PART III_The Elson Readers, Book 5

GREAT AMERICAN AUTHORS

A man lives in the last half of life on the memory of things read in

the first half of life.

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

GREAT AMERICAN AUTHORS

A FORWARD LOOK

When Mother used to tell you a story about when she was a little girl,

you were interested only in the story and in the pictures her words

called up in your mind. Suppose some older person had been listening

while she told one of these tales, and had been interested not alone

in the adventure that she was telling about, as you were, but in the

way in which she told it. This person, your uncle, let's say, would

notice how Mother planned her story so as to keep the very most

exciting thing to the last, and how you grew more and more excited

about it, and how your eyes shone, and her eyes too, and how without

knowing it she was letting him see what kind of people they were

in her story, and what kind of little girl she was-very brave,

you know-and when at the end you drew a long breath and had that

delightful little thrill that you always have at the end of a

perfectly wonderful story-after all this, suppose your uncle should

look at Mother in a funny kind of way and should say, "Bless me, Sis,

I had no idea you were an author."

What would you say? Mother an author? Why, an author is a person who

writes big books in words that no one can understand, but Mother,

she-why, she is Mother!

Yet your uncle is right. Mother is an author when she thinks back over

her life and picks out something that is interesting, and then tells

it in her very most interesting way to please you. If she would only

write out that story, and a printer would print it in a book, and in

the front of the book you should read "When I Was a Little Girl." By

Mother"-that would be a Book, and Mother would be a real author.

Now long, long ago, there weren't any books. When Mother told you a

story, if you had lived then, you would remember it and would tell

it to other people, and after you grew up you would tell it to your

children, and when they had grown up, they would tell it to your

grandchildren, and so on and on. Who wrote Cinderella, or Sleeping

Beauty, or the Three Bears? You don't know. Nobody knows. They just

happened. They were told by mothers to their children and so on and

so on, and after centuries, perhaps, when printing had been invented,

some printer man thought, like your uncle, that here was a story that

ought to be printed and so he made a book of it. But he didn't claim

to be the author of it, for he was not.

So, some of the stories you have read in this book do not have any

author's name attached to them. And even if they did, you were not

thinking, while you were reading, about the man who wrote them. You

just thought of the story and whether you liked it or not. Yet no

small part of the advantage that you enjoy because you live now,

instead of in the days when there were no books, lies in the fact that

you can become acquainted with the men and women who have written the

stories and poems that you read.

Let's put it this way. In those old days that we have been speaking

about, you would have had to depend upon your Mother, or some other

mother, or some village weaver of tales, for your stories. But they

were busy, and you couldn't get enough stories to satisfy your

appetite. Then one-time, let's say, a strange, wandering fellow came

to your village. And he had yards and yards of the most wonderful

stories to tell. And he went home with you, let's say, and stayed

there, and did nothing but tell you stories whenever you wanted them,

first thing in the morning, and after school, and bedtime, and all.

And he was never too busy. And you learned to know him, what an

interesting man he was, and what fine eyes he had, and what a smile

that made you smile back before he said a word, and how he loved Truth

and hated lies, and loved Honor and hated shameful things. He was your

author, your book, your book of books. And he was as dear to you, in

himself, as his stories were.

Now you can have just such a friend, no, you can have a whole company

of just such friends, for yourself. How? In books, of course. Only

they won't be merely books; they will be friends. Washington Irving,

teller of wonderful stories, and Robert Louis Stevenson are there,

in those books, and you can learn them as well as their stories. And

Henry W. Longfellow, writer of stories in verse; and John G. Whittier,

writer of poems about barefoot boys and corn huskings; and Benjamin

Franklin, a kindly philosopher-there, that word is too hard for you,

but it just slipped out, and so you will have to be told that a

philosopher is a person who thinks about life and its meaning.

That's what all authors are, in a way. That's what makes them authors.

They don't just eat and sleep and do their work, whatever it is-they

think about life. And what they see and think they set down for you.

To know them is to know delightful friends who will tell you what

everything means and will answer all your questions.

There they are, on your bookshelf. They won't speak to you unless you

speak first. If you want to do something else and don't wish to be

bothered, they won't bother you. But when you want to talk with them,

they are ready. Call upon them often, and you will learn one of the

blessedest things about life, the companionship of boobs.

Some of them, men of our own America, are to be introduced to you in

the following pages. From now on you are to do three things. First,

you are to listen and enjoy when they tell you what they have to say.

Next, you are to begin to do just what your uncle was doing when he

listened to Mother telling you that story-you are to see that there is

a way to tell something that is good, and that if one has learned this

way, like Mother, he is an author. And last, you are to find that

these authors are real persons whom you can learn to know. Then you

will love them, just as you love Mother, not alone for what they say,

but for what they are.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790) was born in Boston in the early colonial

days. While still a boy, he learned the printer's trade, but,

having difficulty with his brother, for whom he worked, he went

to Philadelphia,-where later he became owner and editor of the

Philadelphia Gazette, the city's leading newspaper. Later he

established another periodical, called Poor Richard's Almanac.

Franklin was greatly interested in the study of science. He "snatched

lightning from the skies" by the use of a key and a kite with a silk

string. This experiment led to his invention of the lightning rod,

which was soon placed on public and private buildings not only in

America but also in England and France. He invented the "Franklin

Stove," which is still in use in some places. This is an open stove

made in such a way as to economize heat and save fuel. Franklin

invented a street lamp which was used for lighting the streets of

Philadelphia.

Franklin was big-hearted and wished to be of real service to his

fellow-citizens. He organized a debating club, a night watch, a

volunteer fire company, a street-cleaning department, and a public

library-the first of its kind in America.

His-services to the new government that the Americans were just

setting up were equally noteworthy. He went to England to represent

the colonies and did all that he could to patch up the quarrel between

the colonies and the mother country. When all these attempts failed,

he gave himself heart and soul to the business of making a new

government. He was one of the signers of the Declaration of

Independence. Later, as a special minister to France he delighted

Frenchmen by his humor and his common sense, and he even succeeded

in securing the promise of the French government to acknowledge the

independence of the colonies and to send ships and men to their

assistance.

In a letter to a friend in 1779, Franklin tells the story, "The

Whistle." "An Ax to Grind" is from his autobiography.

THE WHISTLE

When I was a child 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 ran 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

on 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 one too ambitious of court favor, sacrificing his time in

attendance on levees-his repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps

his friends, to attain it-I have said to myself, "This man gives too

much for his whistle."

When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself

in political bustles, neglecting his own affairs, and ruining them by

that neglect, "He pays indeed," said I, "too much for his whistle."

If I knew a miser who gave up every kind of comfortable living, all

the pleasure of doing good to others, all the esteem of his fellow

citizens, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake of

accumulating wealth, "Poor man," said I, "you pay too much for your

whistle."

When I met with a man of pleasure, sacrificing every laudable

improvement of the mind or of his fortune to mere corporeal

sensations, and ruining his health in their pursuit, "Mistaken man,"

said I, "you are providing pain for yourself instead of pleasure; you

give too much for your whistle."

If I see one fond of appearance, or fine clothes, fine houses, fine

furniture, fine equipages, all above his fortune, for which he

contracts debts and ends his career in a prison, "Alas!" say I, "he

has paid dear, very dear, for his whistle."

In short, I conceive that a great part of the miseries of mankind are

brought upon them by the false estimates they have made of the value

of things, and by their giving too much for their whistles.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

Discussion. 1. Why did Franklin say that lie paid too much for his

whistle' 2. How was this incident of use to him afterwards? 3. How

does it apply to a man too fond of popularity? To the miser? To the

man of pleasure? To the one who cares too much for appearance? 4. Can

you think of other incidents that illustrate what Franklin had in

mind? 5. Extravagance has been called the great fault of Americans.

During the World war what efforts were made by our people to. Correct

this fault? Why were the efforts successful? 6. Why is it necessary

to continue these efforts now? If all Americans would practice what

Franklin advises, what would be the effect on the cost of living, and

why? 7. In what ways can you save some of the pennies you might spend

foolishly? S. What do you know about Postal Savings deposits? 9. Write

a letter to your teacher, proposing that the children in your class

save as many pennies as possible for savings accounts, pointing out

some ways in which children may save their pennies; bring in a part of

Franklin's story in the most interesting way that you can. 10. Tell

what you can about the author. 11. Find in the Glossary the meaning

of: coppers; voluntarily; vexation; ambitious; esteem; contracts.

12. Pronounce: directly: chagrin; sacrificing; levee; accumulating;

laudable; equipage.

Phrases for Study

impression continuing, corporeal sensations, political bustles, above

his fortune.

AN AX TO GRIND

When I was a little boy, I remember, one cold winter morning, I was

accosted by a smiling man with an ax on his shoulder. "My pretty boy,"

said he, "has your father a grindstone?"

"Yes, sir," said I.

"You are a fine little fellow!" said he. "Will you, let me grind my ax

on it?"

Pleased with the compliment of "fine little fellow," "Oh, yes, sir," I

answered. "It is down in the shop."

"And will you, my man," said he, patting me on the head, "get me a

little hot water?"

How could I refuse? I ran, and soon brought a kettleful.

"How old are you-and what's your name?" continued he, without waiting

for a reply. "I'm sure you are one of the finest lads that I have ever

seen. Will you just turn a few minutes for me?"

Tickled with the flattery, like a little fool, I went to work, and

bitterly did I rue the day. It was a new ax, and I toiled and tugged

till I was almost tired to death. The school bell rang, and I could

not get away. My hands were blistered, and the ax was not half ground.

At length, however, it was sharpened, and the man turned to me with,

"Now, you little rascal, you've played truant! Scud to school, or

you'll rue it!"

"Alas!" thought I, "it was hard enough to turn a grindstone this cold

day, but now to be called a little rascal is too much." It sank deep

into my mind, and often have I thought of it since.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

Discussion. 1. In this story Franklin advises you to be on your guard

against flatterers who wish to make use of you in order to gain their

o"-n ends. What made Franklin do as the man wanted him to? What do you

think of the man? 2. How would you have sought the boy's help? 3. In

what way was this incident of use to Franklin afterwards? 4. What is

meant when we say of a person that he has "an ax to grind"? 5. How do

you think Franklin valued sincerity? 6. How do you value it? 7. Tell

the story as the man would have told it to a friend. 8. Pronounce:

accosted.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) was born in the rugged hill country

of western Massachusetts. From infancy he showed remarkable powers of

mind. He could read by the time he was two years old, wrote verses

at nine, and when scarcely eighteen wrote his most noted poem,

"Thanatopsis," now one of the world's classics. He had a wonderful

memory, and it is said he could repeat "by heart" every poem he had

written.

Bryant removed to New York, where in 1825 he became editor of the

Evening Post. Through the remainder of--his long life he devoted his

energy and great gifts to building up one of the most forceful of

American newspapers, but he found time also to study Nature and to

write so many poems that we now think of him as a poet, not as an

editor. He was also a student, and we are indebted to him for some

excellent translations from old authors. And, finally, he was a

public-spirited American, interested in all matters that have to do

with the honor of our country. Imagine yourself in New York City

during the latter part of the last century. If you were walking up

Broadway almost any morning, your attention would be attracted to a

venerable looking man, with heavy, flowing, snow-white hair and beard,

whom you would be quite likely to meet swinging along at a vigorous

pace. You would not need to be told that this man is our first

American poet, with whose verses you are already familiar; and you

would probably know, too, that he is also the editor of the Evening

Post and that, although now past eighty, he is on his way to his

office, walking from his home some two miles away, as he has done,

rain or shine, for over half a century.

This great man was not too busy with affairs, or too learned, to look

for the joy that comes from companionship with Nature. Like Irving he

chose American subjects taken from his own surroundings: the scenes

of his boyhood, the flowers, birds, and hills of his old New England

home. He found pleasure in the simplest things, and he wrote about

this pleasure in the simplest way. In this simplicity and the variety

of his interests his wealth consisted; a treasure that made rich not

only the poet who possessed it but all Americans, to whom he left his

life and works for an inheritance.

THE YELLOW VIOLET

When beechen buds begin to swell,

And woods the bluebird's warble know,

The yellow violet's modest bell

Peeps from the last year's leaves below.

Ere russet fields their green resume,

Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare,

To meet thee, when thy faint perfume;

Alone is in the virgin air.

Of all her train, the hands of Spring

First plant thee in the watery mold;

And I have seen thee blossoming

Beside the snow-bank's edges cold.

Thy parent sun, who bade thee view

dale-skies, and chilling moisture sip,

Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,

And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,

And earthward bent thy gentle eye,

Unapt the passing view to meet,

When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.

Oft, in the sunless April day,

Thy early smile has stayed my walk,

But 'midst the gorgeous blooms of May

I passed thee on thy humble stalk.

So they who climb to wealth forget The friends in darker fortunes

tried. I copied them--but I regret That I should ape the ways of

pride.

And when again the genial hour Awakes the painted tribes of light,

I'll not o'erlook the modest flower That made the weds of April

bright.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

Discussion. 1. When does the poet say the violet makes its appearance?

2. Why is the violet called a "modest" flower? 3. Why does the violet

make glad the heart of the poet? When the woods and fields are full of

flowers, does he notice the violet? 4. What does "alone" add to the

meaning of line 8, page 298? 5. What is meant by "her train," line 9,

page 298? 6. What are "the hands of Spring"? 7. In what sense is the

sun the "parent" of the violet? 8. Why does Bryant say the violet's

seat is low? 9. What does the poet say the violet's "early smile" has

often done for him? 10. Point out the stanzas in which the poet tells

you where he finds the violet; the stanzas in which he tells you about

the appearance and character of the flower; the stanzas in which he

rebukes himself for passing it by, and makes a promise. 11. Why does

Bryant stop to view the violet in April and pass it by in May? 12.

With what does the poet compare this treatment of the violet? 13. What

does the poet say he regrets? 14. What other flowers come very early

in the spring? How do you feel when you see them? 15. Which stanza of

the poem do you like best? 16. What other poem on the violet have you

read? 17. Tell what you can about the author. 18. Find in the Glossary

the meaning of: beechen; russet; train; jet; unapt. 19. Pronounce:

ere; parent; gorgeous; humble; genial.

Phrases for Study

modest bell, stayed my walk, their green resume, in darker fortunes

tried, virgin air, ape the ways of pride, pale skies, genial hour,

flaunting nigh, painted tribes of light.

THE GLADNESS OF NATURE

Is this a time to be cloudy and sad,

When our Mother Nature laughs around,

When even the deep blue heavens look glad,

And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?

There are notes of joy from the hangbird and wren,

And the gossip of swallows through all the sky;

The ground squirrel gayly chirps by his den,

And the wilding bee hums merrily by.

The clouds are at play in the azure space,

And their shadows at play on the bright green vale,

And here they stretch to the frolic chase,

And there they roll on the easy gale.

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower;

There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree;

There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,

And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles

On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray,

On the leaping waters and gay young isles,

Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

Discussion. 1. What season is described here? 2. What are the signs

that Nature is glad? How do all these things affect the poet? How do

you sometimes feel on a cold, rainy day? 3. What signs of gladness are

mentioned in the first two stanzas? 4. Which of these have you seen

in springtime? 5. Have you ever seen clouds that seemed to chase one

another? 6. What is meant by "a laugh from the brook"? 7. What does

the poet say the sun will do for us? 8. Do you think spring is "a time

to be cloudy and sad"? Why? 9. Why do city boys and girls like to

visit the country? 10. Read again "A Forward Look," pages 19-20, and

then point out fancies that Bryant uses in this poem to help us see

the beauty and wonder of Nature. 11. Commit to memory the stanza that

you like best. 12. Pronounce: wilding; azure; isles; ay.

Phrases for Study

gladness breathes, frolic chase, blossoming ground, aspen bower,

gossip of swallows, titter of winds, azure space, broad-faced sun.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892) was born near the town of

Haverhill, Massachusetts, not far from Hawthorne's birthplace. He had

very little opportunity for education beyond what the district school

afforded, for his parents were too poor to send him away to school.

His two years' attendance at Haverhill Academy was paid for by his own

work at making ladies' slippers for twenty-five cents a pair. He began

writing verses almost as soon as he learned to write at all, but his

father discouraged this ambition as frivolous, saying it would never

give him bread. His family were Quakers, sturdy of stature as of

character. He is called "The Quaker Poet."

Whittier led the life of a New England farm boy, used to hard work

and few pleasures. His library consisted of practically one book, the

family Bible. Later, a copy of Burns's poems was loaned to him by

the district schoolmaster. Like Burns he had great sympathy with the

humble and the poor. In his poems. Whittier described the scenes and

told the legends of his own locality. Home Ballads and Songs of Labor,

in which "The Huskers" and "The Corn-Song" appear, are among his most

widely read books. They picture country life and the scenes of the

simple occupations common in his part of the country. Whittier was

intensely patriotic and religious by nature. His happiness lay in his

association with his friends, with children, animals, and the outdoor

world.

In these respects he was like Bryant, a man who found pleasure in

simple things. Like Bryant, also, he was interested in public affairs.

Any injustice to the poor he opposed passionately. He wrote many poems

in protest against slavery. He wrote, also, ballads of early New

England history, and some of our most beautiful religious poetry comes

from his pen. His life was less filled with business cares than that

of Bryant, but it was equally full of interests that made him happy

and source of help and joy to others.

THE HUSKERS

It was late in mild October, and the long autumnal rain Had left the

summer harvest-fields all green with grass again; The first sharp

frosts had fallen, leaving all the woodlands gay With the hues of

summer's rainbow or the meadow flowers of May.

Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, the sun rose broad and red; At

first a rayless disk of fire, he brightened as he sped; Yet even his

noontide glory fell chastened and subdued On the cornfields and the

orchards and softly pictured wood.

And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to the night, He wove with

golden shuttle the haze with yellow light; Slanting through the tented

beeches, he glorified the hill; And, beneath it, pond and meadow lay

brighter, greener still.

And shouting boys in woodland haunts caught glimpses of that sky,

Flecked by the many-tinted leaves, and laughed, they knew not why; And

schoolgirls, gay with aster-flowers, beside the meadow brooks, Mingled

the glow of autumn with the sunshine of sweet looks.

From spire and barn looked westerly the patient weathercocks; But even

the birches on the hill stood motionless as rocks. No sound was in the

woodlands save the squirrel's dropping shell, And the yellow leaves

among the boughs, low rustling as they fell.

The summer grains were harvested; the stubble-fields lay dry, Where

June winds rolled, in light and shade, the pale green waves of rye;

But still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys fringed with wood,

ungathered, bleaching in the sun, the heavy corn crop stood.

Bent low by autumn's wind and rain, through husks that, dry and sear,

Unfolded from their ripened charge, shone out the yellow ear; Beneath,

the turnip lay concealed in many a verdant fold, And glistened in the

slanting light the pumpkin's sphere of gold.

There wrought the busy harvester, and many a creaking wain Bore slowly

to the long barn-floor its load of husk and grain; Till broad and red,

as when he rose, the sun sank down at last, And like a merry guest's

farewell the day in brightness passed.

And lo! as through the western pines, on meadow, stream, and pond,

Flamed the red radiance of a sky set all afire beyond, Slowly o'er

the eastern sea-bluffs a milder glory shone, And the sunset and the

moonrise were mingled into one!

As thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed away, And deeper in

the brightening moon the tranquil shadows lay, From many a brown old

farmhouse and hamlet without name, Their milking and their home-tasks

done, the merry huskers came.

Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in the mow, Shone

dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene below, The glowing pile

of husks behind, the golden ears before, And laughing eyes and busy

hands and brown cheeks glimmering o'er.

Half hidden in a quiet nook, serene of look and heart, Talking their

old times over, the old men sat apart; While up and down the unhusked

pile, or nestling in its shade, At hide-and-seek, with laugh and

shout, the happy children played.

Urged by the good host's daughter, a maiden young and fair, Lifting to

light her sweet blue eyes and pride of soft brown hair, The master of

the village school, sleek of hair and smooth of tongue, To the quaint

tune of some old psalm, a husking-ballad sung.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

Discussion. 1. What is the difference between the sunshine of October

and that of May? 2. Why does it seem to the poet as if the sun wove

with golden shuttle the yellow haze? 3. What had the frost done that

made the woodlands gay? 4. What words in the second stanza make you

feel that the wood was some distance away? 5. To whom does "he" in the

third stanza refer? 6. What words in the second stanza explain

the word "haze" in the third stanza? 7. What gave the beeches the

appearance of being painted? 8. What are the colors of the woods

and sky in this poem? What colors are they in the poem "The Yellow

Violet"? Find the words and phrases that tell you. How many times, in

this poem, does the poet use the words golden and yellow, or speak of

things that suggest these colors? 9. What do you think was the reason

the boys laughed when they looked up to the sky? 10. What "summer

grain" is mentioned in line 11, page 304? 11. What crop was still

ungathered? 12. Where were the harvesters at work? 13. What was it

that set the sky "all afire beyond"? 14. Where did the husking take

place? What tells you this? 15.. How did the old men spend the

evening? 16. What things that we eat depend on the work of the

huskers? 17. Tell what you can about the author. 18. Find in the

Glossary the meaning of: shuttle; spire; sear; verdant; wain; lapsed.

19. Pronounce: autumnal; chastened; beneath; sphere; wrought;

radiance; tranquil; mow; serene; psalm.

Phrases for Study

hues of summer's rainbow, patient weathercocks, rayless disk of fire,

ripened charge, brightened as he sped; sphere of gold, glory fell

chastened, milder glory shone, softly pictured wood, mingled into one,

slow sloping to the night, hamlet without name, glorified the hill,

golden ears before, sunshine of sweet looks, glimmering o'er, looked

westerly, serene of look and heart.

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 plows 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 moonlit eves,

Its harvest-time has come; We

pluck away the frosted leaves,

And bear the treasure home.

Then shame on all the proud and vain

Whose folly laughs to scorn

The blessing of our hardy grain,

Our wealth of golden corn!

Let earth withhold her goodly root,

Let mildew blight the rye,

Give to the worm the orchard's fruit,

The wheat-field to the fly;

But let the good old crop adorn

The hills our fathers trod;

Still let us, for his golden corn,

Send up our thanks to God!

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

Discussion. 1. In "A Forward Look," you read that poets help you to

see beauty in things that might otherwise seem common. The yellow

violet is less showy than the chrysanthemum, but the poet writes

of the violet. The pineapple, the orange, the grape, seem more

interesting than the yellow corn of the fields, but here is a poem

about one of the commonest of farm crops. To whom is the poet speaking

in the first two stanzas? Point out some of the poet's fancies in this

poem. 2. Is all corn "golden"? What other kinds have you seen? 3. Name

other gifts autumn brings us. 4. Why is the corn a "hardy gift"? What

other words or phrases in the poem suggest the same idea? 5. What do

we call the "apple from the pine"? 6. What clusters are picked from

vines? 7. In what "other lands" do these fruits grow? 8. Where was

Whittier's home? 9. What do you know of the soil and climate of New

England? 10. Find the line that tells when we plant the corn. 11. Find

the lines that tell when we harvest the corn. 12. What is the "yellow

hair" the corn waves in summer? 13. What does the poet mean by

"frosted leaves"? 14. What does he think of those who scorn the

blessing of the corn? 15. What wish does the poet express in the last

stanza? 16. What service did our farmers and boys and girls on the

farms perform during the World War? 17. On page 291 you were asked to

notice the way in which these American authors have expressed their

thoughts; does Whittier's use of rime add to the beauty of his "song"

about corn? Point out some of the lines that rime. 18. Find in the

Glossary the meaning of: glean; hardy; meads; furrows; frosted;

mildew; adorn.

Pronounce: hoard; lavish; glossy; root.

Phrases for Study

wintry hoard, rugged vales bestow, lavish horn, changeful April,

exulting, glean, folly laughs to scorn, hardy gift, goodly root.

WASHINGTON IRVING

Washington Irving (1783-1859) was a native of New York. He led a happy

life, rambling in his boyhood about every nook and corner of the city

and the adjacent woods, which at that time were not very far to seek.

New York, called New Amsterdam in early colonial times, was then the

capital of the country, and here the boy grew up happy, seeing many

sides of American life, both in the city and country.

Manhattan Island and the region about it, with its commanding position

at the entrance to a great inland waterway, was from the first a

prize for which the nations from across the sea had contended. Such

a mingling of different people must give rise to interesting

experiences, and when someone appears who can put the story of those

events into a pleasing sketch, then we begin to have real literature:

Irving had not only the experience and observation, but the ability

'to express what he had seen and felt. Therefore, when he grew to

manhood and gave his sketches of this region to the world, we had our

first real American literature.

Irving is best known as a humorist and a charming storyteller, but he

has also written serious and tender works. His life of Washington is a

tribute of loving reverence to the great American for whom he was named.

As a boy, Irving was of a rather mischievous turn, a trait which perhaps

helped to make him the "first American humorist." Indeed, it has been

said that "before Irving there was no laughter in the land." He is called

the "Father of American Literature," and also the "gentle humorist."

"Capturing the Wild Horse" is taken from A Tour of the Prairies, and

"The Adventure of the Mason" from The Alhambra.

CAPTURING THE WILD HORSE

We left the buffalo camp about eight o'clock and had a toilsome march

of two hours over ridges of hills covered with a ragged forest of

scrub-oaks and broken by deep gullies. Among the oaks I observed many

of the most diminutive size, some not above a foot high, yet bearing

abundance of small acorns.

About ten o'clock in the morning we came to where this line of rugged

hills swept down into a valley, through which flowed the north fork of

the Red River. A beautiful meadow about half a mile wide, colored with

yellow autumnal flowers, stretched for two or three miles along the

foot of the hills, bordered on the opposite side by the river, whose

bank was fringed with cottonwood trees.

The meadow was finely diversified by groves and clumps of trees, so

happily arranged that they seemed as if set out by the hand of art. As

we cast our eyes over this fresh and delightful valley, we saw a troop

of wild horses quietly grazing on a green lawn about a mile distant

to our right, while to our left, at nearly the same distance, were

several buffaloes--some feeding, others reposing and ruminating among

the high, rich herbage under the shade of a clump of cottonwood trees.

The whole had the appearance of a broad, beautiful tract of pasture

land on the estate of some gentleman farmer, with his cattle grazing

about the lawns and meadows. A council of war was now held, and it was

determined to profit by the present favorable opportunity and try our

hand at the grand hunting-maneuver which is called "ringing the wild

horse." This requires a large party of horsemen, well mounted.

They extend themselves in each direction, singly, at certain

distances apart, and gradually form a ring of two or three miles in

circumference, so as to surround the game. This has to be done

with extreme care, for the wild horse is the most readily alarmed

inhabitant of the prairie, and can scent a hunter at a great distance,

if to windward.

The ring being formed, two or three ride toward the horses, which

start off in an opposite direction. Whenever they approach the bounds

of the ring, however, a huntsman presents himself and turns them from

their course. In this way they are checked and driven back at every

point, and kept galloping round and round this magic circle, until,

being completely tired down, it is easy for the hunters to ride up

beside them and throw the lariat over their heads. The prime horses of

most speed and courage, however, are apt to break through and escape,

so that in general it is the second-rate horses that are taken.

Preparations were now made for a hunt of this kind. The packhorses

were taken into the woods and firmly tied to trees, lest in a rush of

the wild horses they should break away with them. Twenty-five men were

then sent, under the command of a lieutenant, to steal along the edge

of the valley within the strip of wood that skirted the hills. They

were to station themselves about fifty yards apart, within the edge of

the woods, and not advance or show themselves until the horses dashed

in that direction.

Twenty-five men were sent across the valley to steal in like manner

along the river bank that bordered the opposite side, and to station

themselves among the trees. A third party of about the same number was

to form a line stretching across the lower part of the valley, so as

to connect the two wings. Beatte and our other half-breed; Antoine,

together with the ever-officious Tonish, were to make a circuit

through the woods, so as to get to the upper part of the valley in the

rear of the horses, and to drive them forward into the kind of sack

that we had formed, while the two wings should join behind them and

make a complete circle.

The flanking parties were quietly extending themselves, out of sight,

on each side of the valley, and the rest were stretching themselves

like the links of a chain across it, when the wild horses gave signs

that they scented an enemy--snuffing the air, snorting, and looking

about.

At length they pranced off slowly toward the river and disappeared

behind a green bank. Here, had the rules of the chase been observed,

they would have been quietly checked and turned back by the advance of

a hunter from among the trees; unluckily, however, we had our wildfire

Jack-o'-lantern little Frenchman to deal with.

Instead of keeping quietly up the right side of the valley to get

above the horses, the moment he saw them move toward the river he

broke out of the thicket of woods and dashed furiously across the

plain in pursuit of them, being, mounted on one of the led horses

belonging to the Count. This put an end to all system. The half-breeds

and half a score of rangers joined in the chase.

Away they all went over the green bank; in a moment or two the wild

horses reappeared and came thundering down the valley, with Frenchman,

half-breeds, and rangers galloping and yelling like mad behind them.

It was in vain that the line drawn across the valley attempted to

check and turn back the fugitives. They were too hotly pressed by

their pursuers; in their panic they dashed through the line and

clattered down the plain.

The whole troop joined in the headlong chase-some of the rangers

without hats or caps, their hair flying about their ears; others with

handkerchiefs tied round their heads. The buffaloes, which had been

calmly ruminating among the herbage, heaved up their huge forms, gazed

for a moment with astonishment at the tempest that came scouring down

the meadow, then turned and took to heavy-rolling flight. They were

soon overtaken; the mixed throng were pressed together by the sides of

the valley, and away they went, pell-mell, hurry-scurry, wild buffalo,

wild horse, wild huntsman, with clang and clatter, and whoop and

halloo, that made the forests ring.

At length the buffaloes turned into a green brake on the river bank,

while the horses dashed up a narrow defile of the hills, with their

pursuers close at their heels. Beatte passed several of them, having

fixed his eye upon a fine Pawnee horse that had his ears slit, and

saddle marks upon his back. He pressed him gallantly, but lost him in

the woods.

Among the wild horses was a fine black mare. In scrambling up the

defile she tripped and fell. A young ranger sprang from his horse and

seized her by the mane and muzzle. Another ranger dismounted and came

to his assistance. The mare struggled fiercely, kicking and biting,

and striking with her forefeet; but a noose was slipped over her head,

and her struggles were in vain. It was some time, however, before she

gave over rearing and plunging, and lashing out with her feet on

every side. The two rangers then led her along the valley by two long

lariats, which enabled them to keep at a sufficient distance on each

side to be out of the reach of her hoofs; and whenever she struck out

in one direction, she was jerked in the other. In this way her spirit

was gradually subdued.

As to little Tonish, who had marred the whole scene by his rashness,

he had been more successful than he deserved, having managed to catch

a beautiful cream-colored colt about seven months old, which had not

strength to keep up with its companions. The little Frenchman was

beside himself with joy. It was amusing to see him with his prize. The

colt would rear and kick and struggle to get free, when Tonish would

take him about the neck, wrestle with him, jump on his back, and cut

as many antics as a monkey with a kitten.

Nothing surprised me more, however, than to see how soon these poor

animals, thus taken from the unbounded freedom of the prairie, yielded

to the control of man. In the course of two or three days the mare and

colt went with the led horses and became quite docile.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

Historical Note. In 1832 Irving made "a tour of the prairies"--that

is, of what was then the Far West, beyond the Mississippi, where, he

says, "there is neither to be seen the log house of the white man, nor

the wigwam of the Indian." Discussion. 1. What picture do the first

three paragraphs give you? 2. Tell how "ringing the wild horse" is

accomplished. 3. What preparations did Irving's party make for the

hunt? 4. Who broke the rules of the chase? 5. What was the effect of

this? 6. Tell all you can learn about Tonish, the little Frenchman. 7.

What does Irving say about the ease with which the wild horses were

tamed? 8. List the words that give ideas of thrilling action in the

paragraph beginning, "The whole troop joined in the headlong chase."

What words tell the difference between the buffaloes and the horses

in flight? 9. Tell what you can about the author. 10. Class readings:

Select the passages you like best. 11. Outline for testing silent

reading. Tell the story in your own words, using the following

topics: (a) the scene of action; (b) the method of approach; (c) the

preparations; (d) the mistake of Tonish; (e) the excitement of the

chase; (f) the two captures. 12. Find in the Glossary the meaning

of: toilsome; gullies; diversified; circumference; prime; skirted;

fugitives; brake; defile. 13. Pronounce: diminutive; ruminating;

herbage; maneuver; kept; lariat; circuit; reappeared; rangers;

handkerchiefs; rearing; marred.

Phrases for Study

swept down into a valley, wildfire Jack-o'-lantern, fringed with

trees, thundering down the valley, happily arranged,

hand of art, hotly pressed, council of war, scouring down the meadow,

well mounted, heavy-rolling flight, if to windward, spirit was

gradually subdued, approach the bounds,

ever-officious Tonish, marred the whole scene, flanking parties,

beside himself with joy, extending themselves, unbounded freedom,

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MASON

There was once upon a time a poor mason, or bricklayer, in Granada,

who kept all the saints' days and holidays, and Saint Monday into the

bargain, and yet with all his devotion he grew poorer and poorer and

could scarcely earn bread for his numerous family. One night he was

roused from his first sleep by a knocking at his door. He opened it

and beheld before him a tall stranger.

"Hark ye, honest friend!" said the stranger; "I have observed that you

are a good Christian and one to be trusted. Will you undertake a job

this very night?"

"With all my heart, Senor, on condition that I am paid accordingly."

"That you shall be; but you must suffer yourself to be blindfolded."

To this the mason made no objection. So, being hoodwinked, he was led

by the stranger through various rough lanes and winding passages until

they stopped before the portal of a house. The stranger then applied a

key, turned a creaking lock, and opened what sounded like a ponderous

door. They entered; the door was closed and bolted, and the mason

was conducted through an echoing corridor and a spacious hall to an

interior part of the building. Here the bandage was removed from his

eyes, and he found himself in a court dimly lighted by a single lamp.

In the center was the dry basin of an old fountain, under which the

stranger requested him to form a small vault, bricks and mortar being

at hand for the purpose. He worked all night, but without finishing

the job. Just before daybreak the stranger put a piece of gold into

his hand, and having again blindfolded him, conducted him back to his

dwelling.

"Are you willing," said he, "to return and complete your work?"

"Gladly, Senor, provided I am so well paid."

"Well then, tomorrow at midnight I will call again."

He did so, and the vault was completed.

"Now," said the stranger, "you must help me to bring forth the bodies

that are to be buried in this vault."

The poor mason's hair rose on his head at these words; he followed the

stranger with trembling steps into a retired chamber of the mansion,

expecting to behold some ghastly spectacle of death, but was relieved

on seeing three or four jars standing in one corner. They were full of

money, and it was with great labor that he and the stranger carried

them forth and consigned them to their tomb.

The vault was then closed, the pavement replaced, and all traces of

the work were obliterated. The mason was again hoodwinked and led

forth by a route different from that by which he had come. After they

had wandered for a long time through a maze of lanes and alleys, they

halted.

The stranger then put two pieces of gold into his hand. "Wait here,"

said he, "until you hear the cathedral bell toll. If you uncover your

eyes before that time, evil will befall you." So saying, he departed.

The mason waited faithfully, amusing himself by weighing the gold

pieces in his hand and clinking them against each other. The moment

the cathedral bell rang its peals he uncovered his eyes and found

himself on the banks of the Xenil; whence he made the best of his way

home and reveled with his family for a whole fortnight on the profits

of his two nights' work; after which he was as poor as ever.

He continued to work a little and pray a good deal and keep saints'

days and holidays from year to year, while his family grew up gaunt

and ragged as a crew of gypsies. As he was seated one evening at the

door of his hovel, he was accosted by a rich old curmudgeon who was

noted for owning many houses and being a griping landlord. The man of

money eyed him for a moment from beneath a pair of anxious, shaggy

eyes.

"I am told, friend, that you are very poor."

"There is no denying the fact, Senor--it speaks for itself."

"I presume then that you will be glad of a job and will work cheap?"

"As cheap, my master, as any mason in Granada."

"That's what I want. I have an old house fallen into decay, which

costs me more money than it is worth to keep in repair, for nobody

will live in it. So I must patch it up and keep it together at as

small expense as possible."

The mason was accordingly conducted to a large deserted house that

seemed going to ruin. Passing through several empty halls and

chambers, he entered an inner court, where his eye was caught by an

old fountain. He paused for a moment, for a dreamy recollection of

the place came over him. "Pray," said he, "who occupied this house

formerly?"

"A pest upon him!" cried the landlord; "it was an old miserly fellow

who cared for nobody but himself. He was said to be immensely rich.

He died suddenly, and nothing could they find but a few ducats in a

leathern purse. The worst luck has fallen on me, for since his death

the old fellow continues to occupy my house without paying rent. The

people pretend to hear the clinking of gold all night in the chamber

where the old fellow slept, as if he were counting over his money,

and sometimes a groaning and moaning about the court. Whether true or

false, these stories have brought a bad name on my house, and not a

tenant will remain in it."

"Enough," said the mason sturdily; "let me live in your house

rent-free until some better tenant appears, and I will put it in

repair and quiet the troubled spirit that disturbs it. I am a good

Christian and a poor man and am not to be daunted by the Devil

himself, even though he should come in the shape of a big bag of

money!"

The offer of the mason was gladly accepted. He moved with his family

into the house, and fulfilled all of his engagements. By little and

little he restored it to its former state; the clinking of gold was no

more heard at night in the chamber of the defunct tenant, but began

to be heard by day in the pocket of the living mason. In a word, he

increased rapidly in wealth, to the admiration of all his neighbors,

and became one of the richest men in Granada. He gave large sums to

the Church--by way, no doubt, of satisfying his conscience--and never

revealed the secret of the vault until on his deathbed to his son and

heir.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

Discussion. 1. What condition led the mason to undertake the

stranger's task? 2. Why was the mason blindfolded? 3. How long did it

take him to complete the vault? 4. What was buried in it? 5. How did

the mason find his way home? 6. Was the mason's poverty relieved by

the pay he received from the stranger? 7. What work did the grasping

landlord propose to the mason? 8. What stories had brought a bad name

upon the landlord's house? 9. What was the "dreamy recollection"? 10.

How did the mason show his quick wit? 11. Why did he say that he was

not afraid of the Devil in the shape of a bag of money? 12. What

differences do you notice between this story of how the mason came

upon great wealth and the stories of Aladdin and Ali Baba? 13. Read

again pages 289-291 and tell what makes Irving a real author. Can you

tell why you enjoyed this story? 14. Class reading: The second part

of the story, page 318, line 20, to the end. 15. Outline for testing

silent reading. Tell the story in your own words, using the following

topics: (a) how the mason built the vault in the mysterious house;

(b) how he unexpectedly came into possession of this vault many years

later. 16. Find in the Glossary the meaning of: hoodwinked; vault;

maze; cathedral; pest; ducat. 17. Pronounce: Granada; Senor;

ponderous; ghastly; obliterated; route; gaunt; hovel; curmudgeon;

daunted.

Phrases for Study

retired chamber, troubled spirit, ghastly spectacle, former state,

crew of gypsies, defunct tenant, griping landlord, by way of

satisfying.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) was a native of Maine and

a graduate of Bowdoin College, in the same class with Nathaniel

Hawthorne. Longfellow came of early New England ancestry, his mother

being a daughter of General Wadsworth of the Revolutionary War.

After his graduation from college he spent several years abroad and

upon his return to America held professorships first in Bowdoin and

later in Harvard College. When he moved to Cambridge and began his

active work at Harvard, he took up his residence in the historic

Craigie House, overlooking the Charles River-a house in which

Washington had been quartered for some months when in 1775 he took

command of the Continental army.

Longfellow is the poet who has spoken most sincerely and

sympathetically to the hearts of the common people and to children.

His style is notable for its simplicity and grace. His Hiawatha is a

national poem that records the picturesque traditions of the American

Indian. Its charm and melody are the delight of all children, and

in years to come, when the race which it describes has utterly

disappeared, we shall value at even higher state; the clinking of gold

was no more heard at night in the chamber of the defunct tenant, but

began to be heard by day in the pocket of the living mason. In a

word, he increased rapidly in wealth, to the admiration of all his

neighbors, and became one of the richest men in Granada. He gave

large sums to the Church--by way, no doubt, of satisfying his

conscience--and never revealed the secret of the vault until on his

deathbed to his son and heir.