feet by tying them round their ankles, and, then, taking
a pole shod with iron into their hands, they push themselves forward by
striking it against the ice, and are carried along with a velocity equal
to the flight of a bird, or a bolt discharged from a cross-bow.
Sometimes two of them thus furnished agree to start opposite one to
another, at a great distance; they meet, elevate their poles, attack and
strike each other, when one or both of them fall, and not without some
bodily hurt; and even after their fall they shall be carried a good
distance from each other by the rapidity of the motion. Very often the
leg or the arm of the party that falls, if he chances to light upon
them, is broken; but youth is an age ambitious of glory, fond and
covetous of victory, and that in future time it may acquit itself boldly
and valiantly in real engagements, it will run these hazards in sham
ones.
Hawking and hunting were sports only for persons of quality, and woe be
to the unhappy man of the lower orders who indulged in either of these
sports. If caught he would be severely punished and might have his eyes
put out.
[Illustration: IN THE HIGHLANDS OF ONTARIO]
After breakfast, knights with their ladies ride out, each bearing upon
his wrist a falcon with scarlet hood and collar of gold. As they near
the river a heron, who had been fishing for his breakfast among the
reeds near the bank, hears them and spreading his wings flies upward. A
knight slips the hood from the falcon's head and next instant he sees
the heron. Away he darts, while knights and ladies rein in their horses
and watch. Up, and up, he goes until he passes the heron and still he
flies higher. Next instant he turns and, with a terrible swoop
downwards, pounces upon the heron and kills it.
The knight sounds his whistle and instantly the falcon turns and darts
back to him for the dainty food which is given as a reward for his good
hunting. Then he is chained and hooded again till another bird rises. So
the morning passes, and many a bird do the falcons bring down before the
knights and ladies return to the castle for "noon-meat."
WILLIAM FITZSTEPHEN
(Adapted)
And He that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
Be comfort to my age!
SHAKESPEARE
A SONG OF CANADA
Sing me a song of the great Dominion!
Soul-felt words for a patriot's ear!
Ring out boldly the well-turned measure,
Voicing your notes that the world may hear;
Here is no starveling--Heaven-forsaken--
Shrinking aside where the Nations throng;
Proud as the proudest moves she among them--
Worthy is she of a noble song!
Sing me the might of her giant mountains,
Baring their brows in the dazzling blue;
Changeless alone, where all else changes,
Emblems of all that is grand and true:
Free, as the eagles around them soaring;
Fair, as they rose from their Maker's hand:
Shout, till the snow-caps catch the chorus--
The white-topp'd peaks of our mountain land.
Sing me the calm of her tranquil forests,
Silence eternal, and peace profound,
In whose great heart's deep recesses
Breaks no tempest, and comes no sound;
Face to face with the deathlike stillness,
Here, if at all, man's soul might quail:
Nay! 'tis the love of that great peace leads us
Thither, where solace will never fail!
Sing me the pride of her stately rivers,
Cleaving their way to the far-off sea;
Glory of strength in their deep-mouth'd music--
Glory of mirth in their tameless glee.
Hark! 'tis the roar of the tumbling rapids;
Deep unto deep through the dead night calls;
Truly, I hear but the voice of Freedom
Shouting her name from her fortress walls!
Sing me the joy of her fertile prairies,
League upon league of the golden grain:
Comfort, housed in the smiling homestead--
Plenty, throned on the lumbering wain.
Land of Contentment! May no strife vex you,
Never war's flag on your plains be unfurl'd;
Only the blessings of mankind reach you--
Finding the food for a hungry world!
Sing me the charm of her blazing camp fires;
Sing me the quiet of her happy homes,
Whether afar 'neath the forest arches,
Or in the shade of the city's domes;
Sing me her life, her loves, her labours;
All of a mother a son would hear;
For when a lov'd one's praise is sounding,
Sweet are the strains to the lover's ear.
Sing me the worth of each Canadian,
Roamer in wilderness--toiler in town--
Search earth over you'll find none stancher,
Whether his hands be white or brown;
Come of a right good stock to start with,
Best of the world's blood in each vein;
Lords of ourselves, and slaves to no one,
For us or from us, you'll find we're--MEN!
Sing me the song, then; sing it bravely;
Put your soul in the words you sing;
Sing me the praise of this glorious country--
Clear on the ear let the deep notes ring.
Here is no starveling--Heaven-forsaken--
Crouching apart where the Nations throng;
Proud as the proudest moves she among them--
Well is she worthy a noble song!
ROBERT REID
A MAD TEA PARTY
There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the
March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting
between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion,
resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. "Very
uncomfortable for the Dormouse," thought Alice; "only, as it's asleep,
I suppose it doesn't mind."
The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at
one corner of it: "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice
coming. "There's _plenty_ of room!" said Alice, indignantly, and she sat
down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table.
"Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice
for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech.
"You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some
severity: "it's very rude."
The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_
was: "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?"
"Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've
begun asking riddles--I believe I can guess that," she added aloud.
"Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the
March Hare.
"Exactly so," said Alice.
"Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on.
"I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I
say--that's the same thing, you know."
"Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "Why, you might just as
well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I
see'!"
"You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what I
get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!"
"You might just as well say," added the Dormouse, who seemed to be
talking in its sleep, "that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing
as 'I sleep when I breathe'!"
"It _is_ the same thing with you," said the Hatter, and here the
conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice
thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks,
which wasn't much.
"Have you guessed the riddle yet?" the Hatter said, turning to Alice
again.
"No, I give it up," Alice replied: "what's the answer?"
"I haven't the slightest idea," said the Hatter.
"Nor I," said the March Hare.
Alice sighed wearily. "I think you might do something better with the
time," she said, "than wasting it in asking riddles that have no
answers."
"Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning.
"I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story."
"I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the
proposal.
"Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried.
"Wake up, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once.
The Dormouse slowly opened its eyes. "I wasn't asleep," it said in a
hoarse, feeble voice, "I heard every word you fellows were saying."
"Tell us a story!" said the March Hare.
"Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice.
"And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be asleep again
before it's done."
"Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began
in a great hurry, "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and
they lived at the bottom of a well--"
"What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in
questions of eating and drinking.
"They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or
two.
"They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked: "they'd
have been ill."
"So they were," said the Dormouse, "_very_ ill."
Alice tried a little to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary way
of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on:
"But why did they live at the bottom of a well?"
"Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly.
"I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone, "so I can't
take more."
"You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "It's very easy to
take _more_ than nothing."
"Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice.
"Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly.
Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to
some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and
repeated her question. "Why did they live at the bottom of a well?"
The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then
said: "It was a treacle-well."
"There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but the
Hatter and the March Hare went "Sh! Sh!" and the Dormouse sulkily
remarked: "If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for
yourself."
"No, please go on!" Alice said, very humbly, "I won't interrupt you
again. I dare say there may be _one_."
"One, indeed!" said the Dormouse, indignantly. However it consented to
go on. "And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw,
you know--"
"What did they draw?" said Alice, quite forgetting her promise.
"Treacle," said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time.
"I want a clean cup," interrupted the Hatter, "let's all move one place
on."
He moved as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare
moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice, rather unwillingly, took the
place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any
advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than
before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk jug into his plate.
Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very
cautiously: "But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle
from?"
"You can draw water out of a water-well," said the Hatter; "so I should
think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh stupid?"
"But they were _in_ the well," Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing
to notice this last remark.
"Of course they were," said the Dormouse,--"well in."
This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for
some time without interrupting it.
"They were learning to draw," the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing
its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; "and they drew all manner of
things--everything that begins with an M--"
"Why with an M?" said Alice.
"Why not?" said the March Hare.
Alice was silent.
The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a
doze, but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a
little shriek, and went on, "--that begins with an M, such as
mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness--you know you say
things are 'much of a muchness'--did you ever see such a thing as a
drawing of a muchness?"
"Really, now you ask me," said Alice, very much confused, "I don't
think--"
"Then you shouldn't talk," said the Hatter.
This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in
great disgust, and walked off: the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and
neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she
looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her:
the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into
the teapot.
LEWIS CARROLL: "The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland."
THE SLAVE'S DREAM
Beside the ungathered rice he lay,
His sickle in his hand;
His breast was bare, his matted hair
Was buried in the sand.
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,
He saw his Native Land.
Wide through the landscape of his dreams
The lordly Niger flowed;
Beneath the palm trees on the plain
Once more a king he strode;
And heard the tinkling caravans
Descend the mountain road.
He saw once more his dark-eyed queen
Among her children stand;
They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,
They held him by the hand!--
A tear burst from the sleeper's lids
And fell into the sand.
And then at furious speed he rode
Along the Niger's bank;
His bridle-reins were golden chains,
And, with a martial clank,
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel
Smiting his stallion's flank.
Before him, like a blood-red flag,
The bright flamingoes flew;
From morn till night he followed their flight,
O'er plains where the tamarind grew,
Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts,
And the ocean rose to view.
At night he heard the lion roar,
And the hyena scream,
And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds,
Beside some hidden stream;
And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,
Through the triumph of his dream.
The forests, with their myriad tongues,
Shouted of liberty;
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,
With a voice so wild and free,
That he started in his sleep and smiled
At their tempestuous glee.
He did not feel the driver's whip,
Nor the burning heat of day;
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,
And his lifeless body lay
A worn-out fetter, that the soul
Had broken and thrown away!
LONGFELLOW
Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact
man. Histories make men wise; poets, witty; the mathematics, subtle;
logic and rhetoric, able to contend.
BACON
THE CHASE
Early one August morning a doe was feeding on Basin Mountain.
The sole companion of the doe was her only child, a charming little
fawn, whose brown coat was just beginning to be mottled with beautiful
spots.
The buck, his father, had been that night on a long tramp across the
mountain to Clear Pond, and had not yet returned. He went to feed on the
lily pads there.
The doe was daintily cropping tender leaves and turning from time to
time to regard her offspring. The fawn had taken his morning meal and
now lay curled up on a bed of moss.
If the mother stepped a pace or two farther away in feeding, the fawn
made a half-movement, as if to rise and follow her. If, in alarm, he
uttered a plaintive cry, she bounded to him at once.
It was a pretty picture,--maternal love on the one part, and happy trust
on the other.
The doe lifted her head with a quick motion. Had she heard something?
Probably it was only the south wind in the balsams. There was silence
all about in the forest. With an affectionate glance at her fawn, she
continued picking up her breakfast.
But suddenly she started, head erect, eyes dilated, a tremor in her
limbs. She turned her head to the south; she listened intently.
There was a sound, a distinct, prolonged note, pervading the woods. It
was repeated. The doe had no doubt now. It was the baying of a
hound--far off, at the foot of the mountain.
Time enough to fly; time enough to put miles between her and the hound
before he should come upon her fresh trail; yes, time enough. But there
was the fawn.
The cry of the hound was repeated, more distinct this time. The mother
bounded away a few paces. The fawn started up with an anxious bleat. The
doe turned; she came back; she couldn't leave him.
She walked away toward the west, and the little thing skipped after her.
It was slow going for the slender legs, over the fallen logs and through
the rasping bushes. The doe bounded in advance and waited. The fawn
scrambled after her, slipping and tumbling along, and whining a good
deal because his mother kept always moving away from him.
Whenever the fawn caught up, he was quite content to frisk about. He
wanted more breakfast, for one thing; and his mother wouldn't stand
still. She moved on continually; and his weak legs were tangled in the
roots of the narrow deer path.
Suddenly came a sound that threw the doe into a panic of terror,--a
short, sharp yelp, followed by a prolonged howl, caught up and re-echoed
by other bayings along the mountain side. The danger was certain now; it
was near. She could not crawl on in this way; the dogs would soon be
upon them. She turned again for flight. The fawn, scrambling after her,
tumbled over, and bleated piteously. Flight with the fawn was
impossible.
The doe returned, stood by him, head erect and nostrils distended.
Perhaps she was thinking. The fawn lay down contentedly, and the doe
licked him for a moment. Then, with the swiftness of a bird, she dashed
away, and in a moment was lost in the forest. She went in the direction
of the hounds.
She descended the slope of the mountain until she reached the more open
forest of hard wood. She was going due east, when she turned away toward
the north, and kept on at a good pace.
In five minutes more she heard the sharp yelp of discovery, and then the
deep-mouthed howl of pursuit. The hounds had struck her trail where she
turned, and the fawn was safe.
For the moment fear left her, and she bounded on with the exaltation of
triumph. For a quarter of an hour she went on at a slapping pace,
clearing the bushes with bound after bound, flying over the fallen logs,
pausing neither for brook nor ravine. The baying of the hounds grew
fainter behind.
After running at high speed perhaps half a mile farther, it occurred to
her that it would be safe now to turn to the west, and, by a wide
circuit, seek her fawn. But at the moment she heard a sound that chilled
her heart. It was the cry of a hound to the west of her. There was
nothing to do but to keep on, and on she went, with the noise of the
pack behind her.
In five minutes more she had passed into a hillside clearing. She heard
a tinkle of bells. Below her, down the mountain slope, were other
clearings broken by patches of woods. A mile or two down lay the valley
and the farmhouses. That way also her enemies were. Not a merciful heart
in all that lovely valley. She hesitated; it was only for an instant.
She must cross the Slide Brook valley, if possible, and gain the
mountain opposite. She bounded on; she stopped. What was that? From the
valley ahead came the cry of a searching hound. Every way was closed but
one, and that led straight down the mountain to the cluster of houses.
The hunted doe went down "the open," clearing the fences, flying along
the stony path.
As she approached Slide Brook, she saw a boy standing by a tree with a
raised rifle. The dogs were not in sight, but she could hear them coming
down the hill. There was no time for hesitation. With a tremendous burst
of speed she cleared the stream, and as she touched the bank heard the
"ping" of a rifle bullet in the air above her. The cruel sound gave
wings to the poor thing.
In a moment more she leaped into the travelled road. Women and children
ran to the doors and windows; men snatched their rifles. There were
twenty people who were just going to shoot her, when the doe leaped the
road fence, and went away across a marsh toward the foothills.
By this time the dogs, panting and lolling out their tongues, came
swinging along, keeping the trail, like stupids, and consequently
losing ground when the deer doubled. But when the doe had got into the
timber, she heard the savage brutes howling across the meadow. (It is
well enough, perhaps, to say that nobody offered to shoot the dogs.)
The courage of the panting fugitive was not gone, but the fearful pace
at which she had been going told on her. Her legs trembled, and her
heart beat like a trip-hammer. She slowed her speed, but still fled up
the right bank of the stream. The dogs were gaining again, and she
crossed the broad, deep brook. The fording of the river threw the hounds
off for a time. She used the little respite to push on until the baying
was faint in her ears.
Late in the afternoon she staggered down the shoulder of Bartlett, and
stood upon the shore of the lake. If she could put that piece of water
between her and her pursuers, she would be safe. Had she strength to
swim it?
At her first step into the water she saw a sight that sent her back with
a bound. There was a boat mid-lake; two men were in it. One was rowing;
the other had a gun in his hand. What should she do? With only a
moment's hesitation she plunged into the lake. Her tired legs could not
propel the tired body rapidly.
The doe saw the boat nearing her. She turned to the shore whence she
came; the dogs were lapping the water and howling there. She turned
again to the centre of the lake. The brave, pretty creature was quite
exhausted now. In a moment more the boat was on her, and the man at the
oars had leaned over and caught her.
"Knock her on the head with that paddle!" he shouted to the gentleman in
the stern. The gentleman _was_ a gentleman, with a kind face. He took
the paddle in his hand. Just then the doe turned her head and looked at
him with her great appealing eyes.
"I can't do it! I can't do it!" and he dropped the paddle. "Oh, let her
go!"
But the guide slung the deer round, and whipped out his hunting-knife.
And the gentleman ate that night of the venison.
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER
(Adapted)
THE INCHCAPE ROCK
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The ship was as still as she could be;
Her sails from heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.
Without either sign or sound of their shock,
The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.
The pious Abbot of Aberbrothock
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning rung.
When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell,
The mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothock.
The sun in heaven was shining gay;
All things were joyful on that day;
The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round,
And there was joyance in their sound.
The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen,
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck,
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.
He felt the cheering power of spring;
It made him whistle, it made him sing:
His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.
His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he: "My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothock."
The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.
Down sank the bell, with a gurgling sound,
The bubbles rose and burst around;
Quoth Sir Ralph: "The next who comes to the Rock
Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothock."
Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away;
He scoured the seas for many a day;
And now, grown rich with plundered store,
He steers his course for Scotland's shore.
So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky
They cannot see the sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day,
At evening it hath died away.
On the deck the Rover takes his stand;
So dark it is, they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph: "It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising moon."
"Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar?
For methinks we should be near the shore."
"Now where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell."
They hear no sound; the swell is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock;
Cried they: "It is the Inchcape Rock!"
Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,
He cursed himself in his despair:
The waves rush in on every side;
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.
But, even in his dying fear,
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,--
A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell,
The fiends below were ringing his knell.
SOUTHEY
A ROUGH RIDE
"Well, young ones, what be gaping at?"
"Your mare," said I, standing stoutly up, being a tall boy now; "I never
saw such a beauty, sir. Will you let me have a ride on her?"
"Think thou couldst ride her, lad? She will have no burden but mine.
Thou couldst never ride her! Tut! I would be loath to kill thee."
"Ride her!" I cried, with the bravest scorn, for she looked so kind and
gentle; "there never was a horse upon Exmoor but I could tackle in half
an hour. Only I never ride upon saddle. Take those leathers off of her."
He looked at me with a dry little whistle, and thrust his hands into his
pockets, and so grinned that I could not stand it. And Annie laid hold
of me in such a way that I was almost mad with her. And he laughed, and
approved her for doing so. And the worst of all was--he said nothing.
"Get away, Annie. Do you think I'm a fool, good sir? Only trust me with
her, and I will not override her."
"For that I will go bail, my son. She is liker to override thee. But the
ground is soft to fall upon after all this rain. Now come out into the
yard, young man, for the sake of your mother's cabbages. And the mellow
strawbed will be softer for thee, since pride must have its fall. I am
thy mother's cousin, boy, and I'm going up to the house. Tom Faggus is
my name, as everybody knows, and this is my young mare, Winnie."
What a fool I must have been not to know it at once! Tom Faggus, the
great highwayman, and his young blood mare, the strawberry.
Already her fame was noised abroad nearly as much as her master's, and
my longing to ride her grew tenfold, but fear came at the back of it.
Not that I had the smallest fear of what the mare could do to me, by
fair play and horse-trickery, but that the glory of sitting upon her
seemed to be too great for me; especially as there were rumours abroad
that she was not a mare, after all, but a witch.
Mr. Faggus gave his mare a wink, and she walked demurely after him, a
bright young thing, flowing over with life, yet dropping her soul to a
higher one, and led by love to anything, as the manner is of such
creatures, when they know what is best for them. Then Winnie trod
lightly upon the straw, because it had soft muck under it, and her
delicate feet came back again.
"Up for it still, boy, be ye?" Tom Faggus stopped, and the mare stopped
there; and they looked at me provokingly.
"Is she able to leap, sir? There is good take-off on this side of the
brook."
Mr. Faggus laughed very quietly, turning round to Winnie so that she
might enter into it. And she, for her part, seemed to know exactly where
the fun lay.
"Good tumble-off, you mean, my boy. Well, there can be small harm to
thee. I am akin to thy family, and know the substance of their skulls."
"Let me get up," said I, waxing wroth, for reasons I cannot tell you,
because they are too manifold; "take off your saddle-bag things. I will
try not to squeeze her ribs in, unless she plays nonsense with me."
Then Mr. Faggus was up on his mettle at this proud speech of mine, and
John Fry was running up all the while, and Bill Dadds, and half a dozen
others. Tom Faggus gave one glance around, and then dropped all regard
for me. The high repute of his mare was at stake, and what was my life
compared to it? Through my defiance, and stupid ways, here was I in a
duello, and my legs not come to their strength yet, and my arms as limp
as a herring.
Something of this occurred to him, even in his wrath with me, for he
spoke very softly to the filly, who now could scarcely subdue herself;
but she drew in her nostrils, and breathed to his breath, and did all
she could to answer him.
"Not too hard, my dear," he said; "let him gently down on the mixen.
That will be quite enough." Then he turned the saddle off, and I was up
in a moment. She began at first so easily, and pricked her ears so
lovingly, and minced about as if pleased to find so light a weight upon
her, that I thought she knew I could ride a little, and feared to show
any capers. "Gee wugg, Polly!" cried I, for all the men were now looking
on, being then at the leaving-off time; "Gee wugg, Polly, and show what
thou be'est made of." With that I plugged my heels into her, and Billy
Dadds flung his hat up.
Nevertheless, she outraged not, though her eyes were frightening Annie,
and John Fry took a pick to keep him safe; but she curbed to and fro
with her strong forearms rising like springs ingathered, waiting and
quivering grievously, and beginning to sweat about it. Then her master
gave a shrill, clear whistle, when her ears were bent towards him, and
I felt her form beneath me gathering up like whalebone, and her hind
legs coming under her, and I knew that I was in for it.
First she reared upright in the air, and struck me full on the nose with
her comb, till I bled worse than Robin Snell made me; and then down with
her forefeet deep in the straw, and with her hind feet going to heaven.
Finding me stick to her still like wax, for my mettle was up as hers
was, away she flew with me swifter than ever I went before or since, I
trow.
She drove full head at the cob wall--"Oh, Jack, slip off!" screamed
Annie--then she turned like light, when I thought to crush her, and
ground my left knee against it. "Dear me!" I cried, for my breeches were
broken, and short words went the furthest--"if you kill me, you shall
die with me." Then she took the courtyard gate at a leap, knocking my
words between my teeth, and then right over a quick-set hedge, as if the
sky were a breath to her; and away for the water meadows, while I lay on
her neck like a child, and wished I had never been born.
Straight away, all in the front of the wind, and scattering clouds
around her, all I knew of the speed we made was the frightful flash of
her shoulders, and her mane like trees in a tempest. I felt the earth
under us rushing away, and the air left far behind us, and my breath
came and went, and I prayed to God, and was sorry to be so late of it.
All the long swift while, without power of thought, I clung to her crest
and shoulders, and was proud of holding on so long, though sure of being
beaten. Then in her fury at feeling me still, she rushed at another
device for it, and leaped the wide water-trough sideways across, to and
fro, till no breath was left in me. The hazel boughs took me too hard in
the face, and the tall dog-briers got hold of me, and the ache of my
back was like crimping a fish, till I longed to give it up, thoroughly
beaten, and lie there and die in the cresses.
But there came a shrill whistle from up the home hill, where the people
had hurried to watch us, and the mare stopped as if with a bullet, then
set off for home with the speed of a swallow, and going as smoothly and
silently. I never had dreamed of such delicate motion, fluent, and
graceful, and ambient, soft as the breeze flitting over the flowers, but
swift as the summer lightning.
I sat up again, but my strength was all spent, and no time left to
recover it; and though she rose at our gate like a bird, I tumbled off
into the soft mud.
"Well done, lad," Mr. Faggus said, good-naturedly; for all were now
gathered round me, as I rose from the ground, somewhat tottering, and
miry, and crest-fallen, but otherwise none the worse (having fallen upon
my head, which is of uncommon substance); "not at all bad work, my boy;
we may teach you to ride by and by, I see; I thought not to see you
stick on so long--"
"I should have stuck on much longer, sir, if her sides had not been wet.
She was so slippery--"
"Boy, thou art right. She hath given many the slip. Ha! ha! Vex not,
Jack, that I laugh at thee. She is like a sweetheart to me, and better
than any of them be. It would have gone to my heart if thou hadst
conquered. None but I can ride my Winnie mare."
R. D. BLACKMORE: "Lorna Doone."
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
GRAY
THE ARAB AND HIS STEED
My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by,
With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye;
Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy wingèd speed,
I may not mount on thee again--thou'rt sold, my Arab steed.
Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind,
The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;
The stranger hath thy bridle-rein--thy master hath his gold--
Fleet-limbed and beautiful! farewell! thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold!
Farewell! those free untired limbs full many a mile must roam,
To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's home;
Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare;
The silky mane I braided once must be another's care.
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee
Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be:
Evening shall darken on the earth; and o'er the sandy plain,
Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.
Yes, thou must go! the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,
Thy master's home--from all of these my exiled one must fly.
Thy proud, dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,
And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master's hand to meet.
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright;
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;
And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,
Then must I, starting, wake to feel--thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!
Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side,
And the rich blood that's in thee swells in thy indignant pain,
Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each startled vein.
Will they ill-use thee? If I thought--but no, it cannot be--
Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed; so gentle, yet so free.
And yet, if haply, when thou'rt gone my lonely heart should yearn,
Can the hand which casts thee from it now, command thee to return?
Return! alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do,
When thou who wert his all of joy, hast vanished from his view?
When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears,
Thy bright form for a moment, like the false mirage appears?
Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary step alone,
Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft hast borne me on!
And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly think:
It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him drink!
When last I saw thee drink!--Away! the fevered dream is o'er;
I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more!
They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong,
They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.
Who said that I had given thee up, who said that thou wert sold?
'Tis false--'tis false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold.
Thus, thus I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains,
Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!
THE HONOURABLE MRS. NORTON
THE POET'S SONG
The rain had fallen, the Poet arose,
He pass'd by the town and out of the street,
A light wind blew from the gates of the sun,
And waves of shadow went over the wheat,
And he sat him down in a lonely place,
And chanted a melody loud and sweet,
That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud,
And the lark drop down at his feet.
The swallow stopt as he hunted the fly,
The snake slipt under a spray,
The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak,
And stared, with his foot on the prey,
And the nightingale thought, "I have sung many songs,
But never a one so gay,
For he sings of what the world will be
When the years have died away."
TENNYSON
Never to tire, never to grow cold; to be patient, sympathetic, tender;
to look for the budding flower, and the opening heart; to hope always,
like God, to love always--this is duty.
AMIEL
ADVENTURE WITH A WHALE
I gaily flung myself into my place in the mate's boat one morning, as we
were departing in chase of a magnificent cachalot that had been raised
just after breakfast. There were no other vessels in sight,--much to our
satisfaction,--the wind was light, with a cloudless sky, and the whale
was dead to leeward of us. We sped along at a good rate towards our
prospective victim, who was, in his leisurely enjoyment of life, calmly
lolling on the surface, occasionally lifting his enormous tail out of
water and letting it fall flat upon the surface with a boom audible for
miles.
We were, as usual, first boat; but, much to the mate's annoyance, when
we were a short half-mile from the whale our main-sheet parted. It
became immediately necessary to roll the sail up, lest its flapping
should alarm the watchful monster, and this delayed us sufficiently to
allow the other boats to shoot ahead of us. Thus the second mate got
fast some seconds before we arrived on the scene, seeing which, we
furled sail, unshipped the mast, and went in on him with the oars only.
At first the proceedings were quite of the usual character, our chief
wielding his lance in most brilliant fashion, while not being fast to
the animal allowed us much greater freedom in our evolutions; but that
fatal habit of the mate's--of allowing his boat to take care of herself
so long as he was getting in some good home-thrusts--once more asserted
itself. Although the whale was exceedingly vigorous, churning the sea
into yeasty foam over an enormous area, there we wallowed close to him,
right in the middle of the turmoil, actually courting disaster.
He had just settled down for a moment, when, glancing over the gunwale,
I saw his tail, like a vast shadow, sweeping away from us towards the
second mate, who was lying off the other side of him. Before I had time
to think, the mighty mass of gristle leaped into the sunshine, curved
back from us like a huge bow. Then with a roar it came at us, released
from its tension of Heaven knows how many tons. Full on the broadside it
struck us, sending every soul but me flying out of the wreckage as if
fired from catapults. I did not go because my foot was jammed somehow in
the well of the boat, but the wrench nearly pulled my thighbone out of
its socket. I had hardly released my foot when, towering above me, came
the colossal head of the great creature, as he ploughed through the
bundle of _débris_ that had just been a boat. There was an appalling
roar of water in my ears, and darkness that might be felt all around.
Yet, in the midst of it all, one thought predominated as clearly as if I
had been turning it over in my mind in the quiet of my bunk
aboard--"What if he should swallow me?" Nor to this day can I understand
how I escaped the portals of his gullet, which, of course, gaped wide as
a church door. But the agony of holding my breath soon overpowered every
other feeling and thought, till just as something was going to snap
inside my head, I rose to the surface. I was surrounded by a welter of
bloody froth, which, made it impossible for me to see; but oh, the air
was sweet!
I struck out blindly, instinctively, although I could feel so strong an
eddy that voluntary progress was out of the question. My hand touched
and clung to a rope, which immediately towed me in some direction--I
neither knew nor cared whither. Soon the motion ceased, and, with a
seaman's instinct, I began to haul myself along by the rope I grasped,
although no definite idea was in my mind as to where it was attached.
Presently I came butt up against something solid, the feel of which
gathered all my scattered wits into a compact knob of dread. It was the
whale! "Any port in a storm," I murmured, beginning to haul away again
on my friendly line. By dint of hard work I pulled myself right up the
sloping, slippery bank of blubber, until I reached the iron, which, as
luck would have it, was planted in that side of the carcass now
uppermost.
Carcass I said--well, certainly I had no idea of there being any life
remaining within the vast mass beneath me; yet I had hardly time to take
a couple of turns round myself with the rope (or whale-line, as I had
proved it to be), when I felt the great animal quiver all over, and
begin to forge ahead. I was now composed enough to remember that help
could not be far away, and that my rescue, providing that I could keep
above water, was but a question of a few minutes. But I was hardly
prepared for the whale's next move. Being very near his end, the boat,
or boats, had drawn off a bit, I supposed, for I could see nothing of
them. Then I remembered the flurry.
Almost at the same moment it began; and there was I, who, with fearful
admiration had so often watched the titanic convulsions of a dying
cachalot, actually involved in them. The turns were off my body, but I
was able to twist a couple of turns round my arms, which, in case of his
sounding, I could readily let go. Then all was lost in roar and rush, as
of the heart of some mighty cataract, during which I was sometimes
above, sometimes beneath, the water, but always clinging, with every
ounce of energy still left, to the line. Now, one thought was
uppermost--"What if he should breach?" I had seen them do so when in
flurry, leaping full twenty feet in the air. Then I prayed.
Quickly as all the preceding changes had passed, came perfect peace.
There I lay, still alive, but so weak that, although I could feel the
turns slipping off my arms, and knew that I should slide off the slope
of the whale's side into the sea if they did, I could make no effort to
secure myself. Everything then passed away from me, just as if I had
gone to sleep. I do not at all understand how I kept my position, nor
how long, but I awoke to the blessed sound of voices, and saw the second
mate's boat alongside.
FRANK T. BULLEN: "The Cruise of the Cachalot."
THE MAPLE
All hail to the broad-leaved Maple!
With her fair and changeful dress--
A type of our youthful country
In its pride and loveliness;
Whether in Spring or Summer,
Or in the dreary Fall,
'Mid Nature's forest children,
She's fairest of them all.
Down sunny slopes and valleys
Her graceful form is seen,
Her wide, umbrageous branches
The sunburnt reaper screen;
'Mid the dark-browed firs and cedars
Her livelier colours shine,
Like the dawn of the brighter future
On the settler's hut of pine.
She crowns the pleasant hilltop,
Whispers on breezy downs,
And casts refreshing shadows
O'er the streets of our busy towns;
She gladdens the aching eyeball,
Shelters the weary head,
And scatters her crimson glories
On the graves of the silent dead.
When winter's frosts are yielding
To the sun's returning sway,
And merry groups are speeding
To sugar-woods away;
The sweet and welling juices,
Which form their welcome spoil,
Tell of the teeming plenty,
Which here waits honest toil.
When sweet-toned Spring, soft-breathing,
Breaks Nature's icy sleep,
And the forest boughs are swaying
Like the green waves of the deep;
In her fair and budding beauty,
A fitting emblem, she,
Of this our land of promise,
Of hope, of liberty.
And when her leaves, all crimson,
Droop silently and fall,
Like drops of life-blood welling
From a warrior brave and tall;
They tell how fast and freely
Would her children's blood be shed,
Ere the soil of our faith and freedom
Should echo a foeman's tread.
Then hail to the broad-leaved Maple!
With her fair and changeful dress--
A type of our youthful country
In its pride and loveliness;
Whether in Spring or Summer,
Or in the dreary Fall,
'Mid Nature's forest children,
She's fairest of them all.
H. F. DARNELL
DAMON AND PYTHIAS
In Syracuse there was so hard a ruler that the people made a plot to
drive him out of the city. The plot was discovered, and the king
commanded that the leaders should be put to death. One of these, named
Damon, lived at some distance from Syracuse. He asked that before he was
put to death he might be allowed to go home to say good-bye to his
family, promising that he would then come back to die at the appointed
time.
The king did not believe that he would keep his word, and said: "I will
not let you go unless you find some friend who will come and stay in
your place. Then, if you are not back on the day set for execution, I
shall put your friend to death in your stead." The king thought to
himself: "Surely no one will ever take the place of a man condemned to
death."
Now, Damon had a very dear friend, named Pythias, who at once came
forward and offered to stay in prison while Damon was allowed to go
away. The king was very much surprised, but he had given his word; Damon
was therefore permitted to leave for home, while Pythias was shut up in
prison.
Many days passed, the time for the execution was close at hand, and
Damon had not come back. The king, curious to see how Pythias would
behave, now that death seemed so near, went to the prison.
"Your friend will never return," he said to Pythias.
"You are wrong," was the answer. "Damon will be here if he can possibly
come. But he has to travel by sea, and the winds have been blowing the
wrong way for several days. However, it is much better that I should die
than he. I have no wife and no children, and I love my friend so well
that it would be easier to die for him than to live without him. So I am
hoping and praying that he may be delayed until my head has fallen."
The king went away more puzzled than ever.
The fatal day arrived but Damon had not come. Pythias was brought
forward and led upon the scaffold. "My prayers are heard," he cried. "I
shall be pe
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