Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin,
Whose smiles can bewitch, whose eyes can command,
In what climate they chance to appear in;
For they shine through the bog, through the brake, through the mireland,
Just like their own dear little shamrock of Ireland--
The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock,
The sweet little, green little shamrock of Ireland.
This dear little plant that springs from our soil,
When its three little leaves are extended,
Betokens that each for the other should toil,
And ourselves by ourselves be befriended,--
And still through the bog, through the brake, through the mireland,
From one root should branch like the shamrock of Ireland--
The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock,
The sweet little, green little shamrock of Ireland!
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 41: By Andrew Cherry, an Irish poet (1762-1812).]
III. MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS[42]
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer,
Chasing the wild deer and following the roe--
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birthplace of valor, the country of worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands forever I love.
Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer,
Chasing the wild deer and following the roe--
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 42: By Robert Burns, a famous Scottish poet (1759-1796).]
IV. THE FATHERLAND[43]
Where is the true man's fatherland?
Is it where he by chance is born?
Doth not the yearning spirit scorn
In such scant borders to be spanned?
Oh, yes! his fatherland must be
As the blue heaven wide and free!
Is it alone where freedom is,
Where God is God, and man is man?
Doth he not claim a broader span
For the soul's love of home than this?
Oh, yes! his fatherland must be
As the blue heaven wide and free!
Where'er a human heart doth wear
Joy's myrtle wreath or sorrow's gyves,
Where'er a human spirit strives
After a life more true and fair,
There is the true man's birthplace grand,
His is a world-wide fatherland!
Where'er a single slave doth pine,
Where'er one man may help another,--
Thank God for such a birthright, brother,--
That spot of earth is thine and mine!
There is the true man's birthplace grand,
His is a world-wide fatherland!
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 43: By James Russell Lowell.]
V. HOME[44]
But where to find that happiest spot below,
Who can direct when all pretend to know?
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own--
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease;
The naked negro, panting at the line,
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,
His first, best country, ever is at home.
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,
And estimate the blessings which they share,
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find
An equal portion dealt to all mankind;
As different good, by art or nature given,
To different nations makes their blessing even.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 44: By Oliver Goldsmith.]
EXPRESSION: Read all of these poems silently with a view towards
sympathizing with the feelings which they express. Now read each
one separately, and compare them, one with another. What is the
leading sentiment inculcated by each? Which poem appeals the most
strongly to your own emotions?
WORD STUDY: _Caledonia_, _shamrock_, _brake_, _Erin_, _gyves_,
_yearning_, _frigid_, _tepid_, _patriot_.
THE AGE OF COAL[45]
Come with me, in fancy, back to those early ages of the world,
thousands, yes millions, of years ago. Stand with me on some low ancient
hill, which overlooks the flat and swampy lands that are to become the
American continent.
Few heights are yet in sight. The future Rocky Mountains lie still
beneath the surface of the sea. The Alleghanies are not yet heaved up
above the level surface of the ground, for over them are spread the
boggy lands and thick forests of future coal fields. The Mississippi
River is not yet in existence, or if in existence, is but an unimportant
little stream.
Below us, as we stand, we can see a broad and sluggish body of water, in
places widening into shallow lakes. On either side of this stream, vast
forests extend in every direction as far as the horizon, bounded on one
side by the distant ocean, clothing each hilly rise, and sending islets
of matted trees and shrubs floating down the waters.
Strange forests these are to us. No oaks, no elms, no beeches, no
birches, no palms, nor many colored wild flowers are there. The
deciduous plants so common in our modern forests are nowhere found; but
enormous club mosses are seen, as well as splendid pines and an
abundance of ancient trees with waving, frondlike leaves. Here also are
graceful tree ferns and countless ferns of lower growth filling up all
gaps.
[Illustration]
No wild quadrupeds are yet in existence, and the silent forests are
enlivened only by the stirring of the breeze among the trees or the
occasional hum of monstrous insects. But upon the margin of yonder
stream a huge four-footed creature creeps slowly along. He looks much
like a gigantic salamander, and his broad, soft feet make deep
impressions in the yielding mud.
No sunshine but only a gleam of light can creep through the misty
atmosphere. The earth seems clothed in a garment of clouds, and the air
is positively reeking with damp warmth, like the air of a hothouse. This
explains the luxuriant growth of foliage.
Could we thus stand upon the hilltops and keep watch through the long
coal building ages, we should see generation after generation of forest
trees and underwoods living, withering, dying, falling to earth. Slowly
a layer of dead and decaying vegetation thus collects, over which the
forest flourishes still--tree for tree, and shrub for shrub, springing
up in the place of each one that dies.
Then, after a very long time, through the working of mighty underground
forces, the broad lands sink a little way--perhaps only a few feet--and
the ocean tide rushes in, overwhelming the forests, trees and plants and
living creatures, in one dire desolation.--No, not dire, for the ruin is
not objectless or needless. It is all a part of the wonderful
preparation for the life of man on earth.
Under the waves lie the overwhelmed forests--prostrate trunks and broken
stumps in countless numbers overspreading the gathered vegetable remains
of centuries before. Upon these the sea builds a protective covering of
sand or mud, more or less thick. Here sea creatures come to live, fishes
swim hungrily to and fro, and shellfishes die in the mud which, by and
by, is to become firm rock with stony animal remains embedded in it.
After a while the land rises again to its former position. There are
bare, sandy flats as before, but they do not remain bare. Lichens and
hardier plants find a home. The light spores of the ancient forest trees
take root and grow, and luxuriant forests, like those of old, spring
again into being. Upon river and lake bottoms, and over the low damp
lands, rich layers of decaying vegetation again collect. Then once more
the land sinks and the ocean tide pours in; and another sandy or muddy
stratum is built up on the overflowed lands. Thus the second layer of
forest growth is buried like the first, and both lie quietly through the
long ages following, hidden from sight, slowly changing in their
substance from wood to shining coal.
* * * * *
Thus time after time, the land rose and sank, rose and sank, again and
again. Not the whole continent is believed to have risen or sunk at the
same time; but here at one period, there at another period, the
movements probably went on.
The greater part of the vegetable mass decayed slowly; but when the
final ruin of the forest came, whole trunks were snapped off close to
the roots and flung down. These are now found in numbers on the tops of
the coal layers, the barks being flattened and changed to shining black
coal.
How wonderful the tale of those ancient days told to us by these buried
forests!
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 45: By Agnes Giberne, an English writer on scientific
subjects.]
SOMETHING ABOUT THE MOON[46]
I am going to say a few words about the moon; but there are many matters
relating to her of great interest which I must leave untouched, for the
simple reason that there is not room to speak of them in a single paper.
Thus the moon's changes of shape from the horned moon to the half, and
thence to the full moon, with the following changes from full to half,
and so to the horned form again, are well worth studying; but I should
want all the space I am going to occupy, merely to explain properly
those changes alone.
So a study of the way in which the moon rules the tides would, I am
sure, interest every thoughtful reader; but there is not room for it
here.
Let us now turn to consider the moon; not as the light which makes our
nights beautiful, nor as the body which governs the mighty ocean in its
tidal sway, but as another world,--the companion planet of the earth.
It has always been a matter not only of the deepest curiosity, but of
the greatest scientific import, whether other planets, and particularly
our own satellite, are inhabited or exhibit any traces whatever of
animal or vegetable life.
One or two astronomers have claimed the discovery of vegetation on the
moon's surface by reason of the periodic appearance of a greenish tint;
but as the power of the telescope can bring the moon to within only
about a hundred and twenty miles of us, these alleged appearances cannot
be satisfactorily verified.
The moon is a globe, two thousand one hundred and sixty-five miles in
diameter; very much less, therefore, than our earth, which has a
diameter of about seven thousand nine hundred and twenty miles.
Thus the moon's surface is less than one thirteenth of the earth's.
Instead of two hundred millions of square miles as the earth has, the
moon has only about fourteen millions of square miles, or about the same
surface as North and South America together, without the great American
Islands of the Arctic regions.
The volume of the earth exceeds that of the moon more than forty-nine
times. But the moon's substance is somewhat lighter. Thus the mass, or
quantity of matter in the moon, instead of being a forty-ninth part of
the earth's, is about an eighty-first part.
This small companion world travels like our own earth around the sun, at
a distance of ninety-three millions of miles. The path of the moon
around the sun is, in fact, so nearly the same as that of the earth that
it would be almost impossible to distinguish one from the other, if they
were both drawn on a sheet of paper a foot or so in diameter.
You may perhaps be surprised to find me thus saying that the moon
travels round the sun, when you have been accustomed to hear that the
moon travels round the earth. In reality, however, it is round the sun
the moon travels, though certainly the moon and the earth circle around
each other.
The distance of the moon from the earth is not always the same; but the
average, or mean distance, amounts to about two hundred and thirty-eight
thousand eight hundred and twenty-eight miles. This is the distance
between the centers of the two globes. With this distance separating
them, the companion worlds--the earth and the moon--circle round each
other, as they both travel round the central sun.
But now you will be curious to learn whether our companion planet, the
moon, really presents the appearance of a world, when studied with a
powerful telescope.
If we judged the moon in this way, we should say that she is not only
not inhabited by living creatures, but that she could not possibly be
inhabited. What is it that makes our earth a fit abode for us who live
upon it? Her surface is divided into land and water. We live on the
land; but without the water we should perish.
Were there no water, there would be no clouds, no rain, no snow, no
rivers, brooks, or other streams. Without these, there could be no
vegetable life; and without vegetable life, there could be no animal
life, even if animals themselves could live without water.
Yet again, the earth's globe is enwrapped in an atmosphere,--the air we
breathe. Without this air, neither animals nor vegetables could live. I
might go further and show other features of the earth, which we are at
present justified in regarding as essential to the mere existence, and
still more to the comfort, of creatures living upon the earth.
Now, before the telescope was invented, many astronomers believed that
there was water on the moon, and probably air also. But as soon as
Galileo examined the moon with his largest telescope (and a very weak
telescope it was), he found that whatever the dark parts of the moon may
be, they certainly are not seas.
More and more powerful telescopes have since been turned on the moon. It
has been shown that there are not only no seas, but no rivers, pools,
lakes, or other water surfaces. No clouds are ever seen to gather over
any part of the moon's surface. In fact, nothing has ever yet been seen
on the moon which suggests in the slightest degree the existence of
water on her surface, or even that water could at present possibly
exist; and, of course, without water it is safe to infer there could be
neither vegetable nor animal existence.
It would seem, then, that apart from the absence of air on the moon,
there is such an entire absence of water that no creatures now living on
the earth could possibly exist upon the moon. Certainly man could not
exist there, nor could animals belonging to any except the lowest orders
of animal life.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 46: By Richard A. Proctor, a noted English astronomer
(1837-1888).]
THE COMING OF THE BIRDS[47]
I know the trusty almanac
Of the punctual coming-back,
On their due days, of the birds.
I marked them yestermorn,
A flock of finches darting
Beneath the crystal arch,
Piping, as they flew, a march,--
Belike the one they used in parting
Last year from yon oak or larch;
Dusky sparrows in a crowd,
Diving, darting northward free,
Suddenly betook them all,
Every one to his hole in the wall,
Or to his niche in the apple tree.
I greet with joy the choral trains
Fresh from palms and Cuba's canes.
Best gems of Nature's cabinet,
With dews of tropic morning wet,
Beloved of children, bards and Spring,
O birds, your perfect virtues bring,
Your song, your forms, your rhythmic flight,
Your manners for the heart's delight;
Nestle in hedge, or barn, or roof,
Here weave your chamber weather-proof,
Forgive our harms, and condescend
To man, as to a lubber friend,
And, generous, teach his awkward race
Courage and probity and grace!
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 47: By Ralph Waldo Emerson, an American poet and philosopher
(1803-1882).]
THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS[48]
The coming and going of the birds is more or less a mystery and a
surprise. We go out in the morning, and no thrush or finch is to be
heard; we go out again, and every tree and grove is musical; yet again,
and all is silent. Who saw them come? Who saw them depart?
This pert little winter wren, for instance, darting in and out the
fence, diving under the rubbish here and coming up yards away,--how does
he manage with those little circular wings to compass degrees and zones,
and arrive always in the nick of time? Last August I saw him in the
remotest wilds of the Adirondacks, impatient and inquisitive as usual; a
few weeks later, on the Potomac, I was greeted by the same hardy little
busybody. Does he travel by easy stages from bush to bush and from wood
to wood? or has that compact little body force and courage to brave the
night and the upper air, and so achieve leagues at one pull?
And yonder bluebird, with the earth tinge on his breast and the sky
tinge on his back,--did he come down out of heaven on that bright March
morning when he told us so softly and plaintively that spring had come?
Indeed, there is nothing in the return of the birds more curious and
suggestive than in the first appearance, or rumors of the appearance, of
this little bluecoat.
The bird at first seems a mere wandering voice in the air; one hears its
call or carol on some bright March morning, but is uncertain of its
source or direction; it falls like a drop of rain when no cloud is
visible; one looks and listens, but to no purpose. The weather changes,
perhaps a cold snap with snow comes on, and it may be a week before I
hear the note again, and this time or the next perchance see the bird
sitting on a stake in the fence, lifting his wing as he calls cheerily
to his mate. Its notes now become daily more frequent; the birds
multiply, and, flitting from point to point, call and warble more
confidently and gleefully.
Not long after the bluebird comes the robin, sometimes in March, but in
most of the Northern states April is the month of the robin. In large
numbers they scour the field and groves. You hear their piping in the
meadow, in the pasture, on the hillside. Walk in the woods, and the dry
leaves rustle with the whir of their wings, the air is vocal with their
cheery call. In excess of joy and vivacity, they run, leap, scream,
chase each other through the air, diving and sweeping among the trees
with perilous rapidity.
In that free, fascinating, half work and half play pursuit,--sugar
making,--a pursuit which still lingers in many parts of New York, as in
New England, the robin is one's constant companion. When the day is
sunny and the ground bare, you meet him at all points and hear him at
all hours. At sunset, on the tops of the tall maples, with look
heavenward, and in a spirit of utter abandonment, he carols his simple
strain. And sitting thus amid the stark, silent trees, above the wet,
cold earth, with the chill of winter in the air, there is no fitter or
sweeter songster in the whole round year. It is in keeping with the
scene and the occasion. How round and genuine the notes are, and how
eagerly our ears drink them in! The first utterance, and the spell of
winter is thoroughly broken, and the remembrance of it afar off.
Another April bird, which makes her appearance sometimes earlier and
sometimes later than Robin, and whose memory I fondly cherish, is the
Phoebe bird, the pioneer of the fly catchers. In the inland fanning
districts, I used to notice her, on some bright morning about Easter
Day, proclaiming her arrival with much variety of motion and attitude,
from the peak of the barn or hay shed. As yet, you may have heard only
the plaintive, homesick note of the bluebird, or the faint trill of the
song sparrow; and Phoebe's clear, vivacious assurance of her veritable
bodily presence among us again is welcomed by all ears. At agreeable
intervals in her lay she describes a circle, or an ellipse in the air,
ostensibly prospecting for insects, but really, I suspect, as an
artistic flourish, thrown in to make up in some way for the deficiency
of her musical performance.
Another April comer, who arrives shortly after robin redbreast, with
whom he associates both at this season and in the autumn, is the
golden-winged woodpecker, _alias_ "high-hole," _alias_ "flicker,"
_alias_ "yarup." He is an old favorite of my boyhood, and his note to me
means very much. He announces his arrival by a long, loud call, repeated
from the dry branch of some tree, or a stake in the fence,--a thoroughly
melodious April sound. I think how Solomon finished that beautiful
climax on spring, "And the voice of the turtle is heard in the land,"
and see that a description of spring in this farming country, to be
equally characteristic, should culminate in like manner, "And the call
of the high-hole comes up from the wood."
The song sparrow, that universal favorite and firstling of the spring,
comes before April, and its simple strain gladdens all hearts.
May is the month of the swallows and the orioles. There are many other
distinguished arrivals, indeed, nine tenths of the birds are here by the
last week in May, yet the swallows and orioles are the most conspicuous.
The bright plumage of the latter seems really like an arrival from the
tropics. I see them flash through the blossoming trees, and all the
forenoon hear their incessant warbling and wooing. The swallows dive and
chatter about the barn, or squeak and build beneath the eaves; the
partridge drums in the fresh sprouting woods; the long, tender note of
the meadow lark comes up from the meadow; and at sunset, from every
marsh and pond come the ten thousand voices of the hylas. May is the
transition month, and exists to connect April and June, the root with
the flower.
With June the cup is full, our hearts are satisfied, there is no more to
be desired. The perfection of the season, among other things, has
brought the perfection of the song and plumage of the birds. The master
artists are all here, and the expectations excited by the robin and the
song sparrow are fully justified. The thrushes have all come; and I sit
down upon the first rock, with hands full of the pink azalea, to listen.
In the meadows the bobolink is in all his glory; in the high pastures
the field sparrow sings his breezy vesper hymn; and the woods are
unfolding to the music of the thrushes.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 48: By John Burroughs.]
EXPRESSION: Read again the four descriptive selections beginning on
page 179. Observe the wide difference in style of composition. Of
the three prose extracts, which is the most interesting to you?
Give reasons why this is so. Which passages require the most
animation in reading? Read these passages so that those who are
listening to you may fully appreciate their meaning.
THE POET AND THE BIRD
I. THE SONG OF THE LARK
On a pleasant evening in late summer the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley and
his wife, Mary Shelley, were walking near the city of Leghorn in Italy.
The sky was cloudless, the air was soft and balmy, and the earth seemed
hushed into a restful stillness. The green lane along which they were
walking was bordered by myrtle hedges, where crickets were softly
chirping and fireflies were already beginning to light their lamps. From
the fields beyond the hedges the grateful smell of new-mown hay was
wafted, while in the hazy distance the church towers of the city glowed
yellow in the last rays of the sun, and the gray-green sea rippled
softly in the fading light of day.
Suddenly, from somewhere above them, a burst of music fell upon their
ears. It receded upward, but swelled into an ecstatic harmony, with
fluttering intervals and melodious swervings such as no musician's art
can imitate.
"What is that?" asked the poet, as the song seemed to die away in the
blue vault of heaven.
"It is a skylark," answered his wife.
"Nay," said the poet, his face all aglow with the joy of the moment; "no
mere bird ever poured forth such strains of music as that. I think,
rather, that it is some blithe spirit embodied as a bird."
"Let us imagine that it is so," said Mary. "But, hearken. It is singing
again, and soaring as it sings."
"Yes, and I can see it, too, like a flake of gold against the pale
purple of the sky. It is so high that it soars in the bright rays of the
sun, while we below are in the twilight shade. And now it is descending
again, and the air is filled with its song. Hark to the rain of melody
which it showers down upon us."
They listened enraptured, while the bird poured forth its flood of song.
When at length it ceased, and the two walked home in the deepening
twilight, the poet said:--
"We shall never know just what it was that sang so gloriously. But,
Mary, what do you think is most like it?"
"A poet," she answered. "There is nothing so like it as a poet wrapt in
his own sweet thoughts and singing till the world is made to sing with
him for very joy."
"And I," said he, "would compare it to a beautiful maiden singing for
love in some high palace tower, while all who hear her are bewitched by
the enchanting melody."
"And I," said she, "would compare it to a red, red rose sitting among
its green leaves and giving its sweet perfumes to the summer breezes."