a moment, and before I could take them off again I found them carrying
me along as if my feet had wings. At the bank of the stream there
waited for me a lovely creature, with flowing hair and filmy green
garments. She took my hand and led me right into the stream, and
together we went along in the midst of it. Gayly we leaped the crag
and swam the pool and glided between shady meadow banks. The stream
broadened and became a river, and still we went onward, past stately
towns, and under leaning masts of gallant ships, till at last we
reached the sea and passed below its waves. The seaweed grew on tall
stems like trees, and I could see the coral, the gleaming fish, and
the rosy shells lying on the white sand at the bottom. Herds of sea
creatures went by us, dolphins and whales and even sharks, but they
turned aside to make room for us."
Bella's mother interrupted her. "This is just a dream, dear Sella, a
vain dream."
"No, mother, for here is what my guide gave me to prove my story true."
And Sella showed a sea-green scarf, adding, "And she told me to keep the
slippers, and that whenever I put them on I could go down to the bottom
of the ocean again and see all the lovely things. Oh, mother, it is so
beautiful there! But after we had wandered about a long time I grew
weary, and longed for my dear mountain home. And so she brought me back;
and now I will never leave your side again." And she flung her arms
about her mother and kissed her, begging forgiveness once again.
Sella kept her promise. But, sadly enough, she did not have to keep it
long, for in less than two years from that May day her mother died.
The little mountain home was very sad. But after her first grief
passed, Sella was very often absent from the household, and her father
and brothers and older sister knew that she was away in the world of
waters with her friends the water-nymphs. When she was at home she
often sat looking blankly into space, with her thoughts far away. Her
brothers tried to persuade her not to go away from them so often, but
she only looked at them sorrowfully, and wept, saying never a word in
answer to their pleading.
At last there came a day of merriment and good cheer in the quiet
home. Bella's sister was to be married. The guests came from hill and
valley in all the country round. Sella welcomed them, beautiful and
calm as usual, with her clear blue eyes, fair hair, and skin as white
as the water-lily. She looked like a water nymph herself, so much of
her time had been spent in her beloved water.
Now it happened that that very morning the older of her two brothers had
been out upon the hillside and had seen Sella come out from the stream,
and had noticed where she put her slippers in a cleft of rock behind a
tree. Now, under cover of the merriment of the wedding while all the
youths and maidens were dancing, the two brothers stole away to the spot
where the slippers lay hidden, took them out, followed the brook down a
little way to where its current flowed very rapidly, and dropped them
in. The stream seemed to lift welcoming hands to catch them, and they
slid rapidly out of sight. Then the brothers returned to the house.
As evening came near, Sella grew tired of the feasting and dancing and
noise and longed for the quiet that she could find below the sea. So
she ran out to the brook to get her slippers. They were gone! She
searched all along the brookside, but could not find them. Frightened,
she ran wildly from place to place, and searched in the same spots
over and over. Someone had taken them; and it did not take her long to
think who the someone was. She ran to the house and charged her
brothers with the theft. They frankly told her all that they had done,
saying that it was because they loved her so. "We could not bear to
have the cold world of waters steal our sister from us. Now you can
never go away from us again."
When Sella heard how the stream had seized and carried away her
precious slippers, she gave a broken-hearted shriek. "They are gone
forever! Oh, how cruel you have been to me!" And she left them and ran
away to her room, locked her door, and would not let anyone in to
comfort her. All night she wept and mourned, knowing that never again
could she visit the sea caves and meadows where she so loved to roam,
nor talk with the gentle sea-nymphs. All the next day she wandered
alone by the brook, envying its shining waters which danced along on
their way to the sea. But by the next day she became more used to her
loss, and began to resolve that since it was no use to mourn for what
was gone, she would begin a new life whose days should be given to
quiet tasks of good in the great world. She knew that she had learned
many things about the water that men everywhere would be glad to know.
In patient, loving service she would forget her loss.
So the years passed. Sella still loved to haunt the springs and brooks
as in her cheerful childhood. She taught men to know the right places
in which to dig wells, so as to be sure to find water beneath the
earth. She showed them how to build aqueducts by which to bring the
water from the mountain streams to towns far away from any water. She
showed them how to tame the rushing stream and make its water drive
the millwheel. She bade them build cisterns and pools and reservoirs
to catch the rain-water in the wet season, so that in the dry months
of the year it could be carried in canals into the parched fields to
irrigate them. Everywhere Sella's name was loved and honored.
Bryant, our first American poet, who has told this story in lovely
verses which you must read some day, speaks of Sella's age and death
in the lines which follow.
"Still she kept, as age came on,
Her stately presence; still her eyes looked forth
From under their calm brows as brightly clear
As the transparent wells by which she sat
So oft in childhood. Still she kept her fair
Unwrinkled features, though her locks were white.
A hundred times had summer, since her birth,
Opened the water-lily on the lakes,
So old traditions tell, before she died.
A hundred cities mourned her.----By the brook
That rippling ran beside the cottage door
Where she was born, they reared her monument.
Ere long the current parted and flowed round
The marble base, forming a little isle,
And there the flowers that love the running stream,
Iris and orchid, and the cardinal flower,
Crowded and hung caressingly around
The stone engraved with Sella's honored name."
--_Mabel Dodge Holmes._
THE GHOST OF TERRIBLE TERRY
Here is a real boy story in real boy talk.
It is a first-class story to outline. Read it through--you will be
so much interested that you can't help reading fast--then close
the book and make an outline.
I am the ghost of Terrible Terry! I have murdered ten men in cold
blood and buried their bones, in the dark of the moon, on the crest of
Death-Rattle Hill! You will meet me there at dark on the evening of
October 30! If you fail me BEWARE. (Following which was a crudely
drawn skull and cross bones.)
"Gosh!"
That was all George Taylor could say as he read the letter which his
father had just brought home in the evening mail. The mere thought of
Death-Rattle Hill _after dark_ was enough to make a fellow's heart
jump into his throat, for Death-Rattle Hill had received its name from
a popular superstition that grew out of the murder there, in pioneer
days, of an old trapper.
This trapper, "Dad" Smith, as he was known on the frontier, was
returning to his cabin in the wilderness, after selling his winter
catch of furs, when he was attacked at dusk by "Terrible Terry", a
notorious desperado of the early days. He was found the next day with
more than a score of knife-wounds in his body.
Legend credited Terry with numerous other ghastly crimes until at last
he met his fate in a manner which remains a mystery. His body was
found in the woods not far from the spot where Smith was murdered. A
rifle ball had passed through his throat. From then on stories were
circulated concerning peculiar noises that could be heard at dusk on
the hill. These noises, so the tales agreed, resembled a choking,
gasping sound--such as a man might make in struggling for breath. So
it came about that this hill came to be known throughout all the
country as "Death-Rattle Hill."
"Gosh!" said Taylor once more as these thoughts went racing through his
head. Then he jerked his cap from its hook in the hall and ran down the
alley to see if any other of the boys had received a similar message.
Carrots Crawford, Pepper Perkins and several other members of the
troop were talking excitedly.
"Hey, George," they called as the scout appeared, "did you get one,
too?"
"Do you mean a letter from Terrible Terry?"
"Sure thing," said Pepper; "all the fellows got them. It's just
another of Mr. James' stunts. Say, Scouts, remember that party we had
at headquarters last Hallowe'en? Didn't we have a circus! And I'll bet
this year we'll have a bigger time yet!"
After much discussion the group broke, and only Taylor and Pepper
Perkins remained. If the departing scouts had been thinking less about
the queer noises that were supposed to be heard on Death-Rattle Hill,
they might have observed that these two leading lights of Glenwood
troop had their heads together in earnest consultation.
It was ten days until the last of October; ten days filled with the
greatest anticipation for the members of Glenwood troop; although
every scout in the troop felt a peculiar sinking feeling at the pit of
the stomach at the thought of Death-Rattle Hill, not one of them would
have admitted it, and not one of them thought of failing to keep his
appointment with "Terrible Terry", especially after the rumor was
spread that each scout should go armed with a fork, a spoon and a tin
cup. The boys agreed among themselves that they would meet at troop
headquarters and march in a body to Death-Rattle Hill.
Hallowe'en evening came at last. The members of Glenwood Troop
reported at their headquarters to a man, quaking inwardly if the truth
were known, but prepared to keep their rendezvous with the ghost of a
cut-throat in the most haunted spot in all the land! Great was their
relief when Mr. James appeared and said he had thought it best to
accompany the boys on such a dangerous undertaking.
They started out, rather more boisterously than usual, laughing,
shouting and singing, but the nearer they got to Death-Rattle Hill the
quieter they became. By the time they reached the crest of the hill
they were huddled together like sheep.
"Here we are, boys," came the Scoutmaster's cheery voice at last as
the scouts reached a little clearing between two tall Norway pines.
Not far from one of the trees a huge bonfire had been built. Mr. James
struck a match, the flames ran quickly through the dry sticks and
logs, and in almost no time the clearing was light as day.
With the lighting of the fire, the spell that had been cast over the
boys by thoughts of Terrible Terry was partially broken, and they
entered into the games and stunts that Mr James had planned for them
with their customary spirit.
With their hands tied behind their backs they tried to bite apples
suspended from the branches of the pine by long strings and bobbed for
apples in a big tub of water. They had boxing and wrestling bouts, dug
pennies with their teeth out of shallow pans partly filled with flour,
held a war-dance around the fire and yelled as only hungry boys can
yell when Mr. James produced a pail of steaming cocoa, a big box of
"dogs", a pan full of doughnuts, and a box of red apples.
But in spite of all they could do to forget the stories of
Death-Rattle Hill they could not escape a vague, uneasy feeling, and
many a furtive glance was cast into the surrounding trees and bushes.
When the last drop of cocoa had disappeared and the last red apple had
followed the "dogs" and doughnuts to their doom, the boys crawled
close to the glowing embers of the fire and, following their usual
custom, begged Mr. James for a story.
The fire was slowly dying, and the occasional flickering flames cast
fantastic shadows on the hazel bushes and the trees.
"We have all heard more or less about strange sights and sounds in
places where men have met with violent death," said Mr. James by way
of beginning his yarn. "For instance, I have been told that in this
very clearing there grows a peculiar red moss which traces in exact
outline the spots on the earth where the old trapper Smith's
life-blood dyed the sod. Hunters have told me that no animals ever
cross this clearing--that in the dead of winter not even a rabbit
track breaks the smooth expanse of snow which is marred only by a
ghastly crimson stain where poor old Smith's body was found.
"But let me get on with my story. Thirteen years ago this very night an
old hunchback peddler, who had been selling his wares in the backwoods
settlements, lost his bearings in the forest and found himself at dusk
in this very clearing. Being completely exhausted from his wanderings,
he decided to make himself as comfortable as possible for the night. He
built a fire in the early evening, and, as the embers slowly settled
into ashes fell into a half sleep leaning against his pack.
"Just how long he dozed by the fire he could not tell, nor could he
remember exactly what wakened him, yet suddenly he was startled into
consciousness, every nerve a-tingle with a sense of impending danger.
Some power he could not sense drew his attention irresistibly to a
huge pine tree--that one right there!
"With his eyes starting from their sockets he sat incapable of
movement, waiting--waiting--when suddenly----"
Out of the pine on which every scout was focusing his gaze came an
unmistakable choking, gasping sound.
An instant later a faintly glowing light appeared.
"Great goodness! Look there!" exclaimed Patrol Leader Crawford in a
husky voice.
With a piercing shriek a horrible apparition floated out of the
branches of the pine. Its white hair was covered with ghastly clots of
red. Its arms waved wildly, moving the folds of a flowing white
garment splotched with blood.
Transfixed with horror, the boys sat frozen in their tracks as THE
THING rushed toward them.
Then there came a huge splash in the bobbing tub behind them and an
unmistakably human voice exclaimed, "Oh, thunder!" The voice belonged
to Pepper Perkins, and the Scoutmaster's flashlight revealed its owner
in a sitting posture in the tub of water, whence he had fallen from a
low branch of a tree directly over his head.
Meanwhile the "ghost" that had floated out of the pine was having
troubles of its own. It stopped floating with a sudden jerk and hung
suspended in mid-air, with a pair of khaki legs dangling beneath the
flowing garment and kicking around for something solid to stand on,
while a very unghostly voice pleaded, "Gosh, sakes! Can't you help a
feller down?"
A few turns of the flashlight revealed the whole plot. The "ghost"
had floated on a wire stretched from the huge pine to the smaller one
across the clearing. The faintly glowing light was a flashlight
enclosed in a paper sack, the horrible head-dress a piece of old fur
robe smeared with red paint, and the "shriek" a siren whistle.
You have heard how Death-Rattle Hill came by its name. And now you
know how it came about that George Taylor of the Glenwood Scouts
acquired the name of "Terry"--a name which he bears to this day.
--_Courtesy of "Boys' Life".
Copyrighted, 1918, by "Boys' Life", The Boy Scouts' Magazine._
ROAST CHICKEN
All begin at the same moment. You may take thirty seconds to
prepare to tell this story.
An American private spied a rooster prowling around a farm house in No
Man's Land just after the Americans had captured Very. Being hungry,
and having an appetite for roast chicken, this American private
decided to crawl up on the rooster and trap him in the building.
The American was about to lay his hands on the astonished rooster when
a German entered the rear door of the building bent on the same
mission. Both were so surprised that they stood for a moment and
glared at each other, then the American motioned for the German to do
a right flank on the prey they were after and both closed in on him.
The rooster was captured by the American, who later returned to the
American lines with both rooster and German in tow.
Later, at the regimental P. C., the German roasted the chicken for his
captor, who shared it with him.
--_Association Men._
WHY THE ECHO ANSWERS
Here is one of the beautiful Greek myths that everyone is supposed
to know.
Try to read it so carefully in five minutes that you can tell it
from start to finish without being questioned or prompted. Your
teacher will let two or three of you tell the story. Perhaps some
of you can do it well enough to tell it to one of the lower
classes in the school.
In the ancient days in Greece, people believed not only in the great
gods and goddesses, such as the god of the sea, the god of the sun,
the goddess of the moon, or the goddess of the harvest, but also in
many less important beings who took care of smaller things in the
world of nature. In every river lived a god, for whom the stream was
named. The woods were full of fair maidens called nymphs, whom mortal
eyes could not see. They had various names, according to the
particular objects which were their care. The nymphs who lived each in
her own tree were called _dryads_; those who dwelt in the springs and
brooks were _naiads_; while those whose home was in the rocks and
hills were _oreads_.
Of all the mountain nymphs, or oreads, the most beautiful was a maiden
named Echo. She was one of the troop of maidens who followed and
attended Diana, the goddess of the woodlands. Echo was very faithful
to all her tasks, devoted to her mistress, and beloved by all her
companions. Her one fault was that, like many another girl, she was
too fond of talking. Her tongue ran all day long. It did not matter
whether or not she had anything important to talk about; talk she
must. The other nymphs were used to it, and didn't pay much attention;
indeed, they hardly listened to her, a thing which often happens to
people who never know when to stop talking. But Juno, the queen of
the gods, one day grew so tired of Echo's ceaseless chatter that she
condemned her to lose her power to speak, except to repeat the words
of someone who spoke to her.
This was hard enough when it meant simply that the maiden could no
longer talk to her companions. If you have ever had so severe a cold
that you have lost your voice for a day or two, you know how many
things you think of that you want to say simply because you are unable
to say them. That was poor Echo's case, only it was to last forever
instead of for a few days. But far worse than this was to happen to
the unfortunate maiden. One day, not long after she had lost her
tongue, as we say, she saw for the first time the beautiful youth
Narcissus, son of one of the river gods. From that moment Echo's heart
was gone as well as her voice, for she fell in love immediately. But
alas! how could she let him know it? She could not speak at all,
except to mimic his last words whenever he spoke. And his words did
not at all express the feelings which she wanted to utter. For
instance, when Narcissus, who did not care anything about the lovesick
Echo, and who was anxious to get away, cried to her, "Let us leave one
another," she answered with all her heart, "One another," and tried to
hasten after him. But he could not or would not understand, and did
not wait for her.
At last Narcissus, who you can readily see was not as kind as he was
beautiful, growing utterly weary of having the forlorn nymph pursue
him, said rudely to her, "I cannot bear to come near you." "Near you,"
repeated Echo with all her heart, ready to fling her arms about his
neck.
"Hands off!" he cried, starting back. "I would rather die than thou
shouldst have me." "Have me," pleaded the unhappy Echo, but all in
vain. The cruel youth would have nothing to do with her. From that
time on she withdrew herself from the company of the other nymphs, and
wandered alone in hidden caves and among the remotest cliffs of the
mountains. Gradually she faded away till there was nothing left of her
but her voice, which still repeated the last part of any sound she
heard. Sometimes when you are in the woods or mountains, if you call
aloud, you will hear your own voice seeming to come back to you like
an answer. It is not your voice, you see, but that of the unfortunate
oread; so we call the sound that rings and rolls along in answer to
our voices, by the maiden's name, Echo.
Perhaps you would like to know what happened to the unkind Narcissus.
Echo was not the only maiden whom he scorned. He avoided all the nymphs,
for the only person whom he really loved was himself. As time went on he
loved himself more and more, especially as he saw the reflection of his
own beautiful face in the water. He spent his days stooping over the
deep, still pool that made the best mirror. He talked to his own image
in the still surface; he tried to embrace it, stooping so far over that
he almost fell in. But the mirrored face made no response to all his
pleadings. He was being well paid for his treatment of Echo. At last, in
despair because his love was not returned, he pined away and died of a
broken heart. Like other people who love themselves best, he got no
happiness from his vanity and selfishness.
Perhaps you are wondering why the youth whom Echo loved bore the name of
our delicate white spring flower. It is because that flower first sprang
up from the ground on the spot where the beautiful Narcissus was buried.
--_Mabel Dodge Holmes._
THE FIGHT WITH THE SEA
Before you begin to read this selection, look up the word _reclaim_.
This is a good selection for outlining. You can write four or five
topics that will cover the substance of the piece.
Your teacher will keep track of the time it takes each of you to
read the selection and make your outline.
There are some learned people who tell us that a great many years ago
the island which we call England, Scotland, and Wales was one with the
continent of Europe. They say that the sea gradually made its way
through a stretch of low-lying land, till at last Great Britain was
completely cut off from the continent. We all know that the Eastern
counties of England which face the little country of Holland are just
as flat and marshy as the opposite shores. The farmers and laborers in
these countries are continually endeavoring to make good pasture-land
of the unhealthy marshes and fens, as they are called, and each year
sees acres of land reclaimed and turned to good use; but also each
year a little land is stolen from these counties by the greedy sea.
The patient Dutch people on the other shore are carrying on the same
kind of work. They make wonderful dykes and drive the sea always a
little further and further back; and though much of their country is
actually beneath the level of the sea, they jealously guard the
treasure they have captured, with so much perseverance and energy that
the tyrant sea is kept in subjection. Of course, as the land lies
lower than the water, the natural result would be that the water would
flood the land unless it were kept out by an embankment; and this
wonderful little nation, so brave and daring as to defy the sea, have
surrounded their land with dykes, which are huge banks towering above
the lowlands of the country, and preventing the sea from obtaining
entrance. Of course, these dykes could be made only gradually as the
sea was turned from one spot to another by dams and locks, and these
facts will give you a far better proof than any other I could find of
the wonderful character and the great courage and perseverance of a
nation which has reclaimed its fatherland from the sea.
You will not be surprised to be told that such a land is very damp and
misty. All the surface is cut up by innumerable canals. If you could see
the whole country from a height, it would look like an enormous puzzle.
It consists of hundreds of green patches cut up by the waterways, and
decorated with red-roofed villages and towns. Through all of these
canals flows the same water; all of them are connected with one another.
Here and there the canals are wide, and bear much traffic on their
placid surfaces. Through miles of green fields wander little baby
canals, draining the pasture-lands, and bravely carrying barges which
drift slowly in single file from one busy centre to another.
There are plenty of railways, but the trains are generally slow, and
in many places the land perceptibly gives way as the heavy train
presses it, so most of the conveyance is done on the canals.