pines, and festoons the naked tracery and clustering winter buds of the
maples--when the still air seems to fix every twig and branch and
clinging mass of snow in a solid medium of crystal, the spell of
stillness is broken by the silent but joyful leaps of the hurrying
squirrel. How alive he seems, in contrast with the silence of the snow,
as his outlines contrast with its perfect white! His body curves and
elongates with regular undulations, as he measures off the snow with
twin footprints. Away in the distance he is still visible among the
naked trunks, a moving patch of animated blackness. His free, regular
footprints are all about, showing where he has run hither and thither,
with no apparent purpose except to manifest his joy in life.
His red-haired cousin comes to a lofty opening in a hollow tree and
looks out with an expression of disappointment on his face. He does not
like the snow-covered landscape spread out so artistically before him.
It makes him tired, and he has not enough energy to scold an intruder,
as he would in the comfortable days of summer. No amount of coaxing or
tapping will tempt him from his lofty watch-tower, or win more
recognition than a silent look of weary discontent. Another cousin, the
chipmunk, no longer displays his daintily-striped coat. Oblivious in his
burrow, he is sleeping away the days, and waiting for a more congenial
season.
But the black squirrel, now among the branches of an elm, is twitching
from one rigid attitude to another, electrified by the crisp atmosphere
and the inspiration of the snow. Again he is leaping over the white
surface to clamber up the repellent bark of a tall hickory. Among the
larger limbs he disappears. As he never attempts to hide, he must have
retired into his own dwelling to partake of the store laid by in the
season of plenty. Hickory nuts are his favourite food, and the hard
shells seem but an appetizing relish. He knows the value of frugality,
and gathers them before they are ripe, throwing down the shrivelled and
unfilled, that the boys may not annoy him with stones and sticks. In
winter he is the happiest of all the woodland family. He does not yield
to the drowsy, numbing influence of the cold, nor to the depression of a
season of scanty fare, but bounds along from tree to tree, inspired by
the subtle spirit of winter and revelling in the joy of being alive.
S. T. WOOD
THE SQUIRREL
Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm
That age or injury has hollow'd deep,
Where, on his bed of wool and matted leaves,
He has outslept the winter, ventures forth
To frisk a while, and bask in the warm sun,
The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play.
He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird,
Ascends the neighbouring beech; there whisks his brush,
And perks his ears, and stamps and scolds aloud,
With all the prettiness of feign'd alarm,
And anger insignificantly fierce.
COWPER
SOLDIER, REST
"Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;
Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more:
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
"No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armour's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
At the daybreak from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here,
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping."
SCOTT: "The Lady of the Lake"
FISHING
One fine Thursday afternoon, Tom, having borrowed East's new rod,
started by himself to the river. He fished for some time with small
success, not a fish would rise to him; but as he prowled along the bank,
he was presently aware of mighty ones feeding in a pool on the opposite
side, under the shade of a huge willow-tree. The stream was deep here,
but some fifty yards below was a shallow, for which he made off
hot-foot; and forgetting landlords, keepers, solemn prohibitions of the
Doctor, and everything else, pulled up his trousers, plunged across, and
in three minutes was creeping along on all fours towards the clump of
willows.
It isn't often that great chub, or any other coarse fish, are in earnest
about anything; but just then they were thoroughly bent on feeding, and
in half an hour Master Tom had deposited three thumping fellows at the
foot of the giant willow. As he was baiting for a fourth pounder, and
just going to throw in again, he became aware of a man coming up the
bank not one hundred yards off. Another look told him that it was the
under-keeper. Could he reach the shallow before him? No, not carrying
his rod. Nothing for it but the tree. So Tom laid his bones to it,
shinning up as fast as he could and dragging up his rod after him. He
had just time to reach and crouch along upon a huge branch some ten feet
up, which stretched out over the river, when the keeper arrived at the
clump.
Tom's heart beat fast as he came under the tree; two steps more and he
would have passed, when, as ill-luck would have it, the gleam on the
scales of the dead fish caught his eye, and he made a dead point at the
foot of the tree. He picked up the fish one by one; his eye and touch
told him that they had been alive and feeding within the hour.
Tom crouched lower along the branch, and heard the keeper beating the
clump. "If I could only get the rod hidden," thought he, and began
gently shifting it to get it alongside of him: "willow-trees don't throw
out straight hickory shoots twelve feet long, with no leaves, worse
luck." Alas! the keeper catches the rustle, and then a sight of the rod,
and then of Tom's hand and arm.
"Oh, be up ther', be 'ee?" says he, running under the tree. "Now you
come down this minute."
"Tree'd at last," thinks Tom, making no answer, and keeping as close as
possible, but working away at the rod, which he takes to pieces. "I'm in
for it, unless I can starve him out."
And then he begins to meditate getting along the branch for a plunge,
and scramble to the other side; but the small branches are so thick,
and the opposite bank so difficult, that the keeper will have lots of
time to get round by the ford before he can get out, so he gives that
up. And now he hears the keeper beginning to scramble up the trunk. That
will never do; so he scrambles himself back to where his branch joins
the trunk, and stands with lifted rod.
"Hullo, Velveteens, mind your fingers if you come any higher."
The keeper stops and looks up, and then with a grin says: "Oh! be you,
be it, young measter? Well, here's luck. Now I tells 'ee to come down at
once, and 't'll be best for 'ee."
"Thank 'ee, Velveteens, I'm very comfortable," said Tom, shortening the
rod in his hand, and preparing for battle.
"Werry well, please yourself," says the keeper, descending, however, to
the ground again, and taking his seat on the bank. "I bean't in no
hurry, so you med take your time. I'll larn 'ee to gee honest folk names
afore I've done with 'ee."
"My luck as usual," thinks Tom; "what a fool I was to give him a black!
If I'd called him 'keeper,' now, I might get off. The return match is
all his way."
The keeper quietly proceeded to take out his pipe, fill, and light it,
keeping an eye on Tom, who now sat disconsolately across the branch,
looking at the keeper--a pitiful sight for men and fishes. The more he
thought of it the less he liked it.
"It must be getting near second calling-over," thinks he. Keeper smokes
on stolidly. "If he takes me up, I shall be flogged safe enough. I can't
sit here all night. Wonder if he'll rise at silver."
"I say, keeper," said he, meekly, "let me go for two bob?"
"Not for twenty neither," grunts his persecutor.
And so they sat on till long past second calling-over; and the sun came
slanting in through the willow-branches, and telling of locking-up near
at hand.
"I'm coming down, keeper," said Tom at last, with a sigh, fairly tired
out. "Now what are you going to do?"
"Walk 'ee up to School, and give 'ee over to the Doctor; them's my
orders," says Velveteens, knocking the ashes out of his fourth pipe, and
standing up and shaking himself.
"Very good," said Tom; "but hands off, you know. I'll go with you
quietly, so no collaring or that sort of thing."
Keeper looked at him a minute: "Werry good," said he at last. And so Tom
descended, and wended his way drearily by the side of the keeper up to
the School-house, where they arrived just at locking-up.
As they passed the School-gates, the Tadpole and several others who were
standing there caught the state of things, and rushed out, crying,
"Rescue!" but Tom shook his head, so they only followed to the Doctor's
gate, and went back sorely puzzled.
How changed and stern the Doctor seemed from the last time that Tom was
up there, as the keeper told the story, not omitting to state how Tom
had called him blackguard names. "Indeed, sir," broke in the culprit,
"it was only Velveteens." The Doctor only asked one question.
"You know the rule about the banks, Brown?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then wait for me to-morrow, after first lesson."
"I thought so," muttered Tom.
"And about the rod, sir?" went on the keeper. "Master's told we as we
might have all the rods----"
"Oh, please, sir," broke in Tom, "the rod isn't mine."
The Doctor looked puzzled, but the keeper, who was a good-hearted
fellow, and melted at Tom's evident distress, gave up his claim.
Tom was flogged next morning, and a few days afterwards met Velveteens,
and presented him with half a crown for giving up the rod claim, and
they became sworn friends; and I regret to say that Tom had many more
fish from under the willow that May-fly season, and was never caught
again by Velveteens.
HUGHES: "Tom Brown's School Days."
THE FOUNTAIN
Into the sunshine,
Full of the light,
Leaping and flashing
From morn till night!
Into the moonlight,
Whiter than snow,
Waving so flower-like
When the winds blow!
Into the starlight,
Rushing in spray,
Happy at midnight,
Happy by day;
Ever in motion,
Blithesome and cheery,
Still climbing heavenward
Never aweary;--
Glad of all weathers;
Still seeming best,
Upward or downward,
Motion thy rest;--
Full of a nature
Nothing can tame,
Changed every moment,
Ever the same;--
Ceaseless aspiring,
Ceaseless content,
Darkness or sunshine
Thy element;--
Glorious fountain!
Let my heart be
Fresh, changeful, constant,
Upward, like thee!
LOWELL
BREAK, BREAK, BREAK
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
TENNYSON
Try to frequent the company of your betters. In books and life, that is
the most wholesome society; learn to admire rightly; the great pleasure
of life is that. Note what great men admired: they admired great things;
narrow spirits admire basely and worship meanly.
THACKERAY
THE BED OF PROCRUSTES
A very tall and strong man, dressed in rich garments, came down to meet
Theseus. On his arms were golden bracelets, and round his neck a collar
of jewels; and he came forward, bowing courteously, and held out both
his hands, and spoke:
"Welcome, fair youth, to these mountains; happy am I to have met you!
For what greater pleasure to a good man than to entertain strangers? But
I see that you are weary. Come up to my castle, and rest yourself
awhile."
"I give you thanks," said Theseus; "but I am in haste to go up the
valley."
"Alas! you have wandered far from the right way, and you cannot reach
your journey's end to-night, for there are many miles of mountain
between you and it, and steep passes, and cliffs dangerous after
nightfall. It is well for you that I met you, for my whole joy is to
find strangers, and to feast them at my castle, and hear tales from them
of foreign lands. Come up with me, and eat the best of venison, and
drink the rich red wine, and sleep upon my famous bed, of which all
travellers say that they never saw the like. For whatsoever the
stature of my guest, however tall or short, that bed fits him to a hair,
and he sleeps on it as he never slept before." And he laid hold on
Theseus' hands, and would not let him go.
[Illustration: NIAGARA FALLS]
Theseus wished to go forwards: but he was ashamed to seem churlish to so
hospitable a man; and he was curious to see that wondrous bed; and
beside, he was hungry and weary: yet he shrank from the man, he knew not
why; for, though his voice was gentle, it was dry and husky like a
toad's; and though his eyes were gentle, they were dull and cold like
stones. But he consented, and went with the man up a glen which led from
the road, under the dark shadow of the cliffs.
And as they went up, the glen grew narrower, and the cliffs higher and
darker, and beneath them a torrent roared, half seen between bare
limestone crags. And around them was neither tree nor bush, while the
snow-blasts swept down the glen, cutting and chilling, till a horror
fell on Theseus as he looked round at that doleful place. And he said at
last: "Your castle stands, it seems, in a dreary region."
"Yes; but once within it, hospitality makes all things cheerful. But who
are these?" and he looked back, and Theseus also; and far below, along
the road which they had left, came a string of laden asses, and
merchants walking by them, watching their ware.
"Ah, poor souls!" said the stranger. "Well for them that I looked back
and saw them! And well for me, too, for I shall have the more guests at
my feast. Wait awhile till I go down and call them, and we will eat and
drink together the livelong night. Happy am I, to whom Heaven sends so
many guests at once!"
And he ran back down the hill, waving his hand and shouting to the
merchants, while Theseus went slowly up the steep pass.
But as he went up he met an aged man, who had been gathering driftwood
in the torrent-bed. He had laid down his faggot in the road, and was
trying to lift it again to his shoulder. And when he saw Theseus, he
called to him and said:
"O fair youth, help me up with my burden, for my limbs are stiff and
weak with years."
Then Theseus lifted the burden on his back. And the old man blessed him,
and then looked earnestly upon him, and said:
"Who are you, fair youth, and wherefore travel you this doleful road?"
"Who I am my parents know; but I travel this doleful road because I have
been invited by a hospitable man, who promises to feast me and to make
me sleep upon I know not what wondrous bed."
Then the old man clapped his hands together and cried:
"Know, fair youth, that you are going to torment and to death, for he
who met you (I will requite your kindness by another) is a robber and a
murderer of men. Whatsoever stranger he meets he entices him hither to
death; and as for this bed of which he speaks, truly it fits all comers,
yet none ever rose alive off it save me."
"Why?" asked Theseus, astonished.
"Because, if a man be too tall for it, he lops his limbs till they be
short enough, and if he be too short, he stretches his limbs till they
be long enough; but me only he spared, seven weary years agone; for I
alone of all fitted his bed exactly, so he spared me, and made me his
slave. And once I was a wealthy merchant, and dwelt in a great city; but
now I hew wood and draw water for him, the torment of all mortal men."
Then Theseus said nothing; but he ground his teeth together.
"Escape, then," said the old man, "for he will have no pity on thy
youth. But yesterday he brought up hither a young man and a maiden, and
fitted them upon his bed; and the young man's hands and feet he cut off,
but the maiden's limbs he stretched until she died, and so both perished
miserably--but I am tired of weeping over the slain. And therefore he is
called Procrustes, the stretcher. Flee from him: yet whither will you
flee? The cliffs are steep, and who can climb them? and there is no
other road."
But Theseus laid his hand upon the old man's mouth, and said: "There is
no need to flee;" and he turned to go down the pass.
"Do not tell him that I have warned you, or he will kill me by some evil
death;" and the old man screamed after him down the glen; but Theseus
strode on in his wrath.
And he said to himself: "This is an ill-ruled land; when shall I have
done ridding it of monsters?" And, as he spoke, Procrustes came up the
hill, and all the merchants with him, smiling and talking gaily. And
when he saw Theseus, he cried: "Ah, fair young guest, have I kept you
too long waiting?"
But Theseus answered: "The man who stretches his guests upon a bed and
hews off their hands and feet, what shall be done to him, when right is
done throughout the land?"
Then Procrustes' countenance changed, and his cheeks grew as green as a
lizard, and he felt for his sword in haste; but Theseus leaped on him,
and cried:
"Is this true, my host, or is it false?" and he clasped Procrustes round
waist and elbow, so that he could not draw his sword.
"Is this true, my host, or is it false!" But Procrustes answered never a
word.
Then Theseus flung him from him, and lifted up his dreadful club; and
before Procrustes could strike him, he had struck and felled him to the
ground.
And once again he struck him; and his evil soul fled forth, squeaking
like a bat into the darkness of a cave.
Then Theseus stripped him of his gold ornaments, and went up to his
house, and found there great wealth and treasure, which he had stolen
from the passers-by. And he called the people of the country, whom
Procrustes had spoiled a long time, and divided the spoil among them,
and went down the mountains, and away.
KINGSLEY: "The Heroes."
(Adapted)
"BOB WHITE"
I see you, on the zigzag rails,
You cheery little fellow!
While purple leaves are whirling down,
And scarlet, brown, and yellow.
I hear you when the air is full
Of snow-down of the thistle;
All in your speckled jacket trim,
"Bob White! Bob White!" you whistle.
Tall amber sheaves, in rustling rows,
Are nodding there to greet you;
I know that you are out for play--
How I should like to meet you!
Though blithe of voice, so shy you are,
In this delightful weather;
What splendid playmates, you and I,
"Bob White," would make together!
There, you are gone! but far away
I hear your whistle falling.
Ah! maybe it is hide-and-seek,
And that's why you are calling.
Along those hazy uplands wide
We'd be such merry rangers;
What! silent now, and hidden too!
"Bob White," don't let's be strangers.
Perhaps you teach your brood the game,
In yonder rainbowed thicket,
While winds are playing with the leaves,
And softly creeks the cricket.
"Bob White! Bob White!"--again I hear
That blithely whistled chorus;
Why should we not companions be?
One Father watches o'er us!
GEORGE COOPER
RADISSON AND THE INDIANS
The tribe being assembled and having spread out their customary gifts,
consisting of beaver tails, smoked moose tongues and pemmican, one of
the leading braves arose and said:
"Men who pretend to give us life, do you wish us to die! You know what
beaver is worth and the trouble we have to take it. You call yourselves
our brothers, and yet will not give us what those give who make no such
profession. Accept our gifts, and let us barter, or we will visit you
no more. We have but to travel a hundred leagues and we will encounter
the English, whose offers we have heard."
On the conclusion of this harangue, silence reigned for some moments.
All eyes were turned on the two white traders. Feeling that now or never
was the time to exhibit firmness, Radisson, without rising to his feet,
addressed the whole assemblage in haughty accents.
"Whom dost thou wish I should answer? I have heard a dog bark; when a
man shall speak, he will see I know how to defend my conduct and my
terms. We love our brothers and we deserve their love in return. For
have we not saved them all from the treachery of the English?"
Uttering these words fearlessly, he leaped to his feet and drew a long
hunting-knife from his belt. Seizing by the scalp-lock the chief of the
tribe, who had already adopted him as his son, he asked: "Who art thou?"
To which the chief responded, as was customary: "Thy father."
"Then," cried Radisson, "if that is so, and thou art my father, speak
for me. Thou art the master of my goods; but as for that dog who has
spoken, what is he doing in this company? Let him go to his brothers,
the English, at the head of the Bay. Or he need not travel so far. He
may, if he chooses, see them starving and helpless on yonder island;
answering to my words of command.
"I know how to speak to my Indian father," continued Radisson, "of the
perils of the woods, of the abandonment of his squaws and children, of
the risks of hunger and the peril of death by foes. All these you avoid
by trading with us here. But although I am mightily angry, I will take
pity on this wretch and let him still live. Go," addressing the brave
with his weapon outstretched, "take this as my gift to you, and depart.
When you meet your brothers, the English, tell them my name, and add
that we are soon coming to treat them and their factory yonder as we
have treated this one."
The speaker knew enough of the Indian character, especially in affairs
of trade, to be aware that a point once yielded them is never recovered.
And it is but just to say that the terms he then made of three axes for
a beaver were thereafter adopted, and that his firmness saved the
Company many a cargo of these implements. His harangue produced an
immediate impression upon all save the humiliated brave, who declared
that, if the Assiniboines came hither to barter, he would lie in ambush
and kill them.
The French trader's reply to this was, to the Indian mind, a terrible
one.
"I will myself travel into thy country," said he, "and eat sagamite in
thy grandmother's skull."
While the brave and his small circle of friends were livid with fear and
anger, Radisson ordered three fathoms of tobacco to be distributed;
observing, contemptuously, to the hostile minority that, as for them,
they might go and smoke women's tobacco in the country of the lynxes.
The barter began and, when at nightfall the Indians departed, not a skin
was left amongst them.
BECKLES WILLSON: "The Great Company."
THE BROOK
I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.
I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling,
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;
And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
TENNYSON
As good almost kill a man as kill a good book. Many a man lives a burden
to the earth, but a good book is the precious life blood of a
master-spirit.
MILTON
"DO SEEK THEIR MEAT FROM GOD"
There was a solitary cabin in the thick of the woods a mile or more from
the nearest neighbour, a substantial frame house in the midst of a large
and well-tilled clearing. The owner of the cabin, a shiftless fellow who
spent his days for the most part at the corner tavern three miles
distant, had suddenly grown disgusted with a land wherein one must work
to live, and had betaken himself with his seven-year-old boy to seek
some more indolent clime.