Again and again that morning rang out the same welcome cry of "Buffalo,

buffalo!" Every few minutes in the broad meadows along the river, we

would see bands of bulls, who, raising their shaggy heads, would gaze in

stupid amazement at the approaching horsemen, and then breaking into a

clumsy gallop, would file off in a long line across the trail in front,

toward the rising prairie on the left. At noon, the whole plain before

us was alive with thousands of buffalo--bulls, cows, and calves--all

moving rapidly as we drew near; and far off beyond the river the

swelling prairie was darkened with them to the very horizon. The party

was in gayer spirits than ever. We stopped for a nooning near a grove of

trees by the river-side.

"Tongues and hump ribs to-morrow," said Shaw, looking with contempt at

the venison steaks which Delorier placed before us. Our meal finished,

we lay down under a temporary awning to sleep. A shout from Henry

Chatillon aroused us, and we saw him standing on the cart-wheel,

stretching his tall figure to its full height while he looked toward the

prairie beyond the river. Following the direction of his eyes we could

clearly distinguish a large dark object, like the black shadow of a

cloud, passing rapidly over swell after swell of the distant plain;

behind it followed another of similar appearance though smaller. Its

motion was more rapid, and it drew closer and closer to the first. It

was Arapahoe hunters pursuing a band of buffalo. Shaw and I hastily

sought and saddled our best horses, and went plunging through sand and

water to the farther bank. We were too late. The hunters had already

mingled with the herd, and the work of slaughter was nearly over. When

we reached the ground we found it strewn far and near with numberless

black carcasses, while the remnants of the herd, scattered in all

directions, were flying away in terror, and the Indians still rushing in

pursuit. Many of the hunters, however, remained upon the spot, and among

the rest was our yesterday's acquaintance, the chief of the village. He

had alighted by the side of a cow, into which he had shot five or six

arrows, and his squaw, who had followed him on horseback to the hunt,

was giving him a draught of water out of a canteen, purchased or

plundered from some volunteer soldier. Recrossing the river we overtook

the party, who were already on their way.

We had scarcely gone a mile when an imposing spectacle presented itself.

From the river bank on the right, away over the swelling prairie on the

left, and in front as far as we could see, extended one vast host of

buffalo. The outskirts of the herd were within a quarter of a mile. In

many parts they were crowded so densely together that in the distance

their rounded backs presented a surface of uniform blackness; but

elsewhere they were more scattered, and from amid the multitude rose

little columns of dust where the buffalo were rolling on the ground.

Here and there a great confusion was perceptible, where a battle was

going forward among the bulls. We could distinctly see them rushing

against each other, and hear the clattering of their horns and their

hoarse bellowing. Shaw was riding at some distance in advance, with

Henry Chatillon; I saw him stop and draw the leather covering from his

gun. Indeed, with such a sight before us, but one thing could be thought

of. That morning I had used pistols in the chase. I had now a mind to

try the virtue of a gun. Delorier had one, and I rode up to the side of

the cart; there he sat under the white covering, biting his pipe between

his teeth and grinning with excitement.

[Illustration: ONE VAST HOST OF BUFFALO]

"Lend me your gun, Delorier," said I.

"_Oui, monsieur, oui_,"[126-1] said Delorier, tugging with might and

main to stop the mule, which seemed obstinately bent on going forward.

Then everything but his moccasins disappeared as he crawled into the

cart and pulled at the gun to extricate it.

"_Oui, bien charge_;[126-2] you'll kill, _mon bourgeois_;[126-3] yes,

you'll kill--_c'est un bon fusil_."[126-4]

I handed him my rifle and rode forward to Shaw.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Come on," said I.

"Keep down that hollow," said Henry, "and then they won't see you till

you get close to them."

The hollow was a kind of ravine very wide and shallow; it ran obliquely

toward the buffalo, and we rode at a canter along the bottom until it

became too shallow, when we bent close to our horses' necks, and then

finding that it could no longer conceal us, came out of it and rode

directly toward the herd. It was within gunshot; before its outskirts,

numerous grizzly old bulls were scattered, holding guard over their

females. They glared at us in anger and astonishment, walked toward us a

few yards, and then turning slowly round retreated at a trot which

afterward broke into a clumsy gallop. In an instant the main body caught

the alarm. The buffalo began to crowd away from the point toward which

we were approaching, and a gap was opened in the side of the herd. We

entered it, still restraining our excited horses. Every instant the

tumult was thickening. The buffalo, pressing together in large bodies,

crowded away from us on every hand. In front and on either side we could

see dark columns and masses, half hidden by clouds of dust, rushing

along in terror and confusion, and hear the tramp and clattering of ten

thousand hoofs. That countless multitude of powerful brutes, ignorant of

their own strength, were flying in a panic from the approach of two

feeble horsemen. To remain quiet longer was impossible.

"Take that band on the left," said Shaw; "I'll take these in front."

He sprang off, and I saw no more of him. A heavy Indian whip was

fastened by a band to my wrist; I swung it into the air and lashed my

horse's flank with all the strength of my arm. Away she darted,

stretching close to the ground. I could see nothing but a cloud of dust

before me, but I knew that it concealed a band of many hundreds of

buffalo. In a moment I was in the midst of the cloud, half suffocated by

the dust and stunned by the trampling of the flying herd; but I was

drunk with the chase and cared for nothing but the buffalo. Very soon a

long dark mass became visible, looming through the dust; then I could

distinguish each bulky carcass, the hoofs flying out beneath, the short

tails held rigidly erect. In a moment I was so close that I could have

touched them with my gun.

Suddenly, to my utter amazement, the hoofs were jerked upward, the tails

flourished in the air, and amid a cloud of dust the buffalo seemed to

sink into the earth before me. One vivid impression of that instant upon

my mind. I remember looking down upon the backs of several buffalo dimly

visible through the dust. We had run unawares upon a ravine. At that

moment I was not the most accurate judge of depth and width, but when I

passed it on my return, I found it about twelve feet deep and not quite

twice as wide at the bottom. It was impossible to stop; I would have

done so gladly if I could; so, half sliding, half plunging, down went

the little mare. I believe she came down on her knees in the loose sand

at the bottom; I was pitched forward violently against her neck and

nearly thrown over her head among the buffalo, who amid dust and

confusion came tumbling in all around. The mare was on her feet in an

instant and scrambling like a cat up the opposite side. I thought for a

moment that she would have fallen back and crushed me, but with a

violent effort she clambered out and gained the hard prairie above.

Glancing back I saw the huge head of a bull clinging as it were by the

forefeet at the edge of the dusty gulf. At length I was fairly among the

buffalo. They were less densely crowded than before, and I could see

nothing but bulls, who always run at the rear of the herd. As I passed

amid them they would lower their heads, and turning as they ran, attempt

to gore my horse; but as they were already at full speed there was no

force in their onset, and as Pauline ran faster than they, they were

always thrown behind her in the effort.

I soon began to distinguish cows amid the throng. One just in front of

me seemed to my liking, and I pushed close to her side. Dropping the

reins I fired, holding the muzzle of the gun within a foot of her

shoulder. Quick as lightning she sprang at Pauline; the little mare

dodged the attack, and I lost sight of the wounded animal amid the

tumultuous crowd. Immediately after I selected another, and urging

forward Pauline, shot into her both pistols in succession. For a while I

kept her in view, but in attempting to load my gun, lost sight of her

also in the confusion. Believing her to be mortally wounded and unable

to keep up with the herd, I checked my horse. The crowd rushed onward.

The dust and tumult passed away, and on the prairie, far behind the

rest, I saw a solitary buffalo galloping heavily. In a moment I and my

victim were running side by side. My firearms were all empty, and I had

in my pouch nothing but rifle bullets, too large for the pistols and too

small for the gun. I loaded the latter, however, but as often as I

leveled it to fire, the little bullets would roll out of the muzzle and

the gun returned only a faint report like a squib, as the powder

harmlessly exploded. I galloped in front of the buffalo, and attempted

to turn her back; but her eyes glared, her mane bristled, and lowering

her head, she rushed at me with astonishing fierceness and activity.

Again and again I rode before her, and again and again she repeated her

furious charge. But little Pauline was in her element. She dodged her

enemy at every rush, until at length the buffalo stood still, exhausted

with her own efforts; she panted, and her tongue hung lolling from her

jaws.

Riding to a little distance I alighted, thinking to gather a handful of

dry grass to serve the purpose of wadding, and load the gun at my

leisure. No sooner were my feet on the ground than the buffalo came

bounding in such a rage toward me that I jumped back again into the

saddle with all possible dispatch. After waiting a few minutes more, I

made an attempt to ride up and stab her with my knife; but the

experiment proved such as no wise man would repeat. At length,

bethinking me of the fringes at the seams of my buckskin pantaloons, I

jerked off a few of them, and reloading the gun, forced them down the

barrel to keep the bullet in its place; then approaching, I shot the

wounded buffalo through the heart. Sinking to her knees, she rolled over

lifeless on the prairie. To my astonishment, I found that instead of a

fat cow I had been slaughtering a stout yearling bull. No longer

wondering at the fierceness he had shown, I opened his throat, and

cutting out his tongue, tied it at the back of my saddle. My mistake was

one which a more experienced eye than mine might easily make in the dust

and confusion of such a chase.

Then for the first time I had leisure to look at the scene around me.

The prairie in front was darkened with the retreating multitude, and on

the other hand the buffalo came filing up in endless unbroken columns

from the low plains upon the river. The Arkansas was three or four miles

distant. I turned and moved slowly toward it. A long time passed,

before, far down in the distance, I distinguished the white covering of

the cart and the little black specks of horsemen before and behind it.

Drawing near, I recognized Shaw's elegant tunic, the red flannel shirt,

conspicuous far off. I overtook the party, and asked him what success

he had met with. He had assailed a fat cow, shot her with two bullets,

and mortally wounded her. But neither of us were prepared for the chase

that afternoon, and Shaw, like myself, had no spare bullets in his

pouch; so he abandoned the disabled animal to Henry Chatillon, who

followed, dispatched her with his rifle, and loaded his horse with her

meat.

We encamped close to the river. The night was dark, and as we lay down

we could hear mingled with the howling of the wolves the hoarse

bellowing of the buffalo, like the ocean beating upon a distant coast.

THE BUFFALO CAMP

The morning was a bright and gay one, and the air so clear that on the

farthest horizon the outline of the pale blue prairie was sharply drawn

against the sky. Shaw felt in the mood for hunting; he rode in advance

of the party, and before long we saw a file of bulls galloping at full

speed upon a vast green swell of the prairie at some distance in front.

Shaw came scouring along behind them, arrayed in his red shirt, which

looked very well in the distance; he gained fast on the fugitives, and

as the foremost bull was disappearing behind the summit of the swell, we

saw him in the act of assailing the hindmost; a smoke sprang from the

muzzle of his gun, and floated away like a little white cloud; the bull

turned upon him, and just then the rising ground concealed them both

from view.

We were moving forward until about noon, when we stopped by the side of

the Arkansas. At that moment Shaw appeared riding slowly down the side

of a distant hill; his horse was tired and jaded; and when he threw his

saddle upon the ground, I observed that the tails of two bulls were

dangling behind it. No sooner were the horses turned loose to feed than

Henry, asking Munroe to go with him, took his rifle and walked quietly

away. Shaw, Tete Rouge and I sat down by the side of the cart to discuss

the dinner which Delorier placed before us; we had scarcely finished

when we saw Munroe walking toward us along the river bank. Henry, he

said, had killed four fat cows, and had sent him back for horses to

bring in the meat. Shaw took a horse for himself and another for Henry,

and he and Munroe left the camp together.

After a short absence all three of them came back, their horses loaded

with the choicest parts of the meat; we kept two of the cows for

ourselves and gave the others to Munroe and his companions. Delorier

seated himself on the grass before the pile of meat, and worked

industriously for some time to cut it into thin broad sheets for drying.

This is no easy matter, but Delorier had all the skill of an Indian

squaw. Long before night cords of rawhide were stretched around the

camp, and the meat was hung upon them to dry in the sunshine and pure

air of the prairie. Our California companions were less successful at

the work; but they accomplished it after their own fashion, and their

side of the camp was soon garnished in the same manner as our own.

We meant to remain at this place long enough to prepare provisions for

our journey to the frontier, which as we supposed might occupy about a

month. Had the distance been twice as great and the party ten times as

large, the unerring rifle of Henry Chatillon would have supplied meat

enough for the whole within two days; we were obliged to remain,

however, until it should be dry enough for transportation; so we erected

our tent and made the other arrangements for a permanent camp.

In the meantime we had nothing to do but amuse ourselves. Our tent was

within a rod of the river, if the broad sand-beds, with a scanty stream

of water coursing here and there along their surface, deserve to be

dignified with the name of river. The vast plains on either side were

almost level with the sand-beds, and they were bounded in the distance

by low, monotonous hills, parallel to the course of the Arkansas. All

was one expanse of grass; there was no wood in view, except some trees

and stunted bushes upon two islands which rose from amid the wet sands

of the river. Yet far from being dull and tame, this boundless scene was

often a wild and animated one; for twice a day, at sunrise and at noon,

the buffalo came issuing from the hills, slowly advancing in their grave

processions to drink at the river. All our amusements were at their

expense. Except an elephant, I have seen no animal that can surpass a

buffalo bull in size and strength, and the world may be searched in vain

to find anything of a more ugly and ferocious aspect. At first sight of

him every feeling of sympathy vanishes; no man who has not experienced

it can understand with what keen relish one inflicts his death wound,

with what profound contentment of mind he beholds him fall.

The cows are much smaller and of a gentler appearance, as becomes their

sex. While in this camp we forebore to attack them, leaving to Henry

Chatillon, who could better judge their fatness and good quality, the

task of killing such as we wanted for use; but against the bulls we

waged an unrelenting war. Thousands of them might be slaughtered without

causing any detriment to the species, for their numbers greatly exceed

those of the cows; it is the hides of the latter alone which are used

for the purpose of commerce and for making the lodges of the Indians;

and the destruction among them is therefore altogether disproportioned.

Our horses were tired, and we now usually hunted on foot. The wide, flat

sand-beds of the Arkansas, as the reader will remember, lay close by the

side of our camp. While we were lying on the grass after dinner,

smoking, conversing, or laughing at Tete Rouge, one of us would look up

and observe, far out on the plains beyond the river, certain black

objects slowly approaching. He would inhale a parting whiff from the

pipe, then rising lazily, take his rifle, which leaned against the cart,

throw over his shoulder the strap of his pouch and powder-horn, and with

his moccasins in his hand walk quietly across the sand toward the

opposite side of the river.

This was very easy; for though the sands were about a quarter of a mile

wide, the water was nowhere more than two feet deep. The farther bank

was about four or five feet high, and quite perpendicular, being cut

away by the water in spring. Tall grass grew along its edge. Putting it

aside with his hand, and cautiously looking through it, the hunter can

discern the huge shaggy back of the buffalo slowly swaying to and fro,

as with his clumsy swinging gait he advances toward the water. The

buffalo have regular paths by which they come down to drink. Seeing at

a glance along which of these his intended victim is moving, the hunter

crouches under the bank within fifteen or twenty yards, it may be, of

the point where the path enters the river. Here he sits down quietly on

the sand. Listening intently, he hears the heavy, monotonous tread of

the approaching bull. The moment after he sees a motion among the long

weeds and grass just at the spot where the path is channeled through the

bank. An enormous black head is thrust out, the horns just visible amid

the mass of tangled mane. Half sliding, half plunging, down comes the

buffalo upon the river-bed below. He steps out in full sight upon the

sands. Just before him a runnel of water is gliding, and he bends his

head to drink. You may hear the water as it gurgles down his capacious

throat. He raises his head, and the drops trickle from his wet beard. He

stands with an air of stupid abstraction, unconscious of the lurking

danger. Noiselessly the hunter cocks his rifle. As he sits upon the

sand, his knee is raised, and his elbow rests upon it, that he may level

his heavy weapon with a steadier aim. The stock is at his shoulder; his

eye ranges along the barrel. Still he is in no haste to fire. The bull,

with slow deliberation, begins his march over the sands to the other

side. He advances his fore-leg, and exposes to view a small spot denuded

of hair, just behind the point of his shoulder; upon this the hunter

brings the sight of his rifle to bear; lightly and delicately his finger

presses upon the hair-trigger. Quick as thought the spiteful crack of

the rifle responds to his slight touch, and instantly in the middle of

the bare spot appears a small red dot. The buffalo shivers; death has

overtaken him, he cannot tell from whence; still he does not fall, but

walks heavily forward, as if nothing had happened. Yet before he has

advanced far out upon the sand, you see him stop; he totters; his knees

bend under him, and his head sinks forward to the ground. Then his whole

vast bulk sways to one side; he rolls over on the sand, and dies with a

scarcely perceptible struggle.

Waylaying the buffalo in this manner, and shooting them as they come to

water, is the easiest and laziest method of hunting them. They may also

be approached by crawling up ravines or behind hills, or even over the

open prairie. This is often surprisingly easy; but at other times it

requires the utmost skill of the most experienced hunter. Henry

Chatillon was a man of extraordinary strength and hardihood; but I have

seen him return to camp quite exhausted with his efforts, his limbs

scratched and wounded, and his buckskin dress stuck full of thorns of

the prickly pear among which he had been crawling. Sometimes he would

lie flat upon his face, and drag himself along in this position for many

rods together.

On the second day of our stay at this place, Henry went out for an

afternoon hunt. Shaw and I remained in camp until, observing some bulls

approaching the water from the other side of the river, we crossed over

to attack them. They were so near, however, that before we could get

under cover of the bank our appearance as we walked over the sands

alarmed them. Turning round before coming within gunshot, they began to

move off to the right in a direction parallel to the river. I climbed up

the bank and ran after them. They were walking swiftly, and before I

could come within gunshot distance they slowly wheeled about and faced

toward me. Before they had turned far enough to see me I had fallen flat

on my face. For a moment they stood and stared at the strange object

upon the grass; then turning away, again they walked on as before; and

I, rising immediately ran once more in pursuit. Again they wheeled

about, and again I fell prostrate. Repeating this three or four times, I

came at length within a hundred yards of the fugitives, and as I saw

them turning again I sat down and leveled my rifle. The one in the

center was the largest I had ever seen. I shot him behind the shoulder.

His two companions ran off. He attempted to follow, but soon came to a

stand, and at length lay down as quietly as an ox chewing the cud.

Cautiously approaching him, I saw by his dull and jellylike eye that he

was dead.

When I began the chase, the prairie was almost tenantless; but a great

multitude of buffalo had suddenly thronged upon it, and looking up, I

saw within fifty rods a heavy, dark column stretching to the right and

left as far as I could see. I walked toward them. My approach did not

alarm them in the least. The column itself consisted entirely of cows

and calves, but a great many old bulls were ranging about the prairie on

its flank, and as I drew near they faced toward me with such a shaggy

and ferocious look that I thought it best to proceed no farther. Indeed,

I was already within close rifle-shot of the column, and I sat down on

the ground to watch their movements. Sometimes the whole would stand

still, their heads all facing one way; then they would trot forward, as

if by common impulse, their hoofs and horns clattering together as they

moved.

I soon began to hear at a distance on the left the sharp reports of a

rifle, again and again repeated; and not long after, dull and heavy

sounds succeeded, which I recognized as the familiar voice of Shaw's

double-barreled gun. When Henry's rifle was at work there was always

meat to be brought in. I went back across the river for a horse, and

returning, reached the spot where the hunters were standing. The buffalo

were visible on the distant prairie. The living had retreated from the

ground, but ten or twelve carcasses were scattered in various

directions. Henry, knife in hand, was stooping over a dead cow, cutting

away the best and fattest of the meat.

When Shaw left me he had walked down for some distance under the river

bank to find another bull. At length he saw the plains covered with the

host of buffalo, and soon after heard the crack of Henry's rifle.

Ascending the bank, he crawled through the grass, which for a rod or two

from the river was very high and rank. He had not crawled far before to

his astonishment he saw Henry standing erect upon the prairie, almost

surrounded by the buffalo.

Henry was in his appropriate element. Nelson, on the deck of the

_Victory_, hardly felt a prouder sense of mastery than he. Quite

unconscious that any one was looking at him, he stood at the full height

of his tall, strong figure, one hand resting upon his side, and the

other arm leaning carelessly on the muzzle of his rifle. His eyes were

ranging over the singular assemblage around him. Now and then he would

select such a cow as suited him, level his rifle, and shoot her dead;

then quietly reloading, he would resume his former position. The

buffalo seemed no more to regard his presence than if he were one of

themselves; the bulls were bellowing and butting at each other, or else

rolling about in the dust. A group of buffalo would gather about the

carcass of a dead cow, snuffing at her wounds; and sometimes they would

come behind those that had not yet fallen, and endeavor to push them

from the spot. Now and then some old bull would face toward Henry with

an air of stupid amazement, but none seemed inclined to attack or fly

from him.

For some time Shaw lay among the grass, looking in surprise at this

extraordinary sight; at length he crawled cautiously forward, and spoke

in a low voice to Henry, who told him to rise and come on. Still the

buffalo showed no sign of fear; they remained gathered about their dead

companions. Henry had already killed as many cows as we wanted for use,

and Shaw, kneeling behind one of the carcasses, shot five bulls before

the rest thought it necessary to disperse.

The frequent stupidity and infatuation of the buffalo seems the more

remarkable from the contrast it offers to their wildness and wariness at

other times. Henry knew all their peculiarities; he had studied them as

a scholar studies his books, and he derived quite as much pleasure from

the occupation. The buffalo were a kind of companions to him, and as he

said, he never felt alone when they were about him. He took great pride

in his skill in hunting. Henry was one of the most modest of men; yet in

the simplicity and frankness of his character, it was quite clear that

he looked upon his pre-eminence in this respect as a thing too palpable

and well established ever to be disputed. But whatever may have been

his estimate of his own skill, it was rather below than above that which

others placed upon it. The only time that I ever saw a shade of scorn

darken his face was when two volunteer soldiers, who had just killed a

buffalo for the first time, undertook to instruct him as to the best

method of "approaching." Henry always seemed to think that he had a sort

of prescriptive right to the buffalo, and to look upon them as something

belonging peculiarly to himself. Nothing excited his indignation so much

as any wanton destruction among the cows, and in his view shooting a

calf was a cardinal sin.

Henry Chatillon and Tete Rouge were of the same age; that is, about

thirty. Henry was twice as large, and fully six times as strong as Tete

Rouge. Henry's face was roughened by winds and storms; Tete Rouge's was

bloated by sherry cobblers and brandy toddy. Henry talked of Indians and

buffalo; Tete Rouge of theaters and oyster cellars. Henry had led a life

of hardship and privation; Tete Rouge never had a whim which he would

not gratify at the first moment he was able. Henry moreover was the most

disinterested man I ever saw; while Tete Rouge, though equally

good-natured in his way, cared for nobody but himself. Yet we would not

have lost him on any account; he admirably served the purpose of a

jester in a feudal castle; our camp would have been lifeless without

him. For the past week he had fattened in a most amazing manner; and

indeed this was not at all surprising, since his appetite was most

inordinate. He was eating from morning till night; half the time he

would be at work cooking some private repast for himself, and he paid a

visit to the coffee-pot eight or ten times a day. His rueful and

disconsolate face became jovial and rubicund, his eyes stood out like a

lobster's, and his spirits, which before were sunk to the depths of

despondency, were now elated in proportion; all day he was singing,

whistling, laughing, and telling stories. As he had a considerable fund

of humor, his anecdotes were extremely amusing, especially since he

never hesitated to place himself in a ludicrous point of view, provided

he could raise a laugh by doing so.

Tete Rouge, however, was sometimes rather troublesome; he had an

inveterate habit of pilfering provisions at all times of the day. He set

ridicule at utter defiance; and being without a particle of

self-respect, he would never have given over his tricks, even if they

had drawn upon him the scorn of the whole party. Now and then, indeed,

something worse than laughter fell to his share; on these occasions he

would exhibit much contrition, but half an hour after we would generally

observe him stealing round to the box at the back of the cart and slyly

making off with the provisions which Delorier had laid by for supper. He

was very fond of smoking; but having no tobacco of his own, we used to

provide him with as much as he wanted, a small piece at a time. At first

we gave him half a pound together, but this experiment proved an entire

failure, for he invariably lost not only the tobacco, but the knife

intrusted to him for cutting it, and a few minutes after he would come

to us with many apologies and beg for more.

We had been two days at this camp, and some of the meat was nearly fit

for transportation, when a storm came suddenly upon us. About sunset

the whole sky grew as black as ink, and the long grass at the river's

edge bent and rose mournfully with the first gusts of the approaching

hurricane. Delorier ensconced himself under the cover of the cart. Shaw

and I, together with Henry and Tete Rouge, crowded into the little tent;

but first of all the dried meat was piled together, and well protected

by buffalo robes pinned firmly to the ground.

About nine o'clock the storm broke, amid absolute darkness; it blew a

gale, and torrents of rain roared over the boundless expanse of open

prairie. Our tent was filled with mist and spray beating through the

canvas, and saturating everything within. We could only distinguish each

other at short intervals by the dazzling flash of lightning, which

displayed the whole waste around us with its momentary glare. We had our

fears for the tent; but for an hour or two it stood fast, until at

length the cap gave way before a furious blast; the pole tore through

the top, and in an instant we were half suffocated by the cold and

dripping folds of the canvas, which fell down upon us. Seizing upon our

guns, we placed them erect, in order to lift the saturated cloth above

our heads. In this agreeable situation, involved among wet blankets and

buffalo robes, we spent several hours of the night during which the

storm would not abate for a moment, but pelted down above our heads with

merciless fury.

Before long the ground beneath us became soaked with moisture, and the

water gathered there in a pool two or three inches deep; so that for a

considerable part of the night we were partially immersed in a cold

bath. In spite of all this, Tete Rouge's flow of spirits did not desert

him for an instant; he laughed, whistled, and sung in defiance of the

storm, and that night he paid off the long arrears of ridicule which he

owed us. While we lay in silence, enduring the infliction with what

philosophy we could muster, Tete Rouge, who was intoxicated with animal

spirits, was cracking jokes at our expense by the hour together.

At about three o'clock in the morning, "preferring the tyranny of the

open night" to such a wretched shelter, we crawled out from beneath the

fallen canvas. The wind had abated, but the rain fell steadily. The fire

of the California men still blazed amid the darkness, and we joined them

as they sat around it. We made ready some hot coffee by way of

refreshment; but when some of the party sought to replenish their cups,

it was found that Tete Rouge, having disposed of his own share, had

privately abstracted the coffee-pot and drunk up the rest of the

contents out of the spout.

In the morning, to our great joy, an unclouded sun rose upon the

prairie. We presented rather a laughable appearance, for the cold and

clammy buckskin, saturated with water, clung fast to our limbs; the

light wind and warm sunshine soon dried them again, and then we were all

incased in armor of intolerable rigidity. Roaming all day over the

prairie and shooting two or three bulls, were scarcely enough to restore

the stiffened leather to its usual pliancy.

A great flock of buzzards were usually soaring about a few trees that

stood on the island just below our camp. Throughout the whole of

yesterday we had noticed an eagle among them; to-day he was still

there; and Tete Rouge, declaring that he would kill the bird of America,

borrowed Delorier's gun and set out on his unpatriotic mission. As might

have been expected, the eagle suffered no great harm at his hands. He

soon returned, saying that he could not find him, but had shot a buzzard

instead. Being required to produce the bird in proof of his assertion,

he said he believed that he was not quite dead, but he must be hurt,

from the swiftness with which he flew off.

"If you want," said Tete Rouge, "I'll go and get one of his feathers; I

knocked off plenty of them when I shot him."

Just opposite our camp was another island covered with bushes, and

behind it was a deep pool of water, while two or three considerable

streams coursed over the sand not far off. I was bathing at this place

in the afternoon when a white wolf, larger than the largest Newfoundland

dog, ran out from behind the point of the island, and galloped leisurely

over the sand not half a stone's throw distant. I could plainly see his

red eyes and the bristles about his snout; he was an ugly scoundrel,

with a bushy tail, large head, and a most repulsive countenance. Having

neither rifle to shoot nor stone to pelt him with, I was looking eagerly

after some missile for his benefit, when the report of a gun came from

the camp, and the ball threw up the sand just beyond him; at this he

gave a slight jump, and stretched away so swiftly that he soon dwindled

into a mere speck on the distant sand-beds.

The number of carcasses that by this time were lying about the prairie

all around us summoned the wolves from every quarter; the spot where

Shaw and Henry had hunted together soon became their favorite resort,

for here about a dozen dead buffalo were fermenting under the hot sun. I

used often to go over the river and watch them at their meal; by lying

under the bank it was easy to get a full view of them. Three different

kinds were present; there were the white wolves and the gray wolves,

both extremely large, and besides these the small prairie wolves, not

much bigger than spaniels. They would howl and fight in a crowd around a

single carcass, yet they were so watchful, and their senses so acute,

that I was never able to crawl within a fair shooting distance; whenever

I attempted it, they would all scatter at once and glide silently away

through the tall grass.

The air above this spot was always full of buzzards or black vultures;

whenever the wolves left a carcass they would descend upon it, and cover

it so densely that a rifle-shot at random among the gormandizing crowd

would generally strike down two or three of them. These birds would now

be sailing by scores just above our camp, their broad black wings

seeming half transparent as they expanded them against the bright sky.

The wolves and the buzzards thickened about us with every hour, and two

or three eagles also came into the feast. I killed a bull within

rifle-shot of the camp; that night the wolves made a fearful howling

close at hand, and in the morning the carcass was completely hollowed

out by these voracious feeders.

After we had remained four days at this camp we prepared to leave it. We

had for our own part about five hundred pounds of dried meat, and the

California men had prepared some three hundred more; this consisted of

the fattest and choicest parts of eight or nine cows, a very small

quantity only being taken from each, and the rest abandoned to the

wolves. The pack animals were laden, the horses were saddled, and the

mules harnessed to the cart. Even Tete Rouge was ready at last, and

slowly moving from the ground, we resumed our journey eastward.

When we had advanced about a mile, Shaw missed a valuable hunting knife

and turned back in search of it, thinking he had left it at the camp. He

approached the place cautiously, fearful that Indians might be lurking

about, for a deserted camp is dangerous to return to. He saw no enemy,

but the scene was a wild and dreary one; the prairie was overshadowed by

dull, leaden clouds, for the day was dark and gloomy. The ashes of the

fires were still smoking by the river-side; the grass around them was

trampled down by men and horses, and strewn with all the litter of a

camp. Our departure had been a gathering signal to the birds and beasts

of prey; Shaw assured me that literally dozens of wolves were prowling

about the smoldering fires, while multitudes were roaming over the

prairie around; they all fled as he approached, some running over the

sand-beds and some over the grassy plains. As he searched about the

fires he saw the wolves seated on the distant hills waiting for his

departure. Having looked in vain for his knife, he mounted again and

left the wolves and the vultures to banquet freely upon the carrion of

the camp.

FOOTNOTES:

[126-1] "Yes, sir, yes."

[126-2] "Yes, well loaded."

[126-3] "My master" or "gentleman."

[126-4] "It is a good gun."

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE

_By_ ALFRED TENNYSON

NOTE.--The Battle of Balaklava, in which the charge commemorated by

Tennyson in this poem occurred, was one of the important

engagements of the Crimean War, between Russia on the one hand and

Turkey, France and England on the other. The battle was fought on

October 25th, 1854. Through some error in issuing orders, a brigade

of six hundred light cavalry, under Lord Cardigan, was ordered to

advance against the Russian center. The numbers of the enemy were

overwhelming, and but a remnant of the brigade returned alive.

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns!" he said;

Into the valley of death

Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"

Was there a man dismay'd?

Not tho' the soldier knew

Some one had blunder'd:

Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs but to do and die:

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volley'd and thunder'd;

Storm'd at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,

Flash'd as they turn'd in air

Sabring the gunners there,

Charging an army, while

All the world wonder'd;

Plunged in the battery-smoke

Right thro' the line they broke;

Cossack and Russian

Reel'd from the sabre-stroke

Shatter'd and sunder'd.

Then they rode back, but not,

Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them

Volley'd and thunder'd;

Storm'd at with shot and shell,

While horse and hero fell,

They that had fought so well

Came thro' the jaws of Death,

Back from the mouth of Hell,

All that was left of them,

Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?

O the wild charge they made!

All the world wonder'd.

Honor the charge they made!

Honor the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred.

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT

_By_ ROBERT BURNS

Is there, for honest poverty,

Wha[149-1] hangs his head, and a' that?

The coward slave, we pass him by,

We dare be poor for a' that!

For a' that, and a' that,

Our toils obscure, and a' that;

The rank is but the guinea's stamp,

The man's the gowd[149-2] for a' that!

What though on hamely[149-3] fare we dine,

Wear hodden-gray,[149-4] and a' that;

Gie[149-5] fools their silks, and knaves their wine,

A man's a man for a' that!

For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show and a' that;

The honest man though e'er sae poor,

Is king o' men for a' that!

Ye see yon birkie,[150-6] ca'd[150-7] a lord,

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;

Though hundreds worship at his word

He's but a coof[150-8] for a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

His ribbon, star, and a' that;

The man of independent mind,

He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak' a belted knight,

A marquis, duke, and a' that;

But an honest man's aboon[150-9] his might,

Guid faith, he mauna[150-10] fa'[150-11] that!

For a' that, and a' that,

Their dignities, and a' that;

The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,

Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may--

As come it will for a' that--

That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,

May bear the gree,[150-12] and a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

It's coming yet, for a' that,

When man to man, the warld o'er,

Shall brithers be for a' that!

FOOTNOTES:

[149-1] _Wha_ is the Scotch form of _who_. It modifies _a man_,

understood, after _is there_.

[149-2] _Gowd_ means _gold_.

[149-3] _Hamely_ means _homely_, in the sense of _simple_, or _common_.

[149-4] Hodden-gray is coarse woolen cloth.

[149-5] _Gie_ is the Scotch contraction for _give_.

[150-6] A birkie is a conceited, forward fellow.

[150-7] _Ca'd_ is a contracted form of _called_.

[150-8] A coof is a stupid person, a blockhead.

[150-9] _Aboon_ means above.

[150-10] _Mauna_ is _must not_.

[150-11] _Fa_' means _try_.

[150-12] _Bear the gree_ means _carry off the victory_.

BREATHES THERE THE MAN

_By_ SIR WALTER SCOTT

Breathes there the man with soul so dead

Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land!

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,

As home his footsteps he hath turned

From wandering on a foreign strand?

If such there breathe, go, mark him well;

For him no minstrel raptures swell;

High though his titles, proud his name,

Boundless his wealth as wish can claim,

Despite those titles, power, and pelf,

The wretch, concentred all in self,

Living, shall forfeit fair renown,

And, doubly dying, shall go down

To the vile dust from whence he sprung,

Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE

_By_ WILLIAM COLLINS

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest

By all their country's wishes blessed!

When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,

Returns to deck their hallowed mould,

She there shall dress a sweeter sod

Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung;

By forms unseen their dirge is sung;

There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,

To bless the turf that wraps their clay;

And Freedom shall awhile repair,

To dwell a weeping hermit there!

QUEEN VICTORIA

_By_ ANNA MCCALEB

George III, King of England, was by no means fortunate in his sons, for

there was in the most of them little of which a father could be proud.

Edward, Duke of Kent, the fourth son, was by far the best; he was

honorable, generous and charitable, so much so in fact that he lived far

beyond the small income which his royal father was willing to allow him.

This son married, and to him was born on the twenty-fourth of May, 1819,

in the Palace of Kensington at London, a daughter.

One month after her birth the child was baptized with great ceremony, a

gold font being brought from the Tower for the purpose, and the

Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of London officiating. The

Prince of Wales, at that time acting as Prince Regent in the place of

his father, who was insane, was the chief sponsor for the child, and he

gave her the name of Alexandrina in honor of Alexander, Emperor of

Russia. The Duke of Kent wished her to bear her mother's name also, and

George IV added the name Victoria. "Little Drina," the child was usually

called when she was small, but when she grew older she decided that her

mother's name should stand second to no other, and desired that she be

called simply Victoria. There were uncles and cousins and her own father

between the little princess and the throne, and it did not look as if

her chances of becoming queen were very great, so that people used to

laugh indulgently when the Duke of Kent would produce his baby and say

proudly, "Look at her well; she will yet be Queen of England."

Victoria's father died when she was but eight months old, but the child

knew no lack, for her mother superintended her training and her teaching

in a very wise manner, for she thought that it was possible, if not

probable, that her child would one day have the chief place in the

kingdom, and she wanted to fit her for it. Very simply was the little

princess brought up; her clothing as well as her food was of the

plainest, and habits of economy and regularity were impressed upon her

and stayed with her all her life. Her governess, Baroness Lehzen, was

German, as were all of her teachers until the time she was twelve years

old, and it is said that she spoke English with a German accent.

Of course Victoria's life was different from the lives of other

children, and this she must early have perceived. There are, however,

little stories of her childhood which show that she was really not so

different from ordinary children as some of her serious biographers

would have one think. She was very fond of dolls, and had, it is said,

one hundred and thirty-two of them who lived in a house of their own.

Even with these, however, she was not allowed to play just as other

children did, for her governess made use of them to teach her little

charge court etiquette. And indeed, some means of teaching the child

court etiquette was necessary, as her mother refused to allow her to

appear at the royal court and receive her lessons there at first hand.

The court of George IV was most disreputable, and the Duchess of Kent

wisely judged that it was no place for her little daughter. When William

IV came to the throne in 1830, Victoria's mother still refused to allow

the child to be much at court, for though the new king was in some ways

better than his predecessor had been, he was far from being a moral man.

When Victoria was twelve years old her mother felt that it was time she

should know of the high destiny to which she might be called, for there

now stood no one between her and the throne, William IV's children

having died in infancy. Accordingly, the governess placed in a book

which the princess was reading, a genealogical table, so that the

princess might come upon it as if by accident. Victoria examined it

gravely and then exclaimed, "Why I never saw this before!"

"It was not necessary that you should see it," replied the governess.

"I am nearer the throne than I supposed," said the child, and then, with

a seriousness beyond her years, she added, "It is a great

responsibility, but I will be good."

Kept as she was from the court world, Victoria was the subject of

intense interest and curiosity to the English people. England had always

been fortunate in her queens if not always in her kings, and it was felt

that if Victoria should come to the throne, England would be the better

morally. Certain it is that the young girl was adored by the British

people generally; her simplicity, her prettiness, her fresh girlishness

appealed to them, and the thought of what she would probably be called

upon to do lent more than a touch of romance to all that concerned her.

Nathaniel P. Willis, the American writer, who had seen Victoria during a

visit to England, wrote: "The princess is much better looking than any

picture of her in the shops, and for the heir to such a crown as that of

England, quite unnecessarily pretty and interesting."

Her "Uncle King," as she called William IV, was very wrathful because

his young niece was not allowed to appear at all court affairs, and at

one time when the Duchess of Kent and Victoria were present, with about

a hundred other guests, at his birthday celebration, he made a most

remarkable speech.

"I only hope," he said, "that I may live for nine months longer, until

the Princess Victoria is of age, so that I may leave the power in her

hands and not be forced to entrust it to a regent in the person of a

lady who sits near me."

At this insult to her mother, Victoria burst into tears, but the Duchess

herself made no reply.

In 1837 Victoria became of age, and her birthday was celebrated with

rejoicing throughout the country. Schools were closed, feasts were held,

and the city of London was brightly illuminated. But at the great ball

which was given that night, the king could not be present; for he was

that very day taken ill, and in less than a month he died.

Early in the morning of June twentieth, the Archbishop of Canterbury and

the Lord Chamberlain hastened to Kensington Palace to acquaint Victoria

with the fact that she was queen of England. They reached there in the

gray dawn and found no one stirring. After much waiting and knocking,

they were shown into the palace, and finally succeeded in having the

princess's special attendant sent to them. They asked her to inform her

mistress that they desired to see her immediately on very important

business; whereupon the attendant told them that she preferred not to

waken her mistress, who was sleeping soundly. With great dignity then

the Archbishop said, "We are come on business of State to _The Queen_";

and thus, startled out of her sleep, Victoria was told by her attendant

that she was now the first person in Great Britain.

Hastily taking off her nightcap and throwing a shawl over her nightgown,

Victoria descended to receive the official announcement of her

succession to the throne of England, and to receive on her hand the kiss

of allegiance from these two great lords of the realm.

Her first reported words after she was made queen were to the Archbishop

of Canterbury--"I beg your Grace to pray for me;" and one of her very

first acts after the august messengers had left her was to write to the

widowed queen of William IV, Adelaide, offering her condolences and

begging that she would remain as long as she chose in the royal palace.

She addressed the letter to "Her Majesty the Queen," and when some one

standing by said to her, "you are now the queen, and your aunt deserves

the title no longer," she replied, "I know that, but I shall not be the

first to remind her of that fact."

Later in the same day, the eighteen-year-old queen was called upon to

meet the council of the high officers of Church and State. Dressed in

her simple mourning she looked dignified and calm, and her behavior

corresponded well with her looks. Of course all the great statesmen who

were thus called on to meet her, felt much curiosity as to how she would

carry off her new honors, and one of the greatest. Sir Robert Peel, said

afterward that he was "amazed at her manner and behavior; at her

apparent deep sense of her situation, her modesty and at the same time

her firmness. She appeared to be awed but not daunted."

On the following day she was publicly proclaimed at Saint James's

Palace, and all of those who had gathered to watch the ceremony, which

was performed at a window looking out on the courtyard, were as deeply

impressed as the peers and princes had been on the preceding day. It

must have been difficult for the simple, unassuming young girl to

preserve her calm dignity when she heard the singing of that grand

national anthem, _God Save the Queen_, and knew that it was for her.

In midsummer the queen moved to Buckingham Palace, and on July

seventeenth she took part in her first elaborate public ceremony--that

is, she drove in state to dissolve Parliament. All were impressed with

the manner in which she read her speech, and one distinguished observer

said to another, "How beautifully she performs!"

A pleasant story is told of the young queen shortly after her accession.

The Duke of Wellington, whom Victoria greatly admired, brought to her

for signature a court-martial death sentence. The queen, horrified, and

feeling that she could not sign her name to such a document, begged the

Duke to tell her whether there was not some excuse for the offender.

"None," said the Iron Duke; "he has deserted three times."

"Oh, think, your Grace," Victoria replied, "whether there be not

something in his favor."

"Well," said the Duke, "I am certain that he is a very bad soldier, but

he may, for aught I know, be a very good man. In fact, I remember

hearing some one speak for him."

"Oh, thank you!" exclaimed the queen, as she joyously wrote the word

"Pardoned" across the document.

It soon became evident that the tender-hearted queen would never be able

to deal with questions of this sort--that there was danger of all

offenders being pardoned; and a commission was finally appointed to

attend to such matters.

On June twenty-eighth, 1838, after she had been queen for over a year,

Victoria was formally crowned at Westminster Abbey. The crown worn by

her predecessors was far too large for her, so a new crown was made at a

cost of over five hundred thousand dollars. The spectacle was a most

impressive and inspiring one, and the queen went through her part in it,

as she had gone through her part at all ceremonies in which she had

participated, in a manner which roused anew the enthusiasm of her

subjects. When the prime minister finally placed the crown on Victoria's

head, all the peers and peeresses placed their coronets on their heads

and shouted _God Save the Queen_. Carlyle said of her at that time,

"Poor little Queen! She is at an age at which a girl can hardly be

trusted to choose a bonnet for herself, yet a task is laid upon her from

which an archangel might shrink."

Another writer, however, said, "I consider that it would be impossible

to exaggerate the enthusiasm of the English people on the accession of

Victoria to the throne." And it was this enthusiasm on the part of her

subjects, joined with her own extraordinary common sense, which enabled

her to bear up under circumstances which might well have daunted an

older and a wiser sovereign.

Of course one of the chief questions with regard to the new queen was

that of her marriage. Usually the marriage of a sovereign was

practically settled as a question of statecraft, but Victoria showed no

inclination to allow her domestic life to be regulated by her ministers.

In 1836 there had visited her at Kensington Palace her cousin Albert of

Saxe-Coburg, and Victoria had looked upon him very favorably. Her uncle

Leopold of Belgium, who had always been one of her chief advisers,

desired her to marry Albert, and urged the matter after her accession to

the throne, but Victoria's answer was, "I am too young and he is too

young. I shall not think of marrying for four years yet." However, when

in 1839 Albert and his brother came to England, it was unnecessary for

uncle or ministers to urge upon Victoria the wisdom of a speedy

marriage; her own heart was her counselor, and Albert had not been long

in the palace, before the queen, to whom it was impossible that he

should propose marriage, proposed marriage to him. She persisted in

looking upon it as a sacrifice on Albert's part, but we may readily

believe that he looked upon it in no such manner. They were married on

February 10, 1840, and then began a life of domestic happiness which was

unbroken until the death of Albert.

Immediately after the wedding the young couple drove to Windsor, passing

through over twenty miles of frantically cheering, loyal subjects. On

their return, after a brief season of seclusion, to Buckingham Palace,

Victoria turned her attention at once to her royal duties, and Albert

showed himself from the outset a man peculiarly fitted to aid and advise

her. His one desire was to sink his own individuality in that of the

queen, but this was by no means her desire. She could not bear that her

husband should be regarded as in any way subordinate to herself--that he

should be forced to take a lower seat, or to walk behind her; and it was

a real grief to her that she was not able to bestow upon him the title

of "King Consort" rather than that of "Prince Consort." In one of her

first letters after her marriage, Victoria said of her husband, "There

cannot exist a purer, dearer, nobler being in the world than the

prince," and this same attitude toward her husband she kept throughout

her life.

Victoria and Albert had nine children, the first the Princess Victoria,

being born in November, 1840, and the second, the Prince of Wales,

afterward Edward VII of England, being born in November, 1841. The

pictures that we have of the home life of this royal family; of the

discipline, loving but firm, to which the children were subjected, and

of the way in which the parents really lived with their children, are

most charming. A little story tells how the Princess Victoria, when but

a child, was told that if she persisted in speaking to the family

physician simply as "Brown" without prefixing either "Mr." or "Dr.," she

should certainly be sent to bed. When the doctor came the next morning,

the little girl said, "Good-morning, Brown," and then hastily added,

"and good-night, Brown, for I am going to bed."

Of course the life of this queen of the greatest of all European

countries, and that of her husband, were not all made up of pleasant

domestic duties, and journeyings from Buckingham Palace to Osborne, the

summer home on the Isle of Wight, and to Balmoral in Scotland; infinite

in number were the demands made by the State on Victoria's time and on

her clear intelligence. Prince Albert, too, was unweariedly busied on

public matters. No great enterprise was considered fairly launched, no

public building was thought properly opened without a speech from the

Prince Consort. Victoria could not well have been made prouder of him

than she was on her marriage day, but she was happy beyond words to find

that the English people were coming to recognize his worth. They had

been suspicious of him at first, and had found fault with almost every

act of his. And indeed, they did not come to do him full justice until

after his death.

That men should have been found ready and willing to make attempts on

the life of this queen, who showed herself no less wise in ruling than

she was loving and womanly in her domestic life, seems well-nigh

incredible; but as one writer has said, Victoria was "the greatest royal

target in Europe." Repeated attempts were made to assassinate her, but

they were always made by fanatics or insane men, and were in no wise the

result of any general movement against her. Indeed, at each attempt she

endeared herself the more to her people by her firmness and

fearlessness, and by her willingness to show herself bravely in public.

The exquisitely happy home life of the queen was brought to a close, and

new public burdens were laid upon her, by the death of Prince Albert on

December fourteenth, 1861. Throughout his illness of but two weeks, the

queen was constantly with him, and not until the end was almost at hand

did she admit even to herself that there was no hope. She had so

earnestly desired that they might grow old together and that she might

never be left after his death, that she could not persuade herself that

he was really to die. Her account in her diary of his illness and death

is most beautiful. His tenderness for her never failed, and when,

shortly before his death, when he knew no one else, she bent over him

and whispered, "It is your own little wife," he knew her and kissed her.

After her husband's death the queen withdrew largely from public

affairs, and her place was most admirably taken on all social occasions

by her daughter-in-law, Alexandra of Denmark, whom the Prince of Wales

married in 1863. When, however, the queen felt that her presence was

necessary on any public occasion, she was always ready and willing to

set aside her personal feelings, and let herself be seen by her

subjects. To the last, too, she maintained her hold on affairs,

directing business, political and domestic matters, with the same

excellent judgment that she had shown all her life.

A most notable event in the queen's life occurred in 1897. This was the

celebration of the sixtieth anniversary of her reign, and it was

commemorated throughout her dominions with an enthusiasm which was

without parallel. Processions, illuminations, and speech-making took

place in every town in Great Britain, and city vied with city in

erecting memorials of the occasion. The queen's strength was greatly

taxed during the Jubilee period, but she speedily regained her customary

vigor.

Somewhat less than four years later, however, in January of 1901, the

entire nation was made anxious by the news that the queen was ill. She

grew steadily worse, and late in the afternoon of January 22nd, she

died, to the intense grief, not only of her own subjects, but of all

peoples in the world.

In this brief sketch of the life of England's great queen, practically

no reference has been made to political affairs; her life has been

treated merely from the personal, or domestic, side. However, it is not

to be for a moment supposed that the queen was so absorbed in her family

and her friends, dear as these always were to her, that she neglected

matters of state. Every important project that was attempted during her

reign had her consideration, and all of her ministers united in

regarding her opinion as valuable beyond words. The influence of this

wonderful woman on the history of her times was incalculable, and

further study of her life and character will only deepen and intensify

the respect and love which all must hold for her memory.

THE RECESSIONAL

_By_ RUDYARD KIPLING

NOTE.--_The Recessional_ is one of the most delicate and graceful

poems in the language, yet it has such strength and virility, is so

easily understood and has such profound religious sentiment, that

it is regarded as one of the noblest things ever written. Kipling

himself tells us how it was written:

"That poem gave me more trouble than anything I ever wrote. I had

promised the _Times_ a poem on the Jubilee, and when it became due,

I had written nothing that had satisfied me. The _Times_ began to

want the poem badly, and sent letter after letter asking for it. I

made many more attempts but no further progress. Finally the

_Times_ began sending telegrams. So I shut myself in a room with a

determination to stay there until I had written a Jubilee poem.

Sitting down with all my previous attempts before me I searched

through those dozens of sketches, till at last I found just one

line I liked. That was, 'Lest we forget.' Round these words _The

Recessional_ was written."

God of our fathers, known of old--

Lord of our far-flung battle line,

Beneath whose awful Hand we hold

Dominion over palm and pine--

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget--lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies--

The Captains and the Kings depart.

Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice,

An humble and a contrite heart.[164-1]

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget--lest we forget!

[Illustration: ON DUNE AND HEADLAND]

Far-called our navies melt away--

On dune and headland sinks the fire;

Lo, all our pomp of yesterday

Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!

Judge of all Nations, spare us yet,

Lest we forget--lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose

Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe--

Such boasting as the Gentiles use

Or lesser breeds without the law--

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget--lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust

In reeking tube and iron shard--

All valiant dust that builds on dust,

And guarding calls not Thee to guard--

For frantic boast and foolish word,

Thy mercy on thy People, Lord!

Amen!

A recessional is a hymn sung while the clergy and the choir are

retiring at the end of a church service. We must remember that this

hymn was written for the celebration of the sixtieth anniversary of

the coronation of Queen Victoria, and that its sentiment is

English. The central idea appearing in the refrain at the end of

each stanza is that the nation must recognize the presence of God,

and remember its duties to Him. While the phrases in the poem call

us constantly back to England and English dominions, yet the

sentiment is so universal and so applicable to all nations, that

the hymn is admired everywhere.

The first stanza refers to the conquests of England, whose battle

lines have been flung far over all parts of the world, and to the

fact that under the awful hand of God the British hold dominion

over India and the tropical lands where the palm tree grows, as

well as over the pine-clad hills of Canada and other Northern

regions. It is an appeal to the Almighty to be with the nation, and

to remind the people of their duty to the God of Hosts. The

succeeding stanzas may be paraphrased as follows:

After the tumult and the shouting of the celebration die away, when

the captains and the kings, who have met from all parts of the

world to pay homage to the queen and to the nation, depart, there

still remains as the most acceptable gift to God, the ancient

sacrifice--an humble and a contrite heart.

The British navies, called to far distant climes, separate and melt

away. Sinking below the horizon they see behind them on the dunes

and headlands the smouldering bonfires lit in celebration of the

Diamond Jubilee of Queen Victoria. The once magnificent cities of

Nineveh and Tyre are now in ruins, perhaps covered by shifting

desert sands. Their pomp and their glory have departed, but no more

completely than the glory and the pomp of yesterday have gone from

the nation. Judge of all Nations, spare the English from

destruction, and keep them in mind of their obligations to Thee.

If, glorying in our power, we talk wildly of what we have done in

words that give no praise to God, and boast as the barbaric races

do, we pray Thee, Lord God of Hosts, to remind us that everything

we possess has come from thy guiding hand.

Show mercy to thy people, Lord, for frantic boasts and foolish

words, for heathen hearts that put their trust in reeking cannon

and the fragments of bursting shells, and to those who, bravely

guarding the wide borders of our land, forget that they are but

valiant dust, and call not upon Thee to guard them.

FOOTNOTES:

[164-1] This is a reference to _Psalms LI, 17_: "The sacrifices of God

are a broken spirit: a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not

despise."

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER[167-*]

_By_ FRANCIS SCOTT KEY

O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?

Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,

O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming!

And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,

Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;

O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave

O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?

On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep,

Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,

What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,

As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses?

Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,

In full glory reflected now shines on the stream;

'Tis the star-spangled banner! O long may it wave

O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore

That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion

A home and a country should leave us no more?

Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.

No refuge could save the hireling and slave

From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave;

And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave

O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

O thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand

Between their loved homes and the war's desolation!

Blest with vic'try and peace, may the heaven-rescued land

Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation!

Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,

And this be our motto, "_In God is our trust_";

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave

O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

FOOTNOTES:

[167-*] On the night of Sept. 12, 1814, Fort Henry in Chesapeake Bay not

far from Baltimore was unsuccessfully attacked by a British fleet. The

author, detained a prisoner on the fleet, witnessed the bombardment and

began the song there.

HOW'S MY BOY?

_By_ SYDNEY DOBELL

"Ho, sailor of the sea!

How's my boy--my boy?"

"What's your boy's name, good wife,

And in what ship sailed he?"

"My boy John--

He that went to sea--

What care I for the ship, sailor?

My boy's my boy to me.

"You come back from the sea,

And not know my John?

I might as well have asked some landsman

Yonder down in the town.

There's not an ass in all the parish

But he knows my John.

"How's my boy--my boy?

And unless you let me know

I'll swear you are no sailor,

Blue jacket or no,

Brass buttons or no, sailor,

Anchor and crown, or no!

Sure his ship was the 'Jolly Briton--'"

"Speak low, woman, speak low!"

"And why should I speak low, sailor,

About my own boy John?

If I was loud as I am proud

I'd sing him over the town!

Why should I speak low, sailor?"

"That good ship went down."

"How's my boy--my boy?

What care I for the ship, sailor,

I was never aboard her.

Be she afloat or be she aground,

Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound

Her owners can afford her!

I say, how's my John?"

"Every man on board went down,

Every man aboard her."

"How's my boy--my boy?

What care I for the men, sailor?

I'm not their mother--

How's my boy--my boy?

Tell me of him and no other!

How's my boy--my boy?"

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM

_By_ THOMAS CAMPBELL

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw

By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain,

At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw;

And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battlefield's dreadful array

Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track:

'Twas Autumn--and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore

From my home and my weeping friends never to part;

My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.

"Stay--stay with us!--rest!--thou art weary and worn!"--

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;--

But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

MAKE WAY FOR LIBERTY!

_By_ JAMES MONTGOMERY

NOTE.--In the fourteenth century the Swiss people rose against

their Austrian oppressors, and at Sempach they won, on July 9,

1386, a complete victory over an army which greatly exceeded them

in numbers. According to tradition, a Swiss hero, Arnold

Winkelried, seeing that the Austrian line was well-nigh

unbreakable, gathered the spears of several of his enemies in his

arms and pressed the points against his breast, thus making a way

for his companions. A monument was erected in his honor five

centuries after the battle.

"Make way for Liberty!"--he cried;

Made way for Liberty, and died!

In arms the Austrian phalanx stood.

A living wall, a human wood!

A wall, where every conscious stone

Seemed to its kindred thousands grown;

A rampart all assaults to bear,

Till time to dust their frames should wear;

A wood, like that enchanted grove

In which with fiends Rinaldo strove,

Where every silent tree possessed

A spirit prisoned in its breast,

Which the first stroke of coming strife

Would startle into hideous life;

So dense, so still, the Austrians stood,

A living wall, a human wood!

Impregnable their front appears,

All horrent with projected spears,

Whose polished points before them shine,

From flank to flank, one brilliant line,

Bright as the breakers' splendors run

Along the billows to the sun.

Opposed to these, a hovering band

Contended for their native land:

Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke

From manly necks the ignoble yoke,

And forged their fetters into swords,

On equal terms to fight their lords,

And what insurgent rage had gained

In many a mortal fray maintained;

Marshaled once more at Freedom's call,

They came to conquer or to fall,

Where he who conquered, he who fell,

Was deemed a dead or living Tell!

Such virtue had that patriot breathed,

So to the soil his soul bequeathed,

That wheresoe'er his arrows flew

Heroes in his own likeness grew,

And warriors sprang from every sod

Which his awakening footstep trod.

And now the work of life and death

Hung on the passing of a breath;

The fire of conflict burnt within,

The battle trembled to begin;

Yet, while the Austrians held their ground,

Point for attack was nowhere found,

Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed,

The unbroken line of lances blazed;

That line 't were suicide to meet,

And perish at their tyrants' feet,--

How could they rest within their graves,

And leave their homes the homes of slaves?

Would they not feel their children tread

With clanging chains above their head?

It must not be: this day, this hour,

Annihilates the oppressor's power;

All Switzerland is in the field,

She will not fly, she cannot yield,--

She must not fall; her better fate

Here gives her an immortal date.

Few were the number she could boast;

But every freeman was a host,

And felt as though himself were he

On whose sole arm hung victory.

It did depend on _one_ indeed;

Behold him,--Arnold Winkelried!

There sounds not to the trump of fame

The echo of a nobler name.

Unmarked he stood amid the throng,

In rumination deep and long,

Till you might see, with sudden grace,

The very thought come o'er his face,

And by the motion of his form

Anticipate the bursting storm,

And by the uplifting of his brow

Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.

But 't was no sooner thought than done,

The field was in a moment won:--

"Make way for Liberty!" he cried,

Then ran, with arms extended wide,

As if his dearest friend to clasp;

Ten spears he swept within his grasp.

"Make way for Liberty!" he cried;

Their keen points met from side to side;

He bowed amongst them like a tree,

And thus made way for Liberty.

Swift to the breach his comrades fly;

"Make way for Liberty!" they cry,

And through the Austrian phalanx dart,

As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart;

While, instantaneous as his fall,

Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all;

An earthquake could not overthrow

A city with a surer blow.

Thus Switzerland again was free;

Thus death made way for Liberty!

THE OLD CONTINENTALS

_By_ GUY HUMPHREYS MCMASTER

In their ragged regimentals

Stood the old continentals,

Yielding not,

When the grenadiers were lunging,

And like hail fell the plunging

Cannon-shot;

When the files

Of the isles,

From the smoky night encampment, bore the banner of the rampant

Unicorn,

And grummer, grummer, grummer rolled the roll of the drummer,

Through the morn!

Then with eyes to the front all,

And with guns horizontal,

Stood our sires;

And the balls whistled deadly,

And in streams flashing redly

Blazed the fires;

As the roar

On the shore,

Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres

Of the plain;

And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gun-powder,

Cracking amain!

Now like smiths at their forges

Worked the red Saint George's

Cannoneers;

And the "villainous saltpetre"

Rung a fierce, discordant metre

Round their ears;

As the swift

Storm-drift,

With hot sweeping anger, came the horseguards' clangor

On our flanks.

Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fire

Through the ranks!

Then the old-fashioned colonel

Galloped through the white infernal

Powder-cloud;

And his broad sword was swinging

And his brazen throat was ringing

Trumpet loud.

Then the blue

Bullets flew,

And the trooper jackets redden at the touch of the leaden

Rifle-breath;

And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder,

Hurling death!

THE PICKET-GUARD

_By_ MRS. ETHEL LYNN BEERS

"All quiet along the Potomac," they say,

"Except now and then a stray picket

Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,

By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

'T is nothing: a private or two, now and then,

Will not count in the news of the battle;

Not an officer lost--only one of the men,

Moaning out, all alone, the death rattle."

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;

Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,

Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming.

A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night wind

Through the forest leaves softly is creeping;

While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,

Keep guard--for the army is sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread

As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,

And he thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed,

Far away in the cot on the mountain.

His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim,

Grows gentle with memories tender,

As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,

For their mother,--may Heaven defend her!

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,

That night when the love yet unspoken

Leaped up to his lips--when low, murmured vows

Were pledged to be ever unbroken;

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,

He dashes off tears that are welling,

And gathers his gun closer up to its place,

As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree,--

The footstep is lagging and weary;

Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,

Toward the shade of the forest so dreary.

Hark! was it the night wind that rustled the leaves?

Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?

It looked like a rifle: "Ha! Mary, good-by!"

And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,--

No sound save the rush of the river;

While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,--

The picket's off duty forever.

MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME

_By_ STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER

The sun shines bright in our old Kentucky home;

'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay;

The corn top's ripe and the meadow's in the bloom,

While the birds make music all the day;

The young folks roll on the little cabin floor,

All merry, all happy, all bright;

By'm by hard times comes knockin' at the door,--

Then my old Kentucky home, good night!

CHORUS

Weep no more, my lady; O weep no more to-day!

We'll sing one song for my old Kentucky home,

For my old Kentucky home far away.

They hunt no more for the possum and the coon,

On the meadow, the hill, and the shore;

They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon,

On the bench by the old cabin door;

The day goes by, like a shadow o'er the heart,

With sorrow where all was delight;

The time has come, when the darkeys have to part,

Then, my old Kentucky home, good night!

The head must bow, and the back will have to bend,

Wherever the darkey may go;

A few more days, and the troubles all will end,

In the field where the sugar-cane grow;

A few more days to tote the weary load,

No matter, it will never be light;

A few more days till we totter on the road,

Then, my old Kentucky home, good night!

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN

_By_ MATTHEW ARNOLD

Come, dear children, let us away;

Down and away below!

Now my brothers call from the bay,

Now the great winds shoreward blow,

Now the salt tides seaward flow;

Now the wild white horses play,

Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.

Children dear, let us away!

This way, this way!

Call her once before you go--

Call once yet!

In a voice that she will know

"Margaret! Margaret!"

Children's voices should be dear

(Call once more) to a mother's ear;

Children's voices, wild with pain--

Surely she will come again!

Call her once and come away;

This way, this way!

"Mother dear, we cannot stay!

The wild white horses foam and fret."

Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down;

Call no more!

One last look at the white-wall'd town,

And the little gray church on the windy shore;

Then come down!

She will not come though you call all day;

Come away, come away!

[Illustration: THE LITTLE GRAY CHURCH ON THE WINDY SHORE]

Children dear, was it yesterday

We heard the sweet bells over the bay?

In the caverns where we lay,

Through the surf and through the swell,

The far-off sound of a silver bell?

Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,

Where the winds are all asleep;

Where the spent lights quiver and gleam,

Where the salt weed sways in the stream,

Where the sea beasts, ranged all around,

Feed in the ooze of their pasture ground;

Where the sea snakes coil and twine,

Dry their mail and bask in the brine;

Where great whales come sailing by,

Sail and sail, with unshut eye,

Round the world for ever and aye?

When did music come this way?

Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, was it yesterday

(Call yet once) that she went away?

Once she sate with you and me,

On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,

And the youngest sate on her knee.

She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well,

When down swung the sound of a far-off bell.

She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea;

She said: "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray

In the little gray church on the shore to-day.

'Twill be Easter-time in the world--ah me!

And I lose my poor soul, Merman! here with thee."

I said: "Go up, dear heart, through the waves;

Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea caves!"

She smil'd, she went up through the surf in the bay.

Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, were we long alone?

"The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan;

Long prayers," I said, "in the world they say;

Come!" I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay.

We went up the beach, by the sandy down

Where the sea stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town;

Through the narrow, pav'd streets, where all was still,

To the little gray church on the windy hill.

From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,

But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.

We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains,

And we gaz'd up the aisle through the small leaded panes.

She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear;

"Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here!

Dear heart," I said, "we are long alone;

The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan."

But, ah, she gave me never a look,

For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book!

Loud prays the priest: shut stands the door.

Come away, children, call no more!

Come away, come down, call no more!

Down, down, down!

Down to the depths of the sea!

She sits at her wheel in the humming town,

Singing most joyfully.

Hark what she sings: "O joy, O joy.

For the humming street, and the child with its toy!

For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well;

For the wheel where I spun,

And the blessed light of the sun!"

And so she sings her fill.

Singing most joyfully,

Till the spindle drops from her hand,

And the whizzing wheel stands still.

She steals to the window, and looks at the sand,

And over the sand at the sea;

And her eyes are set in a stare;

And anon there breaks a sigh,

And anon there drops a tear,

From a sorrow-clouded eye,

And a heart sorrow-laden,

A long, long sigh,

For the cold, strange eyes of a little Mermaiden

And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away, children;

Come, children, come down!

The hoarse wind blows colder;

Lights shine in the town.

She will start from her slumber

When gusts shake the door;

She will hear the winds howling,

Will hear the waves roar.

We shall see, while above us

The waves roar and whirl,

A ceiling of amber,

A pavement of pearl.

Singing: "Here came a mortal,

But faithless was she!

And alone dwell for ever

The kings of the sea."

But, children, at midnight,

When soft the winds blow,

When clear falls the moonlight,

When spring-tides are low;

When sweet airs come seaward

From heaths starr'd with broom,

And high rocks throw mildly

On the blanch'd sands a gloom;

Up the still, glistening beaches,

Up the creeks we will hie,

Over banks of bright seaweed

The ebb-tide leaves dry.

We will gaze, from the sand hills,

At the white, sleeping town;

At the church on the hillside--

And then come back down.

Singing: "There dwells a lov'd one,

But cruel is she!

She left lonely forever

The kings of the sea."

[Illustration]

TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER

NOTE.--This account of Tom and Maggie Tulliver is taken from the

early chapters of George Eliot's _The Mill on the Floss_. The book

follows the fortunes of Tom and Maggie, whom at the opening of the

story we find living with their parents at the old mill house on

the Floss River, until they meet their death, in their early

manhood and womanhood. We give here, however, only a part of the

story of their childhood.

I

It was a heavy disappointment to Maggie that she was not allowed to go

with her father in the gig when he went to fetch Tom home from the

academy; but the morning was too wet, Mrs. Tulliver said, for a little

girl to go out in her best bonnet. Maggie took the opposite view very

strongly, and it was a direct consequence of this difference of opinion

that when her mother was in the act of brushing out the reluctant black

crop Maggie suddenly rushed from under her hands and dipped her head in

a basin of water standing near, in the vindictive determination that

there should be no more chance of curls that day.

"Maggie, Maggie!" exclaimed Mrs. Tulliver, sitting stout and helpless

with the brushes on her lap, "what is to become of you if you're so

naughty? I'll tell your aunt Glegg and your aunt Pullet when they come

next week, and they'll never love you any more. Oh dear, oh dear! look

at your clean pinafore, wet from top to bottom. Folks 'ull think it's a

judgment on me as I've got such a child,--they'll think I've done summat

wicked."

Before this remonstrance was finished, Maggie was already out of

hearing, making her way toward the great attic that run under the old

high-pitched roof, shaking the water from her black locks as she ran,

like a Skye terrier escaped from his bath. This attic was Maggie's

favorite retreat on a wet day, when the weather was not too cold; here

she fretted out all her ill humors, and talked aloud to the worm-eaten

floors and the worm-eaten shelves, and the dark rafters festooned with

cobwebs; and here she kept a Fetish which she punished for all her

misfortunes. This was the trunk of a large wooden doll, which once

stared with the roundest of eyes above the reddest of cheeks; but was

now entirely defaced by a long career of vicarious suffering. Three

nails driven into the head commemorated as many crises in Maggie's nine

years of earthly struggle; that luxury of vengeance having been

suggested to her by the picture of Jael destroying Sisera in the old

Bible. The last nail had been driven in with a fiercer stroke than

usual, for the Fetish on that occasion represented aunt Glegg. But

immediately afterward Maggie had reflected that if she drove many nails

in she would not be so well able to fancy that the head was hurt when

she knocked it against the wall, nor to comfort it, and make believe to

poultice it, when her fury was abated; for even aunt Glegg would be

pitiable when she had been hurt very much, and thoroughly humiliated, so

as to beg her niece's pardon. Since then she had driven no more nails

in, but had soothed herself by alternately grinding and beating the

wooden head against the rough brick of the great chimneys that made two

square pillars supporting the roof. That was what she did this morning

on reaching the attic, sobbing all the while with a passion that

expelled every other form of consciousness,--even the memory of the

grievance that had caused it.

[Illustration: TOM'S COMING HOME!]

As at last the sobs were getting quieter, and the grinding less fierce,

a sudden beam of sunshine, falling through the wire lattice across the

worm-eaten shelves, made her throw away the Fetish and run to the

window. The sun was really breaking out; the sound of the mill seemed

cheerful again; the granary doors were open; and there was Yap, the

queer white-and-brown terrier, with one ear turned back, trotting about

and sniffing vaguely, as if he were in search of a companion. It was

irresistible.

Maggie tossed her hair back and ran downstairs, seized her bonnet

without putting it on, peeped, and then dashed along the passage lest

she should encounter her mother, and was quickly out in the yard,

whirling around like a Pythoness, and singing as she whirled, "Yap, Yap,

Tom's coming home!" while Yap danced and barked round her, as much as to

say, if there was any noise wanted he was the dog for it.

"Hegh, hegh, Miss! you'll make yourself giddy, an' tumble down i' the

dirt," said Luke, the head miller, a tall, broad-shouldered man of

forty, black-haired, subdued by a general mealiness, like an auricula.

Maggie paused in her whirling and said, staggering a little, "Oh no, it

doesn't make me giddy, Luke; may I go into the mill with you?"

Maggie loved to linger in the great spaces of the mill, and often came

out with her black hair powdered to a soft whiteness that made her dark

eyes flash out with new fire. The resolute din, the unresting motion of

the great stones, giving her a dim, delicious awe as at the presence of

an uncontrollable force; the meal forever pouring, pouring; the fine

white powder softening all surfaces, and making the very spider-nets

look like a fairy lace-work; the sweet, pure scent of the meal,--all

helped to make Maggie feel that the mill was a little world apart from

her outside everyday life. She was in the habit of taking this

recreation as she conversed with Luke, to whom she was very

communicative, wishing him to think well of her understanding, as her

father did.

Perhaps she felt it necessary to recover her position with him on the

present occasion, for, as she sat sliding on the heap of grain near

which he was busying himself, she said, at that shrill pitch which was

requisite in mill-society,--

"I think you never read any book but the Bible, did you, Luke?"

"Nay, Miss, an' not much o' that," said Luke, with great frankness. "I'm

no reader, I aren't."

"But if I lent you one of my books, Luke? I've got many _very_ pretty

books that would be easy for you to read; but there's 'Pug's Tour of

Europe,'--that would tell you all about the different sorts of people in

the world, and if you didn't understand the reading, the pictures would

help you; they show the looks and ways of the people and what they do.

There are the Dutchmen, very fat, and smoking, you know, and one sitting

on a barrel."

"Nay, Miss, I'n no opinion o' Dutchmen. There ben't much good i' knowin'

about _them_."

"But they're our fellow-creatures, Luke; we ought to know about our

fellow-creatures."

"Not much o' fellow-creatures, I think, Miss; all I know--my old master,

as war a knowin' man, used to say, says he, 'If e'er I sow my wheat

wi'out brinin', I'm a Dutchman,' says he; an' that war as much as to say

a Dutchman war a fool, or next door.

"Nay, nay, I aren't goin' to bother mysen about Dutchmen. There's fools

enoo, an' rogues enoo, wi'out lookin' i' books for 'em."

"Oh, well," said Maggie, rather foiled by Luke's unexpectedly decided

views about Dutchmen, "perhaps you would like 'Animated Nature' better;

that's not Dutchmen, you know, but elephants and kangaroos, and the

civet cat, and the sunfish, and a bird sitting on its tail,--I forgot

its name. There are countries full of those creatures, instead of horses

and cows, you know. Shouldn't you like to know about them, Luke?"

"Nay, Miss, I'n got to keep count o' the flour an' corn; I can't do wi'

knowin' so many things beside my work. That's what brings folks to the

gallows,--knowin' everything but what they'n got to get their bread by.

An' they're mostly lies, I think, what's printed i' the books: them

printed sheets are, anyhow, as the men cry i' the streets."

"Why, you're like my brother Tom, Luke," said Maggie, wishing to turn

the conversation agreeably; "Tom's not fond of reading. I love Tom so

dearly, Luke,--better than anybody else in the world. When he grows up I

shall keep his house, and we shall always live together. I can tell him

everything he doesn't know. But I think Tom's clever, for all he doesn't

like books; he makes beautiful whipcord and rabbit pens."

"Ah," said Luke, "but he'll be fine an' vexed, as the rabbits are all

dead."

"Dead!" screamed Maggie, jumping up from her sliding seat on the corn.

"Oh dear, Luke! What! the lop-eared one, and the spotted doe that Tom

spent all his money to buy?"

"As dead as moles," said Luke, fetching his comparison from the

unmistakable corpses nailed to the stable wall.

"Oh, Luke," said Maggie in a piteous tone, "Tom told me to be sure and

remember the rabbits every day; but how could I, when they didn't come

into my head, you know? Oh, he will be so angry with me, I know he will,

and so sorry about his rabbits, and so am I sorry. Oh, what _shall_ I

do?"