Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays,
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Burns
DAVID COPPERFIELD'S FIRST JOURNEY ALONE
I slept soundly until we got to Yarmouth and drove to the inn yard. A
lady looked out of a bow-window where some fowls and joints of meat were
hanging up, and said:
"Is that the little gentleman from Blunder-stone?"
"Yes, ma'am," I said.
The lady then rang a bell and called out: "William! show the
coffee-room!" upon which a waiter came running out of a kitchen on the
opposite side of the yard to show it, and seemed a good deal surprised
when he found he was only to show it to me.
It was a large, long room with some large maps in it. I doubt if I could
have felt much stranger if the maps had been real foreign countries, and
I cast away in the middle of them. I felt it was taking a liberty to sit
down, with my cap in my hand, on the corner of the chair nearest the
door; and when the waiter laid a cloth on purpose for me, and put a set
of casters on it, I think I must have turned red all over with modesty.
He brought me some chops, and vegetables, and took the covers off in
such a bouncing manner that I was afraid I must have given him some
offence. But he greatly relieved my mind by putting a chair for me at
the table, and saying, very affably: "Now, six-foot! come on!"
I thanked him, and took my seat at the board; but found it extremely
difficult to handle my knife and fork with anything like dexterity, or
to avoid splashing myself with the gravy, while he was standing
opposite, staring so hard, and making me blush in the most dreadful
manner every time I caught his eye. After watching me into the second
chop, he said:
"There's half a pint of ale for you. Will you have it now?"
I thanked him and said "Yes." Upon which he poured it out of a jug into
a large tumbler, and held it up against the light, and made it look
beautiful.
"My eye!" he said. "It seems a good deal, don't it?"
"It does seem a good deal," I answered with a smile. For it was quite
delightful to me to find him so pleasant. He was a twinkling-eyed,
pimple-faced man, with his hair standing upright all over his head; and
as he stood with one arm a-kimbo, holding up the glass to the light with
the other hand, he looked quite friendly.
"There was a gentleman here, yesterday," he said--"a stout gentleman, by
the name of Topsawyer--perhaps you know him."
"No," I said, "I don't think--"
"In breeches and gaiters, broad-brimmed hat, gray coat, speckled
choker," said the waiter.
"No," I said, bashfully, "I haven't the pleasure--"
"He came in here," said the waiter, looking at the light through the
tumbler, "ordered a glass of this ale--_would_ order it--I told him
not--drank it, and fell dead. It was too old for him. It oughtn't to be
drawn; that's the fact."
I was very much shocked to hear of this melancholy accident, and said I
thought I had better have some water.
"Why, you see," said the waiter, still looking at the light through the
tumbler, with one of his eyes shut up, "our people don't like things
being ordered and left. It offends 'em. But _I'll_ drink it, if you
like. I'm used to it, and use is everything. I don't think it'll hurt
me, if I throw my head back, and take it off quick. Shall I?"
I replied that he would much oblige me by drinking it, if he thought he
could do it safely, but by no means otherwise. When he did throw his
head back and take it off quick, I had a horrible fear, I confess, of
seeing him meet the fate of the lamented Mr. Topsawyer, and fall
lifeless on the carpet. But it didn't hurt him. On the contrary, I
thought he seemed the fresher for it.
"What have we got here?" he said, putting a fork into my dish. "Not
chops?"
"Chops," I said.
"Bless my soul!" he exclaimed, "I didn't know they were chops. Why, a
chop's the very thing to take off the bad effects of that beer! Ain't it
lucky?"
So he took a chop by the bone in one hand, and a potato in the other,
and ate away with a very good appetite, to my extreme satisfaction. He
afterwards took another chop, and another potato; and after that another
chop, and another potato. When he had done, he brought me a pudding, and
having set it before me, seemed to ruminate, and to become absent in his
mind for some moments.
"How's the pie?" he said, rousing himself.
"It's a pudding," I made answer.
"Pudding!" he exclaimed. "Why, bless me, so it is! What!" looking at it
nearer. "You don't mean to say it's a batter-pudding?"
"Yes, it is indeed."
"Why, a batter-pudding," he said, taking up a table-spoon, "it's my
favourite pudding! Ain't that lucky? Come on, little 'un, and let's see
who'll get most."
The waiter certainly got most. He entreated me more than once to come in
and win, but what with his table-spoon to my tea-spoon, his despatch to
my despatch, and his appetite to my appetite, I was left far behind at
the first mouthful, and had no chance with him. I never saw any one
enjoy a pudding so much, I think; and he laughed, when it was all gone,
as if his enjoyment of it lasted still.
Finding him so very friendly and companionable, it was then that I asked
for the pen and ink and paper, to write to Peggoty. He not only brought
it immediately, but was good enough to look over me while I wrote the
letter. When I had finished it, he asked me where I was going to school.
I said: "Near London," which was all I knew.
"Oh! my eye!" he said, looking very low-spirited, "I am sorry for that."
"Why?" I asked him.
"Oh!" he said, shaking his head, "that's the school where they broke the
boy's ribs--two ribs--a little boy he was. I should say he was--let me
see--how old are you, about?"
I told him between eight and nine.
"That's just his age," he said. "He was eight years and six months old
when they broke his first rib; eight years and eight months old when
they broke his second, and did for him."
I could not disguise from myself, or from the waiter, that this was an
uncomfortable coincidence, and inquired how it was done. His answer was
not cheering to my spirits, for it consisted of two dismal words, "With
whopping."
The blowing of the coach-horn in the yard was a seasonable diversion,
which made me get up and hesitatingly inquire, in the mingled pride and
diffidence of having a purse (which I took out of my pocket), if there
were anything to pay.
"There's a sheet of letter-paper," he returned. "Did you ever buy a
sheet of letter-paper?"
I could not remember that I ever had.
"It's dear," he said, "on account of the duty. Threepence. That's the
way we're taxed in this country. There's nothing else, except the
waiter. Never mind the ink! _I_ lose by that."
"What should you--what should I--how much ought I to--what would it be
right to pay the waiter, if you please?" I stammered, blushing.
"If I hadn't a family, and that family hadn't the cowpock," said the
waiter, "I wouldn't take a sixpence. If I didn't support a aged pairint,
and a lovely sister,"--here the waiter was greatly agitated--"I wouldn't
take a farthing. If I had a good place, and was treated well here, I
should beg acceptance of a trifle, instead of taking of it. But I live
on broken wittles--and I sleep on the coals"--here the waiter burst into
tears.
I was very much concerned for his misfortunes, and felt that any
recognition short of ninepence would be mere brutality and hardness of
heart, Therefore I gave him one of my three bright shillings, which he
received with much humility and veneration, and spun up with his thumb,
directly afterwards, to try the goodness of.
It was a little disconcerting to me, to find, when I was being helped up
behind the coach, that I was supposed to have eaten all the dinner
without any assistance. I discovered this, from overhearing the lady in
the bow-window say to the guard: "Take care of that child, George, or
he'll burst!" and from observing that the women-servants who were about
the place came out to look and giggle at me as a young phenomenon. My
unfortunate friend, the waiter, who had quite recovered his spirits, did
not appear to be disturbed by this, but joined in the general admiration
without being at all confused. If I had any doubt of him, I suppose this
half-awakened it; but I am inclined to believe that, with the simple
confidence and natural reliance of a child upon superior years
(qualities I am very sorry any children should prematurely change for
worldly wisdom), I had no serious mistrust of him on the whole, even
then.
Dickens: "David Copperfield."
THE BAREFOOT BOY
Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy,--
I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art,--the grown-up man
Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye,--
Outward sunshine, inward joy;
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood's painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor's rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee's morning chase,
Of the wild-flower's time and place,
Flight of fowl and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground-mole sinks his well;
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole's nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;
Of the black wasp's cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!--
For, eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy,--
Blessings on the barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood's time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall,
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides!
Still, as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches, too;
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!
Oh for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowl of milk and bread;--
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O'er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play
Of the pied frogs' orchestra;
And, to light the noisy choir,
Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch: pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy!
Cheerily, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat;
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt's for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,
Up and down in ceaseless moil;
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in
Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
Whittier
[Illustration: PARLIAMENT BUILDINGS. OTTAWA]
COUNTRY LIFE IN CANADA IN THE "THIRTIES"
Country life in Western Canada in the "Thirties" was very simple and
uneventful. There were no lines of social division such as now exist.
All alike had to toil to win and maintain a home; and if, as was
natural, some were more successful in the rough battle of pioneer life
than others, they did not feel, on that account, disposed to treat their
neighbours as their inferiors. Neighbours, they well knew, were too few
and too desirable to be coldly and haughtily treated. Had not all the
members of each community hewn their way side by side into the
fastnesses of the Canadian bush? And what could a little additional
wealth do for them, when the remoteness of the centres which might
supply luxuries, enforced simplicity and made superfluities almost
impossible?
The furnishings of their houses were plain, and the chief articles of
dress, if substantial and comfortable, were of coarse homespun--the
product of their own labour. The sources of amusement were limited. The
day of the harmonium or piano had not come. Music, except in its
simplest vocal form, was not cultivated; only the occasional presence of
some fiddler afforded rare seasons of merriment to the delight both of
old and young.
The motto of "Early to bed and early to rise" was, even in winter, the
strict rule of family life. In the morning all were up, and breakfast
was over usually before seven. As soon as the gray light of dawn
appeared, men and boys were off to the barns, not merely to feed the
cattle but to engage in the needful and tedious labour of threshing by
hand. In the evenings, the family gathered together for lighter tasks
and pleasant talk around a glowing fire. In firewood, at least, there
was, in those days, no need for economy.
We scarcely realize how largely little things may contribute to
convenience and comfort. There were no lucifer matches at that date. It
was needful to cover up carefully the live coals on the hearth before
going to bed, so that there might be the means of starting the fire in
the morning. This precaution was rarely unsuccessful; but sometimes a
member of the family had to set out for a supply of fire from a
neighbour's, in order that breakfast might be prepared. I remember well
having to crawl out of my warm nest and run through the keen frosty air
for half a mile or more, to fetch live coals from a neighbour's. It was,
however, my father's practice to keep bundles of finely split pine
sticks tipped with brimstone. With the aid of these, the merest spark
served to start the fire.
In the spring, tasks of various kinds crowded rapidly upon us. The hams
and beef that had been salted down in casks during the preceding autumn
were taken out of the brine, washed off, and hung in the smoke-house. On
the earthen floor beech or maple was burned; the oily smoke, given off
by the combustion of these woods in a confined space, not only acted as
a preservative but also lent a special flavour to the meat. Then
ploughing, fencing, sowing, and planting followed in quick succession.
No hands could be spared. The children must drive the cows to and from
pasture. They must also take a hand at churning. It was a weary task, I
well remember, to stand, perhaps for an hour, and drive the dasher up
and down through the thick cream. How often did we examine the handle
for evidence that the butter was forming, and what was the relief when
the monotonous task was at an end. As soon as my legs were long enough,
I had to follow a team; indeed, I drove the horses, mounted on the back
of one of them, when my nether limbs were scarcely sufficiently grown to
give me a grip.
The instruments for the agricultural operations were few and rough. Iron
ploughs with cast-iron mould-boards and shares were commonly employed.
Compared with our modern ploughs, they were clumsy things, but a vast
improvement on the earlier wooden ploughs which, even at that date, had
not wholly gone out of use. For drags, tree-tops were frequently used.
In June came sheep-washing. The sheep were driven to the bay shore and
secured in a pen. One by one they were taken out, and the fleeces
carefully washed. Within a day or two, shearing followed in the barn.
The wool was sorted; some was reserved to be carded by hand; the
remainder was sent to the mills to be turned into rolls. Then, day after
day, for weeks, the noise of the spinning-wheel was heard, accompanied
by the steady beat of the girls' feet, as they walked forward and
backward drawing out and twisting the thread and running it on the
spindle. This was work that required some skill, for on the fineness and
evenness of the thread the character of the fabric largely depended.
Finally, the yarn was carried to the weavers to be converted into cloth.
The women of the family found their hands very full in the "Thirties."
Besides the daily round of housewifely cares, every season brought its
special duties. There were wild strawberries and raspberries to be
picked and prepared for daily consumption, or to be preserved for winter
use. Besides milking, there was the making both of butter and cheese.
There was no nurse to take care of the children, no cook to prepare the
dinner. To be sure, in households when the work was beyond the powers of
the family, the daughter of some neighbour might come as a helper.
Though hired, she was treated in all respects as one of the family, and
in return was likely to take the same sort of interest in the work, as
if the tie that bound her to the family was closer than wages. In truth,
such help was regarded as a favour, and not as in any way affecting the
girl's social position.
The girls in those days were more at home in a kitchen than a
drawing-room. They did better execution at a tub than at a spinet, and
could handle a rolling-pin more satisfactorily than a sketch-book. At a
pinch, they could even use a rake or fork to good purpose in field or
barn. Their finishing education was received at the country school along
with their brothers. Of fashion books and milliners, few of them had any
experiences.
Country life in Canada was plodding in the "Thirties" and there was no
varied outlook. The girls' training for future life was mainly at the
hands of their mothers; the boys followed in the footsteps of their
fathers. Neither sex felt that life was cramped or burdensome on that
account. They were content to live as their parents had done. And though
we can see that, as compared with later conditions, there may be
something wanting in such an existence, this at least we know, that, in
such a school and by such masters, the foundations of Canadian character
and prosperity were laid.
Canniff Haight: "Country Life in Canada in the 'Thirties'."
(Adapted)
He who knows most grieves most for wasted time.
Dante
HEAT
From plains that reel to southward, dim,
The road runs by me white and bare;
Up the steep hill it seems to swim
Beyond, and melt into the glare.
Upward half-way, or it may be
Nearer the summit, slowly steals
A hay-cart, moving dustily
With idly clacking wheels.
By his cart's side the wagoner
Is slouching slowly at his ease,
Half-hidden in the windless blur
Of white dust puffing to his knees.
This wagon on the height above,
From sky to sky on either hand,
Is the sole thing that seems to move
In all the heat-held land.
Beyond me in the fields the sun
Soaks in the grass and hath his will;
I count the marguerites one by one;
Even the buttercups are still.
On the brook yonder not a breath
Disturbs the spider or the midge.
The water-bugs draw close beneath
The cool gloom of the bridge.
Where the far elm-tree shadows flood
Dark patches in the burning grass,
The cows, each with her peaceful cud,
Lie waiting for the heat to pass.
From somewhere on the slope near by
Into the pale depths of the noon
A wandering thrush slides leisurely
His thin revolving tune.
In intervals of dreams I hear
The cricket from the droughty ground;
The grasshoppers spin into mine ear
A small innumerable sound.
I lift mine eyes sometimes to gaze:
The burning sky-line blinds my sight:
The woods far off are blue with haze:
The hills are drenched in light.
And yet to me not this or that
Is always sharp or always sweet;
In the sloped shadow of my hat
I lean at rest, and drain the heat;
Nay more, I think some blessèd power
Hath brought me wandering idly here:
In the full furnace of this hour
My thoughts grow keen and clear.
Archibald Lampman
THE TWO PATHS
Hear, O my son, and receive my sayings;
And the years of thy life shall be many.
I have taught thee in the way of wisdom;
I have led thee in paths of uprightness.
When thou goest, thy steps shall not be straitened;
And if thou runnest, thou shalt not stumble.
Take fast hold of instruction;
Let her not go:
Keep her;
For she is thy life.
Enter not into the Path of the Wicked,
And walk not in the way of evil men.
Avoid it,
Pass not by it;
Turn from it,
And pass on.
For they sleep not, except they have done mischief;
And their sleep is taken away, unless they cause some to fall.
For they eat the bread of wickedness,
And drink the wine of violence.
But the Path of the Righteous is as the light of dawn,
That shineth more and more unto the perfect day.
The way of the wicked is as darkness:
They know not at what they stumble.
Proverbs, IV.
BERNARDO DEL CARPIO
(The Spanish champion, Bernardo del Carpio, having made many ineffectual
efforts to procure the release of his father, the Count Saldana, who had
been imprisoned by King Alfonso, at last took up arms. The war proved so
destructive that the people demanded of the King, Saldana's liberty.
Alfonso offered Bernardo possession of his father's person in exchange
for his castle. Bernardo accepted the offer, gave up his castle, and
rode forth with the king to meet his father.)
The warrior bowed his crested head, and
tamed his heart of fire,
And sued the haughty king to free his
long-imprisoned sire:
"I bring thee here my fortress keys, I
bring my captive train,
I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!--oh,
break my father's chain!"
"Rise, rise! even now thy father comes
a ransomed man this day:
Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will
meet him on his way."
Then lightly rose that loyal son, and
bounded on his steed,
And urged, as if with lance in rest, the
charger's foamy speed.
And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there
came a glittering band,
With one that midst them stately rode, as
a leader in the land;
"Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there,
in very truth, is he,
The father whom thy faithful heart hath
yearned so long to see."
His dark eye flashed, his proud breast
heaved, his cheek's blood came and went,
He reached that gray-haired chieftain's
side, and there, dismounting, bent:
A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's
hand he took,--
What was there in its touch that all his
fiery spirit shook?
That hand was cold--a frozen thing--it
dropped from his like lead:
He looked up to the face above--the face
was of the dead!
A plume waved o'er the noble brow--the
brow was fixed and white;
He met at last his father's eyes--but in
them was no sight!
Up from the ground he sprang, and gazed,
but who could paint that gaze?
They hushed their very hearts, that saw
its horror and amaze;
They might have chained him, as before
that stony form he stood,
For the power was stricken from his arm,
and from his lip the blood.
"Father!" at length he murmured low, and
wept like childhood, then--
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen
the tears of warlike men!--
He thought on all his glorious hopes,
and all his young renown,--
He flung the falchion from his side,
and in the dust sat down.
Then, covering with his steel-gloved
hands his darkly mournful brow,
"No more, there is no more," he said,
"to lift the sword for now.
My king is false, my hope betrayed, my
father--oh! the worth,
The glory and the loveliness, are passed
away from earth!
"I thought to stand where banners waved,
my sire! beside thee yet--
I would that _there_ our kindred
blood on Spain's free soil had met!
Thou wouldst have known my spirit then--for
thee my fields were won,--
And thou hast perished in thy chains, as
though thou hadst no son!"
Then, starting from the ground once more,
he seized the monarch's rein,
Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all
the courtier train;
And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp,
the rearing war-horse led,
And sternly set them face to face--the
king before the dead!--