"What's your business?" snarled Hans.
"I'm a poor, old man, sir," the little gentleman began very modestly,
"and I saw your fire through the window, and begged shelter for a
quarter of an hour."
"Have the goodness to walk out again, then," said Schwartz. "We've quite
enough water in our kitchen, without making it a drying-house."
"It is a cold day to turn an old man out in, sir; look at my gray
hairs." They hung down to his shoulders.
"Ay!" said Hans, "there are enough of them to keep you warm. Walk!"
"I'm very, very hungry, sir; couldn't you spare me a bit of bread before
I go?"
"Bread, indeed!" said Schwartz; "do you suppose we've nothing to do with
our bread but to give it to such red-nosed fellows as you?"
"Why don't you sell your feather?" said Hans, sneeringly. "Out with
you!"
"A little bit," said the old gentleman.
"Be off!" said Schwartz.
"Pray, gentlemen--"
"Off, and be hanged!" cried Hans, seizing him by the collar. But he had
no sooner touched the old gentleman's collar, than away he went after
the rolling-pin, spinning round and round, till he fell into the corner
on the top of it. Then Schwartz was very angry, and ran at the old
gentleman to turn him out; but he also had hardly touched him, when away
he went after Hans and the rolling-pin, and hit his head against the
wall as he tumbled into the corner. And so there they lay, all three.
Then the old gentleman spun himself round with velocity in the opposite
direction; continued to spin until his long cloak was all wound neatly
about him; clapped his cap on his head, very much on one side (for it
could not stand upright without going through the ceiling), gave an
additional twist to his corkscrew moustaches, and replied with perfect
coolness: "Gentlemen, I wish you a very good-morning. At twelve o'clock
to-night I'll call again; after such a refusal of hospitality as I have
just experienced, you will not be surprised if that visit is the last I
ever pay you."
"If I ever catch you here again," muttered Schwartz, coming,
half-frightened, out of the corner--but before he could finish his
sentence, the old gentleman had shut the house door behind him with a
great bang; and past the window, at the same instant, drove a wreath of
ragged cloud, that whirled and rolled away down the valley in all manner
of shapes; turning over and over in the air, and melting away at last in
a gush of rain.
"A very pretty business, indeed, Mr. Gluck!" said Schwartz. "Dish the
mutton, sir. If ever I catch you at such a trick again--bless me, why
the mutton's been cut!"
"You promised me one slice, brother, you know," said Gluck.
"Oh! and you were cutting it hot, I suppose, and going to catch all the
gravy. It'll be long before I promise you such a thing again. Leave the
room, sir; and have the kindness to wait in the coal-cellar till I call
you."
Gluck left the room melancholy enough. The brothers ate as much mutton
as they could, locked the rest in the cupboard, and proceeded to get
very drunk after dinner.
Such a night as it was! Howling wind and rushing rain, without
intermission.
The brothers had just sense enough left to put up all the shutters, and
double-bar the door, before they went to bed. They usually slept in the
same room. As the clock struck twelve, they were both awakened by a
tremendous crash. Their door burst open with a violence that shook the
house from top to bottom.
"What's that?" cried Schwartz, starting up in his bed.
"Only I," said the little gentleman.
The two brothers sat up on their bolster, and stared into the darkness.
The room was full of water, and by a misty moonbeam, which found its way
through a hole in the shutter, they could see, in the midst of it, an
enormous foam globe, spinning round, and bobbing up and down like a
cork, on which, as on a most luxurious cushion, reclined the little old
gentleman, cap and all. There was plenty of room for it now, for the
roof was off.
"Sorry to incommode you," said their visitor, ironically. "I'm afraid
your beds are dampish; perhaps you had better go to your brother's room;
I've left the ceiling on there."
They required no second admonition, but rushed into Gluck's room, wet
through, and in an agony of terror.
"You'll find my card on the kitchen table," the old gentleman called
after them. "Remember, the _last_ visit."
"Pray Heaven it may be!" said Schwartz, shuddering. And the foam globe
disappeared.
Dawn came at last, and the two brothers looked out of Gluck's little
window in the morning. The Treasure Valley was one mass of ruin and
desolation. The inundation had swept away trees, crops, and cattle, and
left, in their stead, a waste of red sand and gray mud. The two brothers
crept, shivering and horror-struck, into the kitchen. The water had
gutted the whole first floor: corn, money, almost every movable thing
had been swept away, and there was left only a small white card on the
kitchen table. On it, in large, breezy, long-legged letters, were
engraved the words:--
SOUTH-WEST WIND, ESQUIRE.
RUSKIN: "The King of the Golden River."
(Adapted)
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
SHAKESPEARE
THE MEETING OF THE WATERS
There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
Yet it _was_ not that Nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'Twas _not_ her soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh! no,--it was something more exquisite still.
'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of Nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.
MOORE
LOVE
Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you. Bless them that curse
you, and pray for them which despitefully use you. And as ye would that
men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise. For if ye love them
which love you, what thank have ye? for sinners also love those that
love them. And if ye do good to them which do good to you, what thank
have ye? for sinners also do even the same. And if ye lend to them of
whom ye hope to receive, what thank have ye? for sinners also lend to
sinners, to receive as much again. But love ye your enemies, and do
good, and lend, hoping for nothing again; and your reward shall be
great, and ye shall be the children of the Highest: for he is kind unto
the unthankful and to the evil. Be ye therefore merciful, as your
Father also is merciful. Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn
not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.
Give, and it shall be given unto you; good measure, pressed down, and
shaken together, and running over, shall men give into your bosom. For
with the same measure that ye mete withal it shall be measured to you
again.
ST. LUKE, VI. 27-38
THE ROBIN'S SONG
"When the willows gleam along the brooks,
And the grass grows green in sunny nooks,
In the sunshine and the rain
I hear the robin in the lane
Singing, 'Cheerily,
Cheer up, cheer up;
Cheerily, cheerily,
Cheer up.'
"But the snow is still
Along the walls and on the hill.
The days are cold, the nights forlorn,
For one is here and one is gone.
'Tut, tut. Cheerily,
Cheer up, cheer up;
Cheerily, cheerily,
Cheer up.'
"When spring hopes seem to wane,
I hear the joyful strain--
A song at night, a song at morn,
A lesson deep to me is borne,
Hearing, 'Cheerily,
Cheer up, cheer up;
Cheerily, cheerily,
Cheer up.'"
UNKNOWN
WORK OR PLAY
Saturday morning was come, and all the summer world was bright and fresh
and brimming with life. There was a song in every heart; and if the
heart was young the music issued at the lips. There was cheer in every
face, and a spring in every step. The locust trees were in bloom, and
the fragrance of the blossoms filled the air.
Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a
long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and the gladness went out of
nature, and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards
of board fence nine feet high! It seemed to him that life was hollow,
and existence but a burden. Sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it
along the topmost plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared
the insignificant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of
unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged.
He began to think of the fun he had planned for this day, and his
sorrows multiplied. Soon the free boys would come tripping along on all
sorts of delicious expeditions, and they would make a world of fun of
him for having to work--the very thought of it burnt him like fire.
He got out his worldly wealth and examined it--bits of toys, marbles and
trash; enough to buy an exchange of work maybe, but not enough to buy so
much as half an hour of pure freedom. So he returned his straitened
means to his pocket, and gave up the idea of trying to buy the boys.
At this dark and hopeless moment an inspiration burst upon him. Nothing
less than a great, magnificent inspiration. He took up his brush and
went tranquilly to work. Ben Rogers hove in sight presently; the very
boy of all boys whose ridicule he had been dreading. Ben's gait was the
hop, skip, and jump--proof enough that his heart was light and his
anticipations high. He was eating an apple, and giving a long melodious
whoop at intervals, followed by a deep-toned ding dong dong, ding dong
dong, for he was personating a steamboat.
Tom went on whitewashing--paid no attention to the steamer. Ben stared a
moment, and then said--
"Hi-yi! You're a stump, ain't you!"
No answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist; then
he gave his brush another gentle sweep, and surveyed the result as
before. Ben ranged up alongside of him. Tom's mouth watered for the
apple, but he stuck to his work. Ben said--
"Hello, old chap; you got to work, hey?"
"Why, it's you, Ben! I warn't noticing."
"Say, I'm going in a-swimming, I am. Don't you wish you could? But of
course you'd druther work, wouldn't you? 'Course you would!"
Tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said--
"What do you call work?"
"Why ain't that work?"
Tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered carelessly--
"Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know is, it suits Tom
Sawyer."
"Oh, come now, you don't mean to let on that you like it?"
The brush continued to move.
"Like it? Well, I don't see why I oughtn't to like it. Does a boy get a
chance to whitewash a fence every day?"
That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nibbling his apple. Tom
swept his brush daintily back and forth--stepped back to note the
effect--added a touch here and there--criticised the effect again, Ben
watching every move, and getting more and more interested, more and more
absorbed. Presently he said--
"Say, Tom, let me whitewash a little."
Tom considered; was about to consent; but he altered his mind: "No, no;
I reckon it wouldn't hardly do, Ben. You see, Aunt Polly's awful
particular about this fence--right here on the street, you know--but if
it was the back fence I wouldn't mind, and she wouldn't. Yes, she's
awful particular about this fence; it's got to be done very careful; I
reckon there ain't one boy in a thousand, maybe two thousand, that can
do it the way it's got to be done."
"No--is that so? Oh, come now; lemme just try, only just a little. I'd
let you, if you was me, Tom."
"Ben, I'd like to, honest injun; but Aunt Polly--well, Jim wanted to do
it, but she wouldn't let him. Sid wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let
Sid. Now, don't you see how I am fixed? If you was to tackle this fence,
and anything was to happen to it--"
"Oh, shucks; I'll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say--I'll give you
the core of my apple."
"Well, here. No, Ben; now don't; I'm afeard--"
"I'll give you all of it!"
Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity in his
heart. And while Ben worked and sweated in the sun, the retired artist
sat on a barrel in the shade close by, dangled his legs, munched his
apple, and planned the slaughter of more innocents. There was no lack of
material; boys happened along every little while; they came to jeer, but
remained to whitewash.
By the time Ben was fagged out, Tom had traded the next chance to Billy
Fisher for a kite in good repair; and when he played out, Johnny Miller
bought in for a dead rat and a string to swing it with; and so on, and
so on, hour after hour. And when the middle of the afternoon came, from
being a poor, poverty-stricken boy in the morning, Tom was literally
rolling in wealth.
He had, besides the things I have mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a
jew's harp, a piece of blue bottle-glass to look through, a
spool-cannon, a key that wouldn't unlock anything, a fragment of chalk,
a glass stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six
fire-crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass door-knob, a
dog-collar--but no dog--the handle of a knife, four pieces of
orange-peel, and a dilapidated old window-sash. He had had a nice, good,
idle time all the while--plenty of company--and the fence had three
coats of whitewash on it! If he hadn't run out of whitewash, he would
have bankrupted every boy in the village.
Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world after all. He
had discovered a great law of human action, without knowing it, namely,
that, in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only
necessary to make the thing difficult to attain. If he had been a great
and wise philosopher, he would have comprehended that Work consists of
whatever a body is _obliged_ to do, and that Play consists of whatever a
body is _not_ obliged to do.
MARK TWAIN: "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer."
BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moon-beam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin inclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow.
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,--
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.
C. WOLFE
THE WHISTLE
When I was a boy of seven years old, my friends, on a holiday, filled my
pocket with coppers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys for
children, and being charmed with the sound of a whistle, that I met by
the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered and gave all
my money for one. I then came home, and went whistling all over the
house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My
brothers, and sisters, and cousins, understanding the bargain I had
made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth; put
me in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest of the
money; and laughed at me so much for my folly, that I cried with
vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave
me pleasure.
This, however, was afterwards of use to me, the impression continuing in
my mind; so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary
thing, I said to myself: "Don't give too much for the whistle;" and I
saved my money.
As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions of men, I
thought I met with many, very many, who gave too much for the whistle.
When I saw any one fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in
politics, neglecting his own affairs and ruining them by that neglect,
"He pays, indeed," said I, "too much for his whistle."
If I saw one fond of fine clothes, fine furniture, fine horses, all
above his fortune, for which he contracted debts and ended his career in
poverty, "Alas!" said I, "he has paid dear, very dear, for his whistle."
In short, I believed that a great part of the miseries of mankind were
brought upon them by the false estimates they had made of the value of
things, and by their giving too much for their whistles.
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
A CANADIAN BOAT SONG
Faintly as tolls the evening chime
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.
Why should we yet our sail unfurl?
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl;
But, when the wind blows off the shore,
Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.
Utawas' tide! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers,
Oh, grant us cool heavens and favouring airs.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.
MOORE
THE LITTLE HERO OF HAARLEM
At an early period in the history of Holland, a boy was born in Haarlem,
a town remarkable for its variety of fortune in war, but happily still
more so for its manufactures and inventions in peace.
His father was a sluicer--that is, one whose employment it was to open
and shut the sluices or large oak gates which, placed at certain regular
distances, close the entrances of the canals, and secure Holland from
the danger to which it seems exposed, of finding itself under water,
rather than above it. When water is wanted, the sluicer raises the
sluices more or less, as required, as the cook turns the cock of a
fountain, and closes them again carefully at night; otherwise the water
would flow into the canals, then overflow them, and inundate the whole
country; so that even the little children in Holland are fully aware of
the importance of a punctual discharge of the sluicer's duties.
The boy was about eight years old when, one day, he asked permission to
take some cakes to a poor blind man, who lived at the other side of the
dike. His father gave him leave, but charged him not to stay too late.
The child promised, and set off on his little journey. The blind man
thankfully partook of his young friend's cakes, and the boy, mindful of
his father's orders, did not wait, as usual, to hear one of the old
man's stories, but as soon as he had seen him eat one muffin, took leave
of him to return home.
As he went along by the canals, then quite full, for it was in October,
and the autumn rains had swelled the waters,--the boy now stooped to
pull the little blue flowers which his mother loved so well, now, in
childish gaiety, hummed some merry song. The road gradually became more
solitary, and soon neither the joyous shout of the villager returning to
his cottage home, nor the rough voice of the carter grumbling at his
lazy horses, was any longer to be heard. The little fellow now perceived
that the blue of the flowers in his hands was scarcely distinguishable
from the green of the surrounding herbage, and he looked up in some
dismay. The night was falling; not, however, a dark, winter night, but
one of those beautiful, clear, moonlight nights, in which every object
is perceptible, though not as distinctly as by day.
The child thought of his father, of his injunction, and was preparing to
quit the ravine in which he was almost buried, and to regain the beach,
when suddenly a slight noise, like the trickling of water upon pebbles,
attracted his attention. He was near one of the large sluices, and he
now carefully examined it, and soon discovered a hole in the wood,
through which the water was flowing. With the instant perception which
every child in Holland would have, the boy saw that the water must soon
enlarge the hole through which it was now only dropping, and that utter
and general ruin would be the consequence of the inundation of the
country that must follow. To see, to throw away the flowers, to climb
from stone to stone till he reached the hole, and to put his finger into
it, was the work of a moment, and to his delight he found that he had
succeeded in stopping the flow of the water.
This was all very well for a little while, and the child thought only of
the success of his device. But the night was closing in, and with the
night came the cold. The little boy looked around in vain. No one came.
He shouted--he called loudly--no one answered. He resolved to stay there
all night, but alas! the cold was becoming every moment more biting, and
the poor finger fixed in the hole began to feel benumbed, and the
numbness soon extended to the hand, and thence throughout the whole arm.
The pain became still greater, still harder to bear, but yet the boy
moved not. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he thought of his father, of
his mother, of his little bed, where he might now be sleeping so
soundly; but still the little fellow stirred not, for he knew that did
he remove the small slender finger which he had opposed to the escape of
the water, not only would he himself be drowned, but his father, his
brothers, his neighbours--nay, the whole village.
We know not what faltering of purpose, what momentary failures of
courage there might have been during that long and terrible night; but
certain it is, that at daybreak he was found in the same painful
position by a clergyman returning from attendance on a deathbed, who, as
he advanced, thought he heard groans, and bending over the dike,
discovered a child seated on a stone, writhing from pain, and with pale
face and tearful eyes.
"In the name of wonder, boy," he exclaimed, "what are you doing there?"
"I am hindering the water from running out," was the answer, in perfect
simplicity, of the child, who, during that whole night, had been
evincing such heroic fortitude and undaunted courage.
The Muse of History has handed down to posterity many a warrior, the
destroyer of thousands of his fellow-men--but she has left us in
ignorance of the name of this real little hero of Haarlem.
SHARPE'S LONDON MAGAZINE
Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know,
Are a substantial world, both pure and good.
WORDSWORTH
FATHER WILLIAM
"Repeat 'You are old, Father William,'" said the Caterpillar.
Alice folded her hands, and began:--
"You are old, Father William," the young man said,
"And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head--
Do you think, at your age, it is right?"
"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,
"I feared it might injure the brain;
But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again."
"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door--
Pray, what is the reason of that?"
"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,
"I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box--
Allow me to sell you a couple."
"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak.
Pray, how did you manage to do it?"
"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life."