forest. The jaguars and the monkeys had hidden themselves in the
darkest depths of the woods. The birds' notes died out one by one; the
very butterflies ceased their flitting over the tree tops, and slept
with outspread wings upon the glossy leaves, undistinguishable from
the flowers around them. Now and then a parrot swung and screamed at
them from an overhanging bough; or a thirsty monkey slid lazily down a
swinging vine to the surface of the stream, dipped up the water in his
tiny hand, and started chattering back, as his eyes met those of some
foul alligator peering upward through the clear depths below.
In shaded nooks beneath the boughs, rabbits as large as sheep went
paddling sleepily round and round, thrusting up their unwieldy heads
among the blooms of the blue water lilies; while black and purple
water hens ran up and down upon the rafts of floating leaves. The
shining snout of a fresh-water dolphin rose slowly to the surface; a
jet of spray whirred up; a rainbow hung upon it for a moment; and the
black snout sank lazily again.
Here and there, too, upon some shallow pebbly shore, scarlet
flamingoes stood dreaming knee-deep on one leg; crested cranes pranced
up and down, admiring their own finery; and irises and egrets dipped
their bills under water in search of prey; but before noon, even those
had slipped away, and there reigned a stillness which might be
heard--a stillness in which, as Humboldt says: "If beyond the silence
we listen for the faintest undertones, we detect a stifled, continuous
hum of insects, which crowd the air close to the earth; a confused
swarming murmur which hangs round every bush, in the cracked bark of
trees, in the soil undermined by lizards and bees; a voice proclaiming
to us that all Nature breathes, that under a thousand different forms
life swarms in the gaping and dusty earth, as much as in the bosom of
the waters, and in the air which breathes around."
At last a soft and distant murmur, increasing gradually to a heavy
roar, announced that they were nearing some cataract; till, turning a
point where the alluvial soil rose into a low cliff fringed with
delicate ferns, they came in full sight of a scene at which all
paused--not with astonishment, but with something very like disgust.
"Rapids again!" grumbled one. "I thought we had had enough of them on
the Orinoco!"
"We shall have to get out, and draw the canoes overland, I suppose!"
"There's worse behind; don't you see the spray behind the palms?"
"Stop grumbling, my masters, and don't cry out before you are hurt.
Paddle right up to the largest of those islands, and let us look about
us."
In front of them was a snow-white bar of foam, some ten feet high,
along which were ranged three or four islands of black rock. Each was
crested with a knot of lofty palms, whose green tops stood out clear
against the bright sky, while the lower half of their stems loomed
hazy through a luminous veil of rainbowed mist. The banks right and
left of the fall were so densely fringed with a low hedge of shrubs
that landing seemed almost impossible; and their Indian guide,
suddenly looking round him and whispering, bade them beware of
savages, and pointed to a canoe which lay swinging in the eddies under
the largest island, moored apparently to the root of some tree.
"Silence, all!" cried Amyas, "and paddle up thither and seize the
canoe. If there be an Indian on the island, we will have speech of
him. But mind, and treat him friendly; and on your lives, neither
strike nor shoot, even if he offers to fight."
So, choosing a line of smooth backwater just in the wake of the
island, they drove their canoes up by main force, and fastened them
safely by the side of the Indian's, while Amyas, always the foremost,
sprang boldly on shore, whispering to the Indian boy to follow him.
Once on the island, Amyas felt sure enough that, if its wild tenant
had not seen them approach, he certainly had not heard them, so
deafening was the noise which filled his brain, and which seemed to
make the very leaves upon the bushes quiver and the solid stone
beneath his feet reel and ring. For two hundred yards and more above
the fall, nothing met his eye but one white waste of raging foam, with
here and there a transverse dike of rock, which hurled columns of
spray and surges of beaded water high into the air,--strangely
contrasting with the still and silent cliffs of green leaves which
walled the river right and left, and more strangely still with the
knots of enormous palms upon the islets, which reared their polished
shafts a hundred feet into the air, straight and upright as masts,
while their broad plumes and golden-clustered fruit slept in the
sunshine far aloft, the image of the stateliest repose amid the
wildest wrath of Nature.
Ten yards farther, the cataract fell sheer in thunder; but a high
fern-fringed rock turned its force away from the beach. Here, if
anywhere, was the place to find the owner of the canoe. He leaped down
upon the pebbles; and as he did so, a figure rose from behind a
neighboring rock, and met him face to face. It was an Indian girl.
He spoke first, in some Indian tongue, gently and smilingly, and made
a half-step forward; but quick as light she caught up from the ground
a bow, and held it fiercely toward him, fitted with the long arrow,
with which, as he could see, she had been striking fish, for a line of
twisted grass hung from its barbed head. Amyas stopped, laid down his
own bow and sword, and made another step in advance, smiling still,
and making all Indian signs of amity. But the arrow was still pointed
straight at his breast, and he knew the mettle and strength of the
forest nymphs well enough to stand still and call for the Indian boy.
[Illustration: A figure rose from behind a neighboring rock.]
The boy, who had been peering from above, leaped down to them in a
moment; and began, as the safest method, groveling on his nose upon
the pebbles, while he tried two or three dialects, one of which at
last she seemed to understand, and answered in a tone of evident
suspicion and anger.
"What does she say?"
"That you are a Spaniard and a robber because you have a beard."
"Tell her that we are no Spaniards, but that we hate them, and are
come across the great waters to help the Indians to kill them."
The boy had no sooner spoken, than, nimble as a deer, the nymph had
sprung up the rocks, and darted between the palm stems to her own
canoe. Suddenly she caught sight of the English boats, and stopped
with a cry of fear and rage.
"Let her pass!" shouted Amyas, who had followed her closely. "Push
your boats off, and let her pass. Boy, tell her to go on; they will
not come near her."
But she hesitated still, and with arrow drawn to the head, faced first
on the boat's crew, and then on Amyas, till the Englishmen had shoved
off full twenty yards.
Then, leaping into her tiny piragua, she darted into the wildest whirl
of the eddies, shooting along with vigorous strokes, while the English
trembled as they saw the frail bark spinning and leaping amid the
muzzles of the alligators and the huge dog-toothed trout. But, with
the swiftness of an arrow, she reached the northern bank, drove her
canoe among the bushes, and, leaping from it, darted into the bush,
and vanished like a dream.
* * * * *
The chief interest in the foregoing story lies, of course, in its
faithful and glowing picture of scenery in the midst of a tropical
forest. The learner should read it a second time and try to point out
all the passages that are remarkable for their wealth of description.
He should try to form in his mind an image of the sights and sounds
that he would encounter in a voyage up the Meta River or any other of
the tributaries of the Orinoco or the Amazon.
THE FLAG OF OUR COUNTRY.
I.
There is the national flag. He must be cold indeed who can look upon
its folds, rippling in the breeze, without pride of country. If he be
in a foreign land, the flag is companionship and country itself, with
all its endearments.
Who, as he sees it, can think of a state merely? Whose eyes once
fastened upon its radiant trophies, can fail to recognize the image of
the whole nation? It has been called a "floating piece of poetry," and
yet I know not if it have an intrinsic beauty beyond other ensigns.
Its highest beauty is in what it symbolizes. It is because it
represents all, that all gaze at it with delight and reverence.
It is a piece of bunting lifted in the air; but it speaks sublimely,
and every part has a voice. Its stripes of alternate red and white
proclaim the original union of thirteen states to maintain the
Declaration of Independence. Its stars of white on a field of blue
proclaim that union of states constituting our national constellation,
which receives a new star with every new state. The two together
signify union past and present.
The very colors have a language which was officially recognized by our
fathers. White is for purity, red for valor, blue for justice; and
altogether, bunting, stripes, stars, and colors, blazing in the sky,
make the flag of our country to be cherished by all our hearts, to be
upheld by all our hands.
II.
I have said enough and more than enough to manifest the spirit in
which this flag is now committed to your charge. It is the national
ensign, pure and simple, dearer to all hearts at this moment as we
lift it to the gale, and see no other sign of hope upon the storm
cloud which rolls and rattles above it, save that which is its own
radiant hues--dearer, a thousand fold dearer to us all than ever it
was before, while gilded by the sunshine of prosperity and playing
with the zephyrs of peace. It will speak for itself far more
eloquently than I can speak for it.
Behold it! Listen to it! Every star has a tongue; every stripe is
articulate. There is no speech nor language where their voices are not
heard. There is magic in the web of it. It has an answer for every
question of duty. It has a solution for every doubt and every
perplexity. It has a word of good cheer for every hour of gloom or of
despondency.
Behold it! Listen to it! It speaks of earlier and of later struggles.
It speaks of victories and sometimes of reverses, on the sea and on
the land. It speaks of patriots and heroes among the living and among
the dead; and of him, the first and greatest of them all, around whose
consecrated ashes this unnatural and abhorrent strife has been so long
raging. But, before all and above all other associations and
memories,--whether of glorious men, or glorious deeds, or glorious
places,--its voice is ever of Union and Liberty, of the Constitution
and of the Laws.
--_Robert C. Winthrop._
THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE--1571.
The old mayor climbed the belfry tower,
The ringers ran by two, by three:--
"Pull, if ye never pulled before,
Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he.
"Play up, play up, O Boston bells!
Ply all your changes, all your swells;
Play up 'The Brides of Enderby'!"
[Illustration: Jean Ingelow.]
Men say it was a stolen tide;
The Lord that sent it, he knows all;
But in mine ears doth still abide
The message that the bells let fall:
And there was naught of strange, beside
The flights of mews and peewits pied
By millions crouched on the old sea wall.
I sat and spun within the door,
My thread brake off, I raised mine eyes;
The level sun, like ruddy ore,
Lay sinking in the barren skies,
And dark against day's golden death
She moved where Lindis wandereth,
My son's fair wife, Elizabeth.
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,
Ere the early dews were falling,
Far away I heard her song.
"Cusha! Cusha!" all along,
Where the reedy Lindis floweth,
Floweth, floweth;
From the meads where melick groweth
Faintly came her milking song,
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,
"For the dews will soon be falling;
Leave your meadow grasses mellow,
Mellow, mellow;
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;
Come up, Whitefoot, come up, Lightfoot;
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,
Hollow, hollow;
Come up, Jetty, rise and follow,
From the clovers lift your head;
Come up, Whitefoot, come up, Lightfoot,
Come up, Jetty, rise and follow,
Jetty, to the milking shed."
If it be long, ay, long ago,
When I begin to think how long,
Again I hear the Lindis flow,
Swift as an arrow, sharp and strong;
And all the air, it seemeth me,
Is full of floating bells (saith she),
That ring the tune of Enderby.
All fresh the level pasture lay,
And not a shadow might be seen,
Save where full five good miles away
The steeple towered from out the green.
And lo! the great bell far and wide
Was heard in all the country side
That Saturday at eventide.
The swanherds where their sedges are
Moved on in sunset's golden breath,
The shepherd lads I heard afar,
And my son's wife, Elizabeth;
Till floating o'er the grassy sea
Came down that kindly message free,
The "Brides of Mavis Enderby."
Then some looked up into the sky,
And all along where Lindis flows
To where the goodly vessels lie,
And where the lordly steeple shows.
They said, "And why should this thing be?
What danger lowers by land or sea?
They ring the tune of Enderby!
"For evil news from Mablethorpe,
Of pirate galleys warping down;
For ships ashore beyond the scorpe,
They have not spared to wake the town:
But while the west is red to see,
And storms be none, and pirates flee,
Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?"
I looked without, and lo! my son
Came riding down with might and main;
He raised a shout as he drew on,
Till all the welkin rang again,
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"
(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my son's wife, Elizabeth.)
"The old sea wall," he cried, "is down,
The rising tide comes on apace,
And boats adrift in yonder town
Go sailing up the market place."
He shook as one that looks on death:
"God save you, mother!" straight he saith,
"Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"
"Good son, where Lindis winds away,
With her two bairns I marked her long;
And ere yon bells began to play,
Afar I heard her milking song."
He looked across the grassy lea,
To right, to left, "Ho, Enderby!"
They rang "The Brides of Enderby!"
With that he cried and beat his breast;
For, lo! along the river's bed
A mighty eygre reared his crest,
And up the Lindis raging sped.
It swept with thunderous noises loud;
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud,
Or like a demon in a shroud.
And rearing Lindis backward pressed
Shook all her trembling banks amain;
Then madly at the eygre's breast
Flung up her weltering walls again.
Then banks came down with ruin and rout--
Then beaten foam flew round about--
Then all the mighty floods were out.
So far, so fast the eygre drave,
The heart had hardly time to beat
Before a shallow seething wave
Sobbed in the grasses at our feet;
The feet had hardly time to flee
Before it brake against the knee,
And all the world was in the sea.
Upon the roof we sat that night,
The noise of bells went sweeping by;
I marked the lofty beacon light
Stream from the church tower, red and high--
A lurid mark and dread to see;
And awesome bells they were to me,
That in the dark rang "Enderby."
They rang the sailor lads to guide
From roof to roof who fearless rowed;
And I--my son was at my side,
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed;
And yet he moaned beneath his breath,
"Oh, come in life, or come in death!
Oh lost! my love Elizabeth."
And didst thou visit him no more?
Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter dear;
The waters laid thee at his door,
Ere yet the early dawn was clear.
Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace,
The lifted sun shone on thy face,
Down drifted to thy dwelling place.
That flow strewed wrecks about the grass,
That ebb swept out the flocks to sea;
A fatal ebb and flow, alas!
To many more than mine and me:
But each will mourn his own (she saith),
And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my son's wife, Elizabeth.
I shall never hear her more
By the reedy Lindis shore,
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,
Ere the early dews be falling;
I shall never hear her song,
"Cusha! Cusha!" all along
Where the sunny Lindis floweth,
Goeth, floweth;
From the meads where melick groweth,
Where the water winding down,
Onward floweth to the town.
I shall never see her more
Where the reeds and rushes quiver,
Shiver, quiver;
Stand beside the sobbing river,
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling
To the sandy, lonesome shore;
I shall never hear her calling,
"Leave your meadow grasses mellow,
Mellow, mellow;
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;
Come up, Whitefoot, come up, Lightfoot;
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,
Hollow, hollow;
Come up, Lightfoot, rise and follow;
Lightfoot, Whitefoot,
From your clovers lift the head;
Come up, Jetty, follow, follow,
Jetty, to the milking shed."
--_Jean Ingelow._
THE STORY OF THOMAS BECKET.
I. HIS LIFE.
Henry II. began his reign over England in the year 1154, and he was
the mightiest king that had yet sat upon the throne. He had vast
possessions. All England and nearly half of France were his, and he
was well able to rule over them and keep them in order.
He was a short, stout, reddish-haired man, with a face well-tanned by
exposure to the wind and the sun. His legs were bowed by constant
riding. Ever busy at something, he rarely sat down, except at meals;
and there was plenty of work for him to do.
In the early years of his reign his chief friend and servant was
Thomas Becket, who was a clever and handsome man. He knew well how to
please the king by sharing in his amusements, and by helping him in
the great work of keeping order among his barons and knights.
When Becket was a young man he was out hunting, one day, with his pet
hawk upon his wrist. Riding carelessly along, he came to a narrow
wooden bridge, which crossed a stream close to a mill. When in the
middle of the bridge his horse stumbled, and Becket, horse, and hawk
were thrown into the water.
The horse at once swam to the bank. So did Becket, but, upon looking
back, he saw his hawk struggling in the middle of the stream. Its
straps had become entangled about its feet and wings, and the bird was
helpless. Although the stream was running swiftly to the great
mill-wheel, Becket turned round and swam back to save the hawk.
By this time the current had carried him very near to the wheel, and
in another moment both man and bird must have been crushed to death.
But just then the miller saw the danger and stopped the mill. Becket
climbed out of the water with the bird in his hand, seeming not at all
frightened because of the danger which he had escaped. During his
entire life he had many trials and was opposed by many enemies; but he
faced them all as fearlessly as he had risked drowning in order to
save his hawk.
King Henry made Becket his chancellor, that is his chief minister, and
gave him much wealth. Becket lived in great splendor in a fine palace.
He was so hospitable that he kept an open table, at which all were
free to come and feast when they chose. His clothes were the finest
and gayest that could be made, and wherever he went he took with him
troops of friends and servants.
Once, when he was sent to France to settle a dispute with the French
king, he traveled with such a large train of followers that the people
were filled with wonder. We can picture the procession entering a
quiet country town.
"First came two hundred boys singing quaint songs or glees. Then
followed great hounds with their keepers, behind whom were wagons
guarded by fierce English mastiffs. One of the wagons was laden with
beer to be given away to the people who might render any help on the
road.
"Then came twelve horses, upon each of which sat a monkey and a groom.
After all these there followed a vast company of knights and squires
and priests, riding two and two.
"Last of all came Becket and a few friends, with whom he talked by the
way." We can imagine the wonder of the French people at so fine, yet
strange, a show. We can hear them exclaim, "What kind of a man must
the king of England be, when his chancellor can travel in such state!"
At this time the Church in England possessed great power and wealth.
It was the safeguard that stood between the people and the greed and
cruelty of their rulers. It was the protector of the poor, and the
friend of the oppressed; and even the king was obliged to obey its
commands.
King Henry was jealous of the influence of the Church. He resolved
that, having already reduced the power of the barons, he would now
reduce the power of the Church. And among all his faithful men, who
would be more likely to help him in such business than his friend
Becket, who had hitherto been his ablest assistant in every undertaking?
[Illustration: Thomas Becket. (From an Old Painting.)]
It happened about this time that the Archbishop of Canterbury, the
highest officer of the Church in England, died. This event was very
pleasing to Henry, and through his influence the Pope appointed Thomas
Becket to be the new archbishop.
Becket had hitherto been faithful to Henry in all things, but he now
felt that his first duty was to the Church, and he resolved to defend
its rights, even though he should displease the king. He changed
entirely the manner of his life. Instead of his splendid clothes, he
wore a monk's dress and a hair shirt next to his skin. He tried, as
people understood it in those times, to carry out the teachings of his
Lord and Master; and every day he waited upon a number of poor men
and washed their feet. Instead of gay knights only good and pious men
sat at his table. He gave up his chancellorship, and told the king
plainly that he would resist all attempts to take away the rights of
the Church.
Many were the quarrels after that between the king and the archbishop.
At one time, in a fit of rage, Henry cried out: "I will not be
preached at by you. Are you not the son of one of my clowns?"
"It is true," replied the archbishop, "I am not descended from ancient
kings, but neither was the blessed Peter to whom were given the keys
of the kingdom of heaven."
"But Peter," said the king, "died for his Lord."
"And I, too, will die for my Lord," said Becket, "when the time shall
come."
And it was not long till the time did come. Upon hearing some hasty,
angry words from the king, four knights set out to Canterbury,
determined to kill Becket, and thus not only put an end to the long
quarrel but win the king's favor for themselves.
--_Anonymous._
II. HIS DEATH.
The vespers had already begun, and the monks were singing the service
in the choir, when two boys rushed up the nave, announcing, more by
their terrified gestures than by their words, that the soldiers were
bursting into the palace and monastery. Instantly the service was
thrown into the utmost confusion; part remained at prayer, part fled
into the numerous hiding places the vast fabric affords; and part
went down the steps of the choir into the transept to meet the little
band at the door.
"Come in, come in!" exclaimed one of them. "Come in, and let us die
together."