And the tread of muffled footsteps on the white piazza floor;
But the sounds came to me only as the murmur of a stream
That mingled with the current of a lazy-flowing dream.
Like a fragrant incense rising, curled the smoke of my cigar,
With the lamp-light gleaming through it like a mist-enfolded star;--
And as I gazed, the vapor like a curtain rolled away,
With a sound of bells that tinkled, and the clatter of a sleigh.
And in a vision, painted like a picture in the air,
I saw the elfish figure of a man with frosty hair--
A quaint old man that chuckled with a laugh as he appeared,
And with ruddy cheeks like embers in the ashes of his beard.
He poised himself grotesquely, in an attitude of mirth,
On a damask-covered hassock that was sitting on the hearth;
And at a magic signal of his stubby little thumb,
I saw the fire place changing to a bright procenium.
And looking there, I marveled as I saw a mimic stage
Alive with little actors of a very tender age;
And some so very tiny that they tottered as they walked,
And lisped and purled and gurgled like the brooklets, when they talked.
And their faces were like lilies, and their eyes like purest dew,
And their tresses like the shadows that the shine is woven through;
And they each had little burdens, and a little tale to tell
Of fairy lore, and giants, and delights delectable.
And they mixed and intermingled, weaving melody with joy.
Till the magic circle clustered round a blooming baby-boy;
And they threw aside their treasures in an ecstasy of glee,
And bent, with dazzled faces, and with parted lips, to see.
'Twas a wondrous little fellow, with a dainty double chin,
And chubby cheeks, and dimples for the smiles to blossom in;
And he looked as ripe and rosy, on his bed of straw and reeds;
As a mellow little pippin that had tumbled in the weeds.
And I saw the happy mother, and a group surrounding her,
That knelt with costly presents of frankincense and myrrh;
And I thrilled with awe and wonder, as a murmur on the air
Came drifting o'er the hearing in a melody of prayer:--
_By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea,
And the majesty of silence reigning o'er Galilee,--
We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee
And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee._
_Thy messenger has spoken, and our doubts have fled and gone
As the dark and spectral shadows of the night before the dawn,
And, in the kindly shelter of the light around us drawn,
We would nestle down forever in the breast we lean upon._
_You have given us a shepherd, you have given us a guide,
And the light of Heaven grew dimmer when you sent Him from your side,--
But He comes to lead Thy children where the gates will open wide
To welcome His returning when His works are glorified._
_By the splendor in the Heavens, and the hush upon the sea,
And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee,--
We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee
And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee._
Then the vision, slowly failing, with the words of the refrain,
Fell swooning in the moonlight through the frosty windowpane;
And I heard the clock proclaiming, like an eager sentinel
Who brings the world good tidings,--"It is Christmas--all is well!"
[H] From "Afterwhiles." Copyright, 1898. By special permission of the
publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.
Hiram Foster's Thanksgiving Turkey
BY S. E. KISER.
[Of the many poems written when President McKinley was
assassinated, none surpassed in sympathy and original conception
the verses printed below.]
See that turkey out there, mister? Ain't he big and fat and nice?
Well, you couldn't buy that gobbler, not for any kind of price.
Now, I'll tell you how it happened: 'Way along last spring, you know,
This here turkey's mother hatched some twenty little ones or so--
Hatched 'em in the woods down yonder, and come marchin' home one day
With them stringin' out behind 'er, catchin' bugs along the way.
Well, my little grandson named 'em--both his folks are dead, you see,
So he's come and gone to livin' with his grandma, here, and me.
He give each a name to go by: one was Teddy, one was Schley,
One was Sampson, one was Dewey, one was Bryan, too, but I
Liked the one he called McKinley best of all the brood, somehow--
He was that there turkey yonder that's a gobblin' at you now.
How them cunnin' little rascals grew and grew! Sometimes, I swear,
It 'most seemed as though we seen 'em shootin' upward in the air.
And McKinley was the leader and the best of all the lot,
And you'd ought to seen the mother--proud of him?--I tell you what!
So I says to ma and Charley--oh, three months ago at least--
That I guessed we'd keep McKinley for our own Thanksgivin' feast.
Then we sold off all the others, keepin' only this one here,
And I guess we won't have turkey for Thanksgivin' Day this year.
Just the name we gave that gobbler makes him sacreder to me,
After all the things that's happened, than I--well, somehow you see
I was in his ridgement--so you'll please excuse me--I dunno--
I don't want to show my feelin's--sometimes folks can't help it, though.
Hear 'im gobble now, and see him as he proudly struts away;
Don't you s'pose he knows there's something in the name he bears to-day?
See how all his feathers glisten--ain't he big and plump and nice?
No, sir! No; you couldn't buy 'im, not for any kind of price.
That there gobbler, there, that Charley gave the name McKinley to,
He'll die natural--that's something turkeys mighty seldom do.
The Winning of Lorna Doone
(From Lorna Doone.)
BY R. D. BLACKMORE.
[The Doones were a band of aristocratic, but lawless, people
living in the Doone Valley, from which they sallied forth to
raid the neighboring farmers and travelers. John Ridd, who tells
the story, while fishing one spring had followed a stream into
the Doone estate. When the following scene opens he had just had
a desperate struggle to save himself from the swift current of
the stream, and had nearly lost his life.]
When I came to myself again, my hands were full of young grass and mold,
and a little girl, kneeling at my side, was rubbing my forehead tenderly
with a dock-leaf and a handkerchief.
"Oh, I am so glad!" she whispered, softly, as I opened my eyes and
looked at her; "now you will try to be better, won't you?"
I had never heard so sweet a sound as came from between her bright red
lips, while there she knelt and gazed at me; neither had I ever seen
anything so beautiful as the large, dark eyes intent upon me, full of
pity and wonder. And then, my nature being slow, and perhaps, for that
matter, heavy, I wandered with my hazy eyes down the black shower of her
hair, as to my jaded gaze it seemed. Perhaps she liked my countenance,
and indeed I know she did, because she said so afterward; although at
that time she was too young to know what made her take to me.
Thereupon I sat upright, with my little trident still in one hand, and
was much afraid to speak to her, being conscious of my country brogue,
lest she should cease to like me. But she clapped her hands, and made
a trifling dance around my back, and came to me on the other side, as
if I were a great play thing.
"What is your name?" she said, as if she had every right to ask me;
"and how did you come here, and what are these wet things in this great
bag?"
"You had better let them alone," I said; "they are loaches for my
mother. But I will give you some, if you like."
"Dear me, how much you think of them! Why, they are only fish. But how
your feet are bleeding! Oh, I must tie them up for you. And no shoes
nor stockings! Is your mother very poor, poor boy?"
"No," I said, being vexed at this; "we are rich enough to buy all this
great meadow, if we chose; and here my shoes and stockings be."
"Why, they are quite as wet as your feet; and I cannot bear to see your
feet. Oh, please to let me bandage them; I will do it very softly."
"Oh, I don't think much of that," I replied; "I shall put some goose
grease to them. But how you are looking at me! I never saw one like you
before. My name is John Ridd. What is your name?"
"Lorna Doone," she answered, in a low voice, as if afraid of it, and
hanging her head so that I could see only her forehead and eyelashes;
"if you please, my name is Lorna Doone, and I thought you must have
known it."
Young and harmless as she was, her name alone made guilt of her.
Nevertheless, I could not help looking at her tenderly, and the more
when her blushes turned into tears, and her tears to long, low sobs.
"Don't cry," I said, "whatever you do. I am sure you have never done
any harm. I will give you all my fish, Lorna, and catch some more for
mother; only don't be angry with me."
She flung her soft arms up in the passion of her tears, and looked at me
so piteously that what did I do but kiss her. It seemed to be a very odd
thing, when I came to think of it, because I hated kissing so, as all
honest boys must do. But she touched my heart with a sudden delight.
She gave me no encouragement, as my mother in her place would have done;
nay, she even wiped her lips (which methought was rather rude of her),
and drew away, and smoothed her dress, as if I had used a freedom.
I, for my part, being vexed at her behavior to me, took up all my things
to go, and made a fuss about it, to let her know I was going. But she
did not call me back at all, as I had made sure she would do; moreover,
I knew that to try the descent was almost certain death to me, and it
looked as dark as pitch; and so at the mouth I turned round again, and
came back to her, and said, "Lorna."
"Oh, I thought you were gone," she answered; "why did you ever come
here? Do you know what they would do to us if they found you here
with me?"
"Beat us, I dare say, very hard, or me at least. They could never beat
you."
"No. They would kill us both outright, and bury us here by the water;
and the water often tells me that I must come to that."
"But what should they kill me for?"
"Because you have found the way up here, and they could never believe
it. Now, please to go; oh please go. They will kill us both in a moment.
Yes, I like you very much"--for I was teasing her to say it--"very much
indeed, and I will call you John Ridd, if you like; only please to go,
John. And when your feet are well, you know, you can come and tell me
how they are."
"But I tell you, Lorna, I like you very much indeed, nearly as much as
Annie, and a great deal more than Lizzie. And I never saw any one like
you; and I must come back again to-morrow, and so must you, to see me;
and I will bring you such lots of things--there are apples still, and
a thrush that I caught, with only one leg broken, and our dog has just
had puppies--"
"Oh dear! they won't let me have a dog. There is not a dog in the
valley. They say that they are such noisy things--"
"Only put your hands in mine--what little things they are, Lorna!--and
I will bring you the loveliest dog; I will show you just how long he is."
"Hush!" A shout came down the valley, and all my heart was trembling,
like water after sunset, and Lorna's face was altered from pleasant play
to terror. She shrunk to me, and looked up at me, with such a power of
weakness, that I at once made up my mind to save her or die with her. A
tingle went through all my bones, and I only longed for my carbine. The
little girl took courage from me, and put her cheek quite close to mine.
"Come with me down the water-fall. I can carry you easily, and mother
will take care of you."
"No, no," she cried, as I took her up; "I will tell you what to do.
They are only looking for me. You see that hole, that hole there?"
"Yes, I see it; but they will see me crossing the grass to get there."
"Look, look!" She could hardly speak. "There is a way out from the top
of it; they would kill me if I told it. Oh, here they come; I can see
them." Then she began to sob aloud, being so young and unready. But I
drew her behind the withy-bushes, and close down to the water, where it
was quiet and shelving deep, ere it came to the lip of the chasm. Here
they could not see either of us from the upper valley.
Crouching in that hollow nest, as children get together in ever so
little compass, I saw a dozen fierce men come down on the other side of
the water, not bearing any fire-arms, but looking lax and jovial, as if
they were come from riding and a dinner taken hungrily. "Queen, queen!"
they were shouting, here and there, and now and then; "where the pest is
our little queen gone?"
"They always call me 'queen,' and I am to be queen by-and-by," Lorna
whispered to me, with her soft cheek on my rough one, and her little
heart beating against me; "oh, they are crossing by the timber there,
and then they are sure to see us."
"Stop," said I; "now I see what to do. I must get into the water, and
you must go to sleep."
"To be sure, yes; away in the meadow there. But how bitter cold it will
be for you!"
She saw in a moment the way to do it sooner than I could tell her; and
there was no time to lose.
"Now, mind you, never come again," she whispered over her shoulder, as
she crept away with a childish twist, hiding her white front from me;
"only I shall come sometimes--oh, here they are, Madonna!"
Daring scarce to peep, I crept into the water, and lay down bodily in
it, with my head between two blocks of stone, and some flood drift
combing over me. I knew that for her sake I was bound to be brave and
hide myself. She was lying beneath a rock, thirty or forty yards from
me, feigning to be fast asleep, with her dress spread beautifully, and
her hair drawn over her.
Presently one of the great, rough men came round a corner upon her; and
there he stopped and gazed a while at her fairness and her innocence.
Then he caught her up in his arms, and kissed her so that I heard him;
and if I had only brought my gun, I would have tried to shoot him.
"Here our queen is! Here's the queen; here's the captain's daughter!"
he shouted to his comrades; "fast asleep, and hearty! Now I have first
claim to her; and no one else shall touch the child. Back to the bottle,
all of you!"
He set her dainty little form upon his great, square shoulder, and her
narrow feet in one broad hand; and so in triumph marched away.
II.
[After this, John and Lorna met often in a secret place, where
there was little chance of discovery. It was decided by the
family that Lorna should be the wife of Carver Doone, the leader
of the band, but as she was unwilling, and Grandfather Doone,
the retiring leader, would not permit them to compel her, years
went by without Carver accomplishing his purpose. Finally Lorna
came no more to the trysting place, so that John suspected she
had been put in a dungeon. He resolved to gain an entrance to
the Doone village, and, after a desperate night adventure,
succeeded.]
My heart was in my mouth, as they say, when I stood in the shade of
Lorna's window, and whispered her name gently. But, though the window
was not very close, I might have whispered long enough before she would
have answered me, frightened as she was, no doubt, by many a rude
overture. And I durst not speak aloud, because I saw another watchman
posted on the western cliff, and commanding all the valley. And now
this man espied me against the wall of the house, and advanced against
the brink and challenged me.
"Who are you, there? Answer! One, two, three; and I fire at thee."
The nozzle of his gun was pointed full upon me, as I could see, with
the moonlight striking on the barrel; he was not more than fifty yards
off, and now he began to reckon. Being almost desperate about it, I
began to whistle, wondering how far I should get before I lost my
windpipe; and, as luck would have it, my lips fell into that strange
tune I had practiced last,--the one I heard from Charlie Doone. My
mouth would scarcely frame the notes, being parched with terror; but,
to my surprise, the man fell back, dropped his gun and saluted. Oh,
sweetest of all sweet melodies!
That tune was Carver Doone's passport (as I heard long afterward), which
Charleworth Doone had imitated, for decoy of Lorna. The sentinel took
me for that vile Carver, who was like enough to be prowling there, for
private talk with Lorna, but not very likely to shout forth his name,
if it might be avoided. The watchman, perceiving the danger, perhaps,
of intruding on Carver's privacy, not only retired along the cliff, but
withdrew himself to good distance.
Meanwhile he had done me the kindest service; for Lorna came to the
window at once to see what the cause of the shout was, and drew back the
curtain timidly. Then she opened the rough lattice; and then she watched
the cliff and trees; and then she sighed very sadly.
"Oh, Lorna, don't you know me?" I whispered from the side, being afraid
of startling her by appearing over suddenly.
Quick though she was of thought, she knew me not from my whisper, and
was shutting the window hastily, when I caught it back and showed
myself.
"John!" she cried, yet with sense enough not to speak aloud; "oh, you
must be mad, John!"
"As mad as a March hare," said I, "without any news of my darling. You
knew I would come--of course you did."
"Well, I thought, perhaps--you know; now, John, you need not eat my
hand. Do you see, they have put iron bars across?"
"To be sure. Do you think I should be contented even with this lovely
hand, but for these vile iron bars? I will have them out before I go.
Now, darling, for one moment--just the other hand, for a change, you
know."
So I got the other, but was not honest; for I kept them both, and felt
their delicate beauty trembling as I laid them to my heart.
"Oh, John, you will make me cry directly"--she had been crying long
ago--"if you go on in that way. You know we can never have one another;
every one is against it. Why should I make you miserable? Try not to
think of me any more."
"And will you try the same of me, Lorna?"
"Oh yes, John; if you agree to it. At least I will try to try it."
"Then you won't try anything of the sort," I cried, with great
enthusiasm, for her tone was so nice and melancholy; "the only thing
we will try to try is to belong to one another. And if we do our best,
Lorna, God alone can prevent us."
She crossed herself with one hand drawn free, as I spoke so boldly;
and something swelled in her little throat, and prevented her from
answering.
"Now tell me," I said; "what means all this? Why are you so pent up
here? Why have you given me no token? Has your grandfather turned
against you? Are you in any danger?"
"My poor grandfather is very ill. I fear that he will not live long.
The Counselor and his son are now masters of the valley; and I dare not
venture forth for fear of anything they might do to me. When I went
forth to signal for you, Carver tried to seize me; but I was too quick
for him. Little Gwenny is not allowed to leave the valley now, so that
I could send no message. I have been so wretched, dear, lest you should
think me false to you. The tyrants now make sure of me. You must watch
this house both night and day, if you wish to save me. There is nothing
they would shrink from, if my poor grandfather--oh, I cannot bear to
think of myself, when I ought to think of him only; dying without a son
to tend him or a daughter to shed a tear."
"But surely he has sons enough; and a deal too many," I was going to
say, but stopped myself in time. "Why do none of them come to him?"
"I know not. I cannot tell. He is a very strange old man, and few
have ever loved him. He was black with wrath at the Counselor this
afternoon--but I must not keep you here--you are much too brave, John;
and I am too selfish; there, what was that shadow?"
"Nothing more than a bat, darling, come to look for his sweetheart. I
will not stay long; you tremble so; and yet for that very reason how can
I leave you, Lorna?"
"You must--you must," she answered; "I shall die if they hurt you. I
hear the old nurse moving. Grandfather is sure to send for me. Keep back
from the window."
However, it was only Gwenny Carfax, Lorna's little handmaid; my darling
brought her to the window and presented her to me, almost laughing
through her grief.
"Oh, I am so glad, John; Gwenny, I am so glad you came. I have wanted
long to introduce you to my 'young man,' as you call him. It is rather
dark, but you can see him. I wish you to know him again, Gwenny."
"Whoy!" cried Gwenny, with great amazement, standing on tiptoe to look
out, and staring as if she were weighing me; "he be bigger nor any
Doone! I shall knoo thee again, young man; no fear of that," she
answered, nodding with an air of patronage. "Now, missis, gae on
coortin', and I will gae outside and watch for 'ee." Though expressed
not over-delicately, this proposal arose, no doubt, from Gwenny's sense
of delicacy; and I was very thankful to her for taking her departure.
"She is the best little thing in the world," said Lorna, softly,
laughing, "and the queerest, and the truest. Nothing will bribe her
against me. If she seems to be on the other side, never, never doubt
her. Now, no more of your 'coortin',' John. I love you far too well
for that. Yes, yes, ever so much! If you will take a mean advantage
of me--as much as ever you like to imagine; and then you may double it
after that. Only go, do go, good John; kind, dear, darling John; if you
love me, go."
"How can I go without settling anything?" I asked, very sensibly. "How
shall I know of your danger now? Hit upon something; you are so quick.
Anything you can think of; and then I will go, and not frighten you."
"I have been thinking long of something," Lorna answered, rapidly, with
that peculiar clearness of voice which made every syllable ring like
music of a several note. "You see that tree with the seven rooks' nests,
bright against the cliffs there? Can you count them from above, do you
think? From a place where you would be safe, dear?"
"No doubt I can; or, if I cannot, it will not take me long to find a
spot whence I can do it."
"Gwenny can climb like any cat. She has been up there in the summer
watching the young birds day by day, and daring the boys to touch them.
There are neither birds nor eggs there now, of course, and nothing
doing. If you see but six rooks' nests, I am in peril, and want you.
If you see but five, I am carried off by Carver."
"Good God!" said I, at the mere idea, in a tone which frightened Lorna.
"Fear not, John," she whispered, sadly, and my blood grew cold at it;
"I have means to stop him, or at least to save myself. If you can come
within one day of that man's getting hold of me, you will find me quite
unharmed. After that you will find me, dead or alive, according to
circumstances, but in no case such that you need blush to look at me."
I only said, "God bless you, darling!" and she said the same to me, in
a very low, sad voice. And then I stole below Carver's house in the
shadow from the eastern cliff; and, knowing enough of the village now to
satisfy all necessity, betook myself to my well-known track in returning
from the valley.
III.
[It was not long after this that John Ridd saw the signal that
Lorna was in danger. With the aid of friends he planned and
successfully executed a raid upon the Doone village, and carried
away Lorna to his mother's house. Subsequently the Doones
attacked the house where Lorna was staying, but John Ridd and
his friends were prepared to meet them, as is related in the
following scene:]
It was not likely that the outlaws would attack our premises until some
time after the moon was risen, because it would be too dangerous to
cross the flooded valleys in the darkness of the night. And, but for
this consideration, I must have striven harder against the stealthy
approach of slumber. But even so, it was very foolish to abandon watch,
especially in such as I, who sleep like any dormouse. Moreover, I had
chosen the very worst place in the world for such employment, with a
goodly chance of awaking in a bed of solid fire.
And so it might have been--nay, it must have been--but for Lorna's
vigilance. Her light hand upon my arm awoke me, not too readily, and,
leaping up, I seized my club, and prepared to knock down somebody.
"Who's that?" I cried. "Stand back, I say, and let me have a fair chance
at you."
"Are you going to knock me down, dear John?" replied the voice I love
so well. "I am sure I should never get up again, after one blow from you,
John."
"My darling, is it you?" I cried; "and breaking all your orders? Come
back into the house at once; and nothing on your head, dear."
"How could I sleep, while at any moment you might be killed beneath my
window? And now is the time of real danger, for men can see to travel."
I saw at once the truth of this. The moon was high and clearly lighting
all the watered valleys. To sleep any longer might be death, not only to
myself, but all.