The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Literary

World Seventh Reader

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other
parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may
copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this ebook or online at [Link]. If you are not located in
the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are
located before using this eBook.
Title: The Literary World Seventh Reader
Editor: John Calvin Metcalf
Hetty Sibyl Browne
Sarah Withers
Release date: November 5, 2006 [eBook #19721]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Julia Miller, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at [Link]
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITERARY
WORLD SEVENTH READER ***
 Transcriber’s Note
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. A list
of the changes is found at the end of the text.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been maintained. A
list of inconsistently hyphenated words is found at the
end of the text.

Frontispiece

THE LITERARY WORLD

SEVENTH READER
BY

JOHN CALVIN METCALF

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE IN THE UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA

SARAH WITHERS
PRINCIPAL ELEMENTARY GRADES AND CRITIC TEACHER
WINTHROP NORMAL AND INDUSTRIAL COLLEGE
ROCK HILL. S.C.

AND

HETTY S. BROWNE
EXTENSION WORKER IN RURAL SCHOOL PRACTICE
WINTHROP NORMAL AND INDUSTRIAL COLLEGE
colophon

JOHNSON PUBLISHING COMPANY

RICHMOND, VIRGINIA

COPYRIGHT, 1919
B. F. JOHNSON PUBLISHING COMPANY
All Rights Reserved
L.H.J.
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For permission to use copyrighted material the authors and
publishers express their indebtedness to the Macmillan Company
for “A Deal in Bears” from McTodd, by W. Cutcliffe Hyne, and
for “Sea Fever,” by John Masefield; to Duffield & Company and
Mr. H. G. Wells for “In Labrador” from Marriage; to the John
Lane Company for “The Making of a Man” from The Rough Road, by
W. J. Locke; to Dodd, Mead & Company and Mr. Arthur Dobson for
“A Ballad of Heroes,” and to Dodd, Mead & Company for “Under
Seas,” by Count Alexis Tolstoi; to G. P. Putnam’s Sons for
“Old Ephraim” from The Hunting Trips of a Ranchman, by
Theodore Roosevelt; to Houghton Mifflin Company for “A
Greyport Legend,” by Bret Harte, “Midwinter,” by John Townsend
Trowbridge, “The First Snowfall,” by James Russell Lowell,
“Among the Cliffs” from The Young Mountaineers, by Charles
Egbert Craddock (Mary N. Murfree), and for “The Friendship of
Nantaquas” from To Have and to Hold, by Mary Johnston; to
Harper & Brothers for “The Great Stone of Sardis” from The
Great Stone of Sardis, by Frank R. Stockton, and to Harper &
Brothers and Mr. Booth Tarkington for “Ariel’s Triumph” from
The Conquest of Canaan.
 TABLE OF CONTENTS

LEGENDS OF OUR LAND

RIP VAN WINKLE Washington Irving 9

Nathaniel
THE GREAT STONE FACE 33
Hawthorne
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES Henry W.
59
STANDISH Longfellow
THE FRIENDSHIP OF
Mary Johnston 79
NANTAQUAS

HOME SCENES

Wm. Makepeace
HARRY ESMOND ’S BOYHOOD 112
Thackeray
THE FAMILY HOLDS ITS
Oliver Goldsmith 126
HEAD UP
THE LITTLE BOY IN THE
Henry W. Grady 138
BALCONY
ARIEL ’S TRIUMPH Booth Tarkington 141

NATURE AND ANIMALS

Percy Bysshe
THE CLOUD 160
Shelley
NEW ENGLAND WEATHER Mark Twain 162
James Russell
THE FIRST SNOWFALL 166
Lowell
OLD EPHRAIM Theodore Roosevelt 168
John Townsend
MIDWINTER 175
Trowbridge
Joel Chandler
A GEORGIA FOX HUNT 177
Harris
Madison Julius
RAIN AND WIND 192
Cawein
Matthew Fontaine
THE SOUTHERN SKY 193
Maury
DAFFODILS William Wordsworth 195
DAWN Edward Everett 196
SPRING Henry Timrod 198

MOVING ADVENTURE

Charles Egbert
AMONG THE CLIFFS 201
Craddock
A DEAL IN BEARS W. Cutcliffe Hyne 217
LOCHINVAR Sir Walter Scott 232
IN LABRADOR H. G. Wells 235
THE BUGLE SONG Alfred Tennyson 258
THE SIEGE OF THE CASTLE Sir Walter Scott 259

MODERN WONDER TALES

SEA FEVER John Masefield 334

A GREYPORT LEGEND Bret Harte 335
A HUNT BENEATH THE
Jules Verne 337
OCEAN
Count Alexis
UNDER SEAS 354
Tolstoi
A VOYAGE TO THE MOON Edgar Allan Poe 367
THE GREAT STONE OF
Frank R. Stockton 391
SARDIS

SKETCHES OF THE GREAT WAR

A STOP AT SUZANNE ’S Greayer Clover 407

THE MAKING OF A MAN W. J. Locke 414
IN FLANDERS FIELDS John McCrae 436
IN FLANDERS FIELDS (AN
C. B. Galbraith 436
ANSWER )
A BALLAD OF HEROES Austin Dobson 437

439
DICTIONARY

He Was Tempted to Repeat the

Draught [See page 19]
He Was Tempted to Repeat the
Draught

Rip Van Winkle

 RIP VAN WINKLE

I
Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the
Catskill Mountains. They are a branch of the great
vAppalachian 9-* family, and are seen away to the west of the
river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the
surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of
weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change
in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they
are regarded by all the goodwives, far and near, as perfect
vbarometers.

At the foot of these fairy mountains the traveler may have

seen the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle
roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the
upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape.
It is a little village of great age, having been founded by
some of the Dutch colonists in the early times of the
province, just about the beginning of the government of the
good Peter vStuyvesant (may he rest in peace!), and there were
some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a
few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland,
having latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with
weathercocks.
In that same village, and in one of these very houses,
there lived, many years since, while the country was yet a
province of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow, of
the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van
Winkles who figured so gallantly in the vchivalrous days of
Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort
Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial
character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a
simple, good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor
and an obedient, henpecked husband.
Certain it is that he was a great favorite among all the
goodwives of the village, who took his part in all family
squabbles; and never failed, whenever they talked those
matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame
on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would
shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their
sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and
shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches,
and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he
was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts,
clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him;
and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood.
The great error in Rip’s composition was a strong dislike
of all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the
want of perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a
rod as long and heavy as a lance, and fish all day without a
murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a single
nibble. He would carry a fowling piece on his shoulder for
hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill
and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He
would never refuse to assist a neighbor even in the roughest
toil, and was a foremost man at all country frolics for
husking Indian corn, or building stone fences; the women of
the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and
to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands
would not do for them. In a word, Rip was ready to attend to
anybody’s business but his own; but as to doing family duty,
and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible.
His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they
belonged to nobody. His son Rip promised to inherit the
habits, with the old clothes, of his father. He was generally
seen trooping like a colt at his mother’s heels, equipped in a
pair of his father’s cast-off breeches, which he had much ado
to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad
weather.
Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals,
of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy,
eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least
thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than
work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled
life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept
continually dinning in his ear about his idleness, his
carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family.
Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going,
and everything he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of
household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all
lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown
into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast
up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked
a fresh volley from his wife; so that he was fain to draw off
his forces, and take to the outside of the house—the only side
which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband.
Rip’s sole vdomestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as
much henpecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded
them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with
an evil eye, as the cause of his master’s going so often
astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an
honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured
the woods; but what courage can withstand the ever-enduring
and all-besetting terrors of a woman’s tongue? The moment Wolf
entered the house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the
ground or curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a
gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van
Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle he
would fly to the door with yelping precipitation.
Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of
matrimony rolled on. A tart temper never mellows with age, and
a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with
constant use. For a long while he used to console himself,
when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club
of sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the
village, which held its sessions on a bench before a small
inn, designated by a vrubicund portrait of His Majesty George
III. Here they used to sit in the shade of a long, lazy
summer’s day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or
telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it would
have been worth any statesman’s money to have heard the
profound discussions which sometimes took place, when by
chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from some
passing traveler. How solemnly they would listen to the
contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the
schoolmaster,—a dapper, learned little man, who was not to be
daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary! and how
sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months
after they had taken place!
The opinions of this vjunto were completely controlled by
Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of
the inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning
till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun, and
keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the neighbors could
tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial.
It is true, he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe
incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has
his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to
gather his opinions. When anything that was read or related
displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently,
and to send forth short, frequent, and angry puffs; but, when
pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and
emit it in light and placid clouds, and sometimes, taking the
pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant vapor curl about
his nose, would nod his head in approbation.
From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length
routed by his vtermagant wife, who would suddenly break in
upon the tranquility of the assemblage, and call the members
all to naught; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder
himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible
virago, who charged him with encouraging her husband in habits
of idleness.
Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his
only valternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and
clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away
into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the
foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with
Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in
persecution. “Poor Wolf,” he would say, “thy mistress leads
thee a dog’s life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live
thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee.” Wolf would
wag his tail, look wistfully in his master’s face; and if dogs
can feel pity, I verily believe he vreciprocated the sentiment
with all his heart.
In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip
had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the
Catskill Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of
squirrel-shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and
reëchoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he
threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll,
covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a
precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook
all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw
at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on
its silent but majestic course, with the reflection of a
purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there
sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the
blue highlands.
On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain
glen, wild and lonely, the bottom filled with fragments from
the overhanging cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected
rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this
scene; evening was gradually advancing; the mountains began to
throw their long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that it
would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he
heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the
terrors of Dame Van Winkle.
As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a
distance, hallooing, “Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!” He
looked round, but could see nothing but a crow winging its
solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must
have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard
the same cry ring through the still evening air: “Rip Van
Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!”—at the same time Wolf bristled up his
back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his master’s side,
looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague
apprehension stealing over him; he looked anxiously in the
same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling
up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he
carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being
in this lonely and unfrequented place; but supposing it to be
some one of the neighborhood in need of his assistance, he
hastened down to yield it.
On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the
vsingularity of the stranger’s appearance. He was a short,
square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled
beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion,—a cloth
jerkin strapped round the waist, and several pair of breeches,
the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons
down the sides. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg that
seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and
assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of
this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual valacrity,
and relieving one another, they clambered up a narrow gully,
apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent.
As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long,
rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out
of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward
which their rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant,
but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those transient
thundershowers which often take place in mountain heights, he
proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow,
like a small vamphitheater, surrounded by perpendicular
precipices, over the brinks of which trees shot their
branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky
and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time Rip and
his companion had labored on in silence; for though the former
marveled greatly, what could be the object of carrying a keg
of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something
strange and incomprehensible about the unknown that inspired
awe and checked familiarity.
On entering the amphitheater new objects of wonder
presented themselves. On a level spot in the center was a
company of odd-looking personages playing at ninepins. They
were dressed in a quaint, outlandish fashion; some wore short
doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and
most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style with that
of the guide’s. Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a
large head, broad face, and small, piggish eyes; the face of
another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted
by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock’s
tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There
was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old
gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced
doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather,
red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The
whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish
painting, in the parlor of vDominie Van Shaick, the village
parson, which had been brought over from Holland at the time
of the settlement.
What seemed particularly odd to Rip was that, though these
folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained
the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were,
withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever
witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but
the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled,
echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder.
As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly
desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed,
statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth countenances, that
his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. His
companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large
flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the company. He
obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in
profound silence, and then returned to their game.
By degrees Rip’s awe and apprehension subsided. He even
ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the
beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent
Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon
tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another; and
he repeated his visits to the flagon so often that at length
his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his
head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep.

II
 On waking he found himself on the green knoll whence he
had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes—it
was a bright, sunny morning. The birds were hopping and
twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft,
and breasting the pure mountain breeze. “Surely,” thought Rip,
“I have not slept here all night.” He recalled the occurrences
before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor—
the mountain ravine—the wild retreat among the rocks—the woe-
begone party at ninepins—the flagon—“Oh! that flagon! that
wicked flagon!” thought Rip; “what excuse shall I make to Dame
Van Winkle?”
He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean,
well-oiled fowling piece, he found an old firelock lying by
him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and
the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave revelers
of the mountain had put a trick upon him and, having dosed him
with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had
disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel
or partridge. He whistled after him, and shouted his name, but
all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no
dog was to be seen.
He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening’s
gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog
and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the
joints, and wanting in his usual activity. “These mountain
beds do not agree with me,” thought Rip, “and if this frolic
should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a
blessed time with Dame Van Winkle.” With some difficulty he
got down into the glen; he found the gully up which he and his
companion had ascended the preceding evening; but to his
astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming down it,
leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling
murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides,
working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras,
and witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the
wild grapevines that twisted their coils from tree to tree,
and spread a kind of network in his path.
At length he reached to where the ravine had opened
through the cliffs to the amphitheater; but no traces of such
opening remained. The rocks presented a high, impenetrable
wall, over which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of
feathery foam, and fell into a broad, deep basin, black from
the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip
was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his
dog; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle
crows sporting high in air about a dry tree that overhung a
sunny precipice; and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to
look down and scoff at the poor man’s perplexities. What was
to be done?—the morning was passing away, and Rip felt
famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his
dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do
to starve among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered
the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of trouble and
anxiety, turned his steps homeward.
 As he approached the village he met a number of people,
but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he
had thought himself acquainted with every one in the country
round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that
to which he was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal
marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon him,
invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of
this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when,
to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long!
He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of
strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and
pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he
recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he
passed. The very village was altered; it was larger and more
populous. There were rows of houses which he had never seen
before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had
disappeared. Strange names were over the doors—strange faces
at the windows—everything was strange. His mind now misgave
him; he began to doubt whether both he and the world around
him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village,
which he had left but the day before. There stood the Catskill
Mountains—there ran the silver Hudson at a distance—there was
every hill and dale precisely as it had always been. Rip was
sorely perplexed. “That flagon last night,” thought he, “has
addled my poor head sadly!”
It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his
own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting
every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He
found the house gone to decay—the roof fallen in, the windows
shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog
that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by
name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on.
This was an unkind cut indeed. “My very dog,” sighed Rip, “has
forgotten me!”
He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van
Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn,
and apparently abandoned. He called loudly for his wife and
children—the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice,
and then all again was silence.

III
He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the
village inn—but it, too, was gone. A large, rickety wooden
building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some
of them broken and mended with old hats and petticoats, and
over the door was painted, “The Union Hotel, by Jonathan
Doolittle.” Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the
quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall,
naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red
nightcap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a
singular assemblage of stars and stripes; all this was strange
and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the
ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a
peaceful pipe; but even this was singularly changed. The red
coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in
the hand instead of a scepter, the head was decorated with a
cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters,
GENERAL WASHINGTON .
There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but
none that Rip recollected. The very character of the people
seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling tone about it,
instead of the accustomed drowsy tranquility. He looked in
vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double
chin, and long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke instead
of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling
forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these,
a lean fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was
haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens—elections—
members of congress—Bunker’s Hill—heroes of seventy-six—and
other words, which were a perfect jargon to the bewildered Van
Winkle.
The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his
rusty fowling piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women
and children at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the
tavern politicians. They crowded round him, eyeing him from
head to foot with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to
him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired “On which side he
voted?” Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy
little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe,
inquired in his ear, “Whether he was Federal or Democrat?” Rip
was equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a
knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat,
made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and
left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before
Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his
cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were,
into his very soul, demanded, in an austere tone, “What
brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a
mob at his heels; and whether he meant to breed a riot in the
village?”—“Alas! gentlemen,” cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, “I
am a poor, quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal
subject of the king, God bless him!”
Here a general shout burst from the bystanders—“A tory! a
tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! away with him!” It was
with great difficulty that the self-important man in the
cocked hat restored order; and having assumed a tenfold
vausterity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit,
what he came there for, and whom he was seeking! The poor man
humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came
there in search of some of his neighbors.
“Well—who are they? Name them.”
Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, “Where’s
Nicholas Vedder?”
There was a silence for a little while, when an old man
replied, in a thin, piping voice, “Nicholas Vedder! why, he is
dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a wooden
tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him,
but that’s rotten and gone, too.”
“Where’s Brom Dutcher?”
“Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war;
some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point; others
say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Anthony’s Nose.
I don’t know; he never came back again.”
“Where’s Van Brummel, the schoolmaster?”
“He went off to the wars, too, was a great militia
general, and is now in congress.”
Rip’s heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in
his home and friends and finding himself thus alone in the
world. Every answer puzzled him, too, by treating of such
enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not
understand: war—congress—Stony Point. He had no courage to ask
after any more friends, but cried out in despair, “Does nobody
here know Rip Van Winkle?”
“Oh, Rip Van Winkle!” exclaimed two or three, “oh, to be
sure! that’s Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree.”
Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself,
as he went up the mountain—apparently as lazy and certainly as
ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He
doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or
another man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the
cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name.
“God knows,” exclaimed he, at his wits’ end; “I’m not
myself—I’m somebody else—that’s me yonder—no—that’s somebody
else got into my shoes—I was myself last night, but I fell
asleep on the mountain, and they’ve changed my gun, and
everything’s changed, and I’m changed, and I can’t tell what’s
my name, or who I am!”
The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink
significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads.
There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping
the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of
which the self-important man in the cocked hat retired with
some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh, comely
woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-
bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which,
frightened at his looks, began to cry. “Hush, Rip,” cried she,
“hush, you little fool; the old man won’t hurt you.” The name
of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice,
all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. “What is
your name, my good woman?” asked he.
“Judith Gardenier.”
“And your father’s name?”
“Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it’s
twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and
never has been heard of since—his dog came home without him;
but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the
Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl.”
 Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a
faltering voice:
“Where’s your mother?”
“Oh, she, too, had died but a short time since; she broke
a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New England peddler.”
There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this
intelligence. The honest man could contain himself no longer.
He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. “I am your
father!” cried he—“Young Rip Van Winkle once—Old Rip Van
Winkle now! Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?”
All stood amazed until an old woman, tottering out from
among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under
it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, “Sure enough! it is
Rip Van Winkle—it is himself! Welcome home again, old
neighbor. Why, where have you been these twenty long years?”
Rip’s story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had
been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they
heard it; some were seen to wink at each other, and put their
tongues in their cheeks: and the self-important man in the
cocked hat, who when the alarm was over had returned to the
field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook his
head—upon which there was a general shaking of the head
throughout the assemblage.
It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old
Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road.
He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote
one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the
most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all
the wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He
recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the
most satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a
fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the
Catskill Mountains had always been haunted by strange beings.
It was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first
discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil
there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon;
being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his
enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river and the
great city called by his name. His father had once seen them
in their old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins in a hollow of
the mountain; and he himself had heard, one summer afternoon,
the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder.
To make a long story short, the company broke up and
returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip’s
daughter took him home to live with her; she had a snug, well-
furnished house, and a stout, cheery farmer for a husband,
whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb
upon his back. As to Rip’s son and heir, who was the ditto of
himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to
work on the farm; but showed an hereditary disposition to
attend to anything else but his business.
WASHINGTON IRVING .
 HELPS TO STUDY
“Rip Van Winkle” is the most beautiful of American
legendary stories. Washington Irving, the author, taking the
old idea of long sleep, as found in “The Sleeping Beauty” and
other fairy tales, gave it an American setting and interwove
in it the legend of Henry Hudson, the discoverer of the Hudson
river, who was supposed to return to the scene of his
achievement every twenty years, together with the shades of
his crew.
 I. Where is the scene of this story laid? In which paragraph do you learn when the incident
related in the story took place? Why does Irving speak of the mountains as “fairy mountains”? In
which paragraph do you meet the principal characters? Give the opinion you form of Rip and his
wife. Read sentences that show Rip’s good qualities—those that show his faults. What unusual thing
happened to Rip on his walk? How was the dog affected? Give a full account of what happened
afterward. Tell what impressed you most in this scene. Read aloud the lines that best describe the
scenery.
II. Describe Rip’s waking. What was his worst fear? How did he explain to himself the change
in his gun and the disappearance of Wolf? How did he account for the stiffness of his joints? What
was still his chief fear? Describe the changes which had taken place in the mountains. With what
feeling did he turn homeward? Why? How did he discover the alteration in his own appearance?
How did the children and dogs treat him? Why was this particularly hard for Rip to understand?
What other changes did he find? What remained unaltered? How did Rip still account for the
peculiar happenings? Describe Rip’s feelings as he turned to his own house, and its desolation.
III. What change had been made in the sign over the inn? Why? What important thing was
taking place in the village? Why did the speech of the “lean fellow” seem “perfect jargon” to Rip?
Why did he not understand the questions asked him? What happened when Rip made his innocent
reply to the self-important gentleman? How did he at last learn of the lapse of time? What added to
his bewilderment? How was the mystery explained? Note the question Rip reserved for the last and
the effect the answer had upon him. How did Peter Vanderdonk explain the strange happening?
What is the happy ending? Do you like Rip? Why?

SUPPLEMENTARY READING
Urashima—Graded Classics III.
Vice Versa—F. Anstey.
Peter Pan—James Barrie.
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow—Washington Irving.
A Christmas Carol—Charles Dickens.
Enoch Arden—Alfred Tennyson.

9-* For words marked v, see Dictionary.

The Great Stone Face

Photograph by Aldrich
The Great Stone Face
 THE GREAT STONE FACE

I
One afternoon when the sun was going down, a mother and her little boy sat at
the door of their cottage, talking about the Great Stone Face. They had but to lift
their eyes, and there it was plainly to be seen, though miles away, with the sunshine
brightening all its features.
And what was the Great Stone Face? The Great Stone Face was a work of
Nature in her mood of majestic playfulness, formed on the perpendicular side of a
mountain by some immense rocks, which had been thrown together in such a
position as, when viewed at a proper distance, precisely to resemble the features of
the human countenance. It seemed as if an enormous giant, or a vTitan, had
sculptured his own likeness on the precipice. There was the broad arch of the
forehead, a hundred feet in height; the nose, with its long bridge; and the vast lips,
which, if they could have spoken, would have rolled their thunder accents from one
end of the valley to the other.
It was a happy lot for children to grow up to manhood or womanhood with the
Great Stone Face before their eyes, for all the features were noble, and the
expression was at once grand and sweet, as if it were the glow of a vast, warm heart
that embraced all mankind in its affections, and had room for more.
As we began with saying, a mother and her little boy sat at their cottage door,
gazing at the Great Stone Face, and talking about it. The child’s name was Ernest.
“Mother,” said he, while the Titanic visage smiled on him, “I wish that it could
speak, for it looks so very kindly that its voice must be pleasant. If I were to see a
man with such a face, I should love him dearly.”
“If an old prophecy should come to pass,” answered his mother, “we may see
a man, some time or other, with exactly such a face as that.”
“What prophecy do you mean, dear mother?” eagerly inquired Ernest. “Pray
tell me all about it!”
So his mother told him a story that her own mother had told to her, when she
herself was younger than little Ernest; a story, not of things that were past, but of
what was yet to come; a story, nevertheless, so very old that even the Indians, who
formerly inhabited this valley, had heard it from their forefathers, to whom, they
believed, it had been murmured by the mountain streams, and whispered by the
wind among the tree tops. The story said that at some future day a child should be
born hereabouts who was destined to become the greatest and noblest man of his
time, and whose countenance, in manhood, should bear an exact resemblance to the
Great Stone Face.
 “O mother, dear mother!” cried Ernest, clapping his hands above his head, “I
do hope that I shall live to see him!” His mother was an affectionate and thoughtful
woman, and felt that it was wisest not to discourage the hopes of her little boy. She
only said to him, “Perhaps you may,” little thinking that the prophecy would one
day come true.
And Ernest never forgot the story that his mother told him. It was always in
his mind whenever he looked upon the Great Stone Face. He spent his childhood in
the log cottage where he was born, and was dutiful to his mother, and helpful to her
in many things, assisting her much with his little hands, and more with his loving
heart. In this manner, from a happy yet thoughtful child, he grew to be a mild,
quiet, modest boy, sun-browned with labor in the fields, but with more intelligence
in his face than is seen in many lads who have been taught at famous schools. Yet
Ernest had had no teacher, save only that the Great Stone Face became one to him.
When the toil of the day was over, he would gaze at it for hours, until he began to
imagine that those vast features recognized him, and gave him a smile of kindness
and encouragement in response to his own look of vveneration. We must not take
upon us to affirm that this was a mistake, although the Face may have looked no
more kindly at Ernest than at all the world besides. For the secret was that the boy’s
tender simplicity vdiscerned what other people could not see; and thus the love,
which was meant for all, became his alone.

II
About this time, there went a rumor throughout the valley that the great man,
foretold from ages long ago, who was to bear a resemblance to the Great Stone
Face, had appeared at last. It seems that, many years before, a young man had left
the valley and settled at a distant seaport, where, after getting together a little
money, he had set up as a shopkeeper. His name—but I could never learn whether it
was his real one, or a nickname that had grown out of his habits and success in life
—was Gathergold.
It might be said of him, as of vMidas in the fable, that whatever he touched
with his finger immediately glistened, and grew yellow, and was changed at once
into coin. And when Mr. Gathergold had become so rich that it would have taken
him a hundred years only to count his wealth, he bethought himself of his native
valley, and resolved to go back thither, and end his days where he was born. With
this purpose in view, he sent a skillful architect to build him such a palace as should
be fit for a man of his vast wealth to live in.
As I have said above, it had already been rumored in the valley that Mr.
Gathergold had turned out to be the person so long and vainly looked for, and that
his visage was the perfect and undeniable likeness of the Great Stone Face. People
were the more ready to believe that this must needs be the fact when they beheld
the splendid edifice that rose, as if by enchantment, on the site of his father’s old
weather-beaten farmhouse. The exterior was of marble, so dazzling white that it
seemed as though the whole structure might melt away in the sunshine, like those
humbler ones which Mr. Gathergold, in his young playdays, had been accustomed
to build of snow. It had a richly ornamented portico, supported by tall pillars,
beneath which was a lofty door, studded with silver knobs, and made of a kind of
variegated wood that had been brought from beyond the sea. The windows, from
the floor to the ceiling of each stately apartment, were each composed of but one
enormous pane of glass. Hardly anybody had been permitted to see the interior of
this palace; but it was reported to be far more gorgeous than the outside, insomuch
that whatever was iron or brass in other houses was silver or gold in this; and Mr.
Gathergold’s bedchamber, especially, made such a glittering appearance that no
ordinary man would have been able to close his eyes there. But, on the other hand,
Mr. Gathergold was now so accustomed to wealth that perhaps he could not have
closed his eyes unless where the gleam of it was certain to find its way beneath his
eyelids.
In due time, the mansion was finished; next came the upholsterers, with
magnificent furniture; then a whole troop of black and white servants, the
harbingers of Mr. Gathergold, who, in his own majestic person, was expected to
arrive at sunset. Our friend Ernest, meanwhile, had been deeply stirred by the idea
that the great man, the noble man, the man of prophecy, after so many ages of
delay, was at length to appear in his native valley. He knew, boy as he was, that
there were a thousand ways in which Mr. Gathergold, with his vast wealth, might
transform himself into an angel of beneficence, and assume a control over human
affairs as wide and vbenignant as the smile of the Great Stone Face. Full of faith
and hope, Ernest doubted not that what the people said was true, and that now he
was to behold the living likeness of those wondrous features on the mountain side.
While the boy was still gazing up the valley, and fancying, as he always did, that
the Great Stone Face returned his gaze and looked kindly at him, the rumbling of
wheels was heard, approaching swiftly along the winding road.
“Here he comes!” cried a group of people who were assembled to witness the
arrival. “Here comes the great Mr. Gathergold!”
A carriage, drawn by four horses, dashed round the turn of the road. Within it,
thrust partly out of the window, appeared the face of a little old man, with a skin as
yellow as gold. He had a low forehead, small, sharp eyes, puckered about with
innumerable wrinkles, and very thin lips, which he made still thinner by pressing
them forcibly together.
“The very image of the Great Stone Face!” shouted the people. “Sure enough,
the old prophecy is true.”
And, what greatly perplexed Ernest, they seemed actually to believe that here
was the likeness which they spoke of. By the roadside there chanced to be an old
beggar woman and two little beggar children, stragglers from some far-off region,
who, as the carriage rolled onward, held out their hands and lifted up their doleful
voices, most piteously beseeching charity. A yellow claw—the very same that had
clawed together so much wealth—poked itself out of the coach window, and
dropped some copper coins upon the ground; so that, though the great man’s name
seems to have been Gathergold, he might just as suitably have been nicknamed
Scattercopper. Still, nevertheless, with an earnest shout, and evidently with as much
good faith as ever, the people bellowed:
“He is the very image of the Great Stone Face!”
But Ernest turned sadly from the wrinkled shrewdness of that visage and
gazed up the valley, where, amid a gathering mist, gilded by the last sunbeams, he
could still distinguish those glorious features which had impressed themselves into
his soul. Their aspect cheered him. What did the benign lips seem to say?
“He will come! Fear not, Ernest; the man will come!”
The years went on, and Ernest ceased to be a boy. He had grown to be a young
man now. He attracted little notice from the other inhabitants of the valley, for they
saw nothing remarkable in his way of life, save that, when the labor of the day was
over, he still loved to go apart and gaze and meditate upon the Great Stone Face.
According to their idea of the matter, however, it was a pardonable folly, for Ernest
was industrious, kind, and neighborly, and neglected no duty for the sake of this
idle habit. They knew not that the Great Stone Face had become a teacher to him,
and that the sentiment which was expressed in it would enlarge the young man’s
heart, and fill it with wider and deeper sympathies than other hearts. They knew not
that thence would come a better wisdom than could be learned from books, and a
better life than could be molded on the example of other human lives. Neither did
Ernest know that the thoughts and affections which came to him so naturally, in the
fields and at the fireside, were of a higher tone than those which all men shared
with him. A simple soul,—simple as when his mother first taught him the old
prophecy,—he beheld the marvelous features beaming down the valley, and still
wondered that their human counterpart was so long in making his appearance.
By this time poor Mr. Gathergold was dead and buried; and the oddest part of
the matter was that his wealth, which was the body and spirit of his existence, had
disappeared before his death, leaving nothing of him but a living skeleton, covered
over with a wrinkled, yellow skin. Since the melting away of his gold, it had been
very generally allowed that there was no such striking resemblance, after all,
betwixt the ignoble features of the ruined merchant and that majestic face upon the
mountain side. So the people ceased to honor him during his lifetime, and quietly
forgot him after his decease. Once in a while, it is true, his memory was brought up
in connection with the magnificent palace which he had built, and which had long
ago been turned into a hotel for the accommodation of strangers, multitudes of
whom came, every summer, to visit that famous natural curiosity, the Great Stone
Face. The man of prophecy was yet to come.

III
It so happened that a native-born son of the valley, many years before, had
enlisted as a soldier, and, after a great deal of hard fighting, had now become an
illustrious commander. Whatever he may be called in history, he was known in
camps and on the battlefield under the nickname of Old Blood-and-Thunder. This
war-worn veteran, being now weary of a military life, and of the roll of the drum
and the clangor of the trumpet that had so long been ringing in his ears, had lately
signified a purpose of returning to his native valley, hoping to find repose where he
remembered to have left it. The inhabitants, his old neighbors and their grown-up
children, were resolved to welcome the vrenowned warrior with a salute of cannon
and a public dinner; and all the more enthusiastically because it was believed that at
last the likeness of the Great Stone Face had actually appeared. A friend of Old
Blood-and-Thunder, traveling through the valley, was said to have been struck with
the resemblance. Moreover, the schoolmates and early acquaintances of the general
were ready to testify, on oath, that, to the best of their recollection, the general had
been exceedingly like the majestic image, even when a boy, only that the idea had
never occurred to them at that period. Great, therefore, was the excitement
throughout the valley; and many people, who had never once thought of glancing at
the Great Stone Face for years before, now spent their time in gazing at it, for the
sake of knowing exactly how General Blood-and-Thunder looked.
On the day of the great festival, Ernest, and all the other people of the valley,
left their work and proceeded to the spot where the banquet was prepared. As he
approached, the loud voice of the Rev. Dr. Battleblast was heard, beseeching a
blessing on the good things set before them, and on the distinguished friend of
peace in whose honor they were assembled. The tables were arranged in a cleared
space of the woods, shut in by the surrounding trees, except where a vista opened
eastward, and afforded a distant view of the Great Stone Face. Over the general’s
chair, which was a relic from the home of Washington, there was an arch of green
boughs and laurel surmounted by his country’s banner, beneath which he had won
his victories. Our friend Ernest raised himself on his tiptoes, in hopes to get a
glimpse of the celebrated guest; but there was a mighty crowd about the tables
anxious to hear the toasts and speeches, and to catch any word that might fall from
the general in reply; and a volunteer company, doing duty as a guard, pricked with
their bayonets at any particularly quiet person among the throng. So Ernest, being
of a modest character, was thrust quite into the background, where he could see no
more of Old Blood-and-Thunder’s face than if it had been still blazing on the
battlefield. To console himself he turned toward the Great Stone Face, which, like a
faithful and long-remembered friend, looked back and smiled upon him through the
forest. Meantime, however, he could overhear the remarks of various individuals
who were comparing the features of the hero with the face on the distant mountain
side.
“’Tis the same face, to a hair!” cried one man, cutting a caper for joy.
“Wonderfully like, that’s a fact!” responded another.
“Like! Why, I call it Old Blood-and-Thunder himself, in a monstrous looking-
glass!” cried a third. “And why not? He’s the greatest man of this or any other age,
beyond a doubt.”
“The general! The general!” was now the cry. “Hush! Silence! Old Blood-and-
Thunder’s going to make a speech.”
Even so; for, the cloth being removed, the general’s health had been drunk
amid shouts of applause, and he now stood upon his feet to thank the company.
Ernest saw him. There he was, over the shoulders of the crowd, from the two
glittering epaulets and embroidered collar upward, beneath the arch of green
boughs with intertwined laurel, and the banner drooping as if to shade his brow!
And there, too, visible in the same glance, appeared the Great Stone Face! And was
there, indeed, such a resemblance as the crowd had testified? Alas, Ernest could not
recognize it! He beheld a war-worn and weather-beaten countenance, full of energy,
and expressive of an iron will; but the gentle wisdom, the deep, broad, tender
sympathies were altogether wanting in Old Blood-and-Thunder’s visage.
“This is not the man of prophecy,” sighed Ernest to himself, as he made his
way out of the throng. “And must the world wait longer yet?”
The mists had gathered about the distant mountain side, and there were seen
the grand and awful features of the Great Stone Face, awful but benignant, as if a
mighty angel were sitting among the hills and enrobing himself in a cloud vesture
of gold and purple. As he looked, Ernest could hardly believe but that a smile
beamed over the whole visage, with a radiance still brightening, although without
motion of the lips. It was probably the effect of the western sunshine, melting the
thin vapors that had swept between him and the object that he had gazed at. But—
as it always did—the aspect of his marvelous friend made Ernest as hopeful as if he
had never hoped in vain.
“Fear not, Ernest,” said his heart, even as if the Great Face were whispering
him—“fear not, Ernest.”

IV
More years sped swiftly and tranquilly away. Ernest still dwelt in his native
valley, and was now a man of middle age. By slow degrees he had become known
among the people. Now, as heretofore, he labored for his bread, and was the same
simple-hearted man that he had always been. But he had thought and felt so much,
he had given so many of the best hours of his life to unworldly hopes for some
great good to mankind, that it seemed as though he had been talking with the
angels, and had imbibed a portion of their wisdom unawares. It was visible in the
calm beneficence of his daily life, the quiet stream of which had made a wide,
green margin all along its course. Not a day passed by that the world was not the
better because this man, humble as he was, had lived. He never stepped aside from
his own path, yet would always reach a blessing to his neighbor. Almost
involuntarily, too, he had become a preacher. The pure and high simplicity of his
thought, which took shape in the good deeds that dropped silently from his hand,
flowered also forth in speech. He uttered truths that molded the lives of those who
heard him. His hearers, it may be, never suspected that Ernest, their own neighbor
and familiar friend, was more than an ordinary man; least of all did Ernest himself
suspect it; but thoughts came out of his mouth that no other human lips had spoken.
When the people’s minds had had a little time to cool, they were ready enough
to acknowledge their mistake in imagining a similarity between General Blood-
and-Thunder and the benign visage on the mountain side. But now, again, there
were reports and many paragraphs in the newspapers, affirming that the likeness of
the Great Stone Face had appeared upon the broad shoulders of a certain eminent
vstatesman. He, like Mr. Gathergold and Old Blood-and-Thunder, was a native of
the valley, but had left it in his early days, and taken up the trades of law and
politics. Instead of the rich man’s wealth and the warrior’s sword he had but a
tongue, and it was mightier than both together. So wonderfully eloquent was he
that, whatever he might choose to say, his hearers had no choice but to believe him;
wrong looked like right, and right like wrong. His voice, indeed, was a magic
instrument: sometimes it rumbled like the thunder; sometimes it warbled like the
sweetest music. In good truth, he was a wondrous man; and when his tongue had
acquired him all other imaginable success,—when it had been heard in halls of
state and in the courts of princes,—after it had made him known all over the world,
even as a voice crying from shore to shore,—it finally persuaded his countrymen to
select him for the presidency. Before this time,—indeed, as soon as he began to
grow celebrated,—his admirers had found out the resemblance between him and
the Great Stone Face; and so much were they struck by it that throughout the
country this distinguished gentleman was known by the name of Old Stony Phiz.
 While his friends were doing their best to make him President, Old Stony
Phiz, as he was called, set out on a visit to the valley where he was born. Of course
he had no other object than to shake hands with his fellow-citizens, and neither
thought nor cared about any effect which his progress through the country might
have upon the election. Magnificent preparations were made to receive the
villustrious statesmen; a cavalcade of horsemen set forth to meet him at the
boundary line of the State, and all the people left their business and gathered along
the wayside to see him pass. Among these was Ernest. Though more than once
disappointed, as we have seen, he had such a hopeful and confiding nature that he
was always ready to believe in whatever seemed beautiful and good. He kept his
heart continually open, and thus was sure to catch the blessing from on high, when
it should come. So now again, as buoyantly as ever, he went forth to behold the
likeness of the Great Stone Face.
The cavalcade came prancing along the road, with a great clattering of hoofs
and a mighty cloud of dust, which rose up so dense and high that the visage of the
mountain side was completely hidden from Ernest’s eyes. All the great men of the
neighborhood were there on horseback: militia officers, in uniform; the member of
congress; the sheriff of the county; the editors of newspapers; and many a farmer,
too, had mounted his patient steed, with his Sunday coat upon his back. It really
was a very brilliant spectacle, especially as there were numerous banners flaunting
over the cavalcade, on some of which were gorgeous portraits of the illustrious
statesman and the Great Stone Face, smiling familiarly at one another, like two
brothers. If the pictures were to be trusted, the resemblance, it must be confessed,
was marvelous. We must not forget to mention that there was a band of music,
which made the echoes of the mountains ring with the loud triumph of its strains,
so that airy and soul-thrilling melodies broke out among all the heights and
hollows, as if every nook of his native valley had found a voice to welcome the
distinguished guest. But the grandest effect was when the far-off mountain
precipice flung back the music; for then the Great Stone Face itself seemed to be
swelling the triumphant chorus, in acknowledgment that, at length, the man of
prophecy was come.
All this while the people were throwing up their hats and shouting with such
enthusiasm that the heart of Ernest kindled up, and he likewise threw up his hat and
shouted as loudly as the loudest, “Huzza for the great man! Huzza for Old Stony
Phiz!” But as yet he had not seen him.
“Here he is now!” cried those who stood near Ernest. “There! There! Look at
Old Stony Phiz and then at the Old Man of the Mountain, and see if they are not as
like as two twin brothers!”
In the midst of all this gallant array came an open vbarouche, drawn by four
white horses; and in the barouche, with his massive head uncovered, sat the
illustrious statesman, Old Stony Phiz himself.
“Confess it,” said one of Ernest’s neighbors to him, “the Great Stone Face has
met its match at last!”
Now, it must be owned that, at his first glimpse of the countenance which was
bowing and smiling from the barouche, Ernest did fancy that there was a
resemblance between it and the old familiar face upon the mountain side. The brow,
with its massive depth and loftiness, and all the other features, indeed, were bold
and strong. But the grand expression of a divine sympathy that illuminated the
mountain visage might here be sought in vain.
Still Ernest’s neighbor was thrusting his elbow into his side, and pressing him
for an answer.
“Confess! Confess! Is not he the very picture of your Old Man of the
Mountain?”
“No!” said Ernest, bluntly; “I see little or no likeness.”
“Then so much the worse for the Great Stone Face!” answered his neighbor.
And again he set up a shout for Old Stony Phiz.
But Ernest turned away, melancholy, and almost despondent; for this was the
saddest of his disappointments, to behold a man who might have fulfilled the
prophecy, and had not willed to do so. Meantime, the cavalcade, the banners, the
music, and the barouches swept past him, with the shouting crowd in the rear,
leaving the dust to settle down, and the Great Stone Face to be revealed again, with
the grandeur that it had worn for untold centuries.
“Lo, here I am, Ernest!” the benign lips seemed to say. “I have waited longer
than thou, and am not yet weary. Fear not; the man will come.”

V
The years hurried onward, treading in their haste on one another’s heels. And
now they began to bring white hairs and scatter them over the head of Ernest; they
made wrinkles across his forehead and furrows in his cheeks. He was an aged man.
But not in vain had he grown old; more than the white hairs on his head were the
wise thoughts in his mind. And Ernest had ceased to be obscure. Unsought for,
undesired, had come the fame which so many seek, and made him known in the
great world, beyond the limits of the valley in which he had dwelt so quietly.
College professors, and even the active men of cities, came from far to see and
converse with Ernest; for the report had gone abroad that this simple farmer had
ideas unlike those of other men, and a tranquil majesty as if he had been talking
with the angels as his daily friends. Ernest received these visitors with the gentle
sincerity that had marked him from boyhood, and spoke freely with them of
whatever came uppermost, or lay deepest in his heart or their own. While they
talked together his face would kindle and shine upon them, as with a mild evening
light. When his guests took leave and went their way, and passing up the valley,
paused to look at the Great Stone Face, they imagined that they had seen its
likeness in a human countenance, but could not remember where.
While Ernest had been growing up and growing old, a bountiful Providence
had granted a new poet to this earth. He, likewise, was a native of the valley, but
had spent the greater part of his life at a distance from that romantic region, pouring
out his sweet music amid the bustle and din of cities. Often, however, did the
mountains which had been familiar to him in his childhood lift their snowy peaks
into the clear atmosphere of his poetry. Neither was the Great Stone Face forgotten,
for he had celebrated it in a poem which was grand enough to have been uttered by
its lips.
 The songs of this poet found their way to Ernest. He read them after his
customary toil, seated on the bench before his cottage door, where for such a length
of time he had filled his repose with thought, by gazing at the Great Stone Face.
And now, as he read stanzas that caused the soul to thrill within him, he lifted his
eyes to the vast countenance beaming on him so benignantly.
“O majestic friend,” he said, addressing the Great Stone Face, “is not this man
worthy to resemble thee?”
The Face seemed to smile, but answered not a word.
Now it happened that the poet, though he dwelt so far away, had not only
heard of Ernest, but had meditated much upon his character, until he deemed
nothing so desirable as to meet this man whose untaught wisdom walked hand in
hand with the noble simplicity of his life. One summer morning, therefore, he took
passage by the railroad, and, in the decline of the afternoon, alighted from the cars
at no great distance from Ernest’s cottage. The great hotel, which had formerly
been the palace of Mr. Gathergold, was close at hand, but the poet, with his
carpetbag on his arm, inquired at once where Ernest dwelt, and was resolved to be
accepted as his guest.
Approaching the door, he there found the good old man, holding a volume in
his hand, which he read, and then, with a finger between the leaves, looked
lovingly at the Great Stone Face.
“Good evening,” said the poet. “Can you give a traveler a night’s lodging?”
“Willingly,” answered Ernest. And then he added, smiling, “Methinks I never
saw the Great Stone Face look so hospitably at a stranger.”
The poet sat down on the bench beside him, and he and Ernest talked together.
Often had the poet conversed with the wittiest and the wisest, but never before with
a man like Ernest, whose thoughts and feelings gushed up with such a natural
freedom, and who made great truths so familiar by his simple utterance of them.
Angels, as had been so often said, seemed to have wrought with him at his labor in
the fields; angels seemed to have sat with him by the fireside. So thought the poet.
And Ernest, on the other hand, was moved by the living images which the poet
flung out of his mind, and which peopled all the air about the cottage door with
shapes of beauty.
As Ernest listened to the poet, he imagined that the Great Stone Face was
bending forward to listen, too. He gazed earnestly into the poet’s glowing eyes.
“Who are you, my strangely gifted guest!” he said.
The poet laid his finger on the volume that Ernest had been reading.
“You have read these poems,” said he. “You know me, then,—for I wrote
them.”
Again, and still more earnestly than before, Ernest examined the poet’s
features; then turned toward the Great Stone Face; then back to his guest. But his
countenance fell; he shook his head, and mournfully sighed.
“Wherefore are you sad?” inquired the poet.
 “Because,” replied Ernest, “all through life I have awaited the fulfillment of a
prophecy; and when I read these poems, I hoped that it might be fulfilled in you.”
“You hoped,” answered the poet, faintly smiling, “to find in me the likeness of
the Great Stone Face. And you are disappointed, as formerly with Mr. Gathergold,
and Old Blood-and-Thunder, and Old Stony Phiz. Yes, Ernest, it is my doom. You
must add my name to the illustrious three, and record another failure of your hopes.
For—in shame and sadness do I speak it, Ernest—I am not worthy.”
“And why?” asked Ernest. He pointed to the volume. “Are not those thoughts
divine?”
“You can hear in them the far-off echo of a heavenly song,” replied the poet.
“But my life, dear Ernest, has not corresponded with my thought. I have had grand
dreams, but they have been only dreams, because I have lived—and that, too, by
my own choice—among poor and mean realities. Sometimes even—shall I dare to
say it?—I lack faith in the grandeur, the beauty, and the goodness which my own
works are said to have made more evident in nature and in human life. Why, then,
pure seeker of the good and true, shouldst thou hope to find me in yonder image of
the divine?”
The poet spoke sadly, and his eyes were dim with tears. So, likewise, were
those of Ernest.
At the hour of sunset, as had long been his frequent custom, Ernest was to
speak to an assemblage of the neighboring inhabitants in the open air. He and the
poet, arm in arm, still talking together as they went along, proceeded to the spot. It
was a small nook among the hills, with a gray precipice behind, the stern front of
which was relieved by the pleasant foliage of many creeping plants, that made a
vtapestry for the naked rock by hanging their festoons from all its rugged angles. At
a small elevation above the ground, set in a rich framework of verdure, there
appeared a vniche, spacious enough to admit a human figure. Into this natural
pulpit Ernest ascended and threw a look of familiar kindness around upon his
audience. They stood, or sat, or reclined upon the grass, as seemed good to each,
with the departing sunshine falling over them. In another direction was seen the
Great Stone Face, with the same cheer, combined with the same solemnity, in its
benignant aspect.
Ernest began to speak, giving to the people of what was in his heart and mind.
His words had power, because they accorded with his thoughts; and his thoughts
had reality and depth, because they harmonized with the life which he had always
lived. The poet, as he listened, felt that the being and character of Ernest were a
nobler strain of poetry than he had ever written. His eyes glistening with tears, he
gazed reverentially at the venerable man, and said within himself that never was
there an aspect so worthy of a prophet and a sage as that mild, sweet, thoughtful
countenance with the glory of white hair diffused about it. At a distance, but
distinctly to be seen, high up in the golden light of the setting sun, appeared the
Great Stone Face, with hoary mists around it, like the white hairs around the brow
of Ernest.
At that moment, in sympathy with a thought which he was about to utter, the
face of Ernest assumed a grandeur of expression, so full of benevolence, that the
poet, by an irresistible impulse, threw his arms aloft, and shouted:
 “Behold! Behold! Ernest is himself the likeness of the Great Stone Face!”
Then all the people looked and saw that what the deep-sighted poet said was
true. The prophecy was fulfilled. The man had appeared at last.
NATHANIELHAWTHORNE
.

HELPS TO STUDY
The Great Stone Face is a rock formation in the Franconia Notch of the White
Mountains of New Hampshire, known as “The Old Man of the Mountain.”
I. What picture do you get from Part I? Tell in your own words what the mother told Ernest
about the Great Stone Face. Who had carved the face? How? Find something that is one hundred
feet high, and picture to yourself the immensity of the whole face, judging by the forehead alone.
Describe Ernest’s childhood and his education.

II. What reason had the people for thinking that the great man had come in the person of Mr.
Gathergold? Explain the reference to Midas. What was there in Mr. Gathergold’s appearance and
action to disappoint Ernest? What comforted him? Why were the people willing to believe that Mr.
Gathergold was the image of the Great Stone Face? What caused them to decide that he was not?
What was there to indicate that Ernest would become a great and good man?
III. What new character is now introduced? Wherein was Old Blood-and-Thunder lacking in
resemblance to the Great Stone Face? Compare him with Mr. Gathergold and decide which was the
greater character? How was Ernest comforted in his second disappointment?
IV. What kind of man had Ernest become? What figure comes into the story now? Find a
sentence that gives a clew to the character of Stony Phiz. Compare him with the characters
previously introduced. Why was Ernest more disappointed than before? Where did he again look for
comfort?
V. What changes did the hurrying years bring Ernest? What sentence indicates who the man of
prophecy might be? Who is now introduced in the story? Give the opinion that Ernest and the poet
had of each other. Find the sentence which explains why the poet failed. Who was the first to
recognize in Ernest the likeness to the Great Stone Face? Why did Hawthorne have a poet to make
the discovery? In what way was Ernest great? How had he become so? What trait of Ernest’s
character is shown in the last sentence?
The story is divided into five parts. Make an outline telling what is the topic of each part.

SUPPLEMENTARY READING
The Sketch Book—Washington Irving.
Old Curiosity Shop—Charles Dickens.
Pendennis—William Makepeace Thackeray.
The Snow-Image—Nathaniel Hawthorne.
The Legend Beautiful—Henry W. Longfellow.
William Wilson—Edgar Allan Poe.

Priscilla and John Alden

Priscilla and John Alden
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH

I
In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims,
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,
Clad in
doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with hands behind him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold the glittering weapons of warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber,—
Cutlass and corslet of steel, and his trusty vsword of Damascus.
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of
iron;
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend, and household
companion,
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window;
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion.
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the May Flower.
(Standish takes up a book and reads a moment.)
Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of
Plymouth.
“Look at these arms,” he said, “the warlike weapons that hang here
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!
This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this
breastplate,
Well, I remember the day! once saved my life in a skirmish;
Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet.
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles
Standish
Would at this moment be mold, in the grave in the Flemish
morasses.”
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his
writing:
“Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the
bullet;
He in his mercy preserved you to be our shield and our weapon!”
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:
“See how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;
That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.
Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent vadage;
So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army,
Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,
And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!”
All was silent again; the Captain continued his reading.
Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the
stripling
Writing epistles important to go next day by the May Flower,
Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest, God willing,
Homeward bound with the tidings of all that terrible winter,
Letters written by Alden and full of the name of Priscilla,
Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla.
Every sentence began or closed with the name of Priscilla,
Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the secret
Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the name of Priscilla!
Finally closing his book, with a bang of its vponderous cover,
Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier grounding his musket,
Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the Captain of
Plymouth:
“When you have finished your work, I have something important
to tell you.
Be not however in haste; I can wait; I shall not be impatient!”
Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last of his letters,
Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful attention:
“Speak; for whenever you speak, I am always ready to listen,
Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles Standish.”
Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, and culling his
phrases:
“’Tis not good for a man to be alone, say the Scriptures.
This I have said before, and again and again I repeat it;
Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel it, and say it.
Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary and dreary;
Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of friendship.
Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the maiden Priscilla,
Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to myself, that if ever
There were angels on earth, as there are angels in heaven,
Two have I seen and known; and the angel whose name is Priscilla
Holds in my desolate life the place which the other abandoned.
Long have I cherished the thought, but never have dared to reveal
it,
Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for the most part.
Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth;
Say that a blunt old captain, a man not of words but of actions,
Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier.
Not in these words, you know, but this in short is my meaning;
I am a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases.”
When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair-haired, vtaciturn
stripling,
All aghast at his words, surprised, embarrassed, bewildered,
Trying to mask his dismay by treating the subject with lightness,
Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand still in his bosom,
Thus made answer and spake, or rather stammered than answered:
“Such a message as that, I am sure I should mangle and mar it;
If you would have it well done—I am only repeating your maxim
—
You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others!”
But with the air of a man whom nothing can turn from his purpose,
Gravely shaking his head, made answer the Captain of Plymouth:
“Truly the maxim is good, and I do not mean to gainsay it;
But we must use it discreetly, and not waste powder for nothing.
Now, as I said before, I was never a maker of phrases.
I can march up to a fortress and summon the place to surrender,
But march up to a woman with such a proposal, I dare not.
I’m not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the mouth of a cannon,
But of a thundering No! point-blank from the mouth of a woman,
That I confess I am afraid of, nor am I ashamed to confess it!
Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in the name of our
friendship!”

Then made answer John Alden: “The name of friendship is sacred;

What you demand in that name, I have not the power to deny
you!”
So the strong will prevailed, subduing and molding the gentler,
Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went on his errand.

II
So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand,
Out of the street of the village, and into the paths of the forest,
Into the tranquil woods, where bluebirds and robins were building
Towns in the populous trees, with hanging gardens of vverdure,
Peaceful, vaerial cities of joy and affection and freedom.
All around him was calm, but within him commotion and conflict,
Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous
impulse.

So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand;

Saw the new-built house, and people at work in a meadow;
Heard, as he drew near the door, the musical voice of Priscilla
Singing the hundredth Psalm, the grand old Puritan anthem,
Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and comforting many.
Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maiden
Seated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like a snow-drift
Piled at her knee, her white hands feeding the ravenous spindle,
While with her foot on the treadle she guided the wheel in its
motion.

So he entered the house; and the hum of the wheel and the singing
Suddenly ceased; for Priscilla, aroused by his step on the
threshold,
Rose as he entered, and gave him her hand, in signal of welcome,
Saying, “I knew it was you, when I heard your step in the passage;
For I was thinking of you, as I sat there singing and spinning.”
Awkward and dumb with delight, that a thought of him had been
mingled
Thus in the sacred psalm, that came from the heart of the maiden,
Silent before her he stood.
“I have been thinking all day,” said gently the Puritan maiden,
“Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of the hedgerows of
England,—
They are in blossom now, and the country is all like a garden;
Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of the lark and the
linnet,
Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of neighbors
Going about as of old, and stopping to gossip together.
Kind are the people I live with, and dear to me my religion;
Still my heart is so sad that I wish myself back in Old England.
You will say it is wrong, but I cannot help it; I almost
Wish myself back in Old England, I feel so lonely and wretched.”

Thereupon answered the youth: “Indeed I do not condemn you;

Stouter hearts than a woman’s have quailed in this terrible winter.
Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a stronger to lean on;
So I have come to you now, with an offer and proffer of marriage
Made by a good man and true, Miles Standish the Captain of
Plymouth!”
Thus he delivered his message, the dexterous writer of letters,—
 Did not vembellish the theme, nor array it in beautiful phrases,
But came straight to the point and blurted it out like a schoolboy;
Even the Captain himself could hardly have said it more bluntly.
Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla the Puritan maiden
Looked into Alden’s face, her eyes dilated with wonder,
Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned and rendered her
speechless;
Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence:
“If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me,
Why does he not come himself and take trouble to woo me?
If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!”
Then John Alden began explaining and smoothing the matter,
Making it worse as he went, by saying the Captain was busy,—
Had no time for such things;—such things! the words grating
harshly,
Fell on the ear of Priscilla; and swift as a flash she made answer:
“Has he not time for such things, as you call it, before he is
married,
Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after the wedding?”
Still John Alden went on, unheeding the words of Priscilla,
Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, persuading, expanding.
But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent
language,
Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival,
Archly the maiden smiled, and with eyes overrunning with
laughter,
Said, in a tremulous voice, “Why don’t you speak for yourself,
John?”
With conflicting feelings of love for Priscilla and duty to his friend, Miles Standish, John Alden
does not “speak for himself,” but returns to Plymouth to tell Standish the result of the interview.

Then John Alden spake, and related the wondrous adventure,

From beginning to end, minutely, just as it happened;
How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had sped in his courtship,
Only smoothing a little and softening down her refusal.
But when he came at length to the words Priscilla had spoken,
Words so tender and cruel: “Why don’t you speak for yourself,
John?”
Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped on the floor, till
his armor
Clanged on the wall, where it hung, with a sound of sinister omen.
All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden explosion,
E’en as a hand grenade, that scatters destruction around it.
Wildly he shouted and loud: “John Alden! you have betrayed me!
Me, Miles Standish, your friend! have supplanted, defrauded,
betrayed me!
You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished and loved as a
brother;
Henceforth let there be nothing between us save war, and
implacable hatred!”
 So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and strode about in the
chamber,
Chafing and choking with rage; like cords were the veins on his
temples.
But in the midst of his anger a man appeared at the doorway,
Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent importance,
Rumors of danger and war and hostile incursions of Indians!
Straightway the Captain paused, and, without further question or
parley,
Took from the nail on the wall his sword with its scabbard of iron,
Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frowning fiercely, departed.
Alden was left alone. He heard the clank of the scabbard
Growing fainter and fainter, and dying away in the distance.
Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth into the darkness,
Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that was hot with the insult,
Lifted his eyes to the heavens and, folding his hands as in
childhood,
Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who seeth in secret.

III.
A report comes to the settlement that Miles Standish has been killed in a fight with the Indians.
John Alden, feeling that Standish’s death has freed him from the need of keeping his own love for
Priscilla silent, woos and wins her. At last the wedding-day arrives.

This was the wedding-morn of Priscilla the Puritan maiden.

Friends were assembled together; the Elder and Magistrate also
Graced the scene with their presence, and stood like the Law and
the Gospel,
One with the sanction of earth and one with the blessing of
heaven.
Simple and brief was the wedding, as that of Ruth and of Boaz.
Softly the youth and the maiden repeated the words of betrothal,
Taking each other for husband and wife in the Magistrate’s
presence,
After the Puritan way, and the laudable custom of Holland.
Fervently then, and devoutly, the excellent Elder of Plymouth
Prayed for the hearth and the home, that were founded that day in
affection,
Speaking of life and death, and imploring Divine benedictions.
Lo! when the service was ended, a form appeared on the threshold,
Clad in armor of steel, a somber and sorrowful figure!
Why does the bridegroom start and stare at the strange apparition?
Why does the bride turn pale, and hide her face on his shoulder?
Is it a phantom of air,—a bodiless, spectral illusion?
Is it a ghost from the grave, that has come to forbid the betrothal?
Long had it stood there unseen, a guest uninvited, unwelcomed;
Over its clouded eyes there had passed at times an expression
Softening the gloom and revealing the warm heart hidden beneath
them.
Once it had lifted its hand, and moved its lips, but was silent,
As if an iron will had mastered the fleeting intention;
But when were ended the troth and the prayer and the last
benediction,
Into the room it strode, and the people beheld with amazement
Bodily there in his armor Miles Standish, the Captain of
Plymouth!

Grasping the bridegroom’s hand, he said with emotion, “Forgive

me!
I have been angry and hurt,—too long have I cherished the feeling;
I have been cruel and hard, but now, thank God! it is ended.
Mine is the same hot blood that leaped in the veins of Hugh
Standish,
Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in atoning for error.
Never so much as now was Miles Standish the friend of John
Alden.”
Thereupon answered the bridegroom: “Let all be forgotten
between us,—
All save the dear old friendship, and that shall grow older and
dearer!”
Then the Captain advanced, and, bowing, saluted Priscilla,
Wishing her joy of her wedding, and loudly lauding her husband.
Then he said with a smile: “I should have remembered the adage,
—
If you would be well served, you must serve yourself; and,
moreover,
No man can gather cherries in Kent at the season of Christmas!”

Great was the people’s amazement, and greater yet their rejoicing,
Thus to behold once more the sunburnt face of their Captain,
Whom they had mourned as dead; and they gathered and crowded
about him,
Eager to see him and hear him, forgetful of bride and of
bridegroom,
Questioning, answering, laughing, and each interrupting the other,
Till the good Captain declared, being quite overpowered and
bewildered,
He had rather by far break into an Indian encampment,
Than come again to a wedding to which he had not been invited.
Meanwhile the bridegroom went forth and stood with the bride at
the doorway,
Breathing the perfumed air of that warm and beautiful morning.
Touched with autumnal tints, but lonely and sad in the sunshine,
Lay extended before them the land of toil and privation;
But to their eyes transfigured, it seemed as the Garden of Eden,
Filled with the presence of God, whose voice was the sound of the
ocean.
Soon was their vision disturbed by the noise and stir of departure,
Friends coming forth from the house, and impatient of longer
delaying.
 Then from a stall near at hand, amid exclamations of wonder,
Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud of Priscilla,
Brought out his snow-white bull, obeying the hand of its master,
Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its nostrils,
Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for a saddle.
She should not walk, he said, through the dust and heat of the
noonday;
Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along like a peasant.
Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured by the others,
Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in the hand of her
husband,
Gayly, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted her palfrey.
Onward the bridal procession now moved to the new habitation,
Happy husband and wife, and friends conversing together.
Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring his
splendors,
Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from branches above them
suspended,
Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the fir-
tree,
Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley of vEshcol.
Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pastoral ages,
Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and
Isaac,
Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always,
Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers,
So through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal
procession.
HENRYW.
LONGFELLOW .

HELPS TO STUDY
Miles Standish was one of the early settlers of Plymouth colony. He came over
soon after the landing of the Mayflower and was made captain of the colony
because of his military experience. The feeble settlement was in danger from the
Indians, and Standish’s services were of great importance. He was one of the
leaders of Plymouth for a number of years. Longfellow shaped the legend of his
courtship into one of the most beautiful poems of American literature, vividly
describing the hardships and perils of the early life of New England.
I. Where is the scene of the story laid? At what time did it begin? What is the first impression
you get of Miles Standish? of John Alden? Read the lines that bring out the soldierly qualities of the
one and the studious nature of the other. What lines show that Standish had fought on foreign soil?
Read the lines that show John Alden’s interest in Priscilla. What request did Standish make of
Alden? How was it received? Why did Alden accept the task?
II. What time of the year was it? How do you know? Contrast Alden’s feelings with the scene
around him. What were Priscilla’s feelings toward Alden? Quote lines that show this. How did he
fulfill his task? With what question did Priscilla finally meet his eloquent appeal in behalf of his
friend? How did Standish receive Alden’s report? What interruption occurred?
III. What report brought about the marriage of John Alden and Priscilla? Read the lines that
describe the beauty of their wedding-day. What time of year was it? How do you know? What
custom was followed in the marriage ceremony? Look in the Bible for a description of the marriage
of Ruth and Boaz. Find other biblical references in the poem. Who appeared at the end of the
ceremony? How was he received? Contrast his mood now with the mood when he left to fight the
Indians. What adage did he use to show the difference between his age and Priscilla’s? Describe the
final scene of the wedding—the procession to the new home. Tell what you know of early life in
Massachusetts.

SUPPLEMENTARY READING
Gareth and Lynette—Alfred Tennyson.
The Courtin’—James Russell Lowell.
Evangeline—Henry W. Longfellow.
 THE FRIENDSHIP OF NANTAQUAS
This story is taken from Mary Johnston’s novel, To Have and to Hold, which describes the
early settlement of Virginia. The most important event of this period was the Indian massacre of
1622. For some years the whites and Indians had lived in peace, and it was believed that there would
be no further trouble from the savages. However, Opechancanough, the head chief of the Powhatan
confederacy, formed a plot against the white men and suddenly attacked them with great fury.
Hundreds of the English settlers were slain. The author of the novel, taking the bare outline of the
massacre as given in the early histories, has woven around it the graphic story of Captain Ralph
Percy and his saving of the colony. Percy, unlike Miles Standish, is not a historical character.

I.
A man who hath been a soldier and adventurer into far and strange countries
must needs have faced Death many times and in many guises. I had learned to
know that grim countenance, and to have no great fear of it. The surprise of our
sudden capture by the Indians had now worn away, and I no longer struggled to
loose my bonds, Indian-tied and not to be loosened.
Another slow hour and I bethought me of Diccon, my servant and companion
in captivity, and spoke to him, asking him how he did. He answered from the other
side of the lodge that was our prison, but the words were scarcely out of his mouth
before our guard broke in upon us, commanding silence.
It was now moonlight without the lodge and very quiet. The night was far
gone; already we could smell the morning, and it would come apace. Knowing the
swiftness of that approach and what the early light would bring, I strove for a
courage which should be the steadfastness of the Christian and not the vainglorious
pride of the heathen.
Suddenly, in the first gray dawn, as at a trumpet’s call, the village awoke.
From the long communal houses poured forth men, women, and children; fires
sprang up, dispersing the mist, and a commotion arose through the length and
breadth of the place. The women made haste with their cooking and bore maize
cakes and broiled fish to the warriors, who sat on the ground in front of the royal
lodge. Diccon and I were loosed, brought without, and allotted our share of the
food. We ate sitting side by side with our captors, and Diccon, with a great cut
across his head, even made merry.
In the usual order of things in an Indian village, the meal over, tobacco should
have followed. But now not a pipe was lit, and the women made haste to take away
the platters and to get all things in readiness for what was to follow. The
vwerowance of the vPaspaheghs rose to his feet, cast aside his mantle, and began to
speak. He was a man in the prime of life, of a great figure, strong as a
vSusquehannock, and a savage cruel and crafty beyond measure. Over his breast,
stained with strange figures, hung a chain of small bones, and the scalp locks of his
enemies fringed his moccasins. No player could be more skillful in gesture and
expression, no poet more nice in the choice of words, no general more quick to
raise a wild enthusiasm in the soldiers to whom he called. All Indians are eloquent,
but this savage was a leader among them.
He spoke now to some effect. Commencing with a day in the moon of
blossoms when for the first time winged canoes brought white men into the
vPowhatan, he came down through year after year to the present hour, ceased, and
stood in silence, regarding his triumph. It was complete. In its wild excitement the
village was ready then and there to make an end of us, who had sprung to our feet
and stood with our backs against a great bay tree, facing the maddened throng.
Much the best would it be for us if the tomahawks left the hands that were drawn
back to throw, if the knives that were flourished in our faces should be buried to the
haft in our hearts; and so we courted death, striving with word and look to infuriate
our executioners to the point of forgetting their former purpose in the passion for
instant vengeance. It was not to be. The werowance spoke again, pointing to the
hills which were dimly seen through the mist. A moment, and the hands clenched
upon the weapons fell; another, and we were upon the march.
As one man, the village swept through the forest toward the rising ground that
was but a few bowshots away. The young men bounded ahead to make the
preparation; but the approved warriors and the old men went more sedately, and
with them walked Diccon and I, as steady of step as they. The women and children
for the most part brought up the rear, though a few impatient hags ran past us. One
of these women bore a great burning torch, the flame and smoke streaming over her
shoulder as she ran. Others carried pieces of bark heaped with the vslivers of pine
of which every wigwam has store.
The sun was yet to rise when we reached a hollow amongst the low red hills.
The place was a natural amphitheater, well fitted for a spectacle. Those Indians who
could not crowd into the narrow level spread themselves over the rising ground and
looked down with fierce laughter upon the driving of the stakes which the young
men had brought. The women and children scattered into the woods beyond the
cleft between the hills and returned bearing great armfuls of dry branches. Taunting
laughter, cries of savage triumph, the shaking of rattles, and the furious beating of
two great drums combined to make a clamor deafening me to stupor. Above the
horizon was the angry reddening of the heavens and the white mist curling up like
smoke.
I sat down beside Diccon on the log. I did not speak to him, nor he to me;
there seemed no need of speech. In the vpandemonium to which the world had
narrowed, the one familiar, matter-of-course thing was that he and I were to die
together.
The stakes were in the ground and painted red, the wood was properly fixed.
The Indian woman who held the torch that was to light the pile ran past us, whirling
the wood around her head to make it blaze more fiercely. As she went by she
lowered the brand and slowly dragged it across my wrists. The beating of the drums
suddenly ceased, and the loud voices died away.
Seeing that they were coming for us, Diccon and I rose to await them. When
they were nearly upon us, I turned to him and held out my hand.
 He made no motion to take it. Instead, he stood with fixed eyes looking past
me and slightly upward. A sudden pallor had overspread the bronze of his face.
“There’s a verse somewhere,” he said in a quiet voice,—“it’s in the Bible, I
think—I heard it once long ago: ‘I will look unto the hills from whence cometh my
help.’ Look, sir!”
I turned and followed with my eyes the pointing of his finger. In front of us the
bank rose steeply, bare to the summit,—no trees, only the red earth, with here and
there a low growth of leafless bushes. Behind it was the eastern sky. Upon the crest,
against the sunrise, stood the figure of a man—an Indian. From one shoulder hung
an otterskin, and a great bow was in his hand. His limbs were bare, and as he stood
motionless, bathed in the rosy light, he looked like some bronze god, perfect from
the beaded moccasins to the calm, uneager face below the feathered head-dress. He
had but just risen above the brow of the hill; the Indians in the hollow saw him not.
While Diccon and I stared, our tormentors were upon us. They came a dozen
or more at once, and we had no weapons. Two hung on my arms, while a third laid
hold of my doublet to rend it from me. An arrow whistled over our heads and stuck
into a tree behind us. The hands that clutched me dropped, and with a yell the busy
throng turned their faces in the direction whence had come the arrow.
The Indian who had sent that dart before him was descending the bank. An
instant’s breathless hush while they stared at the solitary figure; then the dark forms
bent forward for the rush straightened, and there arose a cry of recognition. “The
son of Powhatan! The son of Powhatan!”
He came down the hillside to the level of the hollow, the authority of his look
and gesture making way for him through the crowd that surged this way and that,
and walked up to us where we stood, hemmed round but no longer in the clutch of
our enemies.
“You were never more welcome, Nantaquas,” I said to him, heartily.
Taking my hand in his, the chief turned to his frowning countrymen. “Men of
the vPamunkeys!” he cried, “this is Nantaquas’ friend, and so the friend of all the
tribes that called Powhatan ‘father.’ The fire is not for him nor for his servant; keep
it for the vMonacans and for the dogs of the vLong House! The calumet is for the
friend of Nantaquas, and the dance of the maidens, the noblest buck and the best of
the fish-weirs.”
There was a surging forward of the Indians and a fierce murmur of dissent.
The werowance, standing out from the throng, lifted his voice. “There was a time,”
he cried, “when Nantaquas was the panther crouched upon the bough above the
leader of the herd; now Nantaquas is a tame panther and rolls at the white men’s
feet! There was a time when the word of the son of Powhatan weighed more than
the lives of many dogs such as these, but I know not why we should put out the fire
at his command! He is war chief no longer, for vOpechancanough will have no
tame panther to lead the tribes. Opechancanough is our head, and he kindleth a fire
indeed. We will give to this man what fuel we choose, and to-night Nantaquas may
look for his bones!”
 He ended, and a great clamor arose. The Paspaheghs would have cast
themselves upon us again but for a sudden action of the young chief, who had stood
motionless, with raised hand and unmoved face, during the werowance’s bitter
speech. Now he flung up his hand, and in it was a bracelet of gold, carved and
twisted like a coiled snake and set with a green stone. I had never seen the toy
before, but evidently others had. The excited voices fell, and the Indians,
Pamunkeys and Paspaheghs alike, stood as though turned to stone.
Nantaquas smiled coldly. “This day hath Opechancanough made me war chief
again. We have smoked the peace pipe together—my father’s brother and I—in the
starlight, sitting before his lodge, with the wide marshes and the river dark at our
feet. Singing birds in the forest have been many; evil tales have they told;
Opechancanough has stopped his ears against their false singing. My friends are his
friends, my brother is his brother, my word is his word: witness the armlet that hath
no like. Opechancanough is at hand; he comes through the forest with his two
hundred warriors. Will you, when you lie at his feet, have him ask you, ‘Where is
the friend of my friend, of my war chief?’”
There came a long, deep breath from the Indians, then a silence in which they
fell back, slowly and sullenly—whipped hounds but with the will to break that
leash of fear.
“Hark!” said Nantaquas, smiling. “I hear Opechancanough and his warriors
coming over the leaves.”
The noise of many footsteps was indeed audible, coming toward the hollow
from the woods beyond. With a burst of cries, the priests and the conjurer whirled
away to bear the welcome of Okee to the royal worshipper, and at their heels went
the chief men of the Pamunkeys. The werowance of the Paspaheghs was one that
sailed with the wind; he listened to the deepening sound and glanced at the son of
Powhatan where he stood, calm and confident, then smoothed his own countenance
and made a most pacific speech, in which all the blame of the late proceedings was
laid upon the singing birds. When he had done speaking, the young men tore the
stakes from the earth and threw them into a thicket, while the women plucked apart
the newly kindled fire and flung the brands into a little nearby stream, where they
went out in a cloud of hissing steam.
I turned to the Indian who had wrought this miracle. “Art sure it is not a
dream, Nantaquas? I think that Opechancanough would not lift a finger to save me
from all the deaths the tribes could invent.”
“Opechancanough is very wise,” he answered quietly. “He says that now the
English will believe in his love indeed when they see that he holds dear even one
who might be called his enemy, who hath spoken against him at the Englishmen’s
council fire. He says that for five suns Captain Percy shall feast with him, and then
shall go back free to Jamestown. He thinks that then Captain Percy will not speak
against him any more, calling his love to the white men only words with no good
deeds behind.”
He spoke simply, out of the nobility of his nature, believing his own speech. I
that was older, and had more knowledge of men and the masks they wear, was but
half deceived. My belief in the hatred of the dark emperor was not shaken, and I
looked yet to find the drop of poison within this honey flower. How poisoned was
that bloom, God knows I could not guess!
By this time we three were alone in the hollow, for all the savages, men and
women, had gone forth to meet the Indian whose word was law from the falls of the
far west to the Chesapeake. The sun now rode above the low hills, pouring its gold
into the hollow and brightening all the world besides. A chant raised by the Indians
grew nearer, and the rustling of the leaves beneath many feet more loud and deep;
then all noise ceased and Opechancanough entered the hollow alone. An eagle
feather was thrust through his scalp lock; over his naked breast, which was neither
painted nor pricked into strange figures, hung a triple row of pearls; his mantle was
woven of bluebird feathers, as soft and sleek as satin. The face of this barbarian
was as dark, cold, and impassive as death. Behind that changeless mask, as in a safe
retreat, the subtle devil that was the man might plot destruction and plan the laying
of dreadful mines.
I stepped forward and met him on the spot where the fire had been. For a
minute neither spoke. It was true that I had striven against him many a time, and I
knew that he knew it. It was also true that without his aid Nantaquas could not have
rescued us from that dire peril. And it was again the truth that an Indian neither
forgives nor forgets. He was my saviour, and I knew that mercy had been shown for
some dark reason which I could not divine. Yet I owed him thanks and gave them
as shortly and simply as I could.
He heard me out with neither liking nor disliking nor any other emotion
written upon his face; but when I had finished, as though he had suddenly
bethought himself, he smiled and held out his hand, white-man fashion.
“Singing birds have lied to Captain Percy,” he said. “Opechancanough thinks
that Captain Percy will never listen to them again. The chief of the Powhatans is a
lover of the white men, of the English, and of other white men. He would call the
Englishmen his brothers and be taught of them how to rule and to whom to pray”—
“Let Opechancanough go with me to Jamestown,” I replied. “He hath the
wisdom of the woods; let him come and gain that of the town.”
The emperor smiled again. “I will come to Jamestown soon, but not to-day or
to-morrow or the next day. And Captain Percy must smoke the peace pipe in my
lodge above the Pamunkey and watch my young men and maidens dance, and eat
with me five days. Then he may go back to Jamestown with presents for the great
white father there and with a message from me that I am coming soon to learn of
the white man.”
For five days I tarried in the great chief’s lodge in his own village above the
marshes of the Pamunkey. I will allow that the dark emperor to whom we were so
much beholden gave us courteous keeping. The best of the hunt was ours, the
noblest fish, the most delicate roots. We were alive and sound of limb, well treated
and with the promise of release; we might have waited, seeing that wait we must, in
some measure of content. We did not so. There was a horror in the air. From the
marshes that were growing green, from the sluggish river, from the rotting leaves
and cold black earth and naked forest, it rose like an vexhalation. We knew not
what it was, but we breathed it in, and it went to the marrow of our bones.
The savage emperor we rarely saw, though we were bestowed so near to him
that his sentinels served for ours. Like some god, he kept within his lodge, the
hanging mats between him and the world without. At other times, issuing from that
retirement, he would stride away into the forest. Picked men went with him, and
they were gone for hours; but when they returned they bore no trophies, brute or
human. What they did we could not guess. If escape had been possible, we would
not have awaited the doubtful fulfillment of the promise made us. But the vigilance
of the Indians never slept; they watched us like hawks, night and day.
In the early morning of the fifth day, when we came from our wigwam, it was
to find Nantaquas sitting by the fire, magnificent in the paint and trappings of the
ambassador, motionless as a piece of bronze and apparently quite unmindful of the
admiring glances of the women who knelt about the fire preparing our breakfast.
When he saw us he rose and came to meet us, and I embraced him, I was so glad to
see him.
“The Rappahannocks feasted me long,” he said. “I was afraid that Captain
Percy would be gone to Jamestown before I was back on the Pamunkey.”
“Shall I ever see Jamestown again, Nantaquas?” I demanded. “I have my
doubts.”
He looked me full in the eyes, and there was no doubting the candor of his
own. “You go with the next sunrise,” he answered. “Opechancanough has given me
his word.”
“I am glad to hear it,” I said. “Why have we been kept at all? Why did he not
free us five days agone?”
He shook his head. “I do not know. Opechancanough has many thoughts
which he shares with no man. But now he will send you with presents for the
governor, and with messages of his love for the white men. There will be a great
feast to-day, and to-night the young men and maidens will dance before you. Then
in the morning you will go.”
When we had sat by the fire for an hour, the old men and the warriors came to
visit us, and the smoking began. The women laid mats in a great half circle, and
each savage took his seat with perfect breeding: that is, in absolute silence and with
a face like a stone. The peace paint was upon them all—red, or red and white—and
they sat and looked at the ground until I had made the speech of welcome. Soon the
air was dense with fragrant smoke; in the thick blue haze the sweep of painted
figures had the seeming of some fantastic dream. An old man arose and made a
long and touching speech, with much reference to calumets and buried hatchets.
Then they waited for my contribution of honeyed words. The Pamunkeys, living at
a distance from the settlements, had but little English, and the learning of the
Paspaheghs was not much greater. I repeated to them the better part of a canto of
Master Spenser’s Faery Queen, after which I told them the moving story of the
Moor of Venice. It answered the purpose to admiration.
The day wore on, with relay after relay of food, which we must taste at least,
with endless smoking of pipes and speeches which must be listened to and
answered. When evening came and our entertainers drew off to prepare for the
dance, they left us as wearied as by a long day’s march.
Suddenly, as we sat staring at the fire, we were beset by a band of maidens,
coming out of the woods, painted, with antlers upon their heads and pine branches
in their hands. They danced about us, now advancing until the green needles met
above our heads, now retreating until there was a space of turf between us. They
moved with grace, keeping time to a plaintive song, now raised by the whole choir,
now fallen to a single voice.
The Indian girls danced more and more swiftly, and their song changed,
becoming gay and shrill and sweet. Higher and higher rang the notes, faster and
faster moved the dark feet; then quite suddenly song and motion ceased together.
From the darkness now came a burst of savage cries only less appalling than the
war whoop itself. In a moment the men of the village had rushed from the shadow
of the trees into the broad, firelit space before us. They circled around us, then
around the fire; now each man danced and stamped and muttered to himself. For
the most part they were painted red, but some were white from head to heel—
statues come to life—while others had first oiled their bodies, then plastered them
over with small, bright-colored feathers.
Diccon and I watched that uncouth spectacle, that Virginian vmasque, as we
had watched many another one, with disgust and weariness. It would last, we knew,
for the better part of the night. For a time we must stay and testify our pleasure, but
after a while we might retire, and leave the women and children the sole spectators.
They never wearied of gazing at the rhythmic movement.
I observed that among the ranks of the women one girl watched not the
dancers but us. Now and then she glanced impatiently at the wheeling figures, but
her eyes always returned to us. At length I became aware that she must have some
message to deliver or warning to give. Once when I made a slight motion as if to go
to her, she shook her head and laid her finger on her lips.
Presently I rose and, making my way to the werowance of the village, where
he sat with his eyes fixed on the spectacle, told him that I was wearied and would
go to my hut, to rest for the few hours that yet remained of the night. He listened
dreamily, but made no offer to escort me. After a moment he acquiesced in my
departure, and Diccon and I quietly left the press of savages and began to cross the
firelit turf between them and our lodge. When we had reached its entrance, we
paused and looked back to the throng we had left. Every back seemed turned to us,
every eye intent upon the leaping figures. Swiftly and silently we walked across the
bit of even ground to the friendly trees and found ourselves in a thin strip of
shadow. Beneath the trees, waiting for us, was the Indian maid. She would not
speak or tarry, but flitted before us as dusk and noiseless as a moth, and we
followed her into the darkness beyond the firelight. Here a wigwam rose in our
path; the girl, holding aside the mats that covered the entrance, motioned to us to
enter. A fire was burning within the lodge and it showed us Nantaquas standing
with folded arms.
“Nantaquas!” I exclaimed, and would have touched him but that with a slight
motion of his hand he kept me back.
“Well!” I asked at last. “What is the matter, my friend?”
For a full minute he made no answer, and when he did speak his voice
matched his strained and troubled features.
“My friend,” he said, “I am going to show myself a friend indeed to the
English, to the strangers who were not content with their own hunting-grounds
beyond the great salt water. When I have done this, I do not know that Captain
Percy will call me ‘friend’.”
“You were wont to speak plainly, Nantaquas,” I answered him. “I am not fond
of riddles.”
Again he waited, as though he found speech difficult. I stared at him in
amazement, he was so changed in so short a time.
He spoke at last: “When the dance is over and the fires are low and the sunrise
is at hand, Opechancanough will come to you to bid you farewell. He will give you
the pearls he wears about his neck for a present to the governor and a bracelet for
yourself. Also he will give you three men for a guard through the forest. He has
messages of love to send the white men, and he would send them by you who were
his enemy and his captive. So all the white men shall believe in his love.”
“Well!” I said drily as he paused. “I will bear the messages. What next?”
“Your guards will take you slowly through the forest, stopping to eat and
sleep. For them there is no need to run like the stag with the hunter behind it.”
“Then we should make for Jamestown as for life,” I said, “not sleeping or
eating or making pause?”
“Yes,” he replied, “if you would not die, you and all your people.”
In the silence of the hut the fire crackled, and the branches of the trees outside,
bent by the wind, made a grating sound against the bark roof.
“How die?” I asked at last. “Speak out!”
“Die by the arrow and the tomahawk,” he answered,—“yea, and by the guns
you have given the red men. To-morrow’s sun, and the next, and the next—three
suns—and the tribes will fall upon the English. At the same hour, when the men are
in the fields and the women and children are in the houses, they will strike—all the
tribes, as one man; and from where the Powhatan falls over the rocks to the salt
water beyond Accomac, there will not be one white man left alive.”
He ceased to speak, and for a minute the fire made the only sound in the hut.
Then I asked, “All die? There are three thousand Englishmen in Virginia.”
“They are scattered and unwarned. The fighting men of the villages of the
Powhatan and the Pamunkey and the great bay are many, and they have sharpened
their hatchets and filled their quivers with arrows.”
“Scattered!” I cried. “Strewn broadcast up and down the river—here a lonely
house, there a cluster of two or three—the men in the fields or at the wharves, the
women and children busy within doors, all unwarned!”
I leaned against the side of the hut, for my heart beat like a frightened
woman’s. “Three days!” I exclaimed. “If we go with all our speed, we shall be in
time. When did you learn this thing?”
“While you watched the dance,” the Indian answered, “Opechancanough and I
sat within his lodge in the darkness. His heart was moved, and he talked to me of
his own youth in a strange country, south of the sunset. Also he spoke to me of
Powhatan, my father—of how wise he was and how great a chief before the
English came, and how he hated them. And then—then I heard what I have told
you!”
“How long has this been planned?”
“For many moons. I have been a child, fooled and turned aside from the trail;
not wise enough to see it beneath the flowers, through the smoke of the peace
pipes.”
“Why does Opechancanough send us back to the settlements?” I demanded.
“It is his fancy. Every hunter and trader and learner of our tongues, living in
the villages or straying in the woods, has been sent back to Jamestown or his home
with presents and fair words. You will lull the English in Jamestown into a faith in
the smiling sky just before the storm bursts on them in fullest fury.”
There was a pause.
“Nantaquas,” I said, “you are not the first child of Powhatan who has loved
and shielded the white men.”
“Pocahontas was a woman, a child,” he answered. “Out of pity she saved your
lives, not knowing that it was to the hurt of her people. Then you were few and
weak and could not take your revenge. Now, if you die not, you will drink deep of
vengeance—so deep that your lips may never leave the cup. More ships will come,
and more; you will grow ever stronger. There may come a moon when the deep
forests and the shining rivers will know us, to whom vKiwassa gave them, no
more.”
“You will be with your people in the war?” I asked.
“I am an Indian,” was his simple reply.
“Come against us if you will,” I returned. “Nobly warned, fair upon our guard,
we will meet you as knightly foe should be met.”
Very slowly he raised his arm from his side and held out his hand. His eyes
met mine in somber inquiry, half eager, half proudly doubtful. I went to him at once
and took his hand in mine. No word was spoken. Presently he withdrew his hand
from my clasp, and, putting his finger to his lips, whistled low to the Indian girl.
She drew aside the mats, and we passed out, Diccon and I, leaving him standing as
we had found him, upright against the post, in the red firelight.
Should we ever go through the woods, pass through that gathering storm,
reach Jamestown, warn them there of the death that was rushing upon them?
Should we ever leave that hated village? Would the morning ever come? It was an
alarm that was sounding, and there were only two to hear; miles away beneath the
mute stars English men and women lay asleep, with the hour thundering at their
gates, and there was none to cry, “Awake!” I could have cried out in that agony of
waiting, with the leagues on leagues to be traveled and the time so short! I saw, in
my mind’s eye, the dark warriors gathering, tribe on tribe, war party on war party,
thick crowding shadows of death, slipping through the silent forest ... and in the
clearings the women and children!
 It came to an end, as all things earthly will. When the ruffled pools amid the
marshes were rosy red beneath the sunrise, the women brought us food, and the
warriors and old men gathered about us. I offered them bread and meat and told
them that they must come to Jamestown to taste the white man’s cookery.
Scarcely was the meal over when Opechancanough issued from his lodge, and,
coming slowly up to us, took his seat upon the white mat that was spread for him.
Through his scalp lock was stuck an eagle’s feather; across his face, from temple to
chin, was a bar of red paint; the eyes above were very bright and watchful.
One of his young men brought a great pipe, carved and painted, stem and
bowl; it was filled with tobacco, lit, and borne to the emperor. He put it to his lips
and smoked in silence, while the sun climbed higher and higher and the golden
minutes that were more precious than heart’s blood went by swiftly.
At last, his part in the solemn mockery played, he held out the pipe to me.
“The sky will fall, and the rivers will run dry, and the birds cease to sing,” he
said, “before the smoke of this peace-pipe fades from the land.”
I took the symbol of peace and smoked it as silently and soberly as he had
done before me, then laid it leisurely aside and held out my hand.
“Come to Jamestown,” I said, “to smoke of the Englishman’s pipe and receive
rich presents—a red robe like your brother Powhatan, and a cup from which you
shall drink, you and all your people.”
But the cup I meant was that of punishment.
The savage laid his dark fingers in mine for an instant, withdrew them, and,
rising to his feet, motioned to three Indians who stood out from the throng of
warriors.
“These are Captain Percy’s guides and friends,” he announced. “The sun is
high; it is time that he was gone. Here are presents for him and my brother the
governor.” As he spoke, he took from his neck the rope of pearls and from his arm a
copper bracelet, and laid both upon my palm.
“Thank you, Opechancanough,” I said briefly. “When we meet again I will not
greet you with empty thanks.”
We bade farewell to the noisy throng and went down to the river, where we
found a canoe and rowers, crossed the stream, and entered the forest, which
stretched black and forbidding before us—the blacker that we now knew the
dreadful secret it guarded.

II
 After leaving the Indian village, Captain Percy and Diccon found that their guides purposely
delayed the march, so that they would not reach Jamestown until just before the beginning of the
attack, when it would be too late for them to warn the English, if they suspected anything. Percy and
Diccon, in this dilemma, surprised the Indian guides and killed them, then hurried on with all
possible speed toward Jamestown. As they hastened through the forest, Diccon was shot by an
Indian and mortally wounded; Captain Percy remained with him until his death, and again took up
the journey, now alone and greatly fearing that he would arrive too late.

The dusk had quite fallen when I reached the neck of land. Arriving at the
palisade that protected Jamestown, I beat upon the gate and called to the warden to
open. He did so with starting eyes. Giving him a few words and cautioning him to
raise no alarm in the town, I hurried by him into the street and down it toward the
house that was set aside for the governor of Virginia, Sir Francis Wyatt.
The governor’s door was open, and in the hall servingmen were moving to and
fro. When I came in upon them, they cried out as if it had been a ghost, and one
fellow let a silver dish fall to the floor with a clatter. They shook with fright and
stood back as I passed them without a word and went on to the governor’s great
room. The door was ajar, and I pushed it open and stood for a minute on the
threshold. They were all there—the principal men of the colony, the governor, the
vtreasurer, vWest, vJohn Rolfe.

At sight of me the governor sprang to his feet; through the treasurer’s lips
came a long, sighing breath; West’s dark face was ashen. I came forward to the
table, and leaned my weight upon it; for all the waves of the sea were roaring in my
ears and the lights were going up and down.
“Are you man or spirit!” cried Rolfe through white lips. “Are you Ralph
Percy?”
“Yes,” I said, “I am Percy.”
With an effort I drew myself erect, and standing so, told my tidings, quietly
and with circumstance, so as to leave no room for doubt as to their verity, or as to
the sanity of him who brought them. They listened with shaking limbs and gasping
breath; for it was the fall and wiping out of a people of which I brought warning.
When all was told I thought to ask a question myself; but before my tongue
could frame it, the roaring of the sea became so loud that I could hear naught else,
and the lights all ran together into a wheel of fire. Then in a moment all sounds
ceased and to the lights succeeded the blackness of outer darkness.
When I awoke from the sleep into which I must have passed from that swoon,
it was to find myself lying in a room flooded with sunshine. For a moment I lay
still, wondering where I was and how I came there. A drum beat, a dog barked, and
a man’s quick voice gave a command. The sounds stung me into remembrance.
There were many people in the street. Women hurried by to the fort with
white, scared faces, their arms filled with household gear; children ran beside them;
men went to and fro, the most grimly silent, but a few talking loudly.
I could not see the palisade across the neck, but I knew that it was there that
the fight—if fight there were—would be made. Should the Indians take the
palisade, there would yet be the houses of the town, and, last of all, the fort in
which to make a stand. I believed not that they would take it, for Indian warfare ran
more to ambuscade and surprise than to assault in the open field.
The drum beat again, and a messenger from the palisade came down the street
at a run.
“They’re in the woods over against us, thicker than ants!” he cried to West,
who was coming along the way. “A boat has just drifted ashore, with two men in it,
dead and scalped!”
I looked again at the neck of land and the forest beyond, and now, as if by
magic, from the forest and up and down the river as far as the eye could reach, rose
here and there thin columns of smoke. Suddenly, as I stared, three or four white
smoke puffs, like giant flowers, started out of the shadowy woods across the neck.
Following the crack of the muskets—fired out of pure bravado by the Indians—
came the yelling of the savages. The sound was prolonged and deep, as though
issuing from many throats.
The street, when I went out into it, was very quiet. All windows and doors
were closed and barred. The yelling from the forest had ceased for the moment, but
I knew well that it would soon begin with doubled noise. I hurried along the street
to the palisade, where all the men of Jamestown were gathered, armed and
helmeted and breast-plated, waiting for the foe in grim silence.
Through a loophole in the gate of the palisade I looked and saw the sandy
neck joining the town to the mainland, and the deep and dark woods beyond, the
fairy mantle giving invisibility to the foe. I drew back from my loophole and held
out my hand to a woman for a loaded musket. A quick murmur like the drawing of
a breath came from our line. The governor, standing near me, cast an anxious
glance along the stretch of wooden stakes that were neither so high nor so thick as
they should have been.
“I am new to this warfare, Captain Percy,” he said. “Do they think to use those
logs they carry as battering rams?”
“As scaling ladders, your honor,” I replied. “It is possible that we may have
some sword play after all.”
“We’ll take your advice the next time we build a palisade, Ralph Percy,”
muttered West on my other side. Mounting the breastwork that we had thrown up to
shelter the women who were to load the muskets, he coolly looked over the pales at
the oncoming savages.
“Wait until they pass the blasted pine, men!” he cried. “Then give them a hail
of lead that will beat them back to the Pamunkey.”
An arrow whistled by his ear; a second struck him on the shoulder but pierced
not his coat of mail. He came down from his dangerous post with a laugh.
“If the leader could be picked off”—I said. “It’s a long shot, but there’s no
harm in trying.”
As I spoke I raised my gun to my shoulder, but West leaned across Rolfe, who
stood between us, and plucked me by the sleeve.
“You’ve not looked at him closely,” he said. “Look again.”
 I did as he told me, and lowered my musket. It was not for me to send that
Indian leader to his account. Rolfe’s lips tightened and a sudden pallor overspread
his face. “Nantaquas?” he muttered in my ear, and I nodded yes.
The volley that we fired full into the ranks of our foe was deadly, and we
looked to see them turn and flee, as they had fled so often before at a hot volley.
But this time they were led by one who had been trained in English steadfastness.
Broken for the moment by our fire, they rallied and came on yelling, bearing logs,
thick branches of trees, oars tied together—anything by whose help they could
hope to surmount the palisade. We fired again, but they had planted their ladders.
Before we could snatch the loaded muskets from the women a dozen painted
figures appeared above the sharpened stakes. A moment, and they and a score
behind them had leaped down upon us.
It was no time now to skulk behind a palisade. At all hazards, that tide from
the forest must be stemmed. Those that were among us we might kill, but more
were swarming after them, and from the neck came the exultant yelling of madly
hurrying reinforcements.
We flung open the gates. I drove my sword through the heart of an Indian who
would have opposed me, and, calling for my men to follow, sprang forward.
Perhaps thirty came at my call; together we made for the opening. A party of the
savages in our midst interposed. We set upon them with sword and musket butt, and
though they fought like very devils drove them before us through the gateway.
Behind us were wild clamor, the shrieking of women, the stern shouts of the
English, the whooping of the savages; before us a rush that must be met and turned.
It was done. A moment’s fierce fighting, then the Indians wavered, broke, and
fled. Like sheep we drove them before us, across the neck, to the edge of the forest,
into which they plunged. Into that ambush we cared not to follow, but fell back to
the palisade and the town, believing, and with reason, that the lesson had been
taught. The strip of sand was strewn with the dead and the dying, but they belonged
not to us. Our dead numbered but three, and we bore their bodies with us.
Within the palisade we found the English in sufficiently good case. Of the
score or more Indians cut off by us from their mates and penned within that death
trap, half at least were already dead, run through with sword and pike, shot down
with the muskets that there was now time to load. The remainder, hemmed about,
pressed against the wall, were fast meeting with a like fate. They stood no chance
against us; we cared not to make prisoners of them; it was a slaughter, but they had
taken the vinitiative. They fought with the courage of despair, striving to spring in
upon us, and striking when they could with hatchet and knife. They were brave
men that we slew that day.
At last there was left but the leader—unharmed, unwounded, though time and
again he had striven to close with some one of us, to strike and to die striking with
his fellows. Behind him was the wall; of the half circle which he faced, well-nigh
all were old soldiers and servants of the colony. We were swordsmen all. When in
his desperation he would have thrown himself upon us, we contented ourselves
with keeping him at sword’s length, and at last West sent the knife in the dark hand
whirling over the palisade. Some one had shouted to the musketeers to spare him.
 When he saw that he stood alone, he stepped back against the wall, drew
himself up to his full height, and folded his arms. Perhaps he thought that we would
shoot him down then and there; perhaps he saw himself a captive amongst us, a
show for the idle and for the strangers that the ships brought in.
The din had ceased, and we the living, the victors, stood and looked at the
vanquished dead at our feet, and at the dead beyond the gates, and at the neck upon
which was no living foe, and at the blue sky bending over all. Our hearts told us,
and truly, that the lesson had been taught, and that no more forever need we at
Jamestown fear an Indian attack. And then we looked at him whose life we had
spared.
He opposed our gaze with his folded arms and his head held high and his back
against the wall. Slowly, as one man and with no spoken word, we fell back, the
half circle straightening into a line, and leaving a clear pathway to the open gates.
The wind had ceased to blow, and a sunny stillness lay upon the sand and the
rough-hewn wooden stakes and a little patch of tender grass. The church bell began
to ring.
The Indian out of whose path to life and freedom we had stepped glanced
from the line of lowered steel to the open gates and the forest beyond, and
understood. For a full minute he waited, not moving a muscle, still and stately as
some noble masterpiece in bronze. Then he stepped from the shadow of the wall
and moved past us, with his eyes fixed on the forest; there was no change in the
superb calm of his face. He went by the huddled dead and the long line of the living
that spoke no word, and out of the gates and across the neck, walking slowly, that
we might yet shoot him down if we saw fit to repent ourselves. He reached the
shadow of the trees: a moment, and the forest had back her own.
We sheathed our swords and listened to the governor’s few earnest words of
thankfulness and recognition; and then we set to work to search for ways to reach
and aid those who might be yet alive in the plantations above and below us.
Presently there came a great noise from the watchers on the river-bank, and a
cry that boats were coming down the stream. It was so, and there were in them
white men, nearly all of whom had wounds to show, and cowering women and
children—all that were left of the people for miles along the James.
Then began that strange procession that lasted throughout the afternoon and
night and into the next day, when a sloop dropped down from vHenricus with the
news that the English were in force there to stand their ground, although their loss
had been heavy. Hour after hour they came as fast as sail and oar could bring them,
the panic-stricken folk, whose homes were burned, whose kindred were slain, who
had themselves escaped as by a miracle. Each boatload had the same tale to tell of
treachery, surprise, and fiendish butchery.
Before the dawning we had heard from all save the remoter settlements. The
blow had been struck and the hurt was deep. But it was not beyond remedy, thank
God! We took stern measures for our protection, and the wound to the colony was
soon healed; vengeance was meted out to those who had set upon us in the dark and
had failed to reach the heart. The colony of Virginia had passed through its greatest
trial and had survived—for what greater ends, under Providence, I knew not.
 MARYJOHNSTON.

HELPS TO STUDY
I. Describe the situation in which Percy and Diccon found themselves. What preparations did
the Indians make for the death of the two men? How were they interrupted? Tell what happened
after the appearance of Nantaquas? How were the five days spent? How did Nantaquas come to the
rescue of the white men a second time? What did Opechancanough do to try to deepen the
impression of friendship?
II. What happened on the way to Jamestown? Describe the scene when Percy entered the
governor’s house. Give an account of the fight at the palisade. Why was Nantaquas spared? What
was the result of the Indian attack? Give your opinion of Nantaquas. Of what Indian in The Last of
the Mohicans does he remind you? Of whom does Opechancanough remind you?
Find out all you can of life in Virginia at the time this story was written. Compare the life there
with the life in Plymouth colony.

SUPPLEMENTARY READING
Prisoners of Hope—Mary Johnston.
My Lady Pokahontas—John Esten Cooke.
The Wept of Wish-ton-wish—J. Fenimore Cooper.
Hiawatha—Henry W. Longfellow.
Old Virginia and Her Neighbors—John Fiske.
 HARRY ESMOND’S BOYHOOD
Henry Esmond, by William Makepeace Thackeray, is considered one of the greatest, if not the
greatest, of historical novels. It describes life in England during the first years of the eighteenth
century, dealing chiefly with people of wealth and high position. “Harry Esmond’s Boyhood”
narrates the early career of the hero, who was a poor orphan and an inmate of the family of his
kinsman, the Viscount of Castlewood.

Harry Esmond had lived to be past fourteen years old; had never possessed but
two friends, and had a fond and affectionate heart that would fain attach itself to
somebody, and did not seem at rest until it had found a friend who would take
charge of it.
At last he found such a friend in his new mistress, the lady of Castlewood. The
instinct which led Harry Esmond to admire and love the gracious person, the fair
apparition whose beauty and kindness had so moved him when he first beheld her,
became soon a devoted affection and passion of gratitude, which entirely filled his
young heart that as yet had had very little kindness for which to be thankful.
There seemed, as the boy thought, in every look or gesture of this fair creature,
an angelical softness and bright pity—in motion or repose she seemed gracious
alike; the tone of her voice, though she uttered words ever so trivial, gave him a
pleasure that amounted almost to anguish. It cannot be called love, that a lad of
fourteen years of age felt for an exalted lady, his mistress, but it was worship. To
catch her glance; to divine her errand, and run on it before she had spoken it; to
watch, follow, adore her, became the business of his life. Meanwhile, as is the way
often, his idol had idols of her own, and never thought of or suspected the
admiration of her little adorer.
My Lady had on her side three idols: first and foremost, vJove and supreme
ruler, was her lord, Harry’s patron, the good vViscount of Castlewood. All wishes
of his were laws with her. If he had a headache, she was ill. If he frowned, she
trembled. If he joked, she smiled and was charmed. If he went a-hunting, she was
always at the window to see him ride away. She made dishes for his dinner; spiced
his wine for him; hushed the house when he slept in his chair, and watched for a
look when he woke. Her eyes were never tired of looking at his face and wondering
at its perfection. Her little son was his son, and had his father’s look and curly
brown hair. Her daughter Beatrix was his daughter, and had his eyes—were there
ever such beautiful eyes in the world? All the house was arranged so as to bring
him ease and give him pleasure.
Harry Esmond was happy in this pleasant home. The happiest period of all his
life was this; and the young mother, with her daughter and son, and the orphan lad
whom she protected, read and worked and played, and were children together. If
the lady looked forward—as what fond woman does not?—toward the future, she
had no plans from which Harry Esmond was left out; and a thousand and a
thousand times, in his passionate and impetuous way, he vowed that no power
should separate him from his mistress; and only asked for some chance to happen
by which he might show his vfidelity to her.
The second fight which Harry Esmond had was at fourteen years of age, with
Bryan Hawkshaw, Sir John Hawkshaw’s son, who, advancing the opinion that Lady
Castlewood henpecked my Lord, put Harry in so great a fury that Harry fell on him
and with such rage that the other boy, who was two years older and far bigger than
he, had by far the worst of the assault. It was interrupted by Doctor Tusher, the
clergyman, who was just walking out of the dinner-room.
Bryan Hawkshaw got up bleeding at the nose, having indeed been surprised,
as many a stronger man might have been, by the fury of the attack on him.
“You little beggar,” he said, “I’ll murder you for this.”
And indeed he was big enough.
“Beggar or not,” said Harry, grinding his teeth, “I have a couple of swords,
and if you like to meet me, as man to man, on the terrace to-night—”
And here, the doctor coming up, the vcolloquy of the young champions ended.
Very likely, big as he was, Hawkshaw did not care to continue a fight with such a
ferocious opponent as this had been.
One day, some time later, Doctor Tusher ran into Castlewood House, with a
face of consternation, saying that smallpox had made its appearance at the
blacksmith’s house in the village, which was also an alehouse, and that one of the
maids there was down with it.
Now, there was a pretty girl at this inn, called Nancy Sievewright, a bouncing,
fresh-looking lass, whose face was as red as the hollyhocks over the pales of the
garden behind the inn. Somehow it often happened that Harry Esmond fell in with
Nance Sievewright’s bonny face. When Doctor Tusher brought the news that the
smallpox was at the blacksmith’s, Harry Esmond’s first thought was of alarm for
poor Nancy, and then of shame and disquiet for the Castlewood family, lest he
might have brought this infection; for the truth is that Mr. Harry had been sitting in
a back room for an hour that day, where Nancy Sievewright was with a little
brother who complained of headache, and was lying crying in a chair by the corner
of the fire or in Nancy’s lap.
Little Beatrix screamed at the news; and my Lord cried out, “God bless me!”
He was a brave man, and not afraid of death in any shape but this. “We will take the
children and ride away to Walcote,” he said.
To love children and be gentle with them was an instinct rather than merit in
Harry Esmond; so much so that he thought almost with a feeling of shame of his
liking for them and of the softness into which it betrayed him. On this day the poor
fellow had not only had his young friend, the milkmaid’s brother, on his knee, but
had been drawing pictures and telling stories to the little Frank Castlewood, who
was never tired of Harry’s tales and of his pictures of soldiers and horses. As luck
would have it, Beatrix had not on that evening taken her usual place, which
generally she was glad enough to have, on Harry’s knee. For Beatrix, from the
earliest time, was jealous of every caress which was given her little brother Frank.
She would fling away even from the vmaternal arms, if she saw Frank had been
there before her; insomuch that Lady Esmond was obliged not to show her love for
her son in presence of the little girl, and embrace one or the other alone. Beatrix
would turn pale and red with rage if she caught signs of intelligence or affection
between Frank and his mother; would sit apart and not speak for a whole night if
she thought the boy had a better fruit or a larger cake than hers; would fling away a
ribbon if he had one, and would utter vinfantile sarcasms about the favor shown her
brother.
So it chanced upon this very day, when poor Harry Esmond had had the
blacksmith’s son and the vpeer’s son, alike upon his knee, little Beatrix, who would
come to him willingly enough with her book and writing, had refused him, seeing
the place occupied by her brother. Luckily for her, she had sat at the farther end of
the room, away from him, playing with a spaniel dog which she had, and talking to
Harry Esmond over her shoulder, as she pretended to caress the dog, saying that
Fido would love her, and she would love Fido and nothing but Fido all her life.
When, then, the news was brought that the little boy at the blacksmith’s was ill
with the smallpox, poor Harry Esmond felt a shock of alarm, not so much for
himself as for his mistress’s son, whom he might have brought into peril. Beatrix,
who had pouted sufficiently, her little brother being now gone to bed, was for
taking her place on Esmond’s knee. But as she advanced toward him, he started
back and placed the great chair on which he was sitting between him and her—
saying in the French language to Lady Castlewood, “Madam, the child must not
approach me. I must tell you that I was at the blacksmith’s to-day and had his little
boy on my lap.”
“Where you took my son afterward,” Lady Castlewood said, very angry and
turning red. “I thank you, sir, for giving him such company. Beatrix,” she said in
English, “I forbid you to touch Harry Esmond. Come away, child; come to your
room. And you, sir, had you not better go back to the alehouse?”
Her eyes, ordinarily so kind, darted flashes of anger as she spoke; and she
tossed up her head (which hung down commonly) with the vmien of a princess.
“Heyday!” said my Lord, who was standing by the fireplace, “Rachel, what
are you in a passion about? Though it does you good to get in a passion—you look
very handsome!”
“It is, my Lord, because Mr. Harry Esmond, having nothing to do with his
time here, and not having a taste for our company, has been to the blacksmith’s
alehouse, where he has some friends.”
My Lord burst out with a laugh.
“Take Mistress Beatrix to bed,” my Lady cried at this moment to her woman,
who came in with her Ladyship’s tea. “Put her into my room—no, into yours,” she
added quickly. “Go, my child: go, I say; not a word.” And Beatrix, quite surprised
at so sudden a tone of authority from one who was seldom accustomed to raise her
voice, went out of the room with a scared face and waited even to burst out crying
until she got upstairs.
For once, her mother took little heed of her. “My Lord,” she said, “this young
man—your relative—told me just now in French—he was ashamed to speak in his
own language—that he had been at the blacksmith’s all day, where he has had that
little wretch who is now ill of the smallpox on his knee. And he comes home
reeking from that place—yes, reeking from it—and takes my boy into his lap
without shame, and sits down by me. He may have killed Frank for what I know—
killed our child! Why was he brought in to disgrace our house? Why is he here? Let
him go—let him go, I say, and vpollute the place no more!”
She had never before uttered a syllable of unkindness to Harry Esmond, and
her cruel words smote the poor boy so that he stood for some moments bewildered
with grief and rage at the injustice of such a stab from such a hand. He turned quite
white from red, which he had been before.
“If my coming nigh your boy pollutes him,” he said, “it was not so always.
Good-night, my Lord. Heaven bless you and yours for your goodness to me. I have
tired her Ladyship’s kindness out, and I will go.”
“He wants to go to the alehouse—let him go!” cried my Lady.
“I’ll be hanged if he shall,” said my Lord. “I didn’t think you could be so
cruel, Rachel!”
Her reply was to burst into a flood of tears, and to quit the room with a rapid
glance at Harry Esmond, as my Lord put his broad hand on Harry’s shoulder.
In a little while my Lady came back, looking very pale, with a handkerchief in
her hand. Instantly advancing to Harry Esmond, she took his hand. “I beg your
pardon, Harry,” she said. “I spoke very unkindly.”
My Lord broke out: “There may be no harm done. Leave the boy alone.” She
looked a little red, and pressed the lad’s hand as she dropped it.
“There is no use, my Lord,” she said. “Frank was on his knee as he was
making pictures and was running constantly from Harry to me. The evil is done, if
any.”
“Not with me,” cried my Lord. “I’ve been smoking.” And he lighted his pipe
again with a coal. “As the disease is in the village—plague take it!—I would have
you leave it. We’ll go to-morrow to Walcote.”
“I have no fear,” said my Lady. “I may have had it as an infant.”
“I won’t run the risk,” said my Lord. “I’m as bold as any man, but I’ll not bear
that.”
“Take Beatrix with you and go,” said my Lady. “For us the mischief is done.”
My Lord, calling away Doctor Tusher, bade him come in the oak parlor and
have a pipe.
When the lady and the boy were alone, there was a silence of some moments,
during which he stood looking at the fire whilst her Ladyship busied herself with
the vtambour frame and needles.
“I am sorry,” she said, after a pause, in a hard, dry voice—“I repeat I am sorry
that I said what I said. It was not at all my wish that you should leave us, I am sure,
unless you found pleasure elsewhere. But you must see that, at your age, and with
your tastes, it is impossible that you can continue to stay upon the intimate footing
in which you have been in this family. You have wished to go to college, and I
think ’tis quite as well that you should be sent thither. I did not press the matter,
thinking you a child, as you are indeed in years—quite a child. But now I shall beg
my Lord to despatch you as quick as possible; and will go on with Frank’s learning
as well as I can. And—and I wish you a good night, Harry.”
With this she dropped a stately curtsy, and, taking her candle, went away
through the tapestry door, which led to her apartments. Esmond stood by the
fireplace, blankly staring after her. Indeed, he scarce seemed to see until she was
gone, and then her image was impressed upon him and remained forever fixed
upon his memory. He saw her retreating, the taper lighting up her marble face, her
scarlet lip quivering, and her shining golden hair. He went to his own room and to
bed, but could not get to sleep until daylight, and woke with a violent headache.
He had brought the contagion with him from the alehouse, sure enough, and
was presently laid up with the smallpox, which spared the hall no more than it did
the cottage.
When Harry Esmond had passed through the vcrisis of the vmalady and
returned to health again, he found that little Frank Esmond had also suffered and
rallied from the disease, and that his mother was down with it. Nor could young
Esmond agree in Doctor Tusher’s vvehement protestations to my Lady, when he
visited her during her vconvalescence, that the malady had not in the least impaired
her charms; whereas, in spite of these fine speeches, Harry thought that her
Ladyship’s beauty was very much injured by the smallpox. The delicacy of her rosy
complexion was gone; her eyes had lost their brilliancy, her hair fell, and she
looked older. When Tusher in his courtly way vowed and protested that my Lady’s
face was none the worse, the lad broke out and said, “It is worse, and my mistress
is not near so handsome as she was.” On this poor Lady Castlewood gave a vrueful
smile and a look into a little mirror she had, which showed her, I suppose, that what
the stupid boy said was only too true, for she turned away from the glass and her
eyes filled with tears.
The sight of these always created a sort of rage of pity in Esmond’s heart, and
seeing them on the face of the lady whom he loved best, the young blunderer sank
down on his knees and besought her to pardon him, saying that he was a fool and
an idiot. Doctor Tusher told him that he was a bear, and a bear he would remain, at
which speech poor Harry was so dumb-stricken that he did not even growl.
“He is my bear, and I will not have him baited, doctor,” said my Lady, putting
her hand kindly on the boy’s head, as he was still kneeling at her feet. “How your
hair has come off! And mine, too!” she added with another sigh.
“It is not for myself that I care,” my Lady said to Harry, when the parson had
taken his leave; “but am I very much changed! Alas! I fear ’tis too true.”
“Madam, you have the dearest, and kindest, and sweetest face in the world, I
think,” the lad said; and indeed he thought so.
For Harry Esmond his benefactress’ sweet face had lost none of its charms. It
had always the kindest of looks and smiles for him—and beauty of every sort. She
would call him “Mr. Tutor,” and she herself, as well as the two children, went to
school to him. Of the pupils the two young people were but lazy scholars, and my
Lord’s son only learned what he liked, which was but little. Mistress Beatrix
chattered French prettily, and sang sweetly, but this from her mother’s teaching, not
Harry Esmond’s. But if the children were careless, ’twas a wonder how eagerly the
mother learned from her young tutor—and taught him, too. She saw the vlatent
beauties and hidden graces in books; and the happiest hours of young Esmond’s life
were those passed in the company of this kind mistress and her children.
These happy days were to end soon, however; and it was by Lady
Castlewood’s own decree that they were brought to a conclusion. It happened about
Christmas-tide, Harry Esmond being now past sixteen years of age. A messenger
came from Winchester one day, bearer of the news that my Lady’s aunt was dead
and had left her fortune of £2,000 among her six nieces. Many a time afterward
Harry Esmond recalled the flushed face and eager look wherewith, after this
intelligence, his kind lady regarded him. When my Lord heard of the news, he did
not make any long face. “The money will come very handy to furnish the music-
room and the vcellar,” he said, “which is getting low, and buy your Ladyship a
coach and a couple of horses. Beatrix, you shall have a vspinet; and Frank, you
shall have a little horse from Hexton fair; and Harry, you shall have five pounds to
buy some books.” So spoke my Lord, who was generous with his own, and indeed
with other folks’ money. “I wish your aunt would die once a year, Rachel; we could
spend your money, and all your sisters’, too.”
“I have but one aunt—and—and I have another use for the money,” said my
Lady, turning red.
“Another use, my dear; and what do you know about money?” cried my Lord.
“I intend it for Harry Esmond to go to college. Cousin Harry,” said my Lady,
“you mustn’t stay any longer in this dull place, but make a name for yourself.”
“Is Harry going away? You don’t mean to say you will go away?” cried out
Beatrix and Frank at one breath.
“But he will come back, and this will always be his home,” replied my Lady,
with blue eyes looking a celestial kindness; “and his scholars will always love him,
won’t they?”
“Rachel, you’re a good woman,” said my Lord. “I wish you joy, my kinsman,”
he continued, giving Harry Esmond a hearty slap on the shoulder, “I won’t balk
your luck. Go to Cambridge, boy.”
When Harry Esmond went away for Cambridge, little Frank ran alongside his
horse as far as the bridge, and there Harry stopped for a moment and looked back at
the house where the best part of his life had been passed. And Harry remembered,
all his life after, how he saw his mistress at the window looking out on him, the
little Beatrix’s chestnut curls resting at her mother’s side. Both waved a farewell to
him, and little Frank sobbed to leave him.
The village people had good-bye to say to him, too. All knew that Master
Harry was going to college, and most of them had a kind word and a look of
farewell. And with these things in mind, he rode out into the world.
WILLIAMMAKEPEACETHACKERAY
.
 HELPS TO STUDY
Tell what you find out about the household in which Harry Esmond lived. What impression do
you get of each person? What trouble did Harry bring upon the family? What change occurred in his
life and now?

SUPPLEMENTARY READING
The Virginians—William Makepeace Thackeray.
The Sir Roger de Coverley Papers—Steele and Addison.
 THE FAMILY HOLDS ITS HEAD UP
The story is an extract from Oliver Goldsmith’s famous novel, The Vicar of Wakefield. In this
book Goldsmith describes the fortunes of the family of Doctor Primrose, a Church of England
clergyman of the middle of the eighteenth century. The novel is considered a most faithful picture of
English country life in that period.

The home I had come to as vvicar was in a little neighborhood consisting of

farmers who tilled their own grounds and were equal strangers to vopulence and
poverty. As they had almost all the conveniences of life within themselves, they
seldom visited towns or cities in search of vsuperfluity. Remote from the polite,
they still retained the vprimeval simplicity of manners; and, frugal by habit, they
scarce knew that temperance was a virtue. They wrought with cheerfulness on days
of labor, but observed festivals as intervals of idleness and pleasure. They kept up
the Christmas carol, sent love-knots on Valentine morning, ate pancakes on
vShrovetide, showed their wit on the first of April, and religiously cracked nuts on
vMichaelmas-eve. Being apprised of our approach, the whole neighborhood came
out to meet their minister, dressed in their finest clothes and preceded by a vpipe
and vtabor: a feast, also, was provided for our reception, at which we sat cheerfully
down, and what the conversation wanted in wit was made up in laughter.
Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a sloping hill, sheltered with a
beautiful underwood behind, and a prattling river before; on one side a meadow, on
the other a green. My farm consisted of about twenty acres of excellent land.
Nothing could exceed the neatness of my little enclosures, the elms and hedgerows
appearing with inexpressible beauty. My house consisted of but one story, and was
covered with vthatch, which gave it an air of great snugness; the walls on the inside
were nicely whitewashed, and my daughters undertook to adorn them with pictures
of their own designing. Though the same room served us for parlor and kitchen,
that only made it the warmer. Besides, as it was kept with the utmost neatness,—the
dishes, plates and coppers being well scoured and all disposed in bright rows on the
shelves—the eye was agreeably relieved and did not want richer furniture. There
were three other apartments: one for my wife and me; another for our two
daughters within our own; and the third, with two beds, for the rest of the children.
The little republic to which I gave laws was regulated in the following
manner: by sunrise we all assembled in our common apartment, the fire being
previously kindled by the servant. After we had saluted each other with proper
ceremony—for I always thought fit to keep up some mechanical forms of good
breeding, without which freedom ever destroys friendship—we all bent in gratitude
to that Being who gave us another day. This duty performed, my son and I went to
pursue our usual industry abroad, while my wife and daughters employed
themselves in providing breakfast, which was always ready at a certain time. I
allowed half an hour for this meal, and an hour for dinner, which time was taken up
in innocent mirth between my wife and daughters, and in vphilosophical arguments
between my son and me.
As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our labors after it was gone
down, but returned home to the expecting family, where smiling looks, a neat
hearth, and a pleasant fire were prepared for our reception. Nor were we without
guests; sometimes Farmer Flamborough, our talkative neighbor, and often a blind
piper, would pay us a visit and taste our gooseberry wine, for the making of which
we had lost neither the recipe nor the reputation. These harmless people had several
ways of being good company; while one played, the other would sing some
soothing ballad—“Johnny Armstrong’s Last Good-Night,” or “The Cruelty of
Barbara Allen.” The night was concluded in the manner we began the morning, my
youngest boys being appointed to read the lessons of the day; and he that read
loudest, distinctest and best was to have an halfpenny on Sunday to put into the
poor-box. This encouraged in them a wholesome rivalry to do good.
When Sunday came, it was, indeed, a day of finery, which all my vsumptuary
edicts could not restrain. How well soever I fancied my lectures against pride had
conquered the vanity of my daughters, yet I still found them secretly attached to all
their former finery; they still loved laces, ribbons, and bugles, and my wife herself
retained a passion for her crimson vpaduasoy, because I formerly happened to say it
became her.
The first Sunday, in particular, their behavior served to mortify me. I had
desired my girls the preceding night to be dressed early the next day, for I always
loved to be at church a good while before the rest of the congregation. They
punctually obeyed my directions; but when we were to assemble in the morning at
breakfast, down came my wife and daughters, dressed out in all their former
splendor—their hair plastered up with vpomatum, their faces vpatched to taste,
their trains bundled up in a heap behind and rustling at every motion. I could not
help smiling at their vanity, particularly that of my wife, from whom I expected
more discretion. In this vexigence, therefore, my only resource was to order my
son, with an important air, to call our coach. The girls were amazed at the
command, but I repeated it, with more solemnity than before.
“Surely, you jest!” cried my wife. “We can walk perfectly well; we want no
coach to carry us now.”
“You mistake, child,” returned I; “we do want a coach, for if we walk to
church in this trim, the very children in the parish will hoot after us.”
“Indeed!” replied my wife. “I always imagined that my Charles was fond of
seeing his children neat and handsome about him.”
“You may be as neat as you please,” interrupted I, “and I shall love you the
better for it; but all this is not neatness, but frippery. These rufflings and pinkings
and patchings will only make us hated by all the wives of our neighbors. No, my
children,” continued I, more gravely, “those gowns must be altered into something
of a plainer cut, for finery is very unbecoming in us who want the means of
vdecency.”

This remonstrance had the proper effect. They went with great composure,
that very instant, to change their dress; and the next day I had the satisfaction of
finding my daughters, at their own request, employed in cutting up their trains into
Sunday waist-coats for Dick and Bill, the two little ones; and, what was still more
satisfactory, the gowns seemed improved by this vcurtailing.
But the reformation lasted but for a short while. My wife and daughters were
visited by the wives of some of the richer neighbors and by a squire who lived near
by, on whom they set more store than on the plain farmers’ wives who were nearer
us in worldly station. I now began to find that all my long and painful lectures upon
temperance, simplicity, and contentment were entirely disregarded. Some
distinctions lately paid us by our betters awakened that pride which I had laid
asleep, but not removed. Our windows again, as formerly, were filled with washes
for the neck and face. The sun was dreaded as an enemy to the skin without doors
and the fire as a spoiler of the complexion within. My wife observed that rising too
early would hurt her daughters’ eyes, that working after dinner would redden their
noses, and she convinced me that the hands never looked so white as when they did
nothing.
Instead, therefore, of finishing George’s shirts, we now had the girls new-
modeling their old gauzes. The poor Miss Flamboroughs, their former gay
companions, were cast off as mean acquaintance, and the whole conversation ran
upon high life and high-lived company, with pictures, taste, and Shakespeare.
But we could have borne all this, had not a fortune-telling gypsy come to raise
us into perfect vsublimity. The tawny vsibyl no sooner appeared than my girls came
running to me for a shilling apiece to cross her hand with silver. To say the truth, I
was tired of being always wise, and could not help gratifying their request, because
I loved to see them happy. I gave each of them a shilling; after they had been
closeted up with the fortune-teller for some time, I knew by their looks, upon their
returning, that they had been promised something great.
“Well, my girls, how have you sped? Tell me, Livy, has the fortune-teller
given thee a penny-worth?”
“She positively declared that I am to be married to a squire in less than a
twelvemonth.”
“Well, now, Sophy, my child,” said I, “and what sort of husband are you to
have?”
“I am to have a lord soon after my sister has married the squire,” she replied.
“How,” cried I, “is that all you are to have for your two shillings? Only a lord
and a squire for two shillings! You fools, I could have promised you a prince and a
vnabob for half the money.”

This curiosity of theirs, however, was attended with very serious effects. We
now began to think ourselves designed by the stars to something exalted, and
already anticipated our future grandeur.
In this agreeable time my wife had the most lucky dreams in the world, which
she took care to tell us every morning, with great solemnity and exactness. It was
one night a coffin and cross-bones, the sign of an approaching wedding; at another
time she imagined her daughters’ pockets filled with farthings, a certain sign they
would shortly be stuffed with gold. The girls themselves had their omens. They saw
rings in the candle, purses bounced from the fire, and love-knots lurked in the
bottom of every teacup.
 Toward the end of the week we received a card from two town ladies, in
which, with their compliments, they hoped to see our family at church the Sunday
following. All Saturday morning I could perceive, in consequence of this, my wife
and daughters in close conference together, and now and then glancing at me with
looks that betrayed a vlatent plot. To be sincere, I had strong suspicions that some
absurd proposal was preparing for appearing with splendor the next day. In the
evening they began their operations in a very regular manner, and my wife
undertook to conduct the siege. After tea, when I seemed in fine spirits, she began
thus:
“I fancy, Charles, my dear, we shall have a great deal of good company at our
church to-morrow.”
“Perhaps we may, my dear,” returned I, “though you need be under no
uneasiness about that; you shall have a sermon, whether there be or not.”
“That is what I expect,” returned she; “but I think, my dear, we ought to
appear there as decently as possible, for who knows what may happen?”
“Your precautions,” replied I, “are highly commendable. A decent behavior
and appearance in church is what charms me. We should be devout and humble,
cheerful and serene.”
“Yes,” cried she, “I know that; but I mean we should go there in as proper a
manner as possible; not like the scrubs about us.”
“You are quite right, my dear,” returned I, “and I was going to make the same
proposal. The proper manner of going is to go as early as possible, to have time for
meditation before the sermon begins.”
“Phoo! Charles,” interrupted she, “all that is very true, but not what I would be
at. I mean, we should go there vgenteelly. You know the church is two miles off,
and I protest I don’t like to see my daughters trudging up to their pew all blowzed
and red with walking, and looking for all the world as if they had been winners at a
vsmock race. Now, my dear, my proposal is this: there are our two plough-horses,
the colt that has been in our family these nine years and his companion, Blackberry,
that has scarce done an earthly thing for this month past. They are both grown fat
and lazy. Why should they not do something as well as we? And let me tell you,
when Moses has trimmed them a little, they will cut a very tolerable figure.”
To this proposal I objected that walking would be twenty times more genteel
than such a paltry conveyance, as Blackberry was wall-eyed, and the colt wanted a
tail; that they had never been broken to the rein, but had an hundred vicious tricks,
and that we had but one saddle and vpillion in the whole house. All these
objections, however, were overruled, so that I was obliged to comply.
The next morning I perceived them not a little busy in collecting such
materials as might be necessary for the expedition; but as I found it would be a
business of time, I walked on to the church before, and they promised speedily to
follow. I waited near an hour in the reading desk for their arrival; but not finding
them come as I expected, I was obliged to begin, and went through the service, not
without some uneasiness at finding them absent.
 This was increased when all was finished, and no appearance of the family. I
therefore walked back by the horseway, which was five miles round, though the
footway was but two; and when I had got about half-way home, I perceived the
procession marching slowly forward toward the church—my son, my wife, and the
two little ones exalted on one horse, and my two daughters upon the other. It was
then very near dinner-time.
I demanded the cause of their delay, but I soon found, by their looks, that they
had met with a thousand misfortunes on the road. The horses had, at first, refused
to move from the door, till a neighbor was kind enough to beat them forward for
about two hundred yards with his cudgel. Next, the straps of my wife’s pillion
broke down, and they were obliged to stop to repair them before they could
proceed. After that, one of the horses took it into his head to stand still, and neither
blows nor entreaties could prevail with him to proceed. They were just recovering
from this dismal situation when I found them; but, perceiving everything safe, I
own their mortification did not much displease me, as it gave me many
opportunities of future triumph, and would teach my daughters more humility.
OLIVERGOLDSMITH.

HELPS TO STUDY
 Describe the neighborhood and the home to which the vicar took his family; also their manner
of living. Relate the two attempts the ladies made to appear at church in great style. What happened
to raise the hopes of better days for the daughters? How were these hopes encouraged? What
superstitions did the wife and daughters believe? Give your opinion of the vicar and of each member
of the family.

SUPPLEMENTARY READING
The School for Scandal—Richard Brinsley Sheridan.
She Stoops to Conquer—Oliver Goldsmith.
Life of Oliver Goldsmith—Washington Irving.
David Copperfield—Charles Dickens.
Barnaby Rudge—Charles Dickens.

Some have too much, yet still do crave;

I little have, and seek no more.
They are but poor, though much they have,
And I am rich with little store:
They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;
They lack, I leave; they pine, I live.
SIR EDWARDDYER.
 THE LITTLE BOY IN THE BALCONY
My special amusement in New York is riding on the elevated railway. It is
curious to note how little one can see on the crowded sidewalks of this city. It is
simply a rush of the same people—hurrying this way or that on the same errands,
doing the same shopping or eating at the same restaurants. It is a vkaleidoscope
with infinite combinations but the same effects. You see it to-day, and it is the same
as yesterday. Occasionally in the multitude you hit upon a vgenre specimen, or an
odd detail, such as a prim little dog that sits upright all day and holds in its mouth a
cup for pennies for its blind master, or an old bookseller, with a grand head and the
deliberate motions of a scholar, moldering in a stall—but the general effect is one
of sameness and soon tires and bewilders.
Once on the elevated road, however, a new world is opened, full of the most
interesting objects. The cars sweep by the upper stories of the houses, and, running
never too swiftly to allow observation, disclose the secrets of a thousand homes,
and bring to view people and things never dreamed of by the giddy, restless crowd
that sends its impatient murmur from the streets below. In a course of several
months’ pretty steady riding from Twenty-third Street, which is the station for the
Fifth Avenue Hotel, to Rector, which overlooks Wall Street, I have made many
acquaintances along the route, and on reaching the city my first curiosity is in their
behalf.
One of these is a boy about six years of age—akin in his fragile body and his
serious mien—a youngster that is very precious to me. I first saw this boy on a little
balcony about three feet by four, projecting from the window of a poverty-stricken
fourth floor. He was leaning over the railing, his white, thoughtful head just
clearing the top, holding a short, round stick in his hand. The little fellow made a
pathetic picture, all alone there above the street, so friendless and desolate, and his
pale face came between me and my business many a time that day. On going
uptown that evening just as night was falling, I saw him still at his place, white and
patient and silent.
Every day afterward I saw him there, always with the short stick in his hand.
Occasionally he would walk around the balcony, rattling the stick in a solemn
manner against the railing, or poke it across from one corner to another and sit on
it. This was the only playing I ever saw him do, and the stick was the only
plaything he had. But he was never without it. His little hand always held it, and I
pictured him every morning when he awoke from his joyless sleep, picking up his
poor toy and going out to his balcony, as other boys go to play. Or perhaps he slept
with it, as little ones do with dolls and whip-tops.
I could see that the room beyond the window was bare. I never saw any one in
it. The heat must have been terrible, for it could have had no ventilation. Once I
missed the boy from the balcony, but saw his white head moving about slowly in
the dusk of the room. Gradually the little fellow became a burden to me. I found
myself continually thinking of him, and troubled with that remorse that thoughtless
people feel even for suffering for which they are not in the slightest degree
responsible. Not that I ever saw any suffering on his face. It was patient,
thoughtful, serious, but with never a sign of petulance. What thoughts filled that
young head—what contemplation took the place of what should have been the
vineffable upspringing of childish emotion—what complaint or questioning were
living behind that white face—no one could guess. In an older person the face
would have betokened a resignation that found peace in the hope of things
hereafter. In this child, without hope or aspiration, it was sad beyond expression.
One day as I passed I nodded at him. He made no sign in return. I repeated the
nod on another trip, waving my hand at him—but without avail. At length, in
response to an unusually winning exhortation, his pale lips trembled into a smile,
but a smile that was soberness itself. Wherever I went that day that smile went with
me. Wherever I saw children playing in the parks, or trotting along with their hands
nestled in strong fingers that guided and protected, I thought of that tiny watcher in
the balcony—joyless, hopeless, friendless—a desolate mite, hanging between the
blue sky and the gladsome streets, lifting his wistful face now to the peaceful
heights of the one, and now looking with grave wonder on the ceaseless tumult of
the other. At length—but why go any further? Why is it necessary to tell that the
boy had no father, that his mother was bedridden from his birth, and that his sister
pasted labels in a drug-house, and he was thus left to himself.
It is sufficient to say that I went to Coney Island yesterday, and watched the
bathers and the children—listened to the crisp, lingering music of the waves—ate a
robust lunch on the pier—wandered in and out among the booths, tents, and hub-
bub—and that through all these pleasures I had a companion that enjoyed them
with a gravity that I can never hope to vemulate, but with a soulfulness that was
touching. As I came back in the boat, the breezes singing through the vcordage,
music floating from the fore-deck, and the sun lighting with its dying rays the
shipping that covered the river, there was sitting in front of me a very pale but very
happy bit of a boy, open-eyed with wonder, but sober and self-contained, clasping
tightly in his little fingers a short, battered stick. And finally, whenever I pass by a
certain overhanging balcony now, I am sure of a smile from an intimate and
esteemed friend who lives there.
HENRYW. GRADY.
 ARIEL’S TRIUMPH 141-*
This story is taken from Booth Tarkington’s novel, The Conquest of Canaan, which gives an
admirable description of modern life in an American town. Joe Louden, the hero, and Ariel Tabor,
the heroine, were both friendless and, in a way, forlorn. How both of them triumphed over obstacles
and won success and happiness is the theme of a book which is notable for keen observation of
character and for a quiet and delightful humor.

I
Ariel had worked all the afternoon over her mother’s wedding-gown, and two
hours were required by her toilet for the dance. She curled her hair frizzily, burning
it here and there, with a slate-pencil heated over a lamp-chimney, and she placed
above one ear three or four large artificial roses, taken from an old hat of her
mother’s, which she had found in a trunk in the store-room. Possessing no slippers,
she carefully blacked and polished her shoes, which had been clumsily resoled, and
fastened into the strings of each small rosettes of red ribbon; after which she
practised swinging the train of her skirt until she was proud of her manipulation of
it.
She had no powder, but found in her grandfather’s room a lump of magnesia,
which he was in the habit of taking for heartburn, and passed it over and over her
brown face and hands. Then a lingering gaze into her small mirror gave her joy at
last; she yearned so hard to see herself charming that she did see herself so.
Admiration came, and she told herself that she was more attractive to look at than
she had ever been in her life, and that, perhaps, at last she might begin to be sought
for like other girls. The little glass showed a sort of prettiness in her thin,
unmatured young face; tripping dance-tunes ran through her head, her feet keeping
the time—ah, she did so hope to dance often that night! Perhaps—perhaps she
might be asked for every number. And so, wrapping an old water-proof cloak about
her, she took her grandfather’s arm and sallied forth, with high hopes in her beating
heart.
It was in the dressing-room that the change began to come. Alone, at home in
her own ugly little room, she had thought herself almost beautiful; but here in the
brightly lighted chamber crowded with the other girls it was different. There was a
big vcheval-glass at one end of the room, and she faced it, when her turn came—for
the mirror was popular—with a sinking spirit. There was the contrast, like a picture
painted and framed. The other girls all wore their hair after the fashion introduced
to Canaan by Mamie Pike the week before, on her return from a visit to Chicago.
None of them had “crimped” and none had bedecked their tresses with artificial
flowers. Her alterations of the wedding-dress had not been successful; the skirt was
too short in front and higher on one side than on the other, showing too plainly the
heavy-soled shoes, which had lost most of their polish in the walk through the
snow. The ribbon rosettes were fully revealed, and as she glanced at their reflection,
she heard the words, “Look at that train and those rosettes!” whispered behind her,
and saw in the mirror two pretty young women turn away with their handkerchiefs
over their mouths and retreat hurriedly to an alcove. All the feet in the room except
Ariel’s were in dainty kid or satin slippers of the color of the dresses from which
they glimmered out, and only Ariel wore a train.
She went away from the mirror and pretended to be busy with a hanging
thread in her sleeve.
She was singularly an alien in the chattering room, although she had been born
and had lived all her life in the town. Perhaps her position among the young ladies
may be best defined by the remark, generally current among them that evening, to
the effect that it was “very sweet of Mamie to invite her.” Ariel was not like the
others; she was not of them, and never had been. Indeed, she did not know them
very well. Some of them nodded to her and gave her a word of greeting pleasantly;
all of them whispered about her with wonder and suppressed amusement, but none
talked to her. They were not unkindly, but they were young and eager and excited
over their own interests,—which were then in the “gentlemen’s dressing-room.”
Each of the other girls had been escorted by a youth of the place, and, one by
one, joining these escorts in the hall outside the door, they descended the stairs,
until only Ariel was left. She came down alone after the first dance had begun, and
greeted her young hostess’s mother timidly. Mrs. Pike—a small, frightened-looking
woman with a ruby necklace—answered her absently, and hurried away to see that
the vimported waiters did not steal anything.
Ariel sat in one of the chairs against the wall and watched the dancers with a
smile of eager and benevolent interest. In Canaan no parents, no guardians or aunts
were haled forth o’ nights to vduenna the junketings of youth; Mrs. Pike did not
reappear, and Ariel sat conspicuously alone; there was nothing else for her to do,
but it was not an easy matter.
When the first dance reached an end, Mamie Pike came to her for a moment
with a cheery welcome, and was immediately surrounded by a circle of young men
and women, flushed with dancing, shouting as was their wont, laughing
vinexplicably over words and phrases and unintelligible vmonosyllables, as if they
all belonged to a secret society and these cries were symbols of things exquisitely
humorous, which only they understood. Ariel laughed with them more heartily than
any other, so that she might seem to be of them and as merry as they were; but
almost immediately she found herself outside of the circle, and presently they all
whirled away into another dance, and she was left alone again.
So she sat, no one coming near her, through several dances, trying to maintain
the smile of delighted interest upon her face, though she felt the muscles of her face
beginning to ache with their fixedness, her eyes growing hot and glazed. All the
other girls were provided with partners for every dance, with several young men
left over, these latter lounging vhilariously together in the doorways. Ariel was
careful not to glance toward them, but she could not help hating them. Once or
twice between the dances she saw Miss Pike speak appealingly to one of the
vsuperfluous, glancing, at the same time, in her own direction, and Ariel could see,
too, that the appeal proved unsuccessful, until at last Mamie approached her,
leading Norbert Flitcroft, partly by the hand, partly by will power. Norbert was an
excessively fat boy, and at the present moment looked as patient as the blind. But
he asked Ariel if she was “engaged for the next dance,” and, Mamie, having flitted
away, stood vdisconsolately beside her, waiting for the music to begin. Ariel was
grateful for him.
“I think you must be very good-natured, Mr. Flitcroft,” she said, with an air of
vraillery.

“No, I’m not,” he replied, vplaintively. “Everybody thinks I am, because I’m
fat, and they expect me to do things they never dream of asking anybody else to do.
I’d like to see ’em even ask ’Gene Bantry to go and do some of the things they get
me to do! A person isn’t good-natured just because he’s fat,” he concluded,
morbidly, “but he might as well be!”
“Oh, I meant good-natured,” she returned, with a sprightly laugh, “because
you’re willing to waltz with me.”
“Oh, well,” he returned, sighing, “that’s all right.”
The orchestra flourished into “La Paloma”; he put his arm mournfully about
her, and taking her right hand with his left, carried her arm out to a rigid right
angle, beginning to pump and balance for time. They made three false starts and
then got away. Ariel danced badly; she hopped and lost the step, but they
persevered, bumping against other couples continually. Circling breathlessly into
the next room, they passed close to a long mirror, in which Ariel saw herself,
although in a flash, more bitterly contrasted to the others than in the cheval-glass of
the dressing-room. The clump of roses was flopping about her neck, her crimped
hair looked frowzy, and there was something terribly wrong about her dress.
Suddenly she felt her train to be vgrotesque, as a thing following her in a
nightmare.
A moment later she caught her partner making a vburlesque face of suffering
over her shoulder, and, turning her head quickly, saw for whose benefit he had
constructed it. Eugene Bantry, flying expertly by with Mamie, was bestowing upon
Mr. Flitcroft a commiserative wink. The next instant she tripped in her train and fell
to the floor at Eugene’s feet, carrying her partner with her.
There was a shout of laughter. The young hostess stopped Eugene, who would
have gone on, and he had no choice but to stoop to Ariel’s assistance.
“It seems to be a habit of mine,” she said, laughing loudly.
She did not appear to see the hand he offered, but got on her feet without help
and walked quickly away with Norbert, who proceeded to live up to the character
he had given himself.
“Perhaps we had better not try it again,” she laughed.
“Well, I should think not,” he returned with the frankest gloom. With the air of
conducting her home, he took her to the chair against the wall whence he had
brought her. There his responsibility for her seemed to cease. “Will you excuse
me?” he asked, and there was no doubt he felt that he had been given more than his
share that evening, even though he was fat.
“Yes, indeed.” Her laughter was continuous. “I should think you would be
glad to get rid of me after that. Ha, ha, ha! Poor Mr. Flitcroft, you know you are!”
 It was the deadly truth, and the fat one, saying, “Well, if you’ll excuse me
now,” hurried away with a step which grew lighter as the distance from her
increased. Arrived at the haven of a far doorway, he mopped his brow and shook
his head grimly in response to frequent rallyings.
Ariel sat through more dances, interminable dances and intermissions, in that
same chair, in which it began to seem she was to live out the rest of her life. Now
and then, if she thought people were looking at her as they passed, she broke into a
laugh and nodded slightly, as if still amused over her mishap.
After a long time she rose, and laughing cheerfully to Mr. Flitcroft, who was
standing in the doorway and replied with a wan smile, stepped out quickly into the
hall, where she almost ran into her great-uncle, Jonas Tabor. He was going toward
the big front doors with Judge Pike, having just come out of the latter’s library,
down the hall.
Jonas was breathing heavily and was shockingly pale, though his eyes were
very bright. He turned his back upon his grandniece sharply and went out of the
door. Ariel reëntered the room whence she had come. She laughed again to her fat
friend as she passed him, went to the window and looked out. The porch seemed
deserted and was faintly illuminated by a few Japanese lanterns. She sprang out,
dropped upon the divan, and burying her face in her hands, cried heart-brokenly.
Presently she felt something alive touch her foot, and, her breath catching with
alarm, she started to rise. A thin hand, issuing from a shabby sleeve, had stolen out
between two of the green tubs and was pressing upon one of her shoes.
“Sh!” warned a voice. “Don’t make a noise!”
The warning was not needed; she had recognized the hand and sleeve
instantly. It was her playmate and lifelong friend, Joe Louden.
“What were you going on about?” he asked angrily.
“Nothing,” she answered. “I wasn’t. You must go away; you know the Judge
doesn’t like you.”
“What were you crying about?” interrupted the uninvited guest.
“Nothing, I tell you!” she repeated, the tears not ceasing to gather in her eyes.
“I wasn’t.”
“I want to know what it was,” he insisted. “Didn’t the fools ask you to dance!
Ah! You needn’t tell me. That’s it. I’ve been here, watching, for the last three
dances and you weren’t in sight till you came to the window. Well, what do you
care about that for!”
“I don’t,” she answered. “I don’t!” Then suddenly, without being able to
prevent it, she sobbed.
“No,” he said, gently, “I see you don’t. And you let yourself be a fool because
there are a lot of fools in there.”
She gave way, all at once, to a gust of sorrow and bitterness; she bent far over
and caught his hand and laid it against her wet cheek. “Oh, Joe,” she whispered,
brokenly, “I think we have such hard lives, you and I! It doesn’t seem right—while
we’re so young! Why can’t we be like the others? Why can’t we have some of the
fun?”
He withdrew his hand, with the embarrassment and shame he would have felt
had she been a boy.
“Get out!” he said, feebly.
She did not seem to notice, but, still stooping, rested her elbows on her knees
and her face in her hands. “I try so hard to have some fun, to be like the rest—and
it’s always a mistake, always, always, always!” She rocked herself slightly from
side to side. “I’m a fool, it’s the truth, or I wouldn’t have come to-night. I want to
be attractive—I want to be in things. I want to laugh as they do—”
“To laugh, just to laugh, and not because there’s something funny?”
“Yes, I do, I do! And to know how to dress and to wear my hair—there must
be some place where you can learn those things. I’ve never had any one to show
me! It’s only lately I’ve cared, but I’m seventeen, Joe—” She faltered, came to a
stop, and her whole body was shaken with sobs. “I hate myself so for crying—for
everything!”
Just then a colored waiter, smiling graciously, came out upon the porch,
bearing a tray of salad, hot oysters, and coffee. At his approach, Joe had fallen
prone on the floor in the shadow. Ariel shook her head to the proffer of
refreshments.
“I don’t want any,” she murmured.
The waiter turned away in pity and was reëntering the window when a
passionate whisper fell upon his ear as well as upon Ariel’s.
“Take it!”
“Ma’am?” said the waiter.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she replied quickly. The waiter, his elation restored,
gave of his viands with the vsuperfluous bounty loved by his race when distributing
the product of the wealthy.
When he had gone, “Give me everything that’s hot,” said Joe. “You can keep
the salad.”
“I couldn’t eat it or anything else,” she answered, thrusting the plate between
the palms.
For a time there was silence. From within the house came the continuous
babble of voices and laughter, the clink of vcutlery on china. The young people
spent a long time over their supper. By and by the waiter returned to the veranda,
deposited a plate of colored ices upon Ariel’s knees with a noble gesture, and
departed.
“No ice for me,” said Joe.
“Won’t you please go now?” she entreated.
 “It wouldn’t be good manners,” he joked. “They might think I only came for
the supper.”
“Give me the dish and coffee-cup,” she whispered, impatiently. “Suppose the
waiter came and had to look for them? Quick!”
A bottle-shaped figure appeared in the window, and she had no time to take
the plate and cup which were being pushed through the palm-leaves. She whispered
a word of warning, and the dishes were hurriedly withdrawn as Norbert Flitcroft,
wearing a solemn expression of injury, came out upon the veranda.
“They want you. Some one’s come for you.”
“Oh, is grandfather waiting?” She rose.
“It isn’t your grandfather that has come for you,” answered the fat one, slowly.
“It is Eskew Arp. Something’s happened.”
She looked at him for a moment, beginning to tremble violently, her eyes
growing wide with fright.
“Is my grandfather—is he sick?”
“You’d better go and see. Old Eskew’s waiting in the hall. He’ll tell you.”
She was by him and through the window instantly. Mr. Arp was waiting in the
hall, talking in a low voice to Mrs. Pike.
“Your grandfather’s all right,” he told the frightened girl quickly. “He sent me
for you. Just hurry and get your things.”
She was with him again in a moment, and seizing the old man’s arm, hurried
him down the steps and toward the street almost at a run.
“You’re not telling me the truth,” she said. “You’re not telling me the truth!”
“Nothing has happened to Roger Tabor,” panted Mr. Arp. “We’re going this
way, not that.” They had come to the gate, and as she turned to the right he pulled
her sharply to the left.
“Where are we going?” she demanded.
“To your Uncle Jonas’s.”
“Why?” she cried, in supreme astonishment. “What do you want to take me
there for? Don’t you know that he doesn’t like me—that he has stopped speaking to
me?”
“Yes,” said the old man, grimly; “he has stopped speaking to everybody.”
These startling words told Ariel that her uncle was dead. They did not tell her
what she was soon to learn—that he had died rich, and that, failing other heirs, she
and her grandfather had inherited his fortune.

II
 It was Sunday in Canaan—Sunday some years later. Joe Louden was sitting in
the shade of Main Street bridge, smoking a cigar. He was alone; he was always
alone, for he had been away a long time, and had made few friends since his return.
A breeze wandered up the river and touched the leaves and grass to life. The
young corn, deep green in the bottom-land, moved with a vstaccato flurry; the
stirring air brought a smell of blossoms; the distance took on faint lavender hazes
which blended the outlines of the fields, lying like square coverlets on the long
slope of rising ground beyond the bottom-land, and empurpled the blue woodland
shadows of the groves.
For the first time it struck Joe that it was a beautiful day. He opened his eyes
and looked about him whimsically. Then he shook his head again. A lady had just
emerged from the bridge and was coming toward him.
It would be hard to get at Joe’s first impressions of her. We can find
conveyance for only the broadest and heaviest. At first sight of her, there was
preëminently the shock of seeing anything so exquisite in his accustomed world.
For she was exquisite; she was that, and much more, from the ivory vferrule of the
parasol she carried, to the light and slender foot-print she left in the dust of the
road. Joe knew at once that nothing like her had ever before been seen in Canaan.
He had little knowledge of the millinery arts, and he needed none to see the
harmony of the things she wore. Her dress and hat and gloves and parasol showed a
pale lavender overtint like that which he had seen overspreading the western slope.
Under the summer hat her very dark hair swept back over the temples with
something near trimness in the extent to which it was withheld from being fluffy. It
may be that this approach to trimness, after all, was the true key to the mystery of
the lady who appeared to Joe.
She was to pass him—so he thought—and as she drew nearer, his breath came
faster. And then he realized that something wonderful was happening to him.
She had stopped directly in front of him; stopped and stood looking at him
with her clear eyes. He did not lift his own to her; a great and unaccountable
shyness beset him. He had risen and removed his hat, trying not to clear his throat
—his everyday sense urging upon him that she was a stranger in Canaan who had
lost her way.
“Can I—can I—” he stammered, blushing, meaning to finish with “direct
you,” or “show you the way.”
Then he looked at her again and saw what seemed to him the strangest sight of
life. The lady’s eyes had filled with tears—filled and overfilled.
“I’ll sit here on the log with you,” she said. “You don’t need to dust it!” she
went on, tremulously. And even then he did not know who she was.
There was a silence, for if the dazzled young man could have spoken at all, he
could have found nothing to say; and, perhaps, the lady would not trust her own
voice just then. His eyes had fallen again; he was too dazed, and, in truth, too
panic-stricken now, to look at her. She was seated beside him and had handed him
her parasol in a little way which seemed to imply that, of course, he had reached for
it, so that it was to be seen how used she was to have all such things done for her.
He saw that he was expected to furl the dainty thing; he pressed the catch and let
down the top timidly, as if fearing to break or tear it; and, as it closed, held near his
face, he caught a very faint, sweet, spicy vemanation from it like wild roses and
cinnamon.
“Do you know me?” asked the lady at last.
For answer he could only stare at her, dumfounded; he lifted an unsteady hand
toward her appealingly. Her manner underwent an April change. She drew back
lightly; he was favored with the most delicious low laugh he had ever heard.
“I’m glad you’re the same, Joe!” she said. “I’m glad you’re the same, and I’m
glad I’ve changed, though that isn’t why you have forgotten me.”
He arose uncertainly and took three or four backward steps from her. She sat
before him, radiant with laughter, the loveliest creature he had ever seen; but
between him and this charming vision there swept, through the warm, scented June
air, the dim picture of a veranda all in darkness and the faint music of violins.
“Ariel Tabor!”
“Isn’t it about time you were recognizing me?” she said.
. . . . . .
Sensations were rare in staid, dull, commonplace Canaan, but this fine Sunday
morning the town was treated to one of the most memorable sensations in its
history. The town, all except Joe Louden, had known for weeks that Ariel Tabor
was coming home from abroad, but it had not seen her. And when she walked along
the street with Joe, past the Sunday church-returning crowds, it is not quite truth to
say that all except the children came to a dead halt, but it is not very far from it.
The air was thick with subdued exclamations and whisperings.
Joe had not known her. The women recognized her, vinfallibly, at first sight;
even those who had quite forgotten her. And the women told their men. Hence the
un-Sunday-like demeanor of the procession, for few towns held it more unseemly
to stand and stare at passers-by, especially on the Sabbath. But Ariel Tabor had
returned.
A low but increasing murmur followed the two as they proceeded. It ran up the
street ahead of them; people turned to look back and paused, so that Ariel and Joe
had to walk round one or two groups. They had, also, to walk round Norbert
Flitcroft, which was very like walking round a group. Mr. Flitcroft was one of the
few (he was waddling home alone) who did not identify Miss Tabor, and her effect
upon him was extraordinary. His mouth opened and he gazed vstodgily, his
widening eyes like sun-dogs coming out of a fog. Mr. Flitcroft experienced a few
moments of trance; came out of it stricken through and through; felt nervously of
his tie; resolutely fell in behind, and followed, at a distance of some forty paces,
determined to learn what household this heavenly visitor honored, and thrilling
with the intention to please that same household with his own presence as soon and
as often as possible.
Ariel flushed a little when she perceived the extent of their conspicuousness;
but it was not the blush that Joe remembered had reddened the tanned skin of old;
for her brownness had gone long ago, though it had not left her merely pink and
white. There was a delicate rosiness rising from her cheeks to her temples, as the
earliest dawn rises.
Joe kept trying to realize that this lady of wonder was Ariel Tabor, but he
could not; he could not connect the shabby Ariel, whom he had treated as one boy
treats another, with this young woman of the world. Although he had only a dim
perception of the staring and whispering which greeted and followed them, Ariel,
of course, was thoroughly aware of it, though the only sign she gave was the slight
blush, which very soon disappeared.
Ariel paused before the impressive front of Judge Pike’s large mansion. Joe’s
face expressed surprise.
“Don’t you know?” she said. “I’m staying here. Judge Pike has charge of all
my property. Come to see me this afternoon.”
With a last charming smile, Ariel turned and left the dazed young man on the
sidewalk.
That walk was but the beginning of her triumph. Judge Pike’s of a summer
afternoon was the swirling social center of Canaan, but on that particular Sunday
afternoon every unattached male in the town who possessed the privilege of calling
at the big house appeared. They filled the chairs in the wide old-fashioned hall
where Ariel received them, and overpoured on the broad steps of the old-fashioned
spiral staircase, where Mr. Flitcroft, on account of his size, occupied two steps and
a portion of a third. And Ariel was the center of it all!
BOOTHTARKINGTON
.

HELPS TO STUDY
I. Describe Ariel’s pitiful attempts at beautifying herself when dressing for the dance. When did
she realize her failure? How were her anticipations of the dance realized? What kind of girl was
Mamie Pike? Give reasons for your answer. At what point were you most sorry for Ariel? With what
startling news did the evening end?
II. Give an account of the meeting between the old playmates. Describe the scenes as they
walked along the street. What do you think was the greatest part of Ariel’s “triumph?” Was she
spoiled by her wealth? How do you know?

SUPPLEMENTARY READING
Little Women—Louisa M. Alcott.
Pride and Prejudice—Jane Austen.

141-* Copyright by Harper & Brothers.

 THE CLOUD
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under;
And then again I dissolve it in rain;
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,

And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night ’tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers
Lightning, my pilot, sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder;
It struggles and howls at fits.
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the
genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills and the crags and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream.
The spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in heaven’s blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

I am the daughter of the earth and water,

And the nursling of the sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain, when, with never a stain,
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams,
Build up the blue dome of air,—
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
 And out of the caverns of rain,
I rise and unbuild it again.
PERCYBYSSHE SHELLEY
.

HELPS TO STUDY
Make a list of the things the cloud does. Read aloud the lines in which the poet tells of each of
these. Why is lightning spoken of as the pilot of the cloud? Where does it sit? Where is the thunder?
How is the cloud “the daughter of the earth and water”? How “a nursling of the sky”? Explain “I
change, but I cannot die.” A cenotaph is a memorial built to one who is buried elsewhere. Why
should the clear sky be the cloud’s cenotaph? How does the reappearing of the cloud unbuild it?
 NEW ENGLAND WEATHER
There is a vsumptuous variety about the New England weather that compels
the stranger’s admiration—and regret. The weather is always doing something
there; always attending strictly to business; always getting up new designs and
trying them on the people to see how they will go. But it gets through more
business in spring than in any other season. In the spring I have counted one
hundred and thirty-six different kinds of weather within four and twenty hours. It
was I who made the fame and fortune of the man who had that marvelous
collection of weather on exhibition at the Centennial, which so astounded the
foreigners. He was going to travel around the world and get specimens from all
climes. I said, “Don’t do it; just come to New England on a favorable spring day.” I
told him what we could do in the way of style, variety, and quantity. Well, he came,
and he made his collection in four days. As to variety, he confessed that he got
hundreds of kinds of weather that he had never heard of before. And as to quantity,
after he had picked out and discarded all that was blemished in any way, he not
only had weather enough, but weather to spare, weather to hire out, weather to sell,
weather to deposit, weather to invest, and weather to give to the poor.
Old Probabilities has a mighty reputation for accurate prophecy and
thoroughly deserves it. You take up the paper and observe how crisply and
confidently he checks off what to-day’s weather is going to be on the Pacific, down
South, in the Middle States, in the Wisconsin region. See him sail along in the joy
and pride of his power till he gets to New England, and then see his tail drop. He
doesn’t know what the weather is going to be in New England. Well, he mulls over
it, and by and by he gets out something like this: “Probable northeast to southwest
winds, varying to the southward and westward and eastward and points between;
high and low barometer, swapping around from place to place; probable areas of
rain, snow, hail, and drought, succeeded or preceded by earthquakes with thunder
and lightning.” Then he jots down this postscript from his wandering mind, to
cover accidents: “But it is possible that the program may be wholly changed in the
meantime.” Yes, one of the brightest gems in the New England weather is the
dazzling uncertainty of it. There is certain to be plenty of weather, but you never
can tell which end of the procession is going to move first.
But, after all, there are at least two or three things about that weather (or, if
you please, the effects produced by it) which we residents would not like to part
with. If we hadn’t our bewitching autumn foliage, we should still have to credit the
weather with one feature which compensates for all its bullying vagaries—the ice
storm. Every bough and twig is strung with ice beads, frozen dewdrops, and the
whole tree sparkles cold and white like the vShah of Persia’s diamond plume. Then
the wind waves the branches, and the sun comes out and turns all those myriads of
beads and drops to prisms that glow and burn and flash with all manner of colored
fires; which change and change again, with inconceivable rapidity, from blue to
red, from red to green, and green to gold. The tree becomes a spraying fountain, a
very explosion of dazzling jewels, and it stands there the vacme, the climax, the
supremest possibility in art or nature, of bewildering, intoxicating, intolerable
magnificence. One cannot make the words too strong. Month after month I lay up
hate and grudge against the New England weather; but when the ice storm comes at
last I say: “There, I forgive you now; you are the most enchanting weather in the
world.”
MARKTWAIN.

HELPS TO STUDY
 Mark Twain’s humor was noted for exaggeration. Find examples of exaggeration in this
selection. Old Probabilities was the name signed by a weather prophet of the period. How was he
affected by New England weather? At what point did Twain drop his fun and begin a beautiful
tribute to a New England landscape? How does the tribute close?

SUPPLEMENTARY READING
Three Men in a Boat—Jerome K. Jerome.
The House Boat on the Styx—John Kendrick Bangs.

Silence Deep and White

Silence Deep and White
 THE FIRST SNOWFALL
The snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night
Had been heaping fields and highway
With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock

Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new roofed with Carrara

Came chanticleer’s muffled crow,
The stiff rails were softened to swan’s-down
And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window

That noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snowbirds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn

Where a little headstone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,

Saying, “Father, who makes it snow?”
And I told of the good All-Father
Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snowfall,

And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o’er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high.

I remembered the gradual patience

That fell from that cloud like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar on our deep-plunged woe.

And again to the child I whispered,

“The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father
 Alone can make it fall.”

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;

And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.
JAMES RUSSELLLOWELL.

HELPS TO STUDY
When did the snow begin? How do you know? What time is it now? Is snow still falling? Read
the lines that show this. Of what sorrow does the snow remind the poet? Read the lines which show
that peace had come to the parents. Make a list of the comparisons (or similes) used by the poet.
Read the lines which show that the storm was a quiet one. Which lines do you like best?
 OLD EPHRAIM
For some days after our arrival on the Bighorn range we did not come across
any grizzly. There were plenty of black-tail deer in the woods, and we encountered
a number of bands of cow and calf elk, or of young bulls; but after several days’
hunting, we were still without any game worth taking home, and we had seen no
sign of grizzly, which was the game we were especially anxious to kill, for neither
Merrifield nor I had ever seen a bear alive.
Sometimes we hunted in company; sometimes each of us went out alone. One
day we had separated; I reached camp early in the afternoon, and waited a couple
of hours before Merrifield put in an appearance.
At last I heard a shout, and he came in sight galloping at speed down an open
glade, and waving his hat, evidently having had good luck; and when he reined in
his small, wiry cow-pony, we saw that he had packed behind his saddle the fine,
glossy pelt of a black bear. Better still, he announced that he had been off about ten
miles to a perfect tangle of ravines and valleys where bear sign was very thick; and
not of black bear either, but of grizzly. The black bear (the only one we got on the
mountains) he had run across by accident.
Merrifield’s tale made me decide to shift camp at once, and go over to the spot
where the bear-tracks were plentiful. Next morning we were off, and by noon
pitched camp by a clear brook, in a valley with steep, wooded sides.
That afternoon we again went out, and I shot a fine bull elk. I came home
alone toward nightfall, walking through a reach of burnt forest, where there was
nothing but charred tree-trunks and black mold. When nearly through it I came
across the huge, half-human footprints of a great grizzly, which must have passed
by within a few minutes. It gave me rather an eery feeling in the silent, lonely
woods, to see for the first time the unmistakable proofs that I was in the home of
the mighty lord of the wilderness.
That evening we almost had a visit from one of the animals we were after.
Several times we had heard at night the musical calling of the bull elk—a sound to
which no writer has as yet done justice. This particular night, when we were in bed
and the fire was smoldering, we were roused by a ruder noise—a kind of grunting
or roaring whine, answered by the frightened snorts of the ponies. It was a bear
which had evidently not seen the fire, as it came from behind the bank, and had
probably been attracted by the smell of the horses. After it made out what we were,
it stayed round a short while, again uttered its peculiar roaring grunt, and went off;
we had seized our rifles and had run out into the woods, but in the darkness could
see nothing; indeed it was rather lucky we did not stumble across the bear, as he
could have made short work of us when we were at such a disadvantage.
 Next day we went off on a long tramp through the woods and along the sides
of the canyons. There were plenty of berry bushes growing in clusters; and all
around these there were fresh tracks of bear. But the grizzly is also a flesh-eater,
and has a great liking for vcarrion. On visiting the place where Merrifield had
killed the black bear, we found that the grizzlies had been there before us, and had
utterly devoured the carcass, with cannibal relish. Hardly a scrap was left, and we
turned our steps toward where lay the bull elk I had killed. It was quite late in the
afternoon when we reached the place.
A grizzly had evidently been at the carcass during the preceding night, for his
great footprints were in the ground all around it, and the carcass itself was gnawed
and torn, and partially covered with earth and leaves—the grizzly has a curious
habit of burying all of his prey that he does not at the moment need.
The forest was composed mainly of what are called ridge-pole pines, which
grow close together, and do not branch out until the stems are thirty or forty feet
from the ground. Beneath these trees we walked over a carpet of pine needles, upon
which our moccasined feet made no sound. The woods seemed vast and lonely, and
their silence was broken now and then by the strange noises always to be heard in
the great pine forests.
We climbed up along the trunk of a dead tree that had toppled over until its
upper branches struck in the limb crotch of another, which thus supported it at an
angle half-way in its fall. When above the ground far enough to prevent the bear’s
smelling us, we sat still to wait for his approach; until, in the gathering gloom, we
could no longer see the sights of our rifles. It was useless to wait longer; and we
clambered down and stole out to the edge of the woods. The forest here covered
one side of a steep, almost canyon-like ravine, whose other side was bare except for
rock and sage-brush. Once out from under the trees there was still plenty of light,
although the sun had set, and we crossed over some fifty yards to the opposite
hillside, and crouched down under a bush to see if perchance some animal might
not also leave the cover.
Again we waited quietly in the growing dusk until the pine trees in our front
blended into one dark, frowning mass. At last, as we were rising to leave, we heard
the sound of the breaking of a dead stick, from the spot where we knew the carcass
lay. “Old Ephraim” had come back to the carcass. A minute afterward, listening
with strained ears, we heard him brush by some dry twigs. It was entirely too dark
to go in after him; but we made up our minds that on the morrow he should be ours.
Early next morning we were over at the elk carcass, and, as we expected,
found that the bear had eaten his fill of it during the night. His tracks showed him
to be an immense fellow, and were so fresh that we doubted if he had left long
before we arrived; and we made up our minds to follow him up and try to find his
lair. The bears that lived on these mountains had evidently been little disturbed;
indeed, the Indians and most of the white hunters are rather chary of meddling with
“Old Ephraim,” as the mountain men style the grizzly. The bears thus seemed to
have very little fear of harm, and we thought it likely that the bed of the one who
had fed on the elk would not be far away.
My companion was a skillful tracker, and we took up the trail at once. For
some distance it led over the soft, yielding carpet of moss and pine needles, and the
footprints were quite easily made out, although we could follow them but slowly;
for we had, of course, to keep a sharp look-out ahead and around us as we walked
noiselessly on in the somber half-light always prevailing under the great pine trees.
After going a few hundred yards the tracks turned off on a well-beaten path
made by the elk; the woods were in many places cut up by these game trails, which
had often become as distinct as ordinary footpaths. The beast’s footprints were
perfectly plain in the dust, and he had lumbered along up the path until near the
middle of the hillside, where the ground broke away and there were hollows and
boulders. Here there had been a windfall, and the dead trees lay among the living,
piled across one another in all directions; while between and around them sprouted
up a thick growth of young spruces and other evergreens. The trail turned off into
the tangled thicket, within which it was almost certain we should find our quarry.
We could still follow the tracks, by the slight scrapes of the claws on the bark, or by
the bent and broken twigs; and we advanced with noiseless caution.
When in the middle of the thicket we crossed what was almost a breastwork of
fallen logs, and Merrifield, who was leading, passed by the upright stem of a great
pine. As soon as he was by it, he sank suddenly on one knee, turning half round, his
face fairly aflame with excitement; and as I strode past him, with my rifle at the
ready, there, not ten steps off, was the great bear, slowly rising from his bed among
the young spruces. He had heard us, but apparently hardly knew exactly where or
what we were, for he reared up on his haunches sideways to us.
Then he saw us and dropped down again on all-fours, the shaggy hair on his
neck and shoulders seeming to bristle as he turned toward us. As he sank down on
his fore feet, I had raised the rifle; his head was bent slightly down, and when I saw
the top of the white bead fairly between his small, glittering, evil eyes, I pulled
trigger. Half-rising up, the huge beast fell over on his side in the death throes, the
ball having gone into his brain, striking as fairly between the eyes as if the distance
had been measured.
The whole thing was over in twenty seconds from the time I caught sight of
the game; indeed, it was over so quickly that the grizzly did not have time to show
fight. He was a monstrous fellow, much larger than any I have seen since. As near
as we could estimate, he must have weighed above twelve hundred pounds.
THEODOREROOSEVELT
.

HELPS TO STUDY
Theodore Roosevelt, President of the United States from 1901 to 1909, was one of the greatest
hunters of the present generation. As he was in weak health as a young man, he went West and lived
for some time the life of a ranchman and hunter, killing much wild game. In later years he went on a
great hunting trip to Africa, and finally explored the wilds of the Amazon river, in South America, in
search of game and adventure. “Old Ephraim” narrates one of his earlier hunting experiences, and is
taken from the book, The Hunting Trips of a Ranchman.
Give an account of the capture of the grizzly bear. Why did not Merrifield fire? Compare the
weight of the bear with that of the average cow or horse. Tell of any bear hunt of which you know.

SUPPLEMENTARY READING
Watchers of the Trail—Charles C. D. Roberts.
Monarch, the Bear—Ernest Thompson Seton.
Wild Animals I Have Known—Ernest Thompson Seton.
African Game Trails—Theodore Roosevelt.
 MIDWINTER
The speckled sky is dim with snow,
The light flakes falter and fall slow;
Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale,
Silently drops a silvery veil;
And all the valley is shut in
By flickering curtains gray and thin.

But cheerily the chickadee

Singeth to me on fence and tree;
The snow sails round him as he sings,
White as the down of angels’ wings.

I watch the slow flakes as they fall

On bank and briar and broken wall;
Over the orchard, waste and brown,
All noiselessly they settle down,
Tipping the apple-boughs, and each
Light quivering twig of plum and peach.

On turf and curb and bower-roof

The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof;
It paves with pearl the garden-walk;
And lovingly round tattered stalk
And shivering stem its magic weaves
A mantle fair as lily-leaves.

All day it snows: the sheeted post

Gleams in the dimness like a ghost;
All day the blasted oak has stood
A muffled wizard of the wood;
Garland and airy cap adorn
The sumach and the wayside thorn,
And clustering spangles lodge and shine
In the dark tresses of the pine.

The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old,

Shrinks like a beggar in the cold;
In vsurplice white the cedar stands,
And blesses him with priestly hands.

Still cheerily the chickadee

Singeth to me on fence and tree:
But in my inmost ear is heard
 The music of a holier bird;
And heavenly thoughts as soft and white
As snow-flakes on my soul alight,
Clothing with love my lonely heart,
Healing with peace each bruised part,
Till all my being seems to be
Transfigured by their purity.
JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.

HELPS TO STUDY
When did this storm begin? Read lines which show this. Give reasons for your answer. What
comparisons are used by the poet in describing the snowfall? Which comparison do you like best?
What healing thought does the storm bring to the poet? Compare it with the same thought in The
First Snowfall.
 A GEORGIA FOX HUNT 177-*

I
In the season of 1863, the Rockville Hunting Club, which had been newly
organized, was at the height of its success. It was composed of men too old to go in
the army, and of young men who were not old enough, or who, from one cause and
another, were exempted from military service. Ostensibly, its object was to
encourage the noble sport of fox-hunting and to bind by closer ties the congenial
souls whose love for horse and hound and horn bordered on enthusiasm. This, I say,
was its vostensible object, for it seems to me, looking back upon that terrible time,
that the main purpose of the association was to devise new methods of forgetting
the sickening vportents of disaster that were even then thick in the air. Any
suggestion or plan calculated to relieve the mind from the weight of the horror of
those desperate days was eagerly seized upon and utilized. With the old men and
the fledgling boys in the neighborhood of Rockville, the desire to escape
momentarily the realities of the present took the shape of fox-hunting and other
congenial amusements. With the women—ah well! Heaven only knows how they
sat dumb and silent over their great anguish and grief, cheering the helpless and
comforting and succoring the sick and wounded. It was a mystery to me then, and it
is a mystery to me now.
About the first of November the writer hereof received a long-expected letter
from Tom Tunison, the secretary of the club, who was on a visit to Monticello. It
was brief and breezy.
“Young man,” he wrote, “they are coming. They are going to give us a vruffle.
Their dogs are good, but they lack form and finish as well as discipline—plenty of
bottom but no confidence. I haven’t hesitated to put up our horn as the prize. Get
the boys together and tell them about it, and see that our own eleven are in fighting
trim. You won’t believe it, but Sue, Herndon, Kate, and Walthall are coming with
the party; and the fair de Compton, who set all the Monticello boys wild last year
when she got back from Macon, vows and declares she is coming, too. Remember
the 15th. Be prepared.”
I took in the situation at a glance. Tom, in his reckless style, had bantered a
party of Jasper county men as to the superiority of their dogs, and had even offered
to give them an opportunity to gain the silver-mounted horn won by the Rockville
club in Hancock county the year before. The Jasper county men, who were really
breeding some excellent dogs, accepted the challenge, and Tom had invited them to
share the hospitality of the plantation home called “Bachelors’ Hall.”
If the truth must be confessed, I was not at all grieved at the announcement in
Tom’s letter, apart from the agreeable change in the social atmosphere that would
result from the presence of ladies in “Bachelors’ Hall.” I was eagerly anxious to test
the mettle of a favorite hound—Flora—whose care and training had cost me a great
deal of time and trouble. Although it was her first season in the field, she had
already become the pet and pride of the Rockville club, the members of which were
not slow to sound her praises. Flora was an experiment. She was the result of a
cross between the Henry hound (called in Georgia the “Birdsong dog,” in honor of
the most successful breeder) and a Maryland hound. She was a grand-daughter of
the famous Hodo and in everything except her color (she was white with yellow
ears) was the exact reproduction of that magnificent fox-hound. I was anxious to
see her put to the test.
It was with no small degree of satisfaction, therefore, that I informed Aunt
Patience, the cook, of Tom’s programme. Aunt Patience was a privileged character,
whose comments upon people and things were free and frequent; when she heard
that a party of hunters, accompanied by ladies, proposed to make the hall their
temporary headquarters, her remarks were ludicrously indignant.
“Well, ef dat Marse Tom ain’t de beatinest white man dat I ever sot eyes on
—’way off yander givin’ way his vittles fo’ he buy um at de sto’! How I know what
Marse Tom want, an’ tel I know, whar I gwineter git um? He better be home yer
lookin’ atter deze lazy niggers, stidder high-flyin’ wid dem Jasper county folks. Ef
dez enny vittles on dis plan’ash’n, hits more’n I knows un. En he’ll go runnin’
roun’ wid dem harum-skarum gals twell I boun’ he don’t fetch dat pipe an’ dat
’backer what he said he would. Can’t fool me ’bout de gals what grows up deze
days. Dey duz like dey wanter stan’ up an’ cuss dersef’ case dey wuzent borned
men.”
“Why, Aunt Patience, your Marse Tom says Miss de Compton is as pretty as a
pink and as fine as a fiddle.”
“Law, chile! you needn’t talk ’bout de gals to dis ole ’omen. I done know um
fo’ you wuz borned. W’en you see Miss Compton you see all de balance un um.
Deze is new times. Marse Tom’s mammy useter spin her fifteen cents o’ wool a day
—w’en you see Miss Compton wid a hank er yarn in ’er han’, you jes’ sen’ me
word.”
Whereupon, Aunt Patience gave her head handkerchief a vigorous wrench,
and went her way—the good old soul—even then considering how she should best
set about preparing a genuine surprise for her young master in the shape of daily
feasts for a dozen guests. I will not stop here to detail the character of this
preparation or to dwell upon its success. It is enough to say that Tom Tunison
praised Aunt Patience to the skies; and, as if this were not sufficient to make her
happy, he produced a big clay pipe, three plugs of real “manufac terbacker,” which
was hard to get in those times, a red shawl, and twelve yards of calico.
The fortnight that followed the arrival of Tom’s guests was one long to be
remembered, not only in the vannals of the Rockville Hunting Club but in the
annals of Rockville itself. The fair de Compton literally turned the heads of old
men and young boys, and even succeeded in conquering the critics of her own sex.
She was marvelously beautiful, and her beauty was of a kind to haunt one in one’s
dreams. It was easy to perceive that she had made a conquest of Tom, and I know
that every suggestion he made and every project he planned had for its sole end and
aim the enjoyment of Miss Carrie de Compton.
 It was several days before the minor details of the contest, which was at once
the excuse for and the object of the visit of Tom’s guests, could be arranged, but
finally everything was “ vamicably adjusted,” and the day appointed. The night
before the hunt, the club and the Jasper county visitors assembled in Tom Tunison’s
parlor for a final discussion of the event.
“In order,” said Tom, “to give our friends and guests an opportunity fully to
test the speed and bottom of their kennels, it has been decided to pay our respects to
‘Old Sandy’.”
“And pray, Mr. Tunison, who is ‘Old Sandy’?” queried Miss de Compton.
“He is a fox, Miss de Compton, and a tough one. He is a trained fox. He has
been hunted so often by the inferior packs in his neighborhood that he is well-nigh
vinvincible. He is so well known that he has not been hunted, except by accident,
for two seasons. He is not as suspicious as he was two years ago, but we must be
careful if we want to get within hearing distance of him to-morrow morning.”
“Do any of the ladies go with us?” asked Jack Herndon.
“I go, for one,” responded Miss de Compton, and in a few minutes all the
ladies had decided to go along, even if they found it inconvenient to participate
actively in the hunt.
“Then,” said Tom, rising, “we must say good night. Uncle Plato will sound
‘Boots and Saddle’ at four o’clock to-morrow morning.”
“Four o’clock!” exclaimed the ladies in dismay.
“At four precisely,” answered Tom, and the ladies with pretty little gestures of
mock despair swept upstairs while Tom brought out cigars for the boys.
My friend little knew how delighted I was that “Old Sandy” was to be put
through his paces. He little knew how carefully I had studied the peculiarities of
this famous fox—how often when training Flora I had taken her out and followed
“Old Sandy” through all his ranges, how I had “felt of” both his speed and bottom
and knew all his weak points.

II
Morning came, and with it Uncle Plato’s bugle call. Aunt Patience was ready
with a smoking hot breakfast, and everybody was in fine spirits. As the eager,
happy crowd filed down the broad avenue that led to the hall, the fair de Compton,
who had been delayed in mounting, rode by my side.
“You choose your escort well,” I ventured to say.
“I have a weakness for children,” she replied; “particularly for children who
know what they are about. Plato has told me that if I desired to see all of the hunt
without much trouble, to follow you. I am selfish, you perceive.”
We rode over the red hills and under the russet trees until we came to “Old
Sandy’s” favorite haunt. Here a council of war was held, and it was decided that
Tom and a portion of the hunters should skirt the fields, while another portion led
by Miss de Compton and myself should enter and bid the fox good morning. Uncle
Plato, who had been given the cue, followed me with the dogs, and in a few
moments we were very near the particular spot where I hoped to find the venerable
deceiver of dogs and men. The hounds were already sallying hither and thither,
anxious and evidently expectant.
Five minutes went by without a whimper from the pack. There was not a
sound save the eager rustling of the dogs through the sedge and undergrowth. The
ground was familiar to Flora, and I watched her with pride as with powerful strides
she circled around. Suddenly she paused and flung her head in the air, making a
beautiful picture where she stood poised, as if listening. My heart gave a great
thump. It was a trick of hers, and I knew that “Old Sandy” had been around within
the past twenty-four hours! With a rush, a bound, and an eager cry, my favorite
came toward us, and the next moment “Old Sandy,” who had been lying almost at
our horses’ feet, was up and away with Flora right at his heels. A wild hope seized
me that my favorite would run into the shy veteran before he could get out of the
field. But no! One of the Jasper county hunters, rendered momentarily insane by
excitement, endeavored to ride the fox down with his horse, and in another moment
Sir Reynard was over the fence and into the woodland beyond, followed by the
hounds. They made a splendid but vineffectual burst of speed, for when “Old
Sandy” found himself upon the blackjack hills he was foot-loose. The morning,
however, was fine—just damp enough to leave the scent of the fox hanging breast
high in the air, whether he shaped his course over lowlands or highlands.

The Beginning of the Fox Hunt

The Beginning of the Fox Hunt

In the midst of all the confusion that had ensued, Miss de Compton remained
cool, serene, and apparently indifferent, but I observed a glow upon her face and a
sparkle in her eyes, as Tom Tunison, riding his gallant gray and heading the
hunters, easily and gracefully took a couple of fences when the hounds veered to
the left.
“Our Jasper county friend has saved ‘Old Sandy,’ Miss de Compton,” I said,
“but he has given us an opportunity of witnessing some very fine sport. The fox is
so badly frightened that he may endeavor in the beginning to outfoot the dogs, but
in the end he will return to his range, and then I hope to show you what a cunning
old customer he is. If Flora doesn’t fail us at the critical moment, you will have the
honor of wearing his brush on your saddle.”
“Youth is always confident,” replied Miss de Compton.
“In this instance, however, I have the advantage of knowing both hound and
fox. Flora has a few weaknesses, but I think she understands what is expected of
her to-day.”
Thus bantering and chaffing each other, we turned our horses’ heads in a
direction voblique to that taken by the other hunters, who, with the exception of
Tom Tunison and Jack Herndon, now well up with the dogs, were struggling along
as best they could. For a half mile or more we cantered down a lane, then turned
into a stubble field, and made for a hill crowned and skirted by a growth of
blackjack, through which an occasional pine had broken, as it seemed, in a vain but
noble effort to touch the sky. Once upon the summit of the hills, we had a majestic
view upon all sides. The fresh morning breezes blew crisp and cool and bracing,
but were not uncomfortable after the exercise we had taken; and as the clouds that
had muffled up the east dispersed themselves or were dissolved, the generous sun
spread layer upon layer of golden light upon hill and valley and forest and stream.
Away to the left we could hear the hounds, and the music of their voices,
toyed with by the playful wind, rolled itself into melodious little echoes that broke
pleasantly upon the ear, now loud, now faint, now far and now near. The first burst
of speed, which had been terrific, had settled down into a steady run, but I knew by
the sound that the pace was still tremendous, and I imagined I could hear the
silvery tongue of Flora as she led the eager pack. The cries of the hounds, however,
grew fainter and fainter, until presently they were lost in the distance.
“He is making a straight shoot for the Turner vold fields, two miles away,” I
remarked, by way of explanation.
“And pray, why are we here?” Miss de Compton asked.
“To be in at the death. (The fair de Compton smiled vsarcastically.) In the
Turner old fields the fox will make his grand double, gain upon the dogs, head for
yonder hill, and come down the ravine upon our right. At the fence here, within
plain view, he will attempt a trick that has heretofore always been successful, and
which has given him a reputation as a trained fox. I depend upon the intelligence of
Flora to see through ‘Old Sandy’s’ vstrategy, but if she hesitates a moment, we
must set her right.”
I spoke with the confidence of one having experience, and Miss de Compton
smiled and was content. We had little time for further conversation, for in a few
minutes I observed a dark shadow emerge from the undergrowth on the opposite
hill and slip quickly across the open space of fallow land. It crossed the ravine that
intersected the valley, stole quietly through the stubble to the fence, and there
paused a moment, as if hesitating. In a low voice I called Miss de Compton’s
attention to the figure, but she refused to believe that it was the same fox we had
aroused thirty minutes before. Howbeit, it was the vveritable “Old Sandy” himself.
I should have known him among a thousand foxes. He was not in as fine feather as
when, at the start, he had swung his brush across Flora’s nose—the pace had told
on him—but he still moved with an air of confidence.
Then and there Miss de Compton beheld a display of fox tactics shrewd
enough to excite the admiration of the most indifferent—a display of cunning that
seemed to be something higher than instinct.
“Old Sandy” paused only a moment. With a bound he gained the top of the
fence, stopped to pull something from one of his fore feet—probably a cockle bur
—and then carefully balancing himself, proceeded to walk the fence. By this time,
the music of the dogs was again heard in the distance, but “Old Sandy” took his
time. One—two—three—seven—ten—twenty panels of the fence were cleared.
Pausing, he again subjected his fore feet to examination, and licked them carefully.
Then he proceeded on his journey along the fence until he was at least one hundred
yards from where he left the ground. Here he paused for the first time, gathered
himself together, leaped through the air, and rushed away. As he did so, the full
note of the pack burst upon our ears as the hounds reached the brow of the hill from
the lowlands on the other side.
“Upon my word!” exclaimed Miss de Compton; “that fox ought to go free. I
shall beg Mr. Tunison—”
But before she finished her sentence the dogs came into view, and I could
hardly restrain a shout of triumph as I saw Flora running easily and unerringly far
to the front. Behind her, led by Captain—and so close together that, as Uncle Plato
afterward remarked, “You mout kivver de whole caboodle wid a hoss-blanket”—
were the remainder of the Tunison kennel, while the Jasper county hounds were
strung out behind in wild but heroic confusion. I felt strongly tempted to give the
view-halloo, and push “Old Sandy” to the wall at once, but I knew that the fair de
Compton would regard the exploit with severe vreprobation forever after. Across
the ravine and to the fence the dogs came, their voices, as they got nearer, crashing
through the silence like a chorus of demons.
Now was the critical moment. If Flora should fail me—!
Several of the older dogs topped the rails, and scattered through the
undergrowth. Flora came over with them, made a small circle, with her sensitive
nose to the damp earth, and then went rushing down the fence. Past the point where
“Old Sandy” took his flying leap she ran, turned suddenly to the left, and came
swooping back in a wide circle. I had barely time to warn Miss de Compton that
she must prepare to do a little rapid riding, when my favorite, with a fierce cry of
delight that thrilled me through and through, picked up the blazing vdrag, and away
we went with a scream and a shout. I felt in my very bones that “Old Sandy” was
doomed. I had never seen Flora so prompt and eager; I had never observed the
scent to be better. Everything was auspicious.
We went like the wind. Miss de Compton rode well, and the long stretches of
stubble land through which the chase led were unbroken by ditch or fence. The
pace of the hounds was simply terrific, and I knew that no fox on earth could long
stand up before the white demon that led the hunt with such splendor.
Five—ten—fifteen minutes we rushed at the heels of the rearmost dogs, until,
suddenly, we found ourselves in the midst of the pack. The scent was lost! Flora ran
about in wide circles, followed by the greater portion of the dogs. To the left, to the
right they went. At that moment, chancing to look back, I caught a glimpse of “Old
Sandy,” broken down and bedraggled, making his way toward a clump of briars.
He had played his last vtrump and lost. Pushed by the dogs, he had dropped in his
tracks and literally allowed them to run over him. I rode at him with a shout; there
was a short, sharp race, and in a few moments vLa Mort was sounded over the
famous fox on the horn that the Jasper county boys did not win.
JOELCHANDLERHARRIS.

HELPS TO STUDY
This gives a good picture of a fox hunt in the South in the long ago. Tell what you like best
about it. Who is telling the story? Was he young or old? How do you know? What opinion do you
form of the “fair de Compton”? See if you can get an old man, perhaps a negro, to tell you of a fox
hunt he has seen.
 SUPPLEMENTARY READING
In Ole Virginia—Thomas Nelson Page.
Old Creole Days—George W. Cable.
Swallow Barn—John P. Kennedy.
The Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains—Charles Egbert Craddock.

177-* From the Atlanta Constitution.

 RAIN AND WIND
I hear the hoofs of horses
Galloping over the hill,
Galloping on and galloping on,
When all the night is shrill
With wind and rain that beats the pane—
And my soul with awe is still.

For every dripping window

Their headlong rush makes bound,
Galloping up and galloping by,
Then back again and around,
Till the gusty roofs ring with their hoofs,
And the draughty cellars sound.

And then I hear black horsemen

Hallooing in the night;
Hallooing and hallooing,
They ride o’er vale and height,
And the branches snap and the shutters clap
With the fury of their flight.

All night I hear their gallop,

And their wild halloo’s alarm;
The tree-tops sound and vanes go round
In forest and on farm;
But never a hair of a thing is there—
Only the wind and the storm.
MADISON JULIUSCAWEIN.
 THE SOUTHERN SKY
Presently the stars begin to peep out, timidly at first, as if to see whether the
elements here below had ceased their strife, and if the scene on earth be such as
they, from bright spheres aloft, may shed their sweet influences upon. Sirius, or that
blazing world Argus, may be the first watcher to send down a feeble ray; then
follow another and another, all smiling meekly; but presently, in the short twilight
of the latitude, the bright leaders of the starry host blaze forth in all their glory, and
the sky is decked and spangled with superb brilliants.
In the twinkling of an eye, and faster than the admiring gazer can tell, the stars
seem to leap out from their hiding-places. By invisible hands, and in quick
succession, the constellations are hung out; first of all, and with dazzling glory, in
the azure depths of space appears the great Southern Cross. That shining symbol
lends a holy grandeur to the scene, making it still more impressive.
Alone in the night-watch, after the sea-breeze has sunk to rest, I have stood on
deck under those beautiful skies, gazing, admiring, rapt. I have seen there, above
the horizon at once and shining with a splendor unknown to other latitudes, every
star of the vfirst magnitude—save only six—that is contained in the catalogue of
the one hundred principal fixed stars.
There lies the city on the seashore, wrapped in sleep. The sky looks solid, like
a vault of steel set with diamonds. The stillness below is in harmony with the
silence above, and one almost fears to speak, lest the harsh sound of the human
voice, reverberating through those vaulted “chambers of the south,” should wake
up echo and drown the music that fills the soul.
Orion is there, just about to march down into the sea; but Canopus and Sirius,
with Castor and his twin brother, and vProcyon, Argus, and Regulus—these are
high up in their course; they look down with great splendor, smiling peacefully as
they precede the Southern Cross on its western way. And yonder, farther still, away
to the south, float the Magellanic clouds, and the “Coal Sacks”—those mysterious,
dark spots in the sky, which seem as though it had been rent, and these were holes
in the “azure robe of night,” looking out into the starless, empty, black abyss
beyond. One who has never watched the southern sky in the stillness of the night,
after the sea-breeze with its turmoil is done, can have no idea of its grandeur,
beauty, and loveliness.
MATTHEWFONTAINEMAURY.

HELPS TO STUDY
 Do you know any of the stars or the constellations mentioned? Some of them are seen in our
latitude, but the southern sky Maury describes is south of the equator. The “Southern Cross” is seen
only below the equator. The “Magellan Clouds” are not far from the South Pole.
 DAFFODILS
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils,—
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of the bay.
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee,—
A poet could not but be gay
In such a
jocund company.
I gazed, and gazed, but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie,

In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
WILLIAMWORDSWORTH .
 DAWN
I had occasion, a few weeks since, to take the early train from Providence to
Boston; and for this purpose I rose at two o’clock in the morning. Everything
around was wrapped in darkness and hushed in silence. It was a mild, serene,
midsummer night,—the sky was without a cloud,—the winds were vwhist. The
moon, then in the last quarter, had just risen, and the stars shone with a luster but
little affected by her presence.
Jupiter, two hours high, was the herald of the day; the vPleiades, just above the
horizon, shed their sweet influence in the east; Lyra sparkled near the vzenith;
Andromeda veiled her newly discovered glories from the naked eye in the south;
the steady Pointers, far beneath the pole, looked meekly up from the depths of the
north to their sovereign.
Such was the glorious spectacle as I entered the train. As we proceeded, the
timid approach of twilight became more perceptible; the intense blue of the sky
began to soften; the smaller stars, like little children, went first to rest; the sister-
beams of the Pleiades soon melted together; but the bright constellations of the
west and north remained unchanged. Steadily the wondrous transfiguration went
on. Hands of angels, hidden from mortal eyes, shifted the scenery of the heavens;
the glories of night dissolved into the glories of the dawn.
The blue sky now turned more softly gray; the great watch-stars shut up their
holy eyes; the east began to kindle. Faint streaks of purple soon blushed along the
sky; the whole celestial concave was filled with the inflowing tides of the morning
light, which came pouring down from above in one great ocean of radiance; till at
length, as we reached the Blue Hills, a flash of purple fire blazed out from above
the horizon, and turned the dewy teardrops of flower and leaf into rubies and
diamonds. In a few seconds, the everlasting gates of the morning were thrown wide
open, and the lord of day, arrayed in glories too severe for the gaze of man, began
his state.
I do not wonder at the superstition of the ancient vMagians, who, in the
morning of the world, went up to the hilltops of Central Asia, and, ignorant of the
true God, adored the most glorious work of His hand. But I am filled with
amazement, when I am told that, in this enlightened age and in the heart of the
Christian world, there are persons who can witness this daily manifestation of the
power and wisdom of the Creator, and yet say in their hearts, “There is no God.”
EDWARDEVERETT
.

HELPS TO STUDY
 What experience did Everett describe? What impresses the mood of the early morning? In what
latitude did Everett live? What stars and constellations did he mention? Trace the steps by which he
pictured the sunrise. Why did he not wonder at the belief of the “ancient Magians”? What thought
does cause amazement?
 SPRING
Spring, with that nameless
pathos in the air
Which dwells with all things fair—
Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain,
Is with us once again.

Out in the lonely woods, the jasmine burns

Its fragrant lamps, and turns
Into a royal court, with green festoons,
The banks of dark vlagoons.

In the deep heart of every forest tree,

The blood is all aglee;
And there’s a look about the leafless bowers,
As if they dreamed of flowers.

Yet still, on every side we trace the hand

Of Winter in the land,
Save where the maple reddens on the lawn,
Flushed by the season’s dawn;

Or where, like those strange vsemblances we find

That age to childhood bind,
The elm puts on, as if in Nature’s scorn,
The brown of Autumn corn.

The Woods in Spring

The Woods in Spring

As yet the turf is dark, although you know

That, not a span below,

A thousand germs are groping through the gloom,

And soon will burst their tomb.

In gardens, you may note, amid the dearth,

The crocus breaking earth;
And near the snowdrop’s tender white and green,
The violet in its screen.

But many gleams and showers need must pass

Along the budding grass,
And weeks go by, before the enamored South
Shall kiss the rose’s mouth.

Still there’s a sense of blossoms yet unborn,

In the sweet airs of morn;
One almost looks to see the very street
Grow purple at his feet.

At times, a fragrant breeze comes floating by,

And brings, you know not why,
A feeling as when eager crowds await
Before a palace gate

Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start,

If from a beech’s heart,
A blue-eyed vDryad, stepping forth, should say,
“Behold me! I am May!”
HENRYTIMROD.
 AMONG THE CLIFFS
It was a critical moment. There was a stir other than that of the wind among
the pine needles and dry leaves that carpeted the ground.
The wary wild turkeys lifted their long necks with that peculiar cry of half-
doubting surprise so familiar to a sportsman, then all was still for an instant. The
world was steeped in the noontide sunlight, the mountain air tasted of the fresh
vsylvan fragrance that pervaded the forest, the foliage blamed with the red and gold
of autumn, the distant vChilhowee heights were delicately blue.
That instant’s doubt sealed the doom of one of the flock. As the turkeys stood
in momentary suspense, the sunlight gilding their bronze feathers to a brighter
sheen, there was a movement in the dense undergrowth. The flock took suddenly to
wing,—a flash from among the leaves, the sharp crack of a rifle, and one of the
birds fell heavily over the bluff and down toward the valley.
The young mountaineer’s exclamation of triumph died in his throat. He came
running to the verge of the crag, and looked down ruefully into the depths where
his game had disappeared.
“Waal, sir,” he broke forth pathetically, “this beats my time! If my luck ain’t
enough ter make a horse laugh!”
He did not laugh, however; perhaps his luck was calculated to stir only
vequine risibility. The cliff was almost perpendicular; at the depth of twenty feet a
narrow ledge projected, but thence there was a sheer descent, down, down, down,
to the tops of the tall trees in the valley far below.
As Ethan Tynes looked wistfully over the precipice, he started with a sudden
surprise. There on the narrow ledge lay the dead turkey.
The sight sharpened Ethan’s regrets. He had made a good shot, and he hated to
relinquish his game. While he gazed in dismayed meditation, an idea began to
kindle in his brain. Why could he not let himself down to the ledge by those long,
strong vines that hung over the edge of the cliff?
It was risky, Ethan knew, terribly risky. But then,—if only the vines were
strong!
He tried them again and again with all his might, selected several of the
largest, grasped them hard and fast, and then slipped lightly off the crag.
He waited motionless for a moment. His movements had dislodged clods of
earth and fragments of rock from the verge of the cliff, and until these had ceased
to rattle about his head and shoulders he did not begin his downward journey.
 Now and then as he went he heard the snapping of twigs, and again a branch
would break, but the vines which supported him were tough and strong to the last.
Almost before he knew it, he stood upon the ledge, and with a great sigh of relief
he let the vines swing loose.
“Waal, that warn’t sech a mighty job at last. But law, if it hed been Peter Birt
’stid of me, that thar wild tur-r-key would hev laid on this hyar ledge plumb till the
Jedgmint Day!”
He walked deftly along the ledge, picked up the bird, and tied it to one of the
vines with a string which he took from his pocket, intending to draw it up when he
should be once more on the top of the crag. These preparations complete, he began
to think of going back.
He caught the vines on which he had made the descent, but before he had
fairly left the ledge, he felt that they were giving way.
He paused, let himself slip back to a secure foothold, and tried their strength
by pulling with all his force.
Presently down came the whole mass in his hands. The friction against the
sharp edges of the rock over which they had been stretched with a strong tension
had worn them through. His first emotion was one of intense thankfulness that they
had fallen while he was on the ledge instead of midway in his vprecarious ascent.
“Ef they hed kem down whilst I war a-goin’ up, I’d hev been flung down ter
the bottom o’ the valley, ’kase this ledge air too narrer ter hev cotched me.”
He glanced down at the somber depths beneath. “Thar wouldn’t hev been
enough left of me ter pick up on a shovel!” he exclaimed, with a tardy realization of
his foolish recklessness.
The next moment a mortal terror seized him. What was to be his fate? To
regain the top of the cliff by his own exertions was an impossibility.
He cast his despairing eyes up the ascent, as sheer and as smooth as a wall,
without a crevice which might afford a foothold, or a shrub to which he might
cling. His strong head was whirling as he again glanced downward to the
unmeasured vabyss beneath. He softly let himself sink into a sitting posture, his
heels dangling over the frightful depths, and addressed himself resolutely to the
consideration of the terrible danger in which he was placed.
Taken at its best, how long was it to last? Could he look to any human being
for deliverance? He reflected with growing dismay that the place was far from any
dwelling, and from the road that wound along the ridge. There was no errand that
could bring a man to this most unfrequented portion of the deep woods, unless an
accident should hither direct some hunter’s step. It was quite possible, nay,
probable, that years might elapse before the forest solitude would again be broken
by human presence.
His brothers would search for him when he should be missed from home,—
but such boundless stretches of forest! They might search for weeks and never
come near this spot. He would die here, he would starve,—no, he would grow
drowsy when exhausted and fall—fall—fall!
 He was beginning to feel that morbid fascination that sometimes seizes upon
those who stand on great heights,—an overwhelming impulse to plunge downward.
His only salvation was to look up. He would look up to the sky.
And what were these words he was beginning to remember faintly? Had not
the vcircuit-rider said in his last sermon that not even a sparrow falls to the ground
unmarked of God? There was a definite strength in this suggestion. He felt less
lonely as he stared resolutely at the big blue sky. There came into his heart a sense
of encouragement, of hope. He would keep up as long and as bravely as he could,
and if the worst should come,—was he indeed so solitary? He would hold in
remembrance the sparrow’s fall of Scripture.
He had so nerved himself to meet his fate that he thought it was a fancy when
he heard a distant step. But it did not die away, it grew more and more distinct,—a
shambling step that curiously stopped at intervals and kicked the fallen leaves.
He sought to call out, but he seemed to have lost his voice. Not a sound issued
from his thickened tongue and his dry throat. The step came nearer. It would
presently pass. With a mighty effort Ethan sent forth a wild, hoarse cry.
The rocks vreverberated it, the wind carried it far, and certainly there was an
echo of its despair and terror in a shrill scream set up on the verge of the crag. Then
Ethan heard the shambling step scampering off very fast indeed.
The truth flashed upon him. It was some child, passing on an unimaginable
errand through the deep woods, frightened by his sudden cry.
“Stop, bubby!” he shouted; “stop a minute! It’s Ethan Tynes that’s callin’ of
ye. Stop a minute, bubby!”
The step paused at a safe distance, and the shrill pipe of a little boy demanded,
“Whar is ye, Ethan Tynes?”
“I’m down hyar on the ledge o’ the bluff. Who air ye ennyhow?”
“George Birt,” promptly replied the little boy. “What air ye doin’ down thar? I
thought it was Satan a-callin’ of me. I never seen nobody.”
“I kem down hyar on vines arter a tur-r-key I shot. The vines bruk, an’ I hev
got no way ter git up agin. I want ye ter go ter yer mother’s house, an’ tell yer
brother Pete ter bring a rope hyar fur me ter climb up by.”
Ethan expected to hear the shambling step going away with a vcelerity in
keeping with the importance of the errand. On the contrary, the step was
approaching the crag.
A moment of suspense, and there appeared among the jagged ends of the
broken vines a small red head, a deeply freckled face, and a pair of sharp, eager
blue eyes. George Birt had carefully laid himself down on his stomach, only
protruding his head beyond the verge of the crag, that he might not fling away his
life in his curiosity.
“Did ye git it?” he asked, with bated breath.
“Git what?” demanded poor Ethan, surprised and impatient.
 “The tur-r-key—what ye hev done been talkin’ ’bout,” said George Birt.
Ethan had lost all interest in the turkey.
“Yes, yes; but run along, bub. I mought fall off’n this hyar place,—I’m gittin’
stiff sittin’ still so long,—or the wind mought blow me off. The wind is blowing
toler’ble brisk.”
“Gobbler or hen?” asked George Birt eagerly.
“It air a hen,” said Ethan. “But look-a-hyar, George, I’m a-waitin’ on ye an’ if
I’d fall off’n this hyar place, I’d be ez dead ez a door-nail in a minute.”
“Waal, I’m goin’ now,” said George Birt, with gratifying alacrity. He raised
himself from his vrecumbent position, and Ethan heard him shambling off, kicking
every now and then at the fallen leaves as he went.
Presently, however, he turned and walked back nearly to the brink of the cliff.
Then he prostrated himself once more at full length,—for the mountain children are
very careful of precipices,—snaked along dexterously to the verge of the crag, and
protruding his red head cautiously, began to vparley once more, trading on Ethan’s
necessities.
“Ef I go on this errand fur ye,” he said, looking very sharp indeed, “will ye
gimme one o’ the whings of that thar wild tur-r-key?”
He coveted the wing-feathers, not the joint of the fowl. The “whing” of the
domestic turkey is used by the mountain women as a fan, and is considered an
elegance as well as a comfort. George Birt vaped the customs of his elders,
regardless of sex,—a characteristic of very small boys.
“Oh, go ’long, bubby!” exclaimed poor Ethan, in dismay at the vdilatoriness
and indifference of his vunique deliverer. “I’ll give ye both o’ the whings.” He
would have offered the turkey willingly, if “bubby” had seemed to crave it.
“Waal, I’m goin’ now.” George Birt rose from the ground and started off
briskly, vexhilarated by the promise of both the “whings.”
Ethan was angry indeed when he heard the boy once more shambling back. Of
course one should regard a deliverer with gratitude, especially a deliverer from
mortal peril; but it may be doubted if Ethan’s gratitude would have been great
enough to insure that small red head against a vigorous rap, if it had been within
rapping distance, when it was once more cautiously protruded over the verge of the
cliff.
“I kem back hyar ter tell ye,” the vdoughty deliverer began, with an air of
great importance, and magnifying his office with an extreme relish, “that I can’t go
an’ tell Pete ’bout’n the rope till I hev done kem back from the mill. I hev got old
Sorrel hitched out hyar a piece, with a bag o’ corn on his back, what I hev ter git
ground at the mill. My mother air a-settin’ at home now a-waitin’ fur that thar corn-
meal ter bake dodgers with. An’ I hev got a dime ter pay at the mill; it war lent ter
my dad las’ week. An’ I’m afeard ter walk about much with this hyar dime; I
mought lose it, ye know. An’ I can’t go home ’thout the meal; I’ll ketch it ef I do.
But I’ll tell Pete arter I git back from the mill.”
 “The mill!” echoed Ethan, aghast. “What air ye doin’ on this side o’ the
mounting, ef ye air a-goin’ ter the mill? This ain’t the way ter the mill.”
“I kem over hyar,” said the little boy, still with much importance of manner,
notwithstanding a slight suggestion of embarrassment on his freckled face, “ter see
’bout’n a trap that I hev sot fur squir’ls. I’ll see ’bout my trap, an’ then I hev ter go
ter the mill, ’kase my mother air a-settin’ in our house now a-waitin’ fur meal ter
bake corn-dodgers. Then I’ll tell Pete whar ye air, an’ what ye said ’bout’n the rope.
Ye must jes’ wait fur me hyar.”
Poor Ethan could do nothing else.
As the echo of the boy’s shambling step died in the distance, a redoubled sense
of loneliness fell upon Ethan Tynes. But he endeavored to vsolace himself with the
reflection that the important mission to the squirrel-trap and the errand to the mill
could not last forever, and before a great while Peter Birt and his rope would be
upon the crag.
This idea vbuoyed him up as the hours crept slowly by. Now and then he lifted
his head and listened with painful intentness. He felt stiff in every muscle, and yet
he had a dread of making an effort to change his vconstrained position. He might
lose control of his rigid limbs, and fall into those dread depths beneath.
His patience at last began to give way; his heart was sinking. The messenger
had been even more vdilatory than he was prepared to expect. Why did not Pete
come? Was it possible that George had forgotten to tell of his danger. The sun was
going down, leaving a great glory of gold and crimson clouds and an vopaline haze
upon the purple mountains. The last rays fell on the bronze feathers of the turkey
still lying tied to the broken vines on the ledge.
And now there were only frowning masses of dark clouds in the west; and
there were frowning masses of clouds overhead. The shadow of the coming night
had fallen on the autumnal foliage in the deep valley; in the place of the opaline
haze was only a gray mist.
And presently there came, sweeping along between the parallel mountain
ranges, a somber raincloud. The lad could hear the heavy drops splashing on the
tree-tops in the valley, long, long before he felt them on his head.
The roll of thunder sounded among the crags. Then the rain came down
tumultuously, not in columns but in livid sheets. The lightnings rent the sky,
showing, as it seemed to him, glimpses of the glorious brightness within,—too
bright for human eyes.
He clung desperately to his precarious perch. Now and then a fierce rush of
wind almost tore him from it. Strange fancies beset him. The air was full of that
wild vsymphony of nature, the wind and the rain, the pealing thunder, and the
thunderous echo among the cliffs, and yet he thought he could hear his own name
ringing again and again through all the tumult, sometimes in Pete’s voice,
sometimes in George’s shrill tones.
Ethan became vaguely aware, after a time, that the rain had ceased, and the
moon was beginning to shine through rifts in the clouds. The wind continued
unabated, but, curiously enough, he could not hear it now. He could hear nothing;
he could think of nothing. His consciousness was beginning to fail.
George Birt had indeed forgotten him,—forgotten even the promised
“whings.” Not that he had discovered anything so extraordinary in his trap, for it
was empty, but when he reached the mill, he found that the miller had killed a bear
and captured a cub, and the orphan, chained to a post, had deeply absorbed George
Birt’s attention.
To vsophisticated people, the boy might have seemed as vgrotesque as the cub.
George wore an unbleached cotton shirt. The waistband of his baggy jeans trousers
encircled his body just beneath his armpits, reaching to his shoulder-blades behind,
and nearly to his collar-bone in front. His red head was only partly covered by a
fragment of an old white wool hat; and he looked at the cub with a curiosity as
intense as that with which the cub looked at him. Each was taking first lessons in
natural history.
As long as there was daylight enough left to see that cub, did George Birt
stand and stare at the little beast. Then he clattered home on old Sorrel in the
closing darkness, looking like a very small pin on the top of a large pincushion.
At home, he found the elders unreasonable,—as elders usually are considered.
Supper had been waiting an hour or so for the lack of meal for dodgers. He “caught
it” considerably, but not sufficiently to impair his appetite for the dodgers. After all
this, he was ready enough for bed when a small boy’s bedtime came. But as he was
nodding before the fire, he heard a word that roused him to a new excitement and
stimulated his memory.
“These hyar chips air so wet they won’t burn,” said his mother. “I’ll take my
tur-r-key whing an’ fan the fire.”
“Law!” he exclaimed. “Thar, now! Ethan Tynes never gimme that thar wild
tur-r-key’s whings like he promised.”
“Whar did ye happen ter see Ethan?” asked Pete, interested in his friend.
“Seen him in the woods, an’ he promised me the tur-r-key whings.”
“What fur?” inquired Pete, a little surprised by this uncalled-for generosity.
“Waal,”—there was an expression of embarrassment on the important freckled
face, and the small red head nodded forward in an explanatory manner,—“he fell
off’n the bluffs arter the tur-r-key whings—I mean, he went down to the ledge arter
the tur-r-key, and the vines bruk an’ he couldn’t git up no more. An’ he tole me that
ef I’d tell ye ter fotch him a rope ter pull up by, he would gimme the whings. That
happened a—leetle—while—arter dinner-time.”
“Who got him a rope ter pull up by?” demanded Pete.
There was again on the important face that indescribable shade of
embarrassment. “Waal,”—the youngster balanced this word judicially,—“I forgot
’bout’n the tur-key whings till this minute. I reckon he’s thar yit.”
“Mebbe this hyar wind an’ rain hev beat him off’n the ledge!” exclaimed Pete,
appalled and rising hastily. “I tell ye now,” he added, turning to his mother, “the
best use ye kin make o’ that boy is ter put him on the fire fur a back-log.”
Pete made his preparations in great haste. He took the rope from the well,
asked the vcrestfallen and browbeaten junior a question or two relative to the place,
mounted old Sorrel without a saddle, and in a few minutes was galloping at
headlong speed through the night.
The rain was over by the time he had reached the sulphur spring to which
George had directed him, but the wind was still high, and the broken clouds were
driving fast across the face of the moon.
By the time he had hitched his horse to a tree and set out on foot to find the
cliff, the moonbeams, though brilliant, were so vintermittent that his progress was
fitful and necessarily cautious. When the disk shone out full and clear, he made his
way rapidly enough, but when the clouds intervened, he stood still and waited.
“I ain’t goin’ ter fall off’n the bluff ’thout knowin’ it,” he said to himself, in
one of these veclipses, “ef I hev ter stand hyar all night.”
The moonlight was brilliant and steady when he reached the verge of the crag.
He identified the spot by the mass of broken vines, and more positively by Ethan’s
rifle lying upon the ground just at his feet. He called, but received no response.
“Hev Ethan fell off, sure enough?” he asked himself, in great dismay and
alarm. Then he shouted again and again. At last there came an answer, as though
the speaker had just awaked.
“Pretty nigh beat out, I’m a-thinkin’!” commented Pete. He tied one end of the
cord around the trunk of a tree, knotted it at intervals, and flung it over the bluff.
At first Ethan was almost afraid to stir. He slowly put forth his hand and
grasped the rope. Then, his heart beating tumultuously, he rose to his feet.
He stood still for an instant to steady himself and get his breath. Nerving
himself for a strong effort, he began the ascent, hand over hand, up and up and up,
till once more he stood upon the crest of the crag.
And, now that all danger was over, Pete was disposed to scold. “I’m a-
thinkin’,” said Pete severely, “ez thar ain’t a critter on this hyar mounting, from a
b’ar ter a copperhead, that could hev got in sech a fix, ’ceptin’ ye, Ethan Tynes.”
And Ethan was silent.
“What’s this hyar thing at the end o’ the rope?” asked Pete, as he began to
draw the cord up, and felt a weight still suspended.
“It air the tur-r-key,” said Ethan meekly, “I tied her ter the e-end o’ the rope
afore I kem up.”
“Waal, sir!” exclaimed Pete, in indignant surprise.
And George, for duty performed, was vremunerated with the two “whings,”
although it still remains a question in the mind of Ethan whether or not he deserved
them.
CHARLESEGBERTCRADDOCK.
 HELPS TO STUDY
Tell what happened to Ethan Tynes one day when he was hunting. How was he rescued? What
qualities did Ethan show in his hour of trial? Give your opinion of George Birt; of Pete. Find out all
you can about life in the mountains of East Tennessee.

SUPPLEMENTARY READING
The Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains—Charles Egbert Craddock.
The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come—John Fox, Jr.
June—John Fox, Jr.

The poetry of earth is ceasing never:

On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The cricket’s song, in the warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.
JOHN KEATS.
 A DEAL IN BEARS
When a whaling ship is beset in the ice of Davis Straits, there is little work for
her second engineer, once the engines have been nicely tallowed down. Now, I am
no man that can sit in his berth and laze. If I’ve no work to do, I get a-thinking
about my home at vBallindrochater and the ministry, which my father intended I
should have adorned, and what a fool I’ve made of myself, and this is depressing. I
was not over-popular already on the Gleaner on account of some prophecies I had
made in anger, which had unfortunately come true. The crew, and the captain, too,
had come to fear my prophetic powers.
At last I bethought me of sporting on the ice. There was head-money offered
for all bears, foxes, seals, musk-oxen, and such like that were shot and gathered. So
I went to the skipper, and he gave me a Henry rifle, well rusted, and eight
cartridges.
“Show me you can use those, McTodd,” says he, “and I’ll give you more.”
I made a big mistake with that rusty old gun. I may be a sportsman, but before
that I’m an engineer, and it seemed to me that Heaven sent metal into this world to
be kept bright and clean. So I took the rifle all to pieces and made the parts as
smooth and sweet as you’d see in a gun-maker’s shop, barring rust-pits, and gave
them a nice daubing of oil against the Arctic weather. Then I put on some thick
clothes I had made, and all the other clothes I could get loaned me, and climbed out
over the rail on to the vfloe.
The Gleaner lay in a bay some two miles from the shore, and let me tell you,
if you do not know it, that Arctic ice is no skating-rink. There are great hills, and
knolls, and bergs, and valleys spread all over, and even where it’s about level, the
underfoot is as hard going as a newly-metalled road before the steam-roller has
passed over it.
The air was clear enough when I left the bark, and though the vmercury was
out of use and coiled up snugly in the bulb, it wasn’t as cold as you might think, for
just then there was no wind. It’s a breeze up in the Arctic that makes you feel the
chill. There was no sun, of course; there never is sun up there in that dreary winter:
but the stars were burning blue and clear, and every now and then a big vcatherine
wheel of vaurora would show off, for all the world like a firework exhibition.
My! but it was lonely, though, once you had left the ship behind! There was
just the scrunching of your feet on the frost vrime, and not another sound in the
world. Even the ice was frozen too hard to squeak. And overhead in that purple-
black Heaven you never knew Who was looking down at you. Out there in that
cold, bare, black, icy silence, I had occasion to remember that Neil Angus McTodd
had been a sinner in his time, and it made me shiver when I glanced up toward
those blue, cold stars and the deep purple darkness that lay between and behind
them.
It may be that I was thinking less of my hunting than was advisable, for of a
sudden I woke up to the sound of heavy feet padding over the crisp frost rime. I
turned me round sharply enough, but as far as the dim light carried there was
nothing alive to be seen through the gloom. As soon as I stopped, the footsteps
stopped, too, and I don’t mind admitting that my scalp tickled.
However, when I’d hauled up the hammer of the Henry, and it dropped into
position with a good, wholesome cluck, my nervousness very soon filtered out.
There’s a comfort about a heavy-bore rifle like a Henry—which is the kind always
used by whalers and sealers—that you can’t get from those fancy little guns. And
then, as it seemed that the animal, whatever it might be, wasn’t going to move till I
did, I shuffled my high sealskin boots on the crisp snow to make believe that I was
tramping again.
The creature started after me promptly. It was hard to tell the direction,
because every sound in that icy silence was echoed by a thousand bergs and
hummocks of ice; but presently from behind a small splintered ridge of the floe
there strolled out what seemed to me the largest bear in the Arctic regions. You
must know that the night air there has a vdeceptive light—it enlarges things—and
the beast appeared to me as standing some five feet six inches high at the shoulder,
and measuring some twenty feet from nose to tail.
There was myself and there was the bear in the dark middle of that awful
loneliness, with no one to interfere; and as there was only one of us to get home, I
preferred it should not be he. So I took a brace on myself, and stood with the Henry
ready to fire.
There was nothing you might call vdiffidence about that bear. He slouched
along up to me at a steady walk, with the hair and skin on him swinging about as
though it was too large for his carcass and he was wearing a misfit. He seemed to
look upon me as dinner, and no hurry needful. There was a sort of calm certainty
about him that made me angry.
I was not what you might call a marksman in those days, and so I set a bit of
vhummock about ten yards off as a limit where I could not very conveniently miss,
and waited until the bear should come opposite that. Well, he came to it right
enough in his own time. There was, as I have said before, no diffidence about the
creature. And then I raised the Henry and fired her off.
Cluck went the hammer on the nipple, but there was no bang.
My! it was a misfire, and there was the bear coming down on me as steady and
unconcerned as a vtraction engine! I clawed out that cartridge and crammed in
another. The bitter cold of the metal skinned my fingers like escaping steam. Then I
cocked the gun again, shouldered it, and pulled trigger again.
Once more she wouldn’t go off!
The bear was now nearly on top of me and was beginning to rear on its hind
legs. Somehow the rifle came into my hand muzzle-end, and I hit the great brute
across the eyes with the butt hard enough to have felled an ox.
 I might as well have struck it with a cane. Whack came a big yellow-white
paw, the Henry went flying, and my wrists tingled with the jar; and there was I left
looking, I’ve no doubt you’ll think, very humorous.
The bear might have finished me then if it had chosen. But it must needs turn
aside to go snuffling at the rifle and lick the oil off the locks. I turned and footed it.
Now, at the best of times, I am no vsprinter, and in the great mountain of
clothes one wears up there in the cold Arctic night, no man can make much speed.
Besides, the way was that uneven it was a case of hands and scramble more often
than plain running over the sharp, spiky level.
The bear, once he had finished his snuffle and lick at the Henry, came on at a
dreadful pace, making nothing of those obstacles that balked me,—he had been
born up there, you know. He laid himself out—I could see over my shoulder—like
one of those American trotting horses, caring nothing for the ups and downs and
ankle-breaking ice. In about two shakes he was snorting at my heels again, till I
could almost feel his hot breath. The bundle of clothes hampered me. I stripped off
my outer over-all and let it drop behind me.
The bear stopped and snuffed that, but I didn’t stay to watch him. I got a good
fifty vfathoms ahead of him whilst he was thus occupied. But presently, when he’d
got all his satisfaction out of that, on he comes again, and I had to give him my
coat. I hadn’t a chance of equaling him in pace, but the trick with the clothing never
tired him. Fifty fathoms was the least gain I made over a single piece, and as I got
lower down toward my skin he stayed over the clothes longer.
But still the Gleaner was a long way off, over very tumbled ice, and there I
was careering on in a costume which was barely enough for decency, and certainly
insufficient for the climate.
However, it was little enough the bear cared for such refinements as those. I
stripped off my last garment as I ran, and gained nigh on two hundred yards whilst
he investigated it; and there were the bark’s upper spars showing above the
hummocks half a mile away, with me in nothing but my long seal-skin boots!
But there was no help for it. Up came the hot breath behind me, and I leaned
up against a hummock and stripped off a boot. I hailed the Gleaner with what
breath I had left, but no one gave heed. Away went the other boot, and there I was
running, mother-naked, over the jagged floe, leaving blood on every footmark.
Right up to the vessel did the outrageous beast chase me, and then when I got
on board and called for guns, it slunk away into the shadows of a berg and was seen
no more. My feet were cut to the bone; I was frost-nipped in twenty places, and you
may imagine I had had a poor enough time of it. But the thought of that canvas
over-all which I had thrown away first kept me cheerful. It was indeed a very
humorous circumstance. Ye see it was a borrowed one.
I got down below to a berth, and the steward, who was rated as a doctor,
tended me. But Captain Black put sourness on the whole affair. He came down to
my bunk and said, “Where’s that Henry?”
“Lying quiet on the ice,” said I.
 “Do you mean to say you left that rifle behind? My rifle!”
“I did that same. The thing wasn’t strong enough to fire a cartridge. I tried
two.”
And then Black used violent and unjustifiable language. I was in no condition
to give him a fair exchange. Besides, I made an unfortunate admission. I owned up
to taking the rifle apart and cleaning her. I owned up, too, that I’d been free with
the oil.
Black stuck out his face at me, and his fringe of beard fairly bristled.
“And you call yourself an engineer! You talk about having gone through the
shops! Put your filthy engine-room oil on my Henry’s locks, would you? Why, you
idiot, have you yet to learn that oil freezes up here as hard as cheese, and you’ve
made up the lock space of that poor rifle into one solid chunk?”
“I never thought of that.”
“To look at your face, you’ve yet to start thinking at all.”
So we had it out, and as I was now aroused, I gave him some words on the
inefficient way he ran his ship. At last I threatened to prophesy again, and this
cooled him off. I offered to go hunting bears for him and he became quite polite.
“I’ll make you an offer touching those bears,” he said. “For every skin you
bring here aboard, I’ll give you seven shillings vbonus above your share as a
member of the ship’s company. I’ll give you another rifle, two rifles if you like, and
a fine bag of cartridges. But, you beggar, I make one condition. You take yourself
off and away from the ship to do your hunting. You may make yourself a snow
house to stay in, and live on the meat you kill.”
“You wish to murder me?”
“I wish to be rid of you, and that’s the truth. Man, I believe you’re Jonah
resurrected. We’ve had no luck since first you put your foot on my deck planks.
And, what’s more, the crew is of my way of thinking. So, refuse my offer, and I’ll
put you in irons and keep you there till I can fling you ashore at vDundee.”
Now there is no doubt Black meant what he said, and so I did not waste
dignity by arguing with him. I had no taste for the irons, and as for being turned out
on the ice—well, I had a plan ahead. But I didn’t intend to leave Black more
comfortable than I could help.
So I shut my eyes and said that the ship would have very bad luck that winter,
that there would be much sickness aboard. (This was an easy guess.) I said,
considering this fact, I was glad to leave such an unwholesome ship.
The crew were just aching to get rid of me. This prophesying sort of grows on
a man; once you’ve started it, you’ve got to go on with it at all costs, and I could no
more resist just letting my few remarks slip round amongst the men than I can resist
eating when I’m hungry.
The nerves of the Gleaner people were in strings from the cold and the
blackness of the Arctic night, and it put the horrors on the lot of them. The one
thing they wanted was to see the last of me. They gave me almost anything I
fancied, but my means of transport were small. There was a bit of a sledge, which I
packed with some food, two Henry rifles and a few tools, five hundred cartridges,
and the clothes I stood in. No more could be taken.
Then I went on deck into the bitter cold and over the side, and stood on the
ice, ready to start on my journey. The crew lined the rail to see me off, and I can tell
you their faces were very different. The older ones were savage and cared little how
soon Jonah might die. The younger ones were crying to see a fellow driven away
into that icy loneliness, far from shelter.
But for myself I didn’t care. I had method in all this performance. Soon after
we were beset in the ice, a family of Esquimaux had come on the Gleaner to pay a
polite call and get what they could out of us. They were that dirty you could have
chipped them with a scaling hammer, but they were very friendly. One buck who
stepped down into the engine room— vAmatikita, he said his name was—had some
English, and came to the point as straight as anything.
“Give me a vdlink, Cappie,” says he.
“This is a dry ship,” says I.
“Plenty dlink in that box,” says he, handling an oil-can.
“Oh, if that’s what you want, take it,” I told him, and he clapped the nozzle
between his lips, and sucked down a gill of vcylinder lubricating oil as though it
had been water.
“You seem to like it,” I said; “have some more.”
But that was his fill. He thanked me and asked me to visit his village when I
could get away from the ship. And just then some of his friends were caught
pilfering, and the whole crew of them were bundled away.
Now I had noted that most of these Esquimaux had bits of bearskins amongst
their other furs, and it was that I had in mind when I fell out with Captain Black.
Amatikita had pointed out the direction in which his village lay, and it was to that I
intended making my way with as little delay as possible. But I kept this to myself,
and let no word of it slip out on the Gleaner. Indeed, when I was over the bark’s
rails, I headed off due north across the ice. I climbed and stumbled on in this
direction till I was well out of their sight and hearing amongst the hummocks, and
then I turned at right angles for the shore.
The cold up yonder in that Arctic night takes away your breath; it seems to
take the manhood out of you. You stumble along gasping. By a chance I came on an
Esquimaux sealing, and he beat and thumped me into wakefulness. Then he packed
me on to his dog-sleigh, and took my own bit of a sled behind, and set his fourteen-
foot whip cracking, and off we set.
Well, you have to be pretty far gone if you can stay asleep with an vInnuit’s
dog-sledge jolting and jumping beneath you, and I was well awakened, especially
as the Esquimaux sat on top of me. And so in time we brought up at the huts, and a
good job, too. I’d been tramping in the wrong direction, so it turned out, and,
besides, if I had come to the village, I might well have walked over the top of it, as
it was drifted up level with snow. There was a bit of a rabbit-hole giving entrance to
each hut, with some three fathoms of tunnel underground, and skin curtains to keep
out the draught, but once inside you might think yourself in a vstoke-hold again.
There was the same smell of oil, and almost the same warmth. I tell you, it was fine
after that slicing cold outside.
It was Amatikita’s house I was brought to, and he was very hospitable. They
took off my outer clothes and put them on the rack above the soapstone lamp to
dry, and waited on me most kindly. Indeed, they recognized me as a superior at
once, and kept on doing it. They put tender young seal-meat in the dish above the
lamp, and when it was cooked I ate my part of the stew, and then got up and took
the best place on the raised sleeping-bench at the farther side of the hut. I cut a fill
for my pipe, lit up and passed the plug, and presently we were all smoking, happy
as you please.
Amatikita spoke up like a man. “Very pleased to see you, Cappie. What you
come for? What you want?”
“You’re a man of business,” I said. “You waste no time. I like that. What I
want is bearskins. The jackets of big, white, baggy-trousered polar bears, you
know; and I brought along a couple of tip-top rifles for you to get them with. Now,
I make you a fair offer. Get me all the bears in the North Polar regions, and you
shall have my Henrys and all the cartridges that are left over. And as for the meat,
you shall have that as your own share of the game.”
“You want shoot those bears yourself?”
“Not if I can help it. I’m an engineer, and a good one at that. But as a
sportsman I’ve had but little experience, and don’t seem drawn toward learning. It
is too draughty up here, just at present, for my taste. I’ll stay and keep house, and
maybe do a bit of repairing and inventing among the furniture. I’ve brought along a
hand-vice and a bag of tools with me, and if you can supply drift-wood and some
scrap-iron, I’ll make this turf-house of yours a real cottage.”
The deal was made. I worked away with my tools, and whenever those
powdering winter gales eased for a little, Amatikita and his friends would go off
with the howling dog-sledges and the Henrys, and it was rare that they’d come back
without one bear, and often they’d bring two or even three. These white bears sleep
through the black winter months in hollows in the cliffs, and the Esquimaux know
their lairs, though it’s rare enough they dare tackle them. Small blame, too, you’d
say, if you saw the flimsy bone-tipped lances and harpoons, which are all they are
armed with.
With a good, smashing, heavy-bore Henry rifle it is a different thing. The
Esquimaux were no cowards. They would walk up within a yard of a bear, when
the dogs had ringed it, and blow half its head away with a single shot. And then
they would draw the carcass up to the huts with the dog trains, and the women
would skin and dress the meat, and Amatikita and the others would gorge
themselves.
At last the long winter wore away. Amatikita dived in through the entrance of
the hut one day and told me that the ice-floe was beginning to break. The news
affected me like the blow of a whip. I went out into the open and found the sun up.
The men were overhauling their skin canoes. The snow was wet underfoot and
seafowl were swooping around. The floe was still sound where it joined the shore,
but two seaward lanes of blue water showed between the ice, and in one of them a
whale was spouting pale gray mist.
It was high time for me to be off. So the bearskins were fastened by thongs to
the sledges and word was shouted to the dog leader of each team. The dogs started,
and presently away went the teams full tilt, the sledges leaping and crashing in their
wake, with the drivers and a certain Scotch engineer who was unused to such
vacrobatics clinging on top of the packs. My! but yon was a wild ride over the
rotten, cracking, sodden floe, under the fresh, bright sunshine of that Arctic spring
morn!
Presently round the flank of a small ice-berg we came in view of the Gleaner.
She was still beset in the ice; but the hands were hard at work beating the ice from
the rigging and cutting a gutter around her in the floe, so that she might float when
the time came. They knocked off work when we drove up.
“Good-day, Captain Black,” I said. “I’ve been troubling myself over
bearskins, and I’ll ask you for seven shillings head money on twenty-nine.”
“You’ve shot twenty-nine bears? You’re lying to me.”
“The skins are there, and you can count them for yourself.”
His color changed when the Esquimaux passed the skins over the side. And I
clambered aboard the ship along with them.
W. CUTCLIFFEHYNE.

HELPS TO STUDY
 Tell this story briefly, using your own words. What mistake did McTodd make in preparing for
the hunt? What amused you most? How did McTodd show his shrewdness, even if he was not a
good hunter? What do you learn about the Arctic region?

SUPPLEMENTARY READING
The Frozen Pirate—W. Clark Russell.
The Casting Away of Mrs. Leeks and Mrs. Aleshine—Frank R. Stockton.
 LOCHINVAR
Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west:—
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best,
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none;
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for

brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Esk river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,

Among bride’s-men and kinsmen and brothers and all:
Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),
“Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”

“I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;—

Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide—
And now am I come with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,

He quaffed of the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—
“Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,

That never a hall such a vgalliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume,
And the bride-maidens whispered, “’Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.”
 One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the vcroup the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
“She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and vscar;
They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting ’mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;

Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie lea,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war;
Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
SIR WALTERSCOTT.

HELPS TO STUDY
Read the poem through and tell the story briefly. Where is the scene laid? Border here means
the part of Scotland bordering on England. Who is the hero? Give your opinion of him. Find the
expressions used by the poet to inspire admiration for Lochinvar. Give your opinion of the
bridegroom. Quote lines that express the poet’s opinion of him. What word is used instead of thicket
in the second stanza? a loiterer? a coward? Why do you suppose the bride had consented? Why did
her father put his hand on his sword? What reason did Lochinvar give for coming to the feast? Why
did he act as if he did not care? Was the bride willing to marry “the laggard in love”? How do you
know? Describe the scene as the two danced. What do you suppose was the “one word in her ear”?
Read aloud the lines describing Lochinvar’s ride to Netherby Hall. Read those describing the
ride from the hall. Notice the galloping movement of the verse.
 IN LABRADOR

I
Trafford and Marjorie were in Labrador to spend the winter. It was a queer
idea for a noted vscientist and rich and successful business man to cut himself loose
from the world of London and go out into the Arctic storm and darkness of one of
the bleakest quarters of the globe. But Trafford had fallen into a discontent with
living, a weariness of the round of work and pleasure, and it was in the hope of
winning back his lost zest and happiness that he had made up his mind to try the
cure of the wilderness. Marjorie had insisted, like a good wife, on leaving children
and home and comfort and accompanying him into the frozen wilds.
The voyage across the sea and the march inland into Labrador were
uneventful. Trafford chose his winter-quarters on the side of a low razor-hacked,
rocky mountain ridge, about fifty feet above a little river. Not a dozen miles away
from them, they reckoned, was the Height of Land, the low watershed between the
waters that go to the Atlantic and those that go to Hudson’s Bay. North and north-
east of them the country rose to a line of low crests, with here and there a yellowing
patch of last year’s snow, and across the valley were slopes covered in places by
woods of stunted pine. It had an empty spaciousness of effect; the one continually
living thing seemed to be the river, hurrying headlong, noisily, perpetually, in an
eternal flight from this high desolation.
For nearly four weeks indeed they were occupied very closely in fixing their
cabin and making their other preparations, and crept into their bunks at night as
tired as wholesome animals who drop to sleep. At any time the weather might
break; already there had been two overcast days and a frowning conference of
clouds in the north. When at last storms began, they knew there would be nothing
for it but to keep in the hut until the world froze up.
The weather broke at last. One might say it smashed itself over their heads.
There came an afternoon darkness swift and sudden, a wild gale, and an icy sleet
that gave place in the night to snow, so that Trafford looked out next morning to see
a maddening chaos of small white flakes, incredibly swift, against something that
was neither darkness nor light. Even with the door but partly ajar, a cruelty of cold
put its claw within, set everything that was movable swaying and clattering, and
made Marjorie hasten shuddering to heap fresh logs upon the fire. Once or twice
Trafford went out to inspect tent and roof and store-shed; several times, wrapped to
the nose, he battled his way for fresh wood, and for the rest of the blizzard they
kept to the hut. It was slumberously stuffy, but comfortingly full of flavors of
tobacco and food. There were two days of intermission and a day of gusts and icy
sleet again, turning with one extraordinary clap of thunder to a wild downpour of
dancing lumps of ice, and then a night when it seemed all Labrador, earth and sky
together, was in hysterical protest against inconceivable wrongs.
And then the break was over; the annual freezing-up accomplished; winter had
established itself; the snowfall moderated and ceased, and an ice-bound world
shone white and sunlit under a cloudless sky.
One morning Trafford found the footmarks of some catlike creature in the
snow near the bushes where he was accustomed to get firewood; they led away
very plainly up the hill, and after breakfast he took his knife and rifle and
snowshoes and went after the lynx—for that he decided the animal must be. There
was no urgent reason why he should want to kill a lynx, unless perhaps that killing
it made the store-shed a trifle safer; but it was the first trail of any living thing for
many days; it promised excitement; some vprimitive instinct perhaps urged him.
The morning was a little overcast, and very cold between the gleams of wintry
sunshine. “Good-by, dear wife!” he said, and then as she remembered afterward
came back a dozen yards to kiss her. “I’ll not be long,” he said. “The beast’s
prowling, and if it doesn’t get wind of me, I ought to find it in an hour.” He
hesitated for a moment. “I’ll not be long,” he repeated, and she had an instant’s
wonder whether he hid from her the same dread of loneliness that she concealed.
Up among the tumbled rocks he turned, and she was still watching him. “Good-
by!” he cried and waved, and the willow thickets closed about him.
She forced herself to the petty duties of the day, made up the fire from the pile
he had left for her, set water to boil, put the hut in order, brought out sheets and
blankets to air, and set herself to wash up. She wished she had been able to go with
him. The sky cleared presently, and the low December sun lit all the world about
her, but it left her spirit desolate.
She did not expect him to return until midday, and she sat herself down on a
log before the fire to darn a pair of socks as well as she could. For a time this
unusual occupation held her attention and then her hands became slow and at last
inactive, and she fell into reverie. Thoughts came quick and fast of her children in
England so far away.
What was that? She flashed to her feet.
It seemed to her she had heard the sound of a shot, and a quick, brief wake of
echoes. She looked across the icy waste of the river, and then up the tangled slopes
of the mountain. Her heart was beating fast. It must have been up there, and no
doubt Trafford had killed his beast. Some shadow of doubt she would not admit
crossed that obvious suggestion. The wilderness was making her as nervously
responsive as a creature of the wild.
There came a second shot; this time there was no doubt of it. Then the
desolate silence closed about her again.
Marjorie stood for a long time, staring at the shrubby slopes that rose to the
barren rock wilderness of the purple mountain crest. She sighed deeply at last, and
set herself to make up the fire and prepare for the midday meal. Once, far away
across the river, she heard the howl of a wolf.
Time seemed to pass very slowly that day. Marjorie found herself going
repeatedly to the space between the day tent and the sleeping hut from which she
could see the stunted wood that had swallowed her husband up, and after what
seemed a long hour her watch told her it was still only half-past twelve. And the
fourth or fifth time that she went to look out she was set a-tremble again by the
sound of a third shot. And then at regular intervals out of that distant brown-purple
jumble of thickets against the snow came two more shots. “Something has
happened,” she said, “something has happened,” and stood rigid. Then she became
active, seized the rifle that was always at hand when she was alone, fired into the
sky, and stood listening.
Prompt came an answering shot.
“He wants me,” said Marjorie. “Something—perhaps he has killed something
too big to bring!”
She was for starting at once, and then remembered this was not the way of the
wilderness.
She thought and moved very rapidly. Her mind catalogued possible
requirements,—rifle, hunting knife, the oilskin bag with matches, and some chunks
of dry paper, the vrucksack. Besides, he would be hungry. She took a saucepan and
a huge chunk of cheese and biscuit. Then a brandy flask is sometimes handy—one
never knows,—though nothing was wrong, of course. Needles and stout thread, and
some cord. Snowshoes. A waterproof cloak could be easily carried. Her light
hatchet for wood. She cast about to see if there was anything else. She had almost
forgotten cartridges—and a revolver. Nothing more. She kicked a stray brand or so
into the fire, put on some more wood, damped the fire with an armful of snow to
make it last longer, and set out toward the willows into which he had vanished.
There was a rustling and snapping of branches as she pushed her way through
the bushes, a little stir that died insensibly into quiet again; and then the camping
place became very still.
Trafford’s trail led Marjorie through the thicket of dwarf willows and down to
the gully of the rivulet which they had called Marjorie Trickle; it had long since
become a trough of snow-covered, rotten ice. The trail crossed this and, turning
sharply uphill, went on until it was clear of shrubs and trees, and, in the windy open
of the upper slopes, it crossed a ridge and came over the lip of a large desolate
valley with slopes of ice and icy snow. Here Marjorie spent some time in following
his loops back on the homeward trail before she saw what was manifestly the final
trail running far away out across the snow, with the vspoor of the lynx, a lightly-
dotted line, to the right of it. She followed this suggestion of the trail, put on her
snowshoes, and shuffled her way across this valley, which opened as she
proceeded. She hoped that over the ridge she would find Trafford, and scanned the
sky for the faintest discoloration of a fire, but there was none. That seemed odd to
her, but the wind was in her face, and perhaps it beat the smoke down. Then as her
eyes scanned the hummocky ridge ahead, she saw something, something very
intent and still, that brought her heart into her mouth. It was a big gray wolf,
standing with back haunched and head down, watching and scenting something
beyond.
Marjorie had an instinctive fear of wild animals, and it still seemed dreadful to
her that they should go at large, uncaged. She suddenly wanted Trafford violently,
wanted him by her side. Also, she thought of leaving the trail, going back to the
bushes. But presently her nerve returned. In the wastes one did not fear wild beasts,
one had no fear of them. But why not fire a shot to let him know she was near?
The beast flashed round with an animal’s instantaneous change of pose, and
looked at her. For a couple of seconds, perhaps, woman and brute regarded one
another across a quarter of a mile of snowy desolation.
Suppose it came toward her!
She would fire—and she would fire at it. Marjorie made a guess at the range
and aimed very carefully. She saw the snow fly two yards ahead of the grisly shape,
and then in an instant the beast had vanished over the crest.
She reloaded, and stood for a moment waiting for Trafford’s answer. No
answer came. “Queer!” she whispered, “queer!”—and suddenly such a horror of
anticipation assailed her that she started running and floundering through the snow
to escape it. Twice she called his name, and once she just stopped herself from
firing a shot.
Over the ridge she would find him. Surely she would find him over the ridge!
She now trampled among rocks, and there was a beaten place where Trafford
must have waited and crouched. Then on and down a slope of tumbled boulders.
There came a patch where he had either thrown himself down or fallen; it seemed
to her he must have been running.
Suddenly, a hundred feet or so away, she saw a patch of violently disturbed
snow—snow stained a dreadful color, a snow of scarlet crystals! Three strides and
Trafford was in sight.
She had a swift conviction that he was dead. He was lying in a crumpled
attitude on a patch of snow between vconvergent rocks, and the lynx, a mass of
blood-smeared, silvery fur, was in some way mixed up with him. She saw as she
came nearer that the snow was disturbed round about them, and discolored
vcopiously, yellow, and in places bright red, with congealed and frozen blood. She
felt no fear now and no emotion; all her mind was engaged with the clear, bleak
perception of the fact before her. She did not care to call to him again. His head was
hidden by the lynx’s body, as if he was burrowing underneath the creature; his legs
were twisted about each other in a queer, unnatural attitude.
Then, as she dropped off a boulder, and came nearer, Trafford moved. A hand
came out and gripped the rifle beside him; he suddenly lifted a dreadful face,
horribly scarred and torn, and crimson with frozen blood; he pushed the gray beast
aside, rose on an elbow, wiped his sleeve across his eyes, stared at her, grunted, and
flopped forward. He had fainted.
Marjorie was now as clear-minded and as self-possessed as a woman in a
shop. In another moment she was kneeling by his side. She saw, by the position of
his knife and the huge rip in the beast’s body, that he had stabbed the lynx to death
as it clawed his head; he must have shot and wounded it and then fallen upon it. His
knitted cap was torn to ribbons, and hung upon his neck. Also his leg was
manifestly injured—how, she could not tell. It was evident that he must freeze if he
lay here, and it seemed to her that perhaps he had pulled the dead brute over him to
protect his torn skin from the extremity of cold. The lynx was already rigid, its
clumsy paws asprawl,—and the torn skin and clot upon Trafford’s face were stiff as
she put her hands about his head to raise him. She turned him over on his back—
how heavy he seemed?—and forced brandy between his teeth. Then, after a
moment’s hesitation, she poured a little brandy on his wounds.
She glanced at his leg, which was surely broken, and back at his face. Then
she gave him more brandy, and his eyelids flickered. He moved his hand weakly.
“The blood,” he said, “kept getting in my eyes.”
She gave him brandy once again, wiped his face, and glanced at his leg.
Something ought to be done to that, Marjorie thought. But things must be done in
order.
The woman stared up at the darkling sky with its gray promise of snow, and
down the slopes of the mountain. Clearly they must stay the night here. They were
too high for wood among these rocks, but three or four hundred yards below there
were a number of dwarfed fir trees. She had brought an ax, so that a fire was
possible. Should she go back to camp and get the tent?
Trafford was trying to speak again. “I got—”
“Yes?”
“Got my leg in that crack.”
Was he able to advise her? She looked at him, and then perceived that she
must bind up his head and face. She knelt behind him and raised his head on her
knee. She had a thick silk neck muffler, and this she supplemented by a band she
cut and tore from her inner vest. She bound this, still warm from her body, about
him, and wrapped her dark cloak round his shoulders. The next thing was a fire.
Five yards away, perhaps, a great mass of purple vgabbro hung over a patch of
nearly snowless moss. A hummock to the westward offered shelter from the bitter
wind, the icy draught, that was soughing down the valley. Always in Labrador, if
you can, you camp against a rock surface; it shelters you from the wind, guards
your back.
“Dear!” she said.
“Awful hole,” said Trafford.
“What?” she cried sharply.
“Put you in an awful hole,” he said. “Eh?”
“Listen,” she said, and shook his shoulder. “Look! I want to get you up against
that rock.”
“Won’t make much difference,” replied Trafford, and opened his eyes.
“Where?” he asked.
“There.”
He remained quite quiet for a second perhaps. “Listen to me,” he said. “Go
back to camp.”
“Yes,” she said.
 “Go back to camp. Make a pack of all the strongest food—strenthin’—
strengthrin’ food—you know?” He seemed unable to express himself.
“Yes,” she said.
“Down the river. Down—down. Till you meet help.”
“Leave you?”
He nodded his head and winced.
“You’re always plucky,” he said. “Look facts in the face. Children. Thought it
over while you were coming.” A tear oozed from his eye. “Don’t be a fool, Madge.
Kiss me good-by. Don’t be a fool. I’m done. Children.”
She stared at him and her spirit was a luminous mist of tears. “You old
coward,” she said in his ear, and kissed the little patch of rough and bloody cheek
beneath his eye. Then she knelt up beside him. “I’m boss now, old man,” she said.
“I want to get you to that place there under the rock. If I drag, can you help?”
He answered obstinately: “You’d better go.”
“I’ll make you comfortable first,” she returned.
He made an enormous effort, and then, with her quick help and with his back
to her knee, had raised himself on his elbows.
“And afterward?” he asked.
“Build a fire.”
“Wood?”
“Down there.”
“Two bits of wood tied on my leg—splints. Then I can drag myself. See? Like
a blessed old walrus.”
He smiled and she kissed his bandaged face again.
“Else it hurts,” he apologized, “more than I can stand.”
She stood up again, put his rifle and knife to his hand, for fear of that lurking
wolf, abandoning her own rifle with an effort, and went striding and leaping from
rock to rock toward the trees below. She made the chips fly, and was presently
towing three venerable pine dwarfs, bumping over rock and crevice, back to
Trafford. She flung them down, stood for a moment bright and breathless, then set
herself to hack off the splints he needed from the biggest stem. “Now,” she said,
coming to him.
“A fool,” he remarked, “would have made the splints down there. You’re—
good, Marjorie.”
She lugged his leg out straight, put it into the natural and least painful pose,
padded it with moss and her torn handkerchief, and bound it up. As she did so a
handful of snowflakes came whirling about them. She was now braced up to every
possibility. “It never rains,” she said grimly, “but it pours,” and went on with her
bone-setting. He was badly weakened by pain and shock, and once he spoke to her
sharply. “Sorry,” he said a moment later.
She rolled him over on his chest, and left him to struggle to the shelter of the
rock while she went for more wood.
The sky alarmed her. The mountains up the valley were already hidden by
driven rags of slaty snowstorms. This time she found a longer but easier path for
dragging her boughs and trees; she determined she would not start the fire until
nightfall, nor waste any time in preparing food until then. There were dead boughs
for kindling—more than enough. It was snowing quite fast by the time she got up
to him with her second load, and a premature twilight already obscured and
exaggerated the rocks and mounds about her. She gave some of her cheese to
Trafford, and gnawed some herself on her way down to the wood again. She
regretted that she had brought neither candles nor lantern, because then she might
have kept on until the cold night stopped her, and she reproached herself bitterly
because she had brought no tea. She could forgive herself the lantern, for she had
never expected to be out after dark, but the tea was inexcusable. She muttered self-
reproaches while she worked like two men among the trees, panting puffs of mist
that froze upon her lips and iced the knitted wool that covered her chin. “Why don’t
they teach a girl to handle an ax?” she cried.

II
When at last the wolfish cold of the Labrador night had come, it found
Trafford and Marjorie seated almost warmly on a bed of pine boughs between the
sheltering dark rock behind and a big but well-husbanded fire in front, drinking a
queer-tasting but not unsavory soup of lynx-flesh, which she had fortified with the
remainder of the brandy. Then they tried roast lynx and ate a little, and finished
with some scraps of cheese and deep draughts of hot water.
The snowstorm poured incessantly out of the darkness to become flakes of
burning fire in the light of the flames, flakes that vanished magically, but it only
reached them and wetted them in occasional gusts. What did it matter for the
moment if the dim snowheaps rose and rose about them? A glorious fatigue, an
immense self-satisfaction, possessed Marjorie; she felt that they had both done
well.
“I am not afraid of to-morrow now,” she said at last.
Trafford was smoking his pipe and did not speak for a moment. “Nor I,” he
said at last. “Very likely we’ll get through with it.” He added after a pause: “I
thought I was done for. A man—loses heart—after a loss of blood.”
“The leg’s better?”
“Hot as fire.” His humor hadn’t left him. “It’s a treat,” he said. “The hottest
thing in Labrador.”
Later Marjorie slept, but on a spring as it were, lest the fire should fall. She
replenished it with boughs, tucked in the half-burnt logs, and went to sleep again.
Then it seemed to her that some invisible hand was pouring a thin spirit on the
flames that made them leap and crackle and spread north and south until they filled
the heavens with a gorgeous glow. The snowstorm was overpast, leaving the sky
clear and all the westward heaven alight with the trailing, crackling, leaping
curtains of the vaurora, brighter than she had ever seen them before. Quite clearly
visible beyond the smolder of the fire, a wintry waste of rock and snow, boulder
beyond boulder, passed into a vdun obscurity. The mountain to the right of them lay
long and white and stiff, a shrouded death. All earth was dead and waste, and the
sky alive and coldly marvelous, signalling and astir. She watched the changing,
shifting colors, and they made her think of the gathering banners of inhuman hosts,
the stir and marshaling of icy giants for ends stupendous and indifferent to all the
trivial impertinence of man’s existence! Marjorie felt a passionate desire to pray.
The bleak, slow dawn found Marjorie intently busy. She had made up the fire,
boiled water and washed and dressed Trafford’s wounds, and made another soup of
lynx. But Trafford had weakened in the night; the soup nauseated him; he refused it
and tried to smoke and was sick, and then sat back rather despairfully after a
second attempt to persuade her to leave him there to die. This failure of his spirit
distressed her and a little astonished her, but it only made her more resolute to go
through with her work. She had awakened cold, stiff and weary, but her fatigue
vanished with movement; she toiled for an hour replenishing her pile of fuel, made
up the fire, put his gun ready to his hand, kissed him, abused him lovingly for the
trouble he gave her until his poor torn face lit in response, and then parting on a
note of cheerful confidence, set out to return to the hut. She found the way not
altogether easy to make out; wind and snow had left scarcely a trace of their tracks,
and her mind was full of the stores she must bring and the possibility of moving
Trafford nearer to the hut. She was startled to see by the fresh, deep spoor along the
ridge how near the wolf had dared approach them in the darkness.
Ever and again Marjorie had to halt and look back to get her direction right.
As it was, she came through the willow scrub nearly half a mile above the hut, and
had to follow the steep bank of the frozen river. Once she nearly slipped upon an
icy slope of rock.
One possibility she did not dare to think of during that time—a blizzard now
would cut her off absolutely from any return to Trafford. Short of that, she believed
she could get through.
Her quick mind was full of all she had to do. At first she had thought chiefly
of Trafford’s immediate necessities, of food and some sort of shelter. She had got a
list of things in her head—meat extract, bandages, vcorrosive sublimate by way of
antiseptic, brandy, a tin of beef, some bread, and so forth; she went over it several
times to be sure of it, and then for a time she puzzled about a tent. She thought she
could manage a bale of blankets on her back, and that she could rig a sleeping tent
for herself and Trafford out of them and some bent sticks. The big tent would be
too much to strike and shift. And then her mind went on to a bolder enterprise,
which was to get him home. The nearer she could bring him to the log hut, the
nearer they would be to supplies.
She cast about for some sort of sledge. The snow was too soft and broken for
runners, especially among the trees, but if she could get a flat of smooth wood, she
thought she might be able to drag him. She decided to try the side of her bunk,
which she could easily get off. She would have, of course, to run it edgewise
through the thickets and across the ravine, but after that she would have almost
clear going up to the steep place of broken rocks within two hundred yards of him.
The idea of a sledge grew upon her, and she planned to nail a rope along the edge
and make a kind of harness for herself.
Marjorie found the camping-place piled high with drifted snow, which had
invaded tent and hut, and that some beast, a wolverine she guessed, had been into
the hut, devoured every candle-end and the uppers of Trafford’s well-greased
second boots, and had then gone to the corner of the store-shed and clambered up
to the stores. She took no account of its vdepredations there, but set herself to make
a sledge and get her supplies together. There was a gleam of sunshine, though she
did not like the look of the sky and she was horribly afraid of what might be
happening to Trafford. She carried her stuff through the wood and across the
ravine, and returned for her improvised sledge. She was still struggling with that
among the trees when it began to snow again.
It was hard then not to be frantic in her efforts. As it was, she packed her stuff
so loosely on the planking that she had to repack it, and she started without putting
on her snowshoes, and floundered fifty yards before she discovered that omission.
The snow was now falling fast, darkling the sky and hiding everything but objects
close at hand, and she had to use all of her wits to determine her direction: she
knew she must go down a long slope and then up to the ridge, and it came to her as
a happy inspiration that if she bore to the left she might strike some recognizable
vestige of her morning’s trail. She had read of people walking in circles when they
have no light or guidance, and that troubled her until she bethought herself of the
little compass on her watch chain. By that she kept her direction. She wished very
much she had timed herself across the waste, so that she could tell when she
approached the ridge.
Soon her back and shoulders were aching violently, and the rope across her
chest was tugging like some evil-tempered thing. But she did not dare to rest. The
snow was now falling thick and fast; the flakes traced white spirals and made her
head spin, so that she was constantly falling away to the southwestward and then
correcting herself by the compass. She tried to think how this zig-zagging might
affect her course, but the snow whirls confused her mind and a growing anxiety
would not let her pause to think.
Marjorie felt blinded; it seemed to be snowing inside her eyes so that she
wanted to rub them. Soon the ground must rise to the ridge, she told herself; it must
surely rise. Then the sledge came bumping at her heels and she perceived that she
was going down hill. She consulted the compass and found she was facing south.
She turned sharply to the right again. The snowfall became a noiseless, pitiless
torture to sight and mind.
The sledge behind her struggled to hold her back, and the snow balled under
her snowshoes. She wanted to stop and rest, take thought, sit for a moment. She
struggled with herself and kept on. She tried walking with shut eyes, and tripped
and came near sprawling. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” too stupefied for
articulate prayers. She was leaden with fatigue.
Would the rise of the ground to the ribs of rock never come?
A figure, black and erect, stood in front of her suddenly, and beyond appeared
a group of black, straight antagonists. She staggered on toward them, gripping her
rifle with some muddled idea of defense, and in another moment she was brushing
against the branches of a stunted fir, which shed thick lumps of snow upon her feet.
What trees were these? Had she ever passed any trees? No! There were no trees on
her way to Trafford.
At that Marjorie began whimpering like a tormented child. But even as she
wept, she turned her sledge about to follow the edge of the wood. She was too
much downhill, she thought, and must bear up again.
She left the trees behind, made an angle uphill to the right, and was presently
among trees again. Again she left them and again came back to them. She screamed
with anger and twitched her sledge along. She wiped at the snowstorm with her arm
as though to wipe it away; she wanted to stamp on the universe.
And she ached, she ached.
Suddenly something caught her eye ahead, something that gleamed; it was
exactly like a long, bare, rather pinkish bone standing erect on the ground. Just
because it was strange and queer she ran forward to it. As she came nearer, she
perceived that it was a streak of barked trunk; a branch had been torn off a pine tree
and the bark stripped down to the root. And then came another, poking its pinkish
wounds above the snow. And there were chips! This filled her with wonder. Some
one had been cutting wood! There must be Indians or trappers near, she thought,
and of a sudden realized that the wood-cutter could be none other than herself.
She turned to the right and saw the rocks rising steeply, close at hand. “Oh
Ragg!” she cried, and fired her rifle in the air.
Ten seconds, twenty seconds, and then so loud and near it amazed her, came
his answering shot.
In another moment Marjorie had discovered the trail she had made overnight
and that morning by dragging firewood. It was now a shallow, soft white trench.
Instantly her despair and fatigue had gone from her. Should she take a load of wood
with her? she asked herself, in addition to the weight behind her, and immediately
had a better idea. She would unload and pile her stuff here, and bring him down on
the sledge closer to the wood. The woman looked about and saw two rocks that
diverged, with a space between. She flashed schemes. She would trample the snow
hard and flat, put her sledge on it, pile boughs and make a canopy of blanket
overhead and behind. Finally there would be a fine, roaring fire in front.
She tossed her provisions down and ran up the broad windings of her pine-tree
trail to Trafford, with the sledge bumping behind her. Marjorie ran as lightly as
though she had done nothing that day.
She found Trafford markedly recovered, weak and quiet, with snow drifting
over his feet, his rifle across his knees, and his pipe alight. “Back already”—
He hesitated. “No grub?”
The wife knelt over him, gave his rough, unshaven cheek a swift kiss, and
rapidly explained her plan.
Marjorie carried it out with all of the will-power that was hers. In three days’
time, in spite of the snow, in spite of every other obstacle, they were back in the
hut, and Trafford was comfortably settled in bed. The icy vastness of Labrador still
lay around them to infinite distances on every side, but the two might laugh at
storm and darkness now in their cosy hut, with plenty of fuel and food and light.
H. G. WELLS.

HELPS TO STUDY
I. Describe the location of Trafford’s camp; also the coming of winter. Give in your own words
an account of the adventure that befell the two.
II. Name some characteristics Marjorie showed in the critical situation. What did she do that
impressed you most? What would you have done in similar circumstances?

SUPPLEMENTARY READING
Youth—Joseph Conrad.
Prairie Folks—Hamlin Garland.
Northern Lights—Sir Gilbert Parker.
 THE BUGLE SONG
The splendor falls on castle walls
The snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O, sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying.
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
ALFREDTENNYSON.
 THE SIEGE OF THE CASTLE
This story is an extract from Sir Walter Scott’s novel, Ivanhoe, which describes life in England
during the Middle Ages, something more than a century after the Norman Conquest. The hatred
between the conquering Normans and the conquered Saxons still continued, and is graphically
pictured by Scott. Ivanhoe centers about the household of one Cedric the Saxon, who was a great
upholder of the traditions of his unfortunate people. Wilfred of Ivanhoe, Cedric’s son, entered the
service of the Norman king of England, Richard I, and accompanied him to the Holy Land on the
Third Crusade. His father disowned the young knight for what he considered disloyalty to his Saxon
blood. Ivanhoe, returning to England, participated in a great tournament at Ashby, in which he won
fame under the disguise of the “Disinherited Knight.” Among the other knights who took part in the
tournament were the Normans, Maurice de Bracy, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, and Brian de Bois-
Guilbert, a Knight Templar. Two sides fought in the tournament, one representing the English, the
other representing the foreign element in the land. An unknown knight, clad in black armor, brought
victory to the English side, but left the field without disclosing his identity. An archery contest held
at the tournament was won by a wonderful bowman who gave his name as Locksley. Ivanhoe, who
fought with great valor, was badly wounded. Cedric had been accompanied to Ashby by his
beautiful ward, the Lady Rowena, whose wealth and loveliness excited the cupidity of the lawless
Norman knights. “The Siege of the Castle” opens with Cedric’s discovery of his son’s identity, and
recounts the stirring incidents that follow the tournament. It gives a wonderful picture of warfare as
it was hundreds of years ago, before the age of gunpowder.

I
When Cedric the Saxon saw his son drop down senseless in the great
tournament at Ashby, his first impulse was to order him into the care of his own
attendants, but the words choked in his throat. He could not bring himself to
acknowledge, in the presence of such an assembly, the son whom he had renounced
and disinherited for his allegiance to the Norman king of England, Richard of the
Lion Heart. However, he ordered one of the officers of his household, his
cupbearer, to convey Ivanhoe to Ashby as soon as the crowd had dispersed. But the
man was anticipated in this good office. The crowd dispersed, indeed, but the
wounded knight was nowhere to be seen.
It seemed as if the fairies had conveyed Ivanhoe from the spot; and Cedric’s
officer might have adopted some such theory to account for his disappearance, had
he not suddenly cast his eyes on a person attired like a squire, in whom he
recognized the features of his fellow-servant Gurth, who had run away from his
master. Anxious about Ivanhoe’s fate, Gurth was searching for him everywhere
and, in so doing, he neglected the concealment on which his own safety depended.
The cupbearer deemed it his duty to secure Gurth as a fugitive of whose fate his
master was to judge. Renewing his inquiries concerning the fate of Ivanhoe, all that
the cupbearer could learn was that the knight had been raised by certain well-attired
grooms, under the direction of a veiled woman, and placed in a litter, which had
immediately transported him out of the press. The officer, on receiving this
intelligence, resolved to return to his master, carrying along with him Gurth, the
swineherd, as a deserter from Cedric’s service.
 The Saxon had been under intense vapprehensions concerning his son; but no
sooner was he informed that Ivanhoe was in careful hands than paternal anxiety
gave way anew to the feeling of injured pride and resentment at what he termed
Wilfred’s vfilial disobedience.
“Let him wander his way,” said Cedric; “let those leech his wounds for whose
sake he encountered them. He is fitter to do the juggling tricks of the Norman
chivalry than to maintain the fame and honor of his English ancestry with the
vglaive and vbrown-bill, the good old weapons of the country.”

The old Saxon now prepared for his return to Rotherwood, with his ward, the
Lady Rowena, and his following. It was during the bustle preceding his departure
that Cedric, for the first time, cast his eyes upon the deserter Gurth. He was in no
very placid humor and wanted but a pretext for wreaking his anger upon some one.
“The vgyves!” he cried. “Dogs and villains, why leave ye this knave
unfettered?”
Without daring to remonstrate, the companions of Gurth bound him with a
halter, as the readiest cord which occurred. He submitted to the operation without
any protest, except that he darted a reproachful look at his master.
“To horse, and forward!” ordered Cedric.
“It is indeed full time,” said the Saxon prince Athelstane, who accompanied
Cedric, “for if we ride not faster, the preparations for our supper will be altogether
spoiled.”
The travelers, however, used such speed as to reach the convent of Saint
Withold’s before the apprehended evil took place. The abbot, himself of ancient
Saxon descent, received the noble Saxons with the profuse hospitality of their
nation, wherein they indulged to a late hour. They took leave of their reverend host
the next morning after they had shared with him a vsumptuous breakfast, which
Athelstane particularly appreciated.
The superstitious Saxons, as they left the convent, were inspired with a feeling
of coming evil by the behavior of a large, lean black dog, which, sitting upright,
howled most piteously when the foremost riders left the gate, and presently
afterward, barking wildly and jumping to and fro, seemed bent on attaching itself to
the party.
“In my mind,” said Athelstane, “we had better turn back and abide with the
abbot until the afternoon. It is unlucky to travel where your path is crossed by a
monk, a hare, or a howling dog, until you have eaten your next meal.”
“Away!” said Cedric impatiently; “the day is already too short for our journey.
For the dog, I know it to be the cur of the runaway slave Gurth, a useless fugitive
like its master.”
So saying and rising at the same time in his stirrups, impatient at the
interruption of his journey, he launched his vjavelin at poor Fangs, who, having lost
his master, was now rejoicing at his reappearance. The javelin inflicted a wound
upon the animal’s shoulder and narrowly missed pinning him to the earth; Fangs
fled howling from the presence of the enraged vthane. Gurth’s heart swelled within
him, for he felt this attempted slaughter of his faithful beast in a degree much
deeper than the harsh treatment he had himself received. Having in vain raised his
hand to his eyes, he said to Wamba, the jester, who, seeing his master’s ill humor,
had prudently retreated to the rear, “I pray thee, do me the kindness to wipe my
eyes with the skirt of thy mantle; the dust offends me, and these bonds will not let
me help myself one way or another.”
Wamba did him the service he required, and they rode side by side for some
time, during which Gurth maintained a moody silence. At length he could repress
his feelings no longer.
“Friend Wamba,” said he, “of all those who are fools enough to serve Cedric,
thou alone hast sufficient dexterity to make thy folly acceptable to him. Go to him,
therefore, and tell him that neither for love nor fear will Gurth serve him longer. He
may strike the head from me—he may scourge me—he may load me with irons—
but henceforth he shall never compel me either to love or obey him. Go to him and
tell him that Gurth renounces his service.”
“Assuredly,” replied Wamba, “fool as I am, I will not do your fool’s errand.
Cedric hath another javelin stuck into his girdle, and thou knowest he doth not
always miss his mark.”
“I care not,” returned Gurth, “how soon he makes a mark of me. Yesterday he
left Wilfred, my young master, in his blood. To-day he has striven to kill the only
other living creature that ever showed me kindness. By Saint Edward, Saint
Dunstan, Saint Withold, and every other saint, I will never forgive him!”
At noon, upon the motion of Athelstane, the travelers paused in a woodland
shade by a fountain to repose their horses and partake of some provisions with
which the hospitable abbot had loaded a vsumpter mule. Their repast was a pretty
long one; and the interruption made it impossible for them to hope to reach
Rotherwood without traveling all night, a conviction which induced them to
proceed on their way at a more hasty pace than they had hitherto used.
The travelers had now reached the verge of the wooded country and were
about to plunge into its recesses, held dangerous at that time from the number of
outlaws whom oppression and poverty had driven to despair and who occupied the
forests in such large bands as could easily bid defiance to the feeble police of the
period. From these rovers, however, Cedric and Athelstane accounted themselves
secure, as they had in attendance ten servants, besides Wamba and Gurth, whose
aid could not be counted upon, the one being a jester and the other a captive. It may
be added that in traveling thus late through the forest, Cedric and Athelstane relied
on their descent and character as well as their courage. The outlaws were chiefly
peasants and vyeomen of Saxon descent, and were generally supposed to respect
the persons and property of their countrymen.
Before long, as the travelers journeyed on their way, they were alarmed by
repeated cries for assistance; and when they rode up to the place whence the cries
came, they were surprised to find a horse-litter placed on the ground. Beside it sat a
very beautiful young woman richly dressed in the Jewish fashion, while an old
man, whose yellow cap proclaimed him to belong to the same nation, walked up
and down with gestures of the deepest despair and wrung his hands.
 When he began to come to himself out of his agony of terror, the old man,
named Isaac of York, explained that he had hired a bodyguard of six men at Ashby,
together with mules for carrying the litter of a sick friend. This party had
undertaken to escort him to Doncaster. They had come thus far in safety; but having
received information from a wood-cutter that a strong band of outlaws was lying in
wait in the woods before them, Isaac’s vmercenaries had not only taken to flight,
but had carried off the horses which bore the litter and left the Jew and his daughter
without the means either of defense or of retreat. Isaac ended by imploring the
Saxons to let him travel with them. Cedric and Athelstane were somewhat in doubt
as to what to do, but the matter was settled by Rowena’s intervention.
“The man is old and feeble,” she said to Cedric, “the maiden young and
beautiful, their friend sick and in peril of his life. We cannot leave them in this
extremity. Let the men unload two of the sumpter-mules and put the baggage
behind two of the vserfs. The mules may transport the litter, and we have led-horses
for the old man and his daughter.”
Cedric readily assented to what was proposed, and the change of baggage was
hastily achieved; for the single word “outlaws” rendered every one sufficiently
alert, and the approach of twilight made the sound yet more impressive. Amid the
bustle, Gurth was taken from horseback, in the course of which removal he
prevailed upon the jester to slack the cord with which his arms were bound. It was
so negligently refastened, perhaps intentionally, on the part of Wamba, that Gurth
found no difficulty in freeing his arms altogether, and then, gliding into the thicket,
he made his escape from the party.
His departure was hardly noticed in the apprehension of the moment. The path
upon which the party traveled was now so narrow as not to admit, with any sort of
convenience, above two riders abreast, and began to descend into a dingle,
traversed by a brook, the banks of which were broken, swampy, and overgrown
with dwarf willows. Cedric and Athelstane, who were at the head of their vretinue,
saw the risk of being attacked in this pass, but neither knew anything else to do
than hasten through the defile as fast as possible. Advancing, therefore, without
much order, they had just crossed the brook with a part of their followers, when
they were assailed, in front, flank, and rear at once, by a band of armed men. The
shout of a “White dragon! Saint George for merry England!” the war cry of the
Saxons, was heard on every side, and on every side enemies appeared with a
rapidity of advance and attack which seemed to multiply their numbers.
Both the Saxon chiefs were made prisoners at the same moment. Cedric, the
instant an enemy appeared, launched at him his javelin, which, taking better effect
than that which he had hurled at Fangs, nailed the man against an oak-tree that
happened to be close behind him. Thus far successful, Cedric spurred his horse
against a second, drawing his sword and striking with such inconsiderate fury that
his weapon encountered a thick branch which hung over him, and he was disarmed
by the violence of his own blow. He was instantly made prisoner and pulled from
his horse by two or three of the vbanditti who crowded around him. Athelstane
shared his captivity, his bridle having been seized and he himself forcibly
dismounted long before he could draw his sword.
The attendants, embarrassed with baggage and surprised and terrified at the
fate of their master, fell an easy prey to the assailants; while the Lady Rowena and
the Jew and his daughter experienced the same misfortune.
Of all the train none escaped but Wamba, who showed upon the occasion
much more courage than those who pretended to greater sense. He possessed
himself of a sword belonging to one of the domestics, who was just drawing it, laid
it about him like a lion, drove back several who approached him, and made a brave
though ineffectual effort to succor his master. Finding himself overpowered, the
jester threw himself from his horse, plunged into a thicket, and, favored by the
general confusion, escaped from the scene of action.
Suddenly a voice very near him called out in a low and cautious tone,
“Wamba!” and, at the same time, a dog which he recognized as Fangs jumped up
and fawned upon him. “Gurth!” answered Wamba with the same caution, and the
swineherd immediately stood before him.
“What is the matter?” he asked. “What mean these cries and that clashing of
swords?”
“Only a trick of the times,” answered Wamba. “They are all prisoners.”
“Who are prisoners?”
“My lord, and my lady, and Athelstane, and the others.”
“In the name of God,” demanded Gurth, “how came they prisoners? and to
whom?”
“They are prisoners to green vcassocks and black vvizors,” answered Wamba.
“They all lie tumbled about on the green, like the crab-apples that you shake down
to your swine. And I would laugh at it,” added the honest jester, “if I could for
weeping.”
He shed tears of unfeigned sorrow.
Gurth’s countenance kindled. “Wamba,” he said, “thou hast a weapon and thy
heart was ever stronger than thy brain. We are only two, but a sudden attack from
men of resolution might do much. Follow me!”
“Whither, and for what purpose?” asked the jester.
“To rescue Cedric.”
“But you renounced his service just now.”
“That,” said Gurth, “was while he was fortunate. Follow me.”
As the jester was about to obey, a third person suddenly made his appearance
and commanded them both to halt. From his dress and arms Wamba would have
conjectured him to be one of the outlaws who had just assailed his master; but,
besides that he wore no mask, the glittering baldric across his shoulders, with the
rich bugle horn which it supported, as well as the calm and commanding expression
of his voice and manner, made the jester recognize the archer who had won the
prize at the tournament and who was known as Locksley.
“What is the meaning of all this?” the man demanded. “Who are they that rifle
and ransom and make prisoners in these forests?”
 “You may look at their cassocks close by,” replied Wamba, “and see whether
they be thy children’s coats or no, for they are as like thine own as one green pea-
pod is like another.”
“I will learn that presently,” returned Locksley: “and I charge ye, on peril of
your lives, not to stir from this place where ye stand until I have returned. Obey me,
and it shall be the better for you and your masters. Yet stay; I must render myself as
like these men as possible.”
So saying, he drew a vvizard from his pouch, and, repeating his charges to
them to stand fast, went to reconnoitre.
“Shall we stay, Gurth?” asked Wamba; “or shall we give him vleg-bail? In my
foolish mind, he had all the equipage of a thief too much in readiness to be himself
a true man.”
“Let him be the devil,” said Gurth, “an he will. We can be no worse for
waiting his return. If he belongs to that party, he must already have given them the
alarm, and it will avail us nothing either to fight or fly.”
The yeoman returned in the course of a few minutes.
“Friend Gurth,” he said, “I have mingled among yon men and have learned to
whom they belong, and whither they are bound. There is, I think, no chance that
they will proceed to any actual violence against their prisoners. For three men to
attack them at this moment were little else than madness; for they are good men of
war and have, as such, placed sentinels to give the alarm when any one approaches.
But I trust soon to gather such a force as may act in defiance of all their
precautions. You are both servants, and, as I think, faithful servants of Cedric the
Saxon, the friend of the rights of Englishmen. He shall not want English hands to
help him in this extremity. Come then with me, until I gather more aid.”
So saying, he walked through the wood at a great pace, followed by the jester
and the swineherd. The three men proceeded with occasional converse but, for the
most part, in silence for about three hours. Finally they arrived at a small opening
in the forest, in the center of which grew an oak-tree of enormous magnitude,
throwing its twisted branches in every direction. Beneath this tree four or five
yeomen lay stretched on the ground, while another, as sentinel, walked to and fro in
the moonlight.
Upon hearing the sound of feet approaching, the watch instantly gave the
alarm, and the sleepers as suddenly started up and bent their bows. Six arrows
placed on the string were pointed toward the quarter from which the travelers
approached, when their guide, being recognized, was welcomed with every token
of respect and attachment.
“Where is the miller?” was Locksley’s first question.
“On the road toward Rotherham.”
“With how many?” demanded the leader, for such he seemed to be.
“With six men, and good hope of booty, if it please Saint Nicholas.”
“Devoutly spoken,” said Locksley. “And where is Allan-a-Dale?”
 “Walked up toward the vWatling Street, to watch for the Prior of Jorvaulx.”
“That is well thought on also,” replied the captain. “And where is the friar?”
“In his cell.”
“Thither will I go,” said Locksley. “Disperse and seek your companions.
Collect what force you can, for there’s game afoot that must be hunted hard and
will turn to bay. Meet me here at daybreak. And stay,” he added; “I have forgotten
what is most necessary of the whole. Two of you take the road quickly toward
Torquilstone, the castle of vFront-de-Boeuf. A set of gallants, who have been
vmasquerading in such guise as our own, are carrying a band of prisoners thither.
Watch them closely, for, even if they reach the castle before we collect our force,
our honor is concerned to punish them, and we will find means to do so. Keep a
good watch on them, therefore, and despatch one of your comrades to bring the
news of the yeomen thereabouts.”
The men promised obedience and departed on their several errands.
Meanwhile, their leader and his two companions, who now looked upon him with
great respect as well as some fear, pursued their way to the chapel where dwelt the
friar mentioned by Locksley. Presently they reached a little moonlit glade, in front
of which stood an ancient and ruinous chapel and beside it a rude hermitage of
stone half-covered with ivy vines.
The sounds which proceeded at that moment from the latter place were
anything but churchly. In fact, the hermit and another voice were performing at the
full extent of very powerful lungs an old drinking-song, of which this was the
burden:
 Come, trowl the brown bowl to me,
Bully boy, bully boy;
Come trowl the brown bowl to me:
Ho! jolly Jenkin, I spy a knave drinking;
Come trowl the brown bowl to me.

“Now, that is not ill sung,” said Wamba, who had thrown in a few of his own
flourishes to help out the chorus. “But who, in the saint’s name, ever expected to
have heard such a jolly chant come from a hermit’s cell at midnight?”
“Marry, that should I,” said Gurth, “for the jolly Clerk of Copmanhurst is a
known man and kills half the deer that are stolen in this walk. Men say that the
deer-keeper has complained of him and that he will be stripped of his vcowl and
vcope altogether if he keep not better order.”

While they were thus speaking, Locksley’s loud and repeated knocks had at
length disturbed the vanchorite and his guest, who was a knight of singularly
powerful build and open, handsome face, and in black armor.
“By my beads,” said the hermit, “here come other guests. I would not for my
cowl that they found us in this goodly exercise. All men have enemies, sir knight;
and there be those malignant enough to construe the hospitable refreshment I have
been offering to you, a weary traveler, into drinking and gluttony, vices alike alien
to my profession and my disposition.”
“Base vcalumniators!” replied the knight. “I would I had the chastising of
them. Nevertheless, holy clerk, it is true that all have their enemies; and there be
those in this very land whom I would rather speak to through the bars of my helmet
than bare-faced.”
“Get thine iron pot on thy head, then, sir knight,” said the hermit, “while I
remove these pewter flagons.”
He struck up a thundering vDe profundis clamavi, under cover of which he
removed the apparatus of their banquet, while the knight, laughing heartily and
arming himself all the while, assisted his host with his voice from time to time as
his mirth permitted.
“What devil’s vmatins are you after at this hour?” demanded a voice from
outside.
“Heaven forgive you, sir traveler!” said the hermit, whose own noise
prevented him from recognizing accents which were tolerably familiar to him.
“Wend on your way, in the name of God and Saint Dunstan, and disturb not the
devotions of me and my holy brother.”
“Mad priest,” answered the voice from without; “open to Locksley!”
“All’s safe—all’s right,” said the hermit to his companion.
“But who is he?” asked the Black Knight. “It imports me much to know.”
“Who is he?” answered the hermit. “I tell thee he is a friend.”
 “But what friend?” persisted the knight; “for he may be a friend to thee and
none of mine.”
“What friend?” replied the hermit; “that now is one of the questions that is
more easily asked than answered.”
“Well, open the door,” ordered the knight, “before he beat it from its hinges.”
The hermit speedily unbolted his portal and admitted Locksley, with his two
companions.
“Why, hermit,” was the yeoman’s first question as soon as he beheld the
knight, “what boon companion hast thou here?”
“A brother of our order,” replied the friar, shaking his head; “we have been at
our devotions all night.”
“He is a monk of the church militant,” answered Locksley; “and there be more
of them abroad. I tell thee, friar, thou must lay down the vrosary and take up the
vquarter-staff; we shall need every one of our merry men, whether clerk or layman.
But,” he added, taking a step aside, “art thou mad—to give admittance to a knight
thou dost not know? Hast thou forgotten our agreement?”
“Good yeoman,” said the knight, coming forward, “be not wroth with my
merry host. He did but afford me the hospitality which I would have compelled
from him if he had refused it.”
“Thou compel!” cried the friar. “Wait but till I have changed this gray gown
for a green cassock, and if I make not a quarter-staff ring twelve upon thy pate, I
am neither true clerk nor good woodsman.”
While he spoke thus he stript off his gown and appeared in a close buckram
doublet and lower garment, over which he speedily did on a cassock of green and
hose of the same color.
“I pray thee vtruss my points,” he said to Wamba, “and thou shalt have a cup
of sack for thy labor.”
“ vGramercy for thy sack,” returned Wamba; “but thinkest thou that it is lawful
for me to aid you to transmew thyself from a holy hermit into a sinful forester?”
So saying, he accommodated the friar with his assistance in tying the endless
number of points, as the laces which attached the hose to the doublet were then
termed.
While they were thus employed, Locksley led the knight a little apart and
addressed him thus: “Deny it not, sir knight, you are he who played so glorious a
part at the tournament at Ashby.”
“And what follows, if you guess truly, good yeoman?”
“For my purpose,” said the yeoman, “thou shouldst be as well a good
Englishman as a good knight; for that which I have to speak of concerns, indeed,
the duty of every honest man, but is more especially that of a true-born native of
England.”
 “You can speak to no one,” replied the knight, “to whom England, and the life
of every Englishman, can be dearer than to me.”
“I would willingly believe so,” said the woodsman; “and never had this
country such need to be supported by those who love her. A band of villains, in the
disguise of better men than themselves, have become masters of the persons of a
noble Englishman named Cedric the Saxon, together with his ward and his friend,
Athelstane of Coningsburgh, and have transported them to a castle in this forest
called Torquilstone. I ask of thee, as a good knight and a good Englishman, wilt
thou aid in their rescue?”
“I am bound by my vow to do so,” replied the knight; “but I would willingly
know who you are who request my assistance in their behalf?”
“I am,” said the forester, “a nameless man; but I am a friend of my country
and my country’s friends. Believe, however, that my word, when pledged, is as
vinviolate as if I wore golden spurs.”

“I willingly believe it,” returned the knight. “I have been accustomed to study
men’s countenances, and I can read in thine honesty and resolution. I will,
therefore, ask thee no farther questions but aid thee in setting at freedom these
oppressed captives, which done, I trust we shall part better acquainted and well
satisfied with each other.”
When the friar was at length ready, Locksley turned to his companions.
“Come on, my masters,” he said; “tarry not to talk. I say, come on: we must
collect all our forces, and few enough shall we have if we are to storm the castle of
Reginald Front-de-Boeuf.”

II
While these measures were taking in behalf of Cedric and his companions, the
armed men by whom the latter had been seized hurried their captives along toward
the place of security, where they intended to imprison them. But darkness came on
fast, and the paths of the wood seemed but imperfectly known to the vmarauders.
They were compelled to make several long halts and once or twice to return on
their road to resume the direction which they wished to pursue. It was, therefore,
not until the light of the summer morn had dawned upon them that they could travel
in full assurance that they held the right path.
In vain Cedric vexpostulated with his guards, who refused to break their
silence for his wrath or his protests. They continued to hurry him along, traveling at
a very rapid rate, until, at the end of an avenue of huge trees, arose Torquilstone,
the hoary and ancient castle of Reginald Front-de-Boeuf. It was a fortress of no
great size, consisting of a donjon, or large and high square tower, surrounded by
buildings of inferior height. Around the exterior wall was a deep moat, supplied
with water from a neighboring rivulet. Front-de-Boeuf, whose character placed him
often at feud with his neighbors, had made considerable additions to the strength of
his castle by building towers upon the outward wall, so as to flank it at every angle.
The access, as usual in castles of the period, lay through an arched vbarbican or
outwork, which was defended by a small turret.
 Cedric no sooner saw the turrets of Front-de-Boeuf’s castle raise their gray
and moss-grown battlements, glimmering in the morning sun, above the woods by
which they were surrounded than he instantly augured more truly concerning the
cause of his misfortune.
“I did injustice,” he said, “to the thieves and outlaws of these woods, when I
supposed such banditti to belong to their bands. I might as justly have confounded
the foxes of these brakes with the ravening wolves of France!”
Arrived before the castle, the prisoners were compelled by their guards to
alight and were hastened across the drawbridge into the castle. They were
immediately conducted to an apartment where a hasty repast was offered them, of
which none but Athelstane felt any inclination to partake. Neither did he have much
time to do justice to the good cheer placed before him, for the guards gave him and
Cedric to understand that they were to be imprisoned in a chamber apart from
Rowena. Resistance was vain; and they were compelled to follow to a large room,
which, rising on clumsy Saxon pillars, resembled the vrefectories and chapter-
houses which may still be seen in the most ancient parts of our most ancient
monasteries.
The Lady Rowena was next separated from her train and conducted with
courtesy, indeed, but still without consulting her inclination, to a distant apartment.
The same alarming distinction was conferred on the young Jewess, Rebecca, in
spite of the entreaties of her father, who offered money in the extremity of his
distress that she might be permitted to abide with him.
“Base unbeliever,” answered one of his guards, “when thou hast seen thy lair,
thou wilt not wish thy daughter to partake it.”
Without further discussion, the old Jew was dragged off in a different direction
from the other prisoners. The domestics, after being searched and disarmed, were
confined in another part of the castle.
The three leaders of the banditti and the men who had planned and carried out
the outrage, Norman knights,—Front-de-Boeuf, the brutal owner of the castle;
Maurice de Bracy, a free-lance, who sought to wed the Lady Rowena by force and
so had arranged the attack, and Brian de vBois-Guilbert, a distinguished member of
the famous order of vKnights Templar,—had a short discussion together and then
separated. Front-de-Boeuf immediately sought the apartment where Isaac of York
tremblingly awaited his fate.
The Jew had been hastily thrown into a dungeon-vault of the castle, the floor
of which was deep beneath the level of the earth, and very damp, being lower than
the moat itself. The only light was received through one or two loop-holes far
above the reach of the captive’s hand. These vapertures admitted, even at midday,
only a dim and uncertain light, which was changed for utter darkness long before
the rest of the castle had lost the blessing of day. Chains and shackles, which had
been the portion of former captives, hung rusted and empty on the walls of the
prison, and in the rings of one of these sets of fetters there remained two moldering
bones which seemed those of the human leg.
At one end of this ghastly apartment was a large fire-grate, over the top of
which were stretched some transverse iron bars, half devoured with rust.
 The whole appearance of the dungeon might have appalled a stouter heart than
that of Isaac, who, nevertheless, was more composed under the imminent pressure
of danger than he had seemed to be while affected by terrors of which the cause
was as yet remote and vcontingent. It was not the first time that Isaac had been
placed in circumstances so dangerous. He had, therefore, experience to guide him,
as well as a hope that he might again be delivered from the peril.
The Jew remained without altering his position for nearly three hours, at the
end of which time steps were heard on the dungeon stair. The bolts screamed as
they were withdrawn, the hinges creaked as the wicket opened, and Reginald Front-
de-Boeuf, followed by two Saracen slaves of the Templar, entered the prison.
Front-de-Boeuf, a tall and strong man, whose life had been spent in public war
or in private feuds and broils and who had hesitated at no means of extending his
vfeudal power, had features corresponding to his character, and which strongly
expressed the fiercer and more evil passions of the mind. The scars with which his
visage was seamed would, on features of a different cast, have excited the
sympathy due to the marks of honorable valor; but in the peculiar case of Front-de-
Boeuf they only added to the ferocity of his countenance and to the dread which his
presence inspired. The formidable baron was clad in a leathern doublet, fitted close
to his body, which was frayed and soiled with the stains of his armor. He had no
weapon, except a vponiard at his belt, which served to counter-balance the weight
of the bunch of rusty keys that hung at his right side.
The black slaves who attended Front-de-Boeuf were attired in jerkins and
trousers of coarse linen, their sleeves being tucked up above the elbow, like those
of butchers when about to exercise their functions in the slaughter-house. Each had
in his hand a small vpannier; and when they entered the dungeon, they paused at
the door until Front-de-Boeuf himself carefully locked and double-locked it.
Having taken this precaution, he advanced slowly up the apartment toward the Jew,
upon whom he kept his eye fixed as if he wished to paralyze him with his glance,
as some animals are said to fascinate their prey.
The Jew sat with his mouth agape and his eyes fixed on the savage baron with
such earnestness of terror that his frame seemed literally to shrink together and
diminish in size while encountering the fierce Norman’s fixed and baleful gaze.
The unhappy Isaac was deprived not only of the power of rising to make the
vobeisance which his fear had dictated, but he could not even doff his cap or utter
any word of supplication, so strongly was he agitated by the conviction that tortures
and death were impending over him.
On the other hand, the stately form of the Norman appeared to dilate in
magnitude, like that of the eagle, which ruffles up its plumage when about to
pounce on its defenseless prey. He paused within three steps of the corner in which
the unfortunate Hebrew had now, as it were, coiled himself up into the smallest
possible space, and made a sign for one of the slaves to approach. The black
vsatellite came forward accordingly, and producing from his basket a large pair of
scales and several weights, he laid them at the feet of Front-de-Boeuf and retired to
the respectful distance at which his companion had already taken his station.
The motions of these men were slow and solemn, as if there impended over
their souls some vpreconception of horror and cruelty. Front-de-Boeuf himself
opened the scene by addressing his ill-fated captive.
“Most accursed dog,” he said, awakening with his deep and sullen voice the
echoes of the dungeon vault, “seest thou these scales?”
The unhappy Jew returned a feeble affirmative.
“In these very scales shalt thou weigh me out,” said the relentless baron, “a
thousand silver pounds, after the just measure and weight of the Tower of London.”
“Holy Abraham!” returned the Jew, finding voice through the very extremity
of his danger; “heard man ever such a demand? Who ever heard, even in a
minstrel’s tale, of such a sum as a thousand pounds of silver? What human eyes
were ever blessed with the sight of so great a mass of treasure? Not within the walls
of York, ransack my house and that of all my tribe, wilt thou find the vtithe of that
huge sum of silver that thou speakest of.”
“I am reasonable,” answered Front-de-Boeuf, “and if silver be scant, I refuse
not gold. At the rate of a mark of gold for each six pounds of silver, thou shalt free
thy unbelieving carcass from such punishment as thy heart has never even
conceived in thy wildest imaginings.”
“Have mercy on me, noble knight!” pleaded Isaac. “I am old, and poor, and
helpless. It were unworthy to triumph over me. It is a poor deed to crush a worm.”
“Old thou mayst be,” replied the knight, “and feeble thou mayst be; but rich it
is known thou art.”
“I swear to you, noble knight,” said Isaac, “by all which I believe and all
which we believe in common—”
“Perjure not thyself,” interrupted the Norman, “and let not thy obstinacy seal
thy doom, until thou hast seen and well considered the fate that awaits thee. This
prison is no place for trifling. Prisoners ten thousand times more distinguished than
thou have died within these walls, and their fate has never been known. But for thee
is reserved a long and lingering death, to which theirs was luxury.”
He again made a signal for the slaves to approach and spoke to them apart in
their own language; for he had been a crusader in Palestine, where, perhaps, he had
learned his lesson of cruelty. The Saracens produced from their baskets a quantity
of charcoal, a pair of bellows, and a flask of oil. While the one struck a light with a
flint and steel, the other disposed the charcoal in the large rusty grate which we
have already mentioned and exercised the bellows until the fuel came to a red glow.
“Seest thou, Isaac,” said Front-de-Boeuf, “the range of iron bars above that
glowing charcoal? On that warm couch thou shalt lie, stripped of thy clothes as if
thou wert to rest on a bed of down. One of these slaves shall maintain the fire
beneath thee, while the other shall anoint thy wretched limbs with oil, lest the roast
should burn. Now choose betwixt such a scorching bed and the payment of a
thousand pounds of silver; for, by the head of my father, thou hast no other
voption.”

“It is impossible,” exclaimed the miserable Isaac; “it is impossible that your
purpose can be real! The good God of nature never made a heart capable of
exercising such cruelty!”
 “Trust not to that, Isaac,” said Front-de-Boeuf; “it were a fatal error. Dost thou
think that I who have seen a town sacked, in which thousands perished by sword,
by flood, and by fire, will blench from my purpose for the outcries of a single
wretch? Be wise, old man; discharge thyself of a portion of thy superfluous wealth;
repay to the hands of a Christian a part of what thou hast acquired by vusury. Thy
cunning may soon swell out once more thy shriveled purse, but neither leech nor
medicine can restore thy scorched hide and flesh wert thou once stretched on these
bars. Tell down thy vransom, I say, and rejoice that at such a rate thou canst redeem
thyself from a dungeon, the secrets of which few have returned to tell. I waste no
more words with thee. Choose between thy vdross and thy flesh and blood, and as
thou choosest so shall it be.”
“So may Abraham and all the fathers of our people assist me!” said Isaac; “I
cannot make the choice because I have not the means of satisfying your vexorbitant
demand!”
“Seize him and strip him, slaves,” said the knight.
The assistants, taking their directions more from the baron’s eye and hand than
his tongue, once more stepped forward, laid hands on the unfortunate Isaac,
plucked him up from the ground, and holding him between them, waited the hard-
hearted baron’s further signal. The unhappy man eyed their countenances and that
of Front-de-Boeuf in the hope of discovering some symptoms of softening; but that
of the baron showed the same cold, half-sullen, half-sarcastic smile, which had
been the prelude to his cruelty; and the savage eyes of the Saracens, rolling
gloomily under their dark brows, evinced rather the secret pleasure which they
expected from the approaching scene than any reluctance to be its agents. The Jew
then looked at the glowing furnace, over which he was presently to be stretched,
and, seeing no chance of his tormentor’s relenting, his resolution gave way.
“I will pay,” he said, “the thousand pounds of silver—that is, I will pay it with
the help of my brethren, for I must beg as a mendicant at the door of our synagogue
ere I make up so unheard-of a sum. When and where must it be delivered?” he
inquired with a sigh.
“Here,” replied Front-de-Boeuf. “Weighed it must be—weighed and told
down on this very dungeon floor. Thinkest thou I will part with thee until thy
ransom is secure?”
“Then let my daughter Rebecca go forth to York,” said Isaac, “with your safe
conduct, noble knight, and so soon as man and horse can return, the treasure—”
Here he groaned deeply, but added, after the pause of a few seconds,—“the treasure
shall be told down on this floor.”
“Thy daughter!” said Front-de-Boeuf, as if surprised. “By Heavens, Isaac, I
would I had known of this! I gave yonder black-browed girl to Sir Brian de Bois-
Guilbert, to be his prisoner. She is not in my power.”
The yell which Isaac raised at this unfeeling communication made the very
vault to ring, and astounded the two Saracens so much that they let go their hold of
the victim. He availed himself of his freedom to throw himself on the pavement and
clasp the knees of Front-de-Boeuf.
 “Take all that you have asked,” said he—“take ten times more—reduce me to
ruin and to beggary, if thou wilt—nay, pierce me with thy poniard, broil me on that
furnace, but spare my daughter! Will you deprive me of my sole remaining comfort
in life?”
“I would,” said the Norman, somewhat relenting, “that I had known of this
before. I thought you loved nothing but your money-bags.”
“Think not so vilely of me,” returned Isaac, eager to improve the moment of
apparent sympathy. “I love mine own, even as the hunted fox, the tortured wildcat
loves its young.”
“Be it so,” said Front-de-Boeuf; “but it aids us not now. I cannot help what has
happened or what is to follow. My word is passed to my comrade in arms that he
shall have the maiden as his share of the spoil, and I would not break it for ten Jews
and Jewesses to boot. Take thought instead to pay me the ransom thou hast
promised, or woe betide thee!”
“Robber and villain!” cried the Jew, “I will pay thee nothing—not one silver
penny will I pay thee unless my daughter is delivered to me in safety!”
“Art thou in thy senses, Israelite?” asked the Norman sternly. “Hast thy flesh
and blood a charm against heated iron and scalding oil?”
“I care not!” replied the Jew, rendered desperate by paternal affection; “my
daughter is my flesh and blood, dearer to me a thousand times than those limbs thy
cruelty threatens. No silver will I give thee unless I were to pour it molten down
thy vavaricious throat—no, not a silver penny will I give thee, vNazarene, were it
to save thee from the deep damnation thy whole life has merited. Take my life, if
thou wilt, and say that the Jew, amidst his tortures, knew how to disappoint the
Christian.”
“We shall see that,” said Front-de-Boeuf; “for by the blessed vrood thou shalt
feel the extremities of fire and steel! Strip him, slaves, and chain him down upon
the bars.”
In spite of the feeble struggles of the old man, the Saracens had already torn
from him his upper garment and were proceeding totally to disrobe him, when the
sound of a bugle, twice winded without the castle, penetrated even to the recesses
of the dungeon. Immediately after voices were heard calling for Sir Reginald Front-
de-Boeuf. Unwilling to be found engaged in his hellish occupation, the savage
baron gave the slaves a signal to restore Isaac’s garment; and, quitting the dungeon
with his attendants, he left the Jew to thank God for his own deliverance or to
lament over his daughter’s captivity, as his personal or parental feelings might
prove the stronger.

III
When the bugle sounded, De Bracy was engaged in pressing his suit with the
Saxon heiress Rowena, whom he had carried off under the impression that she
would speedily surrender to his rough wooing. But he found her vobdurate as well
as tearful and in no humor to listen to his professions of devotion. It was, therefore,
with some relief that the free-lance heard the summons at the barbican. Going into
the hall of the castle, De Bracy was presently joined by Bois-Guilbert.
“Where is Front-de-Boeuf!” the latter asked.
“He is vnegotiating with the Jew, I suppose,” replied De Bracy, coolly;
“probably the howls of Isaac have drowned the blast of the bugle. But we will
make the vvassals call him.”
They were soon after joined by Front-de-Boeuf, who had only tarried to give
some necessary directions.
“Let us see the cause of this cursed clamor,” he said. “Here is a letter which
has just been brought in, and, if I mistake not, it is in Saxon.”
He looked at it, turning it round and round as if he had some hopes of coming
at the meaning by inverting the position of the paper, and then handed it to De
Bracy.
“It may be magic spells for aught I know,” said De Bracy, who possessed his
full proportion of the ignorance which characterized the chivalry of the period.
“Give it to me,” said the Templar. “We have that of the priestly character that
we have some knowledge to enlighten our valor.”
“Let us profit by your most reverend knowledge, then,” returned De Bracy.
“What says the scroll?”
“It is a formal letter of defiance,” answered Bois-Guilbert; “but, by our Lady
of Bethlehem, if it be not a foolish jest, it is the most extraordinary vcartel that ever
went across the drawbridge of a baronial castle.”
“Jest!” exclaimed Front-de-Boeuf. “I would gladly know who dares jest with
me in such a matter! Read it, Sir Brian.”
The Templar accordingly read as follows:
“I, Wamba, the son of Witless, jester to a noble and free-born man, Cedric of
Rotherwood, called the Saxon: and I, Gurth, the son of Beowulph, the swineherd
—”
“Thou art mad!” cried Front-de-Boeuf, interrupting the reader.
“By Saint Luke, it is so set down,” answered the Templar. Then, resuming his
task, he went on: “I, Gurth, the son of Beowulph, swineherd unto the said Cedric,
with the assistance of our allies and confederates, who make common cause with us
in this our feud, namely, the good knight, called for the present the Black Knight,
and the stout yeoman, Robert Locksley, called Cleve-the-wand: Do you, Reginald
Front-de-Boeuf, and your allies and accomplices whomsoever, to wit, that whereas
you have, without cause given or feud declared, wrongfully and by mastery, seized
upon the person of our lord and master, the said Cedric; also upon the person of a
noble and free-born damsel, the Lady Rowena; also upon the person of a noble and
free-born man, Athelstane of Coningsburgh; also upon the persons of certain free-
born men, their vassals; also upon certain serfs, their born bondsmen; also upon a
certain Jew, named Isaac of York, together with his daughter, and certain horses and
mules: therefore, we require and demand that the said persons be within an hour
after the delivery hereof delivered to us, untouched and unharmed in body and
goods. Failing of which, we do pronounce to you that we hold ye as robbers and
traitors and will wager our bodies against ye in battle and do our utmost to your
destruction. Signed by us upon the eve of Saint Withold’s day, under the great oak
in the Hart-hill Walk, the above being written by a holy man, clerk to God and
Saint Dunstan in the chapel of Copmanhurst.”
The knights heard this uncommon document read from end to end and then
gazed upon each other in silent amazement, as being utterly at a loss to know what
it could portend. De Bracy was the first to break silence by an uncontrollable fit of
laughter, wherein he was joined, though with more moderation, by the Templar.
Front-de-Boeuf, on the contrary, seemed impatient of their ill-timed vjocularity.
“I give you plain warning,” he said, “fair sirs, that you had better consult how
to bear yourselves under these circumstances than to give way to such misplaced
merriment.”
“Front-de-Boeuf has not recovered his temper since his overthrow in the
tournament,” said De Bracy to the Templar. “He is cowed at the very idea of a
cartel, though it be from a fool and a swineherd.”
“I would thou couldst stand the whole brunt of this adventure thyself, De
Bracy,” answered Front-de-Boeuf. “These fellows dared not to have acted with
such inconceivable impudence had they not been supported by some strong bands.
There are enough outlaws in this forest to resent my protecting the deer. I did but
tie one fellow, who was taken red-handed and in the fact, to the horns of a wild
stag, which gored him to death in five minutes, and I had as many arrows shot at
me as were launched in the tournament. Here, fellow,” he added to one of his
attendants, “hast thou sent out to see by what force this precious challenge is to be
supported?”
“There are at least two hundred men assembled in the woods,” answered a
squire who was in attendance.
“Here is a proper matter!” said Front-de-Boeuf. “This comes of lending you
the use of my castle. You cannot manage your undertaking quietly, but you must
bring this nest of hornets about my ears!”
“Of hornets?” echoed De Bracy. “Of stingless drones rather—a band of lazy
knaves who take to the wood and destroy the venison rather than labor for their
maintenance.”
“Stingless!” replied Front-de-Boeuf. “Fork-headed shafts of a cloth-yard in
length, and these shot within the breadth of a French crown, are sting enough.”
“For shame, sir knight!” said the Templar. “Let us summon our people and
sally forth upon them. One knight—ay, one man-at-arms—were enough for twenty
such peasants.”
“Enough, and too much,” agreed De Bracy. “I should be ashamed to couch
lance against them.”
“True,” answered Front-de-Boeuf, drily, “were they black Turks or Moors, Sir
Templar, or the craven peasants of France, most valiant De Bracy; but these are
English yeomen, over whom we shall have no advantage save what we may derive
from our arms and horses, which will avail us little in the glades of the forest. Sally,
saidst thou? We have scarce men enough to defend the castle. The best of mine are
at York; so is your band, De Bracy; and we have scarce twenty, besides the handful
that were engaged in this mad business.”
“Thou dost not fear,” said the Templar, “that they can assemble in force
sufficient to attempt the castle?”
“Not so, Sir Brian,” answered Front-de-Boeuf. “These outlaws have indeed a
daring captain; but without machines, scaling ladders, and experienced leaders my
castle may defy them.”
“Send to thy neighbors,” suggested the Templar. “Let them assemble their
people and come to the rescue of three knights, besieged by a jester and swineherd
in the baronial castle of Reginald Front-de-Boeuf!”
“You jest, sir knight,” answered the baron; “but to whom shall I send? My
allies are at York, where I should have also been but for this infernal enterprise.”
“Then send to York and recall our people,” said De Bracy. “If these vchurls
abide the shaking of my standard, I will give them credit for the boldest outlaws
that ever bent bow in greenwood.”
“And who shall bear such a message?” said Front-de-Boeuf. “The knaves will
beset every path and rip the errand out of the man’s bosom. I have it,” he added,
after pausing for a moment. “Sir Templar, thou canst write as well as read, and if
we can but find writing materials, thou shalt return an answer to this bold
challenge.”
Paper and pen were presently brought, and Bois-Guilbert sat down and wrote,
in the French language, an epistle of the following tenor:
“Sir Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, with his noble and knightly allies and
confederates, receives no defiances at the hands of slaves, bondsmen, or fugitives.
If the person calling himself the Black Knight hath indeed a claim to the honors of
chivalry, he ought to know that he stands degraded by his present association and
has no right to ask reckoning at the hands of good men of noble blood. Touching
the prisoners we have made, we do in Christian charity require you to send a man
of religion to receive their confession and reconcile them with God; since it is our
fixed intention to execute them this morning before noon, so that their heads, being
placed on the battlements, shall show to all men how lightly we esteem those who
have bestirred themselves in their rescue. Wherefore, as above, we require you to
send a priest to reconcile them with God, in doing which you shall render them the
last earthly service.”
This letter, being folded, was delivered to the squire, and by him to the
messenger who waited without, as the answer to that which he had brought.

IV
About one hour afterward a man arrayed in the cowl and frock of a hermit,
and having his knotted cord twisted around his middle, stood before the portal of
the castle of Front-de-Boeuf. The warder demanded of him his name and errand.
 “ vPax vobiscum,” answered the priest, “I am a poor brother of the vOrder of
St. Francis who come hither to do my office to certain unhappy prisoners now
secured within this castle.”
“Thou art a bold friar,” said the warder, “to come hither, where, saving our
own drunken confessor, a rooster of thy feather hath not crowed these twenty
years.”
With these words, he carried to the hall of the castle his unwonted intelligence
that a friar stood before the gate and desired admission. With no small wonder he
received his master’s command to admit the holy man immediately; and, having
previously manned the entrance to guard against surprise, he obeyed, without
farther scruple, the order given him.
“Who and whence art thou, priest?” demanded Front-de-Boeuf.
“Pax vobiscum,” reiterated the priest, with trembling voice. “I am a poor
servant of Saint Francis, who, traveling through this wilderness, have fallen among
thieves, which thieves have sent me unto this castle in order to do my ghostly office
on two persons condemned by your honorable justice.”
“Ay, right,” answered Front-de-Boeuf; “and canst thou tell me, the number of
those banditti?”
“Gallant sir,” said the priest, “ vnomen illis legio, their name is legion.”
“Tell me in plain terms what numbers there are, or, priest, thy cloak and cord
will ill protect thee from my wrath.”
“Alas!” said the friar, “ vcor meum eructavit, that is to say, I was like to burst
with fear! But I conceive they may be—what of yeomen, what of commons—at
least five hundred men.”
“What!” said the Templar, who came into the hall that moment, “muster the
wasps so thick here? It is time to stifle such a mischievous brood.” Then taking
Front-de-Boeuf aside, “Knowest thou the priest?”
“He is a stranger from a distant convent,” replied Front-de-Boeuf; “I know
him not.”
“Then trust him not with our purpose in words,” urged the Templar. “Let him
carry a written order to De Bracy’s company of Free Companions, to repair
instantly to their master’s aid. In the meantime, and that the shaveling may suspect
nothing, permit him to go freely about his task of preparing the Saxon hogs for the
slaughter-house.”
“It shall be so,” said Front-de-Boeuf. And he forthwith appointed a domestic
to conduct the friar to the apartment where Cedric and Athelstane were confined.
The natural impatience of Cedric had been rather enhanced than diminished by
his confinement. He walked from one end of the hall to the other, with the attitude
of a man who advances to charge an enemy or storm the breach of a beleaguered
place, sometimes ejaculating to himself and sometimes addressing Athelstane. The
latter stoutly and vstoically awaited the issue of the adventure, digesting in the
meantime, with great composure, the liberal meal which he had made at noon and
not greatly troubling himself about the duration of the captivity.
“Pax vobiscum!” pronounced the priest, entering the apartment. “The blessing
of Saint Dunstan, Saint Dennis, Saint Duthoc, and all other saints whatsoever, be
upon ye and about ye.”
“Enter freely,” said Cedric to the friar; “with what intent art thou come
hither?”
“To bid you prepare yourselves for death,” was the reply.
“It is impossible!” said Cedric, starting. “Fearless and wicked as they are, they
dare not attempt such open and vgratuitous cruelty!”
“Alas!” returned the priest, “to restrain them by their sense of humanity is the
same as to stop a runaway horse with a bridle of silk thread. Bethink thee,
therefore, Cedric, and you also, Athelstane, what crimes you have committed in the
flesh, for this very day will ye be called to answer at a higher vtribunal.”
“Hearest thou this, Athelstane?” said Cedric. “We must rouse up our hearts to
this last action, since better it is we should die like men than live like slaves.”
“I am ready,” answered Athelstane, “to stand the worst of their malice, and
shall walk to my death with as much composure as ever I did to my dinner.”
“Let us, then, unto our holy vgear, father,” said Cedric.
“Wait yet a moment, good vuncle,” said the priest in a voice very different
from his solemn tones of a moment before; “better look before you leap in the
dark.”
“By my faith!” cried Cedric; “I should know that voice.”
“It is that of your trusty slave and jester,” answered the priest, throwing back
his cowl and revealing the face of Wamba. “Take a fool’s advice, and you will not
be here long.”
“How meanest thou, knave?” demanded the Saxon.
“Even thus,” replied Wamba; “take thou this frock and cord and march quietly
out of the castle, leaving me your cloak and girdle to take the long leap in thy
stead.”
“Leave thee in my stead!” exclaimed Cedric, astonished at the proposal; “why,
they would hang thee, my poor knave.”
“E’en let them do as they are permitted,” answered Wamba. “I trust—no
disparagement to your birth—that the son of Witless may hang in a chain with as
much gravity as the chain hung upon his ancestor the valderman.”
“Well, Wamba,” said Cedric, “for one thing will I grant thy request. And that
is, if thou wilt make the exchange of garments with Lord Athelstane instead of me.”
“No,” answered Wamba; “there were little reason in that. Good right there is
that the son of Witless should suffer to save the son of Hereward; but little wisdom
there were in his dying for the benefit of one whose fathers were strangers to his.”
 “Villain,” cried Cedric, “the fathers of Athelstane were monarchs of England!”
“They might be whomsoever they pleased,” replied Wamba; “but my neck
stands too straight on my shoulders to have it twisted for their sake. Wherefore,
good my master, either take my proffer yourself, or suffer me to leave this dungeon
as free as I entered.”
“Let the old tree wither,” persisted Cedric, “so the stately hope of the forest be
preserved. Save the noble Athelstane, my trusty Wamba! It is the duty of each who
has Saxon blood in his veins. Thou and I will abide together the utmost rage of our
oppressors, while he, free and safe, shall arouse the awakened spirits of our
countrymen to avenge us.”
“Not so, father Cedric,” said Athelstane, grasping his hand—for, when roused
to think or act, his deeds and sentiments were not unbecoming his high race—“not
so. I would rather remain in this hall a week without food save the prisoner’s
stinted loaf, or drink save the prisoner’s measure of water, than embrace the
opportunity to escape which the slave’s untaught kindness has vpurveyed for his
master. Go, noble Cedric. Your presence without may encourage friends to our
rescue; your remaining here would ruin us all.”
“And is there any prospect, then, of rescue from without?” asked Cedric,
looking at the jester.
“Prospect indeed!” echoed Wamba. “Let me tell you that when you fill my
cloak you are wrapped in a general’s cassock. Five hundred men are there without,
and I was this morning one of their chief leaders. My fool’s cap was a vcasque, and
my vbauble a truncheon. Well, we shall see what good they will make by
exchanging a fool for a wise man. Truly, I fear they will lose in valor what they
may gain in discretion. And so farewell, master, and be kind to poor Gurth and his
dog Fangs; and let my vcoxcomb hang in the hall at Rotherwood in memory that I
flung away my life for my master—like a faithful fool!”
The last word came out with a sort of double expression, betwixt jest and
earnest. The tears stood in Cedric’s eyes.
“Thy memory shall be preserved,” he said, “while fidelity and affection have
honor upon earth. But that I trust I shall find the means of saving Rowena and thee,
Athelstane, and thee also, my poor Wamba, thou shouldst not overbear me in this
matter.”
The exchange of dress was now accomplished, when a sudden doubt struck
Cedric.
“I know no language but my own and a few words of their mincing Norman.
How shall I bear myself like a reverend brother?”
“The spell lies in two words,” replied Wamba: “Pax vobiscum will answer all
queries. If you go or come, eat or drink, bless or ban, Pax vobiscum carries you
through it all. It is as useful to a friar as a broomstick to a witch or a wand to a
conjurer. Speak it but thus, in a deep, grave tone,—Pax vobiscum!—it is
irresistible. Watch and ward, knight and squire, foot and horse, it acts as a charm
upon them all. I think, if they bring me out to be hanged to-morrow, as is much to
be doubted they may, I will try its weight.”
 “If such prove the case,” said his master, “my religious orders are soon taken.
Pax vobiscum! I trust I shall remember the password. Noble Athelstane, farewell;
and farewell, my poor boy, whose heart might make amends for a weaker head. I
will save you, or return and die with you. Farewell.”
“Farewell, noble Cedric,” said Athelstane; “remember it is the true part of a
friar to accept refreshment, if you are offered any.”
Thus exhorted, Cedric sallied forth upon his expedition and presently found
himself in the presence of Front-de-Boeuf. The Saxon, with some difficulty,
compelled himself to make obeisance to the haughty baron, who returned his
courtesy with a slight inclination of the head.
“Thy penitents, father,” said the latter, “have made a long vshrift. It is the
better for them, since it is the last they shall ever make. Hast thou prepared them
for death?”
“I found them,” said Cedric, in such French as he could command, “expecting
the worst, from the moment they knew into whose power they had fallen.”
“How now, sir friar,” replied Front-de-Boeuf, “thy speech, me thinks, smacks
of the rude Saxon tongue?”
“I was bred in the convent of Saint Withold of Burton,” answered Cedric.
“Ay,” said the baron; “it had been better for thee to have been a Norman, and
better for my purpose, too; but need has no choice of messengers. That Saint
Withold’s of Burton is a howlet’s nest worth the harrying. The day will soon come
that the frock shall protect the Saxon as little as the mail-coat.”
“God’s will be done!” returned Cedric, in a voice tremulous with passion,
which Front-de-Boeuf imputed to fear.
“I see,” he said, “thou dreamest already that our men-at-arms are in thy
refectory and thy ale-vaults. But do me one cast of thy holy office and thou shalt
sleep as safe in thy cell as a snail within his shell of proof.”
“Speak your commands,” replied Cedric, with suppressed emotion.
“Follow me through this passage, then, that I may dismiss thee by the
postern.”
As he strode on his way before the supposed friar, Front-de-Boeuf thus
schooled him in the part which he desired he should act.
“Thou seest, sir friar, yon herd of Saxon swine who have dared to environ this
castle of Torquilstone. Tell them whatever thou hast a mind of the weakness of this
vfortalice, or aught else that can detain them before it for twenty-four hours.
Meantime bear this scroll—but soft—canst thou read, sir priest?”
“Not a jot I,” answered Cedric, “save on my vbreviary; and then I know the
characters because I have the holy service by heart, praised be Saint Withold!”
“The fitter messenger for my purpose. Carry thou this scroll to the castle of
Philip de vMalvoisin; say it cometh from me and is written by the Templar, Brian
de Bois-Guilbert, and that I pray him to send it to York with all speed man and
horse can make. Meanwhile, tell him to doubt nothing he shall find us whole and
sound behind our battlement. Shame on it, that we should be compelled to hide thus
by a pack of runagates who are wont to fly even at the flash of our pennons and the
tramp of our horses! I say to thee, priest, contrive some cast of thine art to keep the
knaves where they are until our friends bring up their lances.”
With these words, Front-de-Boeuf led the way to a postern where, passing the
moat on a single plank, they reached a small barbican, or exterior defense, which
communicated with the open field by a well-fortified sally-port.
“Begone, then; and if thou wilt do mine errand, and return hither when it is
done, thou shalt see Saxon flesh cheap as ever was hog’s in the shambles of
Sheffield. And, hark thee! thou seemest to be a jolly confessor—come hither after
the onslaught and thou shalt have as much good wine as would drench thy whole
convent.”
“Assuredly we shall meet again,” answered Cedric.
“Something in the hand the whilst,” continued the Norman; and, as they parted
at the postern door, he thrust in Cedric’s reluctant hand a gold vbyzant, adding,
“Remember, I will flay off both cowl and skin if thou failest in thy purpose.”
The supposed priest passed out of the door without further words.
Front-de-Boeuf turned back within the castle.
“Ho! Giles jailer,” he called, “let them bring Cedric of Rotherwood before me,
and the other churl, his companion—him I mean of Coningsburgh—Athelstane
there, or what call they him? Their very names are an encumbrance to a Norman
knight’s mouth, and have, as it were, a flavor of bacon. Give me a stoop of wine, as
jolly Prince John would say, that I may wash away the relish. Place it in the armory,
and thither lead the prisoners.”
His commands were obeyed; and upon entering that Gothic apartment, hung
with many spoils won by his own valor and that of his father, he found a flagon of
wine on a massive oaken table, and the two Saxon captives under the guard of four
of his dependants. Front-de-Boeuf took a long draught of wine and then addressed
his prisoners, for the imperfect light prevented his perceiving that the more
important of them had escaped.
“Gallants of England,” said Front-de-Boeuf, “how relish ye your
entertainment at Torquilstone? Faith and Saint Dennis, an ye pay not a rich ransom,
I will hang ye up by the feet from the iron bars of these windows till the kites and
hooded crows have made skeletons of you! Speak out, ye Saxon dogs, what bid ye
for your worthless lives? What say you, you of Rotherwood?”
“Not a vdoit I,” answered poor Wamba, “and for hanging up by the feet, my
brain has been topsy-turvy ever since the vbiggin was bound first around my head;
so turning me upside down may peradventure restore it again.”
“Hah!” cried Front-de-Boeuf, “what have we here?”
And with the back of his hand he struck Cedric’s cap from the head of the
jester, and throwing open his collar, discovered the fatal badge of servitude, the
silver collar round his neck.
“Giles—Clement—dogs and varlets!” called the furious Norman, “what
villain have you brought me here?”
“I think I can tell you,” said De Bracy, who just entered the apartment. “This
is Cedric’s clown.”
“Go,” ordered Front-de-Boeuf; “fetch me the right Cedric hither, and I pardon
your error for once—the rather that you but mistook a fool for a Saxon vfranklin.”
“Ay, but,” said Wamba, “your chivalrous excellency will find there are more
fools than franklins among us.”
“What means this knave?” said Front-de-Boeuf, looking toward his followers,
who, lingering and loath, faltered forth their belief that if this were not Cedric who
was there in presence, they knew not what was become of him.
“Heavens!” exclaimed De Bracy. “He must have escaped in the monk’s
garments!”
“Fiends!” echoed Front-de-Boeuf. “It was then the boar of Rotherwood whom
I ushered to the postern and dismissed with my own hands! And thou,” he said to
Wamba, “whose folly could over-reach the wisdom of idiots yet more gross than
thyself. I will give thee holy orders, I will shave thy crown for thee! Here, let them
tear the scalp from his head and pitch him headlong from the battlements. Thy trade
is to jest: canst thou jest now?”
“You deal with me better than your word, noble knight,” whimpered forth
poor Wamba, whose habits of vbuffoonery were not to be overcome even by the
immediate prospect of death; “if you give me the red cap you propose, out of a
simple monk you will make a vcardinal.”
“The poor wretch,” said De Bracy, “is resolved to die in his vocation.” The
next moment would have been Wamba’s last but for an unexpected interruption. A
hoarse shout, raised by many voices, bore to the inmates of the hall the tidings that
the besiegers were advancing to the attack. There was a moment’s silence in the
hall, which was broken by De Bracy. “To the battlements,” he said; “let us see what
these knaves do without.”
So saying, he opened a latticed window which led to a sort of projecting
balcony, and immediately called to those in the apartment, “Saint Dennis, it is time
to stir! They bring forward vmantelets and vpavisses, and the archers muster on the
skirts of the wood like a dark cloud before a hail-storm.”
Front-de-Boeuf also looked out upon the field and immediately snatched his
bugle. After winding a long and loud blast, he commanded his men to their posts on
the walls.
“De Bracy, look to the eastern side, where the walls are lowest. Noble Bois-
Guilbert, thy trade hath well taught thee how to attack and defend, so look thou to
the western side. I myself will take post at the barbican. Our numbers are few, but
activity and courage may supply that defect, since we have only to do with rascal
clowns.”
 The Templar had in the meantime been looking out on the proceedings of the
besiegers with deeper attention than Front-de-Boeuf or his giddy companion.
“By the faith of mine order,” he said, “these men approach with more touch of
discipline than could have been judged, however they come by it. See ye how
dexterously they avail themselves of every cover which a tree or bush affords and
avoid exposing themselves to the shot of our cross-bows? I spy neither banner nor
pennon, and yet I will gage my golden chain that they are led by some noble knight
or gentleman skillful in the practice of wars.”
“I espy him,” said De Bracy; “I see the waving of a knight’s crest and the
gleam of his armor. See yon tall man in the black mail who is busied marshaling the
farther troop of the rascally yeomen. By Saint Dennis, I hold him to be the knight
who did so well in the tournament at Ashby.”
The demonstrations of the enemy’s approach cut off all farther discourse. The
Templar and De Bracy repaired to their posts and, at the head of the few followers
they were able to muster, awaited with calm determination the threatened assault,
while Front-de-Boeuf went to see that all was secure in the besieged fortress.

V
In the meantime, the wounded Wilfred of Ivanhoe had been gradually
recovering his strength. Taken into her litter by Rebecca when his own father
hesitated to succor him, the young knight had lain in a stupor through all the
experiences of the journey and the capture of Cedric’s party by the Normans. De
Bracy, who, bad as he was, was not without some vcompunction, on finding the
occupant of the litter to be Ivanhoe, had placed the invalid under the charge of two
of his squires, who were directed to state to any inquirers that he was a wounded
comrade. This explanation was now accordingly returned by these men to Front-de-
Boeuf, when, in going the round of the castle, he questioned them why they did not
make for the battlements upon the alarm of the attack.
“A wounded comrade!” he exclaimed in great wrath and astonishment. “No
wonder that churls and yeomen wax so presumptuous as even to lay leaguer before
castles, and that clowns and swineherds send defiances to nobles, since men-at-
arms have turned sick men’s nurses. To the battlements, ye loitering villains!” he
cried, raising his vstentorian voice till the arches rang again; “to the battlements, or
I will splinter your bones with this truncheon.”
The men, who, like most of their description, were fond of enterprise and
detested inaction, went joyfully to the scene of danger, and the care of Ivanhoe fell
to Rebecca, who occupied a neighboring apartment and who was not kept in close
confinement.
The beautiful young Jewess rejoined the knight, whom she had so signally
befriended, at the moment of the beginning of the attack on the castle. Ivanhoe,
already much better and chafing at his enforced inaction, resembled the war-horse
who scenteth the battle afar.
“If I could but drag myself to yonder window,” he said, “that I might see how
this brave game is like to go—if I could strike but a single blow for our
deliverance! It is in vain; I am alike nerveless and weaponless!”
“Fret not thyself, noble knight,” answered Rebecca, “the sounds have ceased
of a sudden. It may be they join not battle.”
“Thou knowest naught of it,” returned Wilfred, impatiently; “this dead pause
only shows that the men are at their posts on the walls and expect an instant attack.
What we have heard was but the distant muttering of the storm, which will burst
anon in all its fury. Could I but reach yonder window!”
“Thou wilt injure thyself by the attempt, noble knight,” replied the attendant.
Then she added, “I myself will stand at the lattice and describe to you as I can what
passes without.”
“You must not; you shall not!” exclaimed Ivanhoe. “Each lattice will soon be a
mark for the archers; some random shaft may strike you. At least cover thy body
with yonder ancient buckler and show as little of thyself as may be.”
Availing herself of the protection of the large, ancient shield, which she placed
against the lower part of the window, Rebecca, with tolerable security, could
witness part of what was passing without the castle and report to Ivanhoe the
preparations being made for the storming. From where she stood she had a full
view of the outwork likely to be the first object of the assault. It was a fortification
of no great height or strength, intended to protect the postern-gate through which
Cedric had been recently dismissed by Front-de-Boeuf. The castle moat divided
this species of barbican from the rest of the fortress, so that, in case of its being
taken, it was easy to cut off the communication with the main building by
withdrawing the temporary bridge. In the outwork was a sally-port corresponding
to the postern of the castle, and the whole was surrounded by a strong palisade.
From the mustering of the assailants in a direction nearly opposite the outwork, it
seemed plain that this point had been selected for attack.
Rebecca communicated this to Ivanhoe, and added, “The skirts of the wood
seem lined with archers, although only a few are advanced from its dark shadow.”
“Under what banner?” asked Ivanhoe.
“Under no ensign of war which I can observe,” answered Rebecca.
“A singular novelty,” muttered the knight, “to advance to storm such a castle
without pennon or banner displayed! Seest thou who they are that act as leaders?
Or, are all of them but stout yeomen?”
“A knight clad in sable armor is the most conspicuous,” she replied; “he alone
is armed from head to foot, and he seems to assume the direction of all around
him.”
“Seem there no other leaders?” demanded the anxious inquirer.
“None of mark and distinction that I can behold from this station,” said
Rebecca. “They appear even now preparing to attack. God of Zion protect us! What
a dreadful sight! Those who advance first bear huge shields and defenses made of
plank; the others follow, bending their bows as they come on. They raise their
bows! God of Moses, forgive the creatures thou hast made!”
 Her description was suddenly interrupted by the signal for assault, which was
the blast of a shrill bugle, at once answered by a flourish of the Norman trumpets
from the battlements. The shouts of both parties augmented the fearful din, the
assailants crying, “Saint George for merry England!” and the Normans answering
them with cries of “ vBeauseant! Beauseant!“
 It was not, however, by clamor that the contest was to be decided, and the
desperate efforts of the assailants were met by an equally vigorous defense on the
part of the besieged. The archers, trained by their woodland pastimes to the most
effective use of the longbow, shot so rapidly and accurately that no point at which a
defender could show the least part of his person escaped their vcloth-yard shafts.
By this heavy discharge, which continued as thick and sharp as hail, two or three of
the garrison were slain and several others wounded. But, confident in their armor of
proof and in the cover which their situation afforded, the followers of Front-de-
Boeuf, and his allies, showed an obstinacy in defense proportioned to the fury of
the attack, replying with the discharge of their large cross-bows to the close and
continued shower of arrows. As the assailants were necessarily but indifferently
protected, they received more damage than they did.
“And I must lie here like a bedridden monk,” exclaimed Ivanhoe, “while the
game that gives me freedom or death is played out by the hands of others! Look
from the window once again, kind maiden, but beware that you are not marked by
the archers beneath—look out once more and tell me if they yet advance to the
storm.”
With patient courage, Rebecca again took post at the lattice.
“What dost thou see?” demanded the wounded knight.
“Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick as to dazzle mine eyes and
hide the bowmen who shoot them.”
“That cannot endure,” remarked Ivanhoe. “If they press not on to carry the
castle by pure force of arms, the archery may avail but little against stone walls and
bulwarks. Look for the sable knight and see how he bears himself, for as the leader
is, so will his followers be.”
“I see him not,” said Rebecca.
“Foul craven!” exclaimed Ivanhoe; “does he blench from the helm when the
wind blows highest?”
“He blenches not! he blenches not!” cried Rebecca. “I see him now; he heads
a body of men close under the outer barrier of the barbican. They pull down the
piles and palisades; they hew down the barriers with axes. His high black plume
floats over the throng, like a raven over the field of the slain. They have made a
breach in the barriers—they rush in—they are thrust back! Front-de-Boeuf heads
the defenders; I see his gigantic form above the press. They throng again to the
breach, and the pass is disputed hand to hand, and man to man. Have mercy, God!”
She turned her head from the lattice, as if unable longer to endure a sight so
terrible.
“Look forth again, Rebecca,” urged Ivanhoe, mistaking the cause of her
retiring; “the archery must in some degree have ceased, since they are now fighting
hand to hand. Look again; there is less danger.”
Rebecca again looked forth and almost immediately exclaimed: “Holy
prophets of the law! Front-de-Boeuf and the Black Knight fight hand to hand in the
breach, amid the roar of their followers, who watch the progress of the strife.” She
then uttered a loud shriek, “He is down! he is down!”
“Who is down?” cried Ivanhoe; “tell me which has fallen?”
“The Black Knight,” answered Rebecca, faintly; then shouted with joyful
eagerness, “But no—the name of the Lord of Hosts be blessed!—he is on foot
again and fights as if there were twenty men’s strength in his single arm. His sword
is broken—he snatches an ax from a yeoman—he presses Front-de-Boeuf with
blow on blow. The giant stoops and totters like an oak under the steel of a
woodsman—he falls—he falls!”
“Front-de-Boeuf?” exclaimed Ivanhoe.
“Front-de-Boeuf!” answered the Jewess. “His men rush to the rescue, headed
by the haughty Templar—their united force compels the champion to pause—they
drag Front-de-Boeuf within the walls.”
“The assailants have won the barriers, have they not?” Ivanhoe eagerly
queried.
“They have! they have!” answered Rebecca; “and they press the besieged hard
on the outer wall. Some plant ladders, some swarm like bees and endeavor to
ascend upon the shoulders of each other. Down go stones, beams, and trunks of
trees on their heads, and as fast as they bear the wounded to the rear, fresh men
supply their places. Great God! hast thou given men thine own image, that it should
be thus cruelly defaced by the hands of their brethren!”
“Think not of that,” said Ivanhoe. “This is no time for such thoughts. Who
yield—who push their way?”
“The ladders are thrown down,” replied Rebecca, shuddering; “the soldiers lie
groveling under them like crushed reptiles; the besieged have the better.”
“Saint George strike for us!” exclaimed the knight; “do the false yeomen give
way?”
“No,” exclaimed Rebecca, “they bear themselves right yeomanly—the Black
Knight approaches the postern with his huge ax—the thundering blows he deals
you may hear above all the din of the battle. Stones and beams are hailed down on
the bold champion—he regards them no more than if they were thistle-down or
feathers!”
“By Saint John of Acre,” cried Ivanhoe, raising himself joyfully on his couch,
“methought there was but one man in England that might do such a deed!”
“The postern-gate shakes,” continued Rebecca; “it crashes—it is splintered by
his blows—they rush in—the outwork is won! Oh, God! they hurl the defenders
from the battlements—they throw them into the moat—men, if ye indeed be men,
spare them that can resist no longer!”
“The bridge—the bridge which communicates with the castle—have they won
that pass?”
“No,” replied Rebecca. “The Templar has destroyed the plank on which they
crossed—few of the defenders escaped with him into the castle—the shrieks and
cries you hear tell the fate of the others! Alas! I see it is more difficult to look on
victory than on battle.”
“What do they now, maiden?” asked Ivanhoe. “Look forth yet again; this is no
time to faint at bloodshed.”
“It is over for the time,” answered Rebecca. “Our friends strengthen
themselves within the outwork which they have mastered; it affords them so good a
shelter from the foeman’s shot that the garrison only bestow a few bolts on it from
interval to interval, as if to disquiet rather than to injure them.”
“Our friends,” said Wilfred, “will surely not abandon an enterprise so
gloriously begun and so happily attained. Oh, no! I will put my faith in the good
knight whose ax hath rent heart-of-oak and bars of iron.”

VI
During the interval of quiet which followed the first success of the besiegers,
the Black Knight was employed in causing to be constructed a sort of floating
bridge, or long raft, by means of which he hoped to cross the moat in despite of the
resistance of the enemy. This was a work of some time.
When the raft was completed, the Black Knight addressed the besiegers: “It
avails not waiting here longer, my friends; the sun is descending in the west, and I
may not tarry for another day. Besides, it will be a marvel if the horsemen do not
come upon us from York, unless we speedily accomplish our purpose. Wherefore,
one of you go to Locksley and bid him commence a discharge of arrows on the
opposite side of the castle, and move forward as if about to assault it; while you,
true Englishmen, stand by me and be ready to thrust the raft end-long over the moat
whenever the postern on our side is thrown open. Follow me boldly across, and aid
me to burst yon sally-port in the main wall of the castle. As many of you as like not
this service, or are but ill-armed, do you man the top of the outwork, draw your
bowstrings to your ears and quell with your shot whoever shall appear upon the
rampant. Noble Cedric, wilt thou take the direction of those that remain?”
“Not so,” answered the Saxon. “Lead I cannot, but my posterity curse me in
my grave if I follow not with the foremost wherever thou shalt point the way!”
“Yet, bethink thee, noble Saxon,” said the knight, “thou hast neither hauberk
nor corslet, nor aught but that light helmet, vtarget, and sword.”
“The better,” replied Cedric; “I shall be the lighter to climb these walls. And—
forgive the boast, sir knight—thou shalt this day see the naked breast of a Saxon as
boldly presented to the battle as ever you beheld the steel corslet of a Norman
warrior.”
“In the name of God, then,” said the knight, “fling open the door and launch
the floating bridge!”
The portal which led from the inner wall of the barbican, now held by the
besiegers, to the moat and corresponded with a sally-port in the main wall of the
castle was suddenly opened. The temporary bridge was immediately thrust forward
and extended its length between the castle and outwork, forming a slippery and
precarious passage for two men abreast to cross the moat. Well aware of the
importance of taking the foe by surprise, the Black Knight, closely followed by
Cedric, threw himself upon the bridge and reached the opposite shore. Here he
began to thunder with his ax on the gate of the castle, protected in part from the
shot and stones cast by the defenders by the ruins of the former drawbridge, which
the Templar had demolished in his retreat from the barbican, leaving the
vcounterpoise still attached to the upper part of the portal. The followers of the
knight had no such shelter; two were instantly shot with cross-bow bolts, and two
more fell into the moat. The others retreated back into the barbican.

He Began to Thunder on the Gate

[See page 323]
He Began to Thunder on the Gate

The situation of Cedric and the Black Knight was now truly dangerous and
would have been still more so but for the constancy of the archers in the barbican,
who ceased not to shower their arrows on the battlements, distracting the attention
of those by whom they were manned and thus affording a respite to their two chiefs
from the storm of missiles, which must otherwise have overwhelmed them. But
their situation was eminently perilous, and was becoming more so with every
moment.
“Shame on ye all!” cried De Bracy to the soldiers around him; “do ye call
yourselves cross-bowmen and let these two dogs keep their station under the walls
of the castle? Heave over the coping stones from the battlement, an better may not
be. Get pick-ax and levers and down with that huge pinnacle!” pointing to a heavy
piece of stone-carved work that projected from the parapet.
At this moment Locksley whipped up the courage of his men.
“Saint George for England!” he cried. “To the charge, bold yeomen! Why
leave ye the good knight and noble Cedric to storm the pass alone? Make in,
yeomen! The castle is taken. Think of honor; think of spoil. One effort and the
place is ours.”
With that he bent his good bow and sent a shaft right through the breast of one
of the men-at-arms, who, under De Bracy’s direction, was loosening a fragment
from one of the battlements to precipitate on the heads of Cedric and the Black
Knight. A second soldier caught from the hands of the dying man the iron crow,
with which he had heaved up and loosened the stone pinnacle, when, receiving an
arrow through his headpiece, he dropped from the battlement into the moat a dead
man. The men-at-arms were daunted, for no armor seemed proof against the shot of
this tremendous archer.
“Do you give ground, base knaves?” cried De Bracy. “ vMountjoy Saint
Dennis! Give me the lever.”
Snatching it up, he again assailed the loosened pinnacle, which was of weight
enough, if thrown down, not only to have destroyed the remnant of the drawbridge,
which sheltered the two foremost assailants, but also to have sunk the rude float of
planks over which they had crossed. All saw the danger, and the boldest, even the
stout friar himself, avoided setting a foot on the raft. Thrice did Locksley bend his
shaft against De Bracy, and thrice did his arrow bound back from the knight’s
armor of proof.
“Curse on thy Spanish steel-coat!” said Locksley; “had English smith forged
it, these arrows had gone through it as if it had been silk.” He then began to call
out: “Comrades! friends! noble Cedric! bear back and let the ruin fall.”
His warning voice was unheard, for the din which the Black Knight himself
occasioned by his strokes upon the postern would have drowned twenty
war-trumpets. The faithful Gurth indeed sprang forward on the planked bridge to
warn Cedric of his impending fate, or to share it with him. But his warning would
have come too late; the massive pinnacle already tottered, and De Bracy, who still
heaved at his task, would have accomplished it, had not the voice of the Templar
sounded close in his ear.
“All is lost, De Bracy; the castle burns.”
“Thou art mad to say so,” replied the knight.
“It is all in a light flame on the western side,” returned Bois-Guilbert. “I have
striven in vain to extinguish it.”
“What is to be done?” cried De Bracy. “I vow to Saint Nicholas of Limoges a
candlestick of pure gold—”
“Spare thy vow,” said the Templar, “and mark me. Lead thy men down, as if to
a sally; throw the postern-gate open. There are but two men who occupy the float;
fling them into the moat and push across to the barbican. I will charge from the
main gate and attack the barbican on the outside. If we can regain that post, we
shall defend ourselves until we are relieved or, at least, until they grant us fair
quarter.”
“It is well thought upon,” replied De Bracy; “I will play my part.”
De Bracy hastily drew his men together and rushed down to the postern-gate,
which he caused instantly to be thrown open. Scarce was this done ere the
portentous strength of the Black Knight forced his way inward in despite of De
Bracy and his followers. Two of the foremost instantly fell, and the rest gave way,
notwithstanding all their leader’s efforts to stop them.
“Dogs!” cried De Bracy; “will ye let two men win our only pass for safety?”
“He is the devil!” replied a veteran man-at-arms, bearing back from the blows
of their sable antagonist.
“And if he be the devil,” said De Bracy, “would you fly from him into the
mouth of hell? The castle burns behind us, villains! Let despair give you courage,
or let me forward. I will cope with this champion myself.”
And well and chivalrously did De Bracy that day maintain the fame he had
acquired in the civil wars of that dreadful period. The vaulted passages in which the
two redoubted champions were now fighting hand to hand rang with the furious
blows they dealt each other, De Bracy with his sword, the Black Knight with his
ponderous ax. At length the Norman received a blow, which, though its force was
partly parried by his shield, descended yet with such violence on his crest that he
measured his length on the paved floor.
 “Yield thee, De Bracy,” said the Black Knight, stooping over him and holding
against the bars of his helmet the fatal poniard with which knights despatched their
enemies; “yield thee, Maurice de Bracy, rescue or no rescue, or thou art but a dead
man. Speak!”
The gallant Norman, seeing the hopelessness of further resistance, yielded,
and was allowed to rise.
“Let me tell thee what it imports thee to know,” he said. “Wilfred of Ivanhoe is
wounded and a prisoner, and will perish in the burning castle without present help.”
“Wilfred of Ivanhoe!” exclaimed the Black Knight. “The life of every man in
the castle shall answer if a hair of his head be singed. Show me his chamber!”
“Ascend yonder stair,” directed De Bracy. “It leads to his apartment.”
The turret was now in bright flames, which flashed out furiously from window
and shot-hole. But, in other parts, the great thickness of the walls and the vaulted
roofs of the apartments resisted the progress of the fire, and there the rage of man
still triumphed; for the besiegers pursued the defenders of the castle from chamber
to chamber. Most of the garrison resisted to the uttermost; few of them asked
quarter—none received it. The air was filled with groans and the clashing of arms.
Through this scene of confusion the Black Knight rushed in quest of Ivanhoe,
whom he found in Rebecca’s charge. The knight, picking up the wounded man as if
he were a child, bore him quickly to safety. In the meantime, Cedric had gone in
search of Rowena, followed by the faithful Gurth. The noble Saxon was so
fortunate as to reach his ward’s apartment just as she had abandoned all hope of
safety and sat in expectation of instant death. He committed her to the charge of
Gurth, to be carried without the castle. The loyal Cedric then hastened in quest of
his friend Athelstane, determined at every risk to himself to save the prince. But ere
Cedric penetrated as far as the old hall in which he himself had been a prisoner, the
inventive genius of Wamba had procured liberation for himself and his companion.
When the noise of the conflict announced that it was at the hottest, the jester
began to shout with the utmost power of his lungs, “Saint George and the Dragon!
Bonny Saint George for merry England! The castle is won!” These sounds he
rendered yet more fearful by banging against each other two or three pieces of rusty
armor which lay scattered around the hall.
The guards at once ran to tell the Templar that foemen had entered the old hall.
Meantime the prisoners found no difficulty in making their escape into the court of
the castle, which was now the last scene of the contest. Here sat the fierce Templar,
mounted on horseback and surrounded by several of the garrison, who had united
their strength in order to secure the last chance of safety and retreat which remained
to them. The principal, and now the single remaining drawbridge, had been lowered
by his orders, but the passage was beset; for the archers, who had hitherto only
annoyed the castle on that side by their missiles, no sooner saw the flames breaking
out and the bridge lowered than they thronged to the entrance. On the other hand, a
party of the besiegers who had entered by the postern on the opposite side were
now issuing into the court-yard and attacking with fury the remnant of the
defenders in the rear.
 Animated, however, by despair and the example of their gallant leader, the
remaining soldiers of the castle fought with the utmost valor; and, being well
armed, they succeeded in driving back the assailants.
Crying aloud, “Those who would save themselves, follow me!” Bois-Guilbert
pushed across the drawbridge, dispersing the archers who would have stopped
them. He was followed by the Saracen slaves and some five or six men-at-arms,
who had mounted their horses. The Templar’s retreat was rendered perilous by the
number of arrows shot at him and his party; but this did not prevent him from
galloping round to the barbican, where he expected to find De Bracy.
“De Bracy!” he shouted, “art thou there?”
“I am here,” answered De Bracy, “but a prisoner.”
“Can I rescue thee?” cried Bois-Guilbert.
“No,” said the other. “I have rendered myself.”
Upon hearing this, the Templar galloped off with his followers, leaving the
besiegers in complete possession of the castle.
Fortunately, by this time all the prisoners had been rescued and stood together
without the castle, while the yeomen ran through the apartments seeking to save
from the devouring flames such valuables as might be found. They were soon
driven out by the fiery element. The towering flames surmounted every obstruction
and rose to the evening skies one huge and burning beacon, seen far and wide
through the adjacent country. Tower after tower crashed down, with blazing roof
and rafter.
The victors, assembling in large bands, gazed with wonder not unmixed with
fear upon the flames, in which their own ranks and arms glanced dusky red. The
voice of Locksley was at length heard, “Shout, yeomen! the den of tyrants is no
more! Let each bring his spoil to the tree in Hart-hill Walk, for there we will make
just partition among ourselves, together with our worthy allies in this great deed of
vengeance.”
SIR WALTERSCOTT.

HELPS TO STUDY
I. Tell what you find out about Cedric and his son, Ivanhoe, or the “Disinherited Knight.” What
impression do you get of Cedric’s character? of Athelstane’s? What was the first adventure the
travelers had? Who was “the sick friend” the Jews were assisting? What further adventure befell the
travelers? How did Gurth show his true character? Who came to the aid of Gurth and Wamba? What
did Wamba mean by “whether they be thy children’s coats or no”? What impression do you get of
the stranger? Describe the scene in the hermit’s abode. What impression do you get of him? Of the
Black Knight?
II. Who had made Cedric’s party prisoners? Why? Tell what Cedric said when he discovered
who his captors were. What disposition was made of the prisoners? Describe the scene in Isaac’s
cell. How was Front-de-Boeuf interrupted?
III. What challenge did the knights receive? How did they answer it?
IV. Who came in the character of a priest? What plan did he carry out? How? How did Cedric
act his part? Describe the scene when the escape was discovered. How was Front-de-Boeuf
prevented from doing Wamba harm?
V. How did Ivanhoe fall to the care of Rebecca? Where did Rebecca take her station? Describe
the scenes she saw. What knight led the assault? How did Rebecca describe him? Can you guess
who the Black Knight was? Whom did Ivanhoe think of when he said, “Methought there was but
one man in England that might do such a deed”?
VI. What plan did the Black Knight make? How was it executed? Which of the assailants
proved themselves especial heroes? What was De Bracy’s plan? How was its accomplishment
prevented? What plan for escape did the Templar have? How did it end? Tell how Ivanhoe, Rowena,
Athelstane and Wamba were liberated. Tell what became of the knights. Who do you think Locksley
was?
All of the party were rescued except Rebecca, who was carried off by Bois-Guilbert and
accused of witchcraft. You will have to read the novel, Ivanhoe, to learn of the further adventures of
her, Rowena, the Black Knight, and Ivanhoe.

SUPPLEMENTARY READING
The Talisman—Sir Walter Scott.
The White Company—A. Conan Doyle.
When Knighthood Was in Flower—Charles Major.
The Last of the Barons—Edward Bulwer-Lytton.
Don Quixote—Miguel de Cervantes.
The Idylls of the King—Alfred Tennyson.
Scottish Chiefs—Jane Porter.
 SEA FEVER
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s
shaking,
And a gray mist on the sea’s face, and a gray dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown
spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a
whetted
knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
JOHN MASEFIELD.
 A GREYPORT LEGEND
They ran through the streets of the seaport town;
They peered from the decks of the ships that lay:
The cold sea-fog that comes whitening down
Was never as cold or white as they.
“Ho, Starbuck, and Pinckney, and Tenterden,
Run for your shallops, gather your men,
Scatter your boats on the lower bay!”

Good cause for fear! In the thick midday

The hulk that lay by the rotting pier,
Filled with the children in happy play,
Parted its moorings and drifted clear;
Drifted clear beyond reach or call,—
Thirteen children they were in all,—
All adrift in the lower bay!

Said a hard-faced skipper, “God help us all!

She will not float till the turning tide!”
Said his wife, “My darling will hear my call,
Whether in sea or heaven she abide!”
And she lifted a quavering voice and high,
Wild and strange as a sea-bird’s cry,
Till they shuddered and wondered at her side.

The fog drove down on each laboring crew,

Veiled each from each and the sky and shore;
There was not a sound but the breath they drew,
And the lap of water and creak of oar.
And they felt the breath of the downs fresh blown
O’er leagues of clover and cold gray stone,
But not from the lips that had gone before.

They came no more. But they tell the tale

That, when fogs are thick on the harbor reef,
The mackerel-fishers shorten sail;
For the signal they know will bring relief,
For the voices of children, still at play
In a phantom-hulk that drifts alway
Through channels whose waters never fail.

It is but a foolish shipman’s tale,

A theme for a poet’s idle page;
But still, when the mists of doubt prevail,
 And we lie becalmed by the shores of age,
We hear from the misty troubled shore
The voice of the children gone before,
Drawing the soul to its anchorage!
BRETHARTE.

HELPS TO STUDY
Read the poem and tell the story found in it. Why was every one so “cold and white”? What
was the great danger? What happened to prevent the sailors’ getting to the hulk? What is the tale that
is told? What is the thought the poet leaves with us in the last stanza?
 A HUNT BENEATH THE OCEAN
This story is taken from Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, the book that foreshadowed
the modern submarine. Monsieur Aronnax, a scientist, with two companions, Ned Land and Conseil,
was rescued at sea by a strange craft, the Nautilus, owned and commanded by one Captain Nemo,
who hated mankind and never went ashore on inhabited land. Monsieur Aronnax remained on the
submarine for months in a kind of captivity and met with many wonderful adventures. It should be
noted that modern inventions have already outstripped many of the author’s imaginings.

On returning to my room with Ned and Conseil, I found upon my table a note
addressed to me. I opened it impatiently. It was written in a bold clear hand, and ran
as follows:
“November 16, 1867.
To Professor Aronnax, on board the Nautilus:
Captain Nemo invites Professor Aronnax to a hunting party, which will take
place to-morrow morning in the forest of the island of Crespo. He hopes that
nothing will prevent the professor from being present, and he will with pleasure see
him joined by his companions.”
“A hunt!” exclaimed Ned.
“And in the forests of the island of Crespo!” added Conseil.
“Oh, then the gentleman is going on vterra firma?” asked Ned Land.
“That seems to be clearly indicated,” said I, reading the letter once more.
“Well, we must accept,” said Ned. “Once more on dry land, we shall know
what to do. Indeed, I shall not be sorry to eat a piece of fresh venison.”
I contented myself with replying, “Let us see where the island of Crespo is.”
I consulted the vplanisphere and in 32° 40´ north latitude, and 157° 50´ west
vlongitude, I found a small island recognized in 1801 by Captain Crespo, and
marked in the ancient Spanish maps as Rocca de la Platta, or Silver Rock.
I showed this little rock lost in the midst of the North Pacific to my
companions.
“If Captain Nemo does sometimes go on dry ground,” said I, “he at least
chooses desert islands.”
Ned Land shrugged his shoulders without speaking, and Conseil and he left
me. After supper, which was served by the steward, mute and impassive, I went to
bed, not without some anxiety.
 The next morning, the 7th of November, I felt on awakening that the Nautilus
was perfectly still. I dressed quickly and entered the saloon. Captain Nemo was
there, waiting for me. He rose, bowed, and asked me if it was convenient for me to
accompany him. I simply replied that my companions and myself were ready to
follow him.
We entered the room where breakfast was served.
“M. Aronnax,” said the captain, “pray share my breakfast without ceremony;
we will chat as we eat. Though I promised you a walk in the forest, I did not
undertake to find hotels there; so breakfast as a man should who will most likely
not have his dinner till very late.”
I did honor to the repast. It was composed of several kinds of fish, and
different sorts of seaweed. Our drink consisted of pure water, to which the captain
added some drops of a fermented liquor extracted from a seaweed. Captain Nemo
ate at first without saying a word. Then he began:
“Professor, when I proposed to you to hunt in my submarine forest of Crespo,
you evidently thought me mad. Sir, you should never judge lightly of any man.”
“But, captain, believe me—”
“Be kind enough to listen, and you will then see whether you have any cause
to accuse me of folly and contradiction.”
“I listen.”
“You know as well as I do, professor, that man can live under water, providing
he carries with him a sufficient supply of breathable air. In submarine works, the
workman, clad in an vimpervious dress, with his head in a metal helmet, receives
air from above by means of forcing-pumps and vregulators.”
“That is a diving apparatus,” said I.
“Just so. But under these conditions the man is not at liberty; he is attached to
the pump which sends him air through a rubber tube, and if we were obliged to be
thus held to the Nautilus, we could not go far.”
“And the means of getting free?” I asked.
“It is to use the Rouquayrol apparatus, invented by two of your own
countrymen, which I have brought to perfection for my own use and which will
allow you to risk yourself without any organ of the body suffering. It consists of a
reservoir of thick iron plates, in which I store the air under a pressure of fifty
vatmospheres. This reservoir is fixed on the back by means of braces, like a
soldier’s knapsack. Its upper part forms a box in which the air is kept by means of a
bellows, and therefore cannot escape unless at its vnormal tension. In the
Rouquayrol apparatus such as we use, two rubber pipes leave this box and join a
sort of tent which holds the nose and mouth; one is to introduce fresh air, the other
to let out foul, and the tongues close one or the other pipe according to the wants of
the vrespirator. But I, in encountering great pressures at the bottom of the sea, was
obliged to shut my head like that of a diver in a ball of copper; and it is into this
ball of copper that the two pipes, the inspirator and the expirator, open. Do you
see?”
“Perfectly, Captain Nemo. But the air that you carry with you must soon be
used; when it contains only fifteen per cent of oxygen it is no longer fit to breathe.”
“Right! But I told you, M. Aronnax, that the pumps of the Nautilus allow me
to store the air under considerable pressure; and the reservoir of the apparatus can
furnish breathable air for nine or ten hours.”
“I have no further objections to make,” I answered. “I will only ask one thing,
captain—how can you light your road at the bottom of the sea?”
“With the Ruhmkorff apparatus, M. Aronnax. One is carried on the back, the
other is fastened to the waist. It is composed of a vbunsen pile, which I do not work
with bichromate of potash but with sodium. A wire is introduced which collects the
electricity produced, and directs it toward a lantern. In this lantern is a spiral glass
which contains a small quantity of carbonic acid gas. When the apparatus is at
work, this gas becomes luminous, giving out a white and continuous light. Thus
provided, I can breathe and I can see.”
“Captain Nemo, to all my objections you make such crushing answers that I
dare no longer doubt. But if I am forced to admit the Rouquayrol and Ruhmkorff
apparatus, I must be allowed some reservations with regard to the gun I am to
carry.”
“But it is not a gun for powder,” he said.
“Then it is an air-gun?” I asked.
“Doubtless. How would you have me manufacture gunpowder on board,
without saltpeter, sulphur, or charcoal?”
“Besides,” I added, “to fire under water in a medium eight hundred and fifty
times denser than the air, we must conquer a very considerable resistance.”
“That would be no difficulty. There exist guns which can fire under these
conditions. But I repeat, having no powder, I use air under great pressure, which the
pumps of the Nautilus furnish abundantly.”
“But this air must be rapidly used?”
“Well, have I not my Rouquayrol reservoir, which can furnish it at need? A tap
is all that is required. Besides, M. Aronnax, you must see yourself that during our
submarine hunt we can spend but little air.”
“But it seems to me that in this twilight, and in the midst of this fluid, which is
very dense compared with the atmosphere, shots could not go far or easily prove
fatal.”
“On the contrary,” replied Nemo, “with this gun every blow is mortal;
however lightly the animal is touched, it falls dead as if struck by a thunderbolt.”
“Why?”
“Because the balls sent by this gun are not ordinary balls, but little cases of
glass, of which I have a large supply. These glass cases are covered with a shell of
steel and weighted with a pellet of lead; they are real vLeyden jars, into which
electricity is forced to a very high tension. With the slightest shock they are
discharged, and the animal, however strong it may be, falls dead.”
Captain Nemo then led me aft; and in passing before Ned and Conseil’s cabin,
I called my two companions, who followed immediately. Conseil was delighted at
the idea of exploring the sea, but Ned declined to go when he learned that the hunt
was to be a submarine one. We came to a kind of cell near the machinery-room, in
which we were to put on our walking-dress. It was, in fact, the arsenal and
wardrobe of the Nautilus. A dozen diving-suits hung from the partition, awaiting
our use.
At the captain’s call two of the ship’s crew came to help us dress in these
heavy and impervious clothes, made of rubber without seam and constructed
expressly to resist considerable pressure. One might have taken this diving
apparatus for a suit of armor, both supple and resisting. It formed trousers and
waistcoat; the trousers were finished off with thick boots, weighted with heavy
leaden soles. The texture of the waistcoat was held together by bands of copper,
which crossed the chest, protecting it from the great pressure of the water and
leaving the lungs free to act. The sleeves ended in gloves, which in no way
restrained the movement of the hands. There was a vast difference noticeable
between this dress and the old-fashioned diving-suit.
Captain Nemo and one of his companions, Conseil and myself, were soon
enveloped in the dresses; there remained nothing more to be done but inclose our
heads in the metal boxes. Captain Nemo thrust his head into the helmet, Conseil
and I did the same. The upper part of our dress terminated in a copper collar, upon
which was screwed the metal helmet. Three holes, protected by thick glass, allowed
us to see in all directions by simply turning our heads in the interior of the head-
dress. As soon as it was in position, the Rouquayrol apparatus on our backs began
to act; and, for my part, I could breathe with ease.
With the Ruhmkorff lamp hanging from my belt, and the gun in my hand, I
was ready to set out. But to speak the truth, imprisoned in these heavy garments
and glued to the deck by the leaden soles, it was impossible for me to take a step.
This state of things, however, was provided for. I felt myself being pushed into a
little room next the wardrobe-room. My companions followed, towed along in the
same way. I heard a water-tight door, furnished with stopper-plates, close upon us,
and we were wrapped in profound darkness.
After some minutes, a loud hissing was heard; I felt the cold mount from my
feet to my chest. Evidently from some part of the vessel they had, by means of a
tap, given entrance to the water, which was invading us and with which the room
was soon filled. A second door cut in the side of the Nautilus then opened. We saw
a faint light. In another instant our feet trod the bottom of the sea.
How can I retrace the impression left upon me by that walk under the waters?
Words are impotent to relate such wonders. Captain Nemo walked in front, his
companion followed some steps behind. Conseil and I remained near each other, as
if an exchange of words had been possible through our metallic cases. I no longer
felt the weight of my clothing, or of my shoes, of my reservoir of air, or my thick
helmet, in the midst of which my head rattled like an almond in its shell.
 The light which lit the soil thirty feet below the surface of the ocean
astonished me by its power. The solar rays shone through the watery mass easily
and dissipated all color, and I clearly distinguished objects at a distance of a
hundred and fifty yards. Beyond that the tints darkened into fine gradations of
vultramarine and faded into vague obscurity. We were walking on fine, even sand,
not wrinkled as on a flat shore, which retains the impression of the billows. This
dazzling carpet, really a reflector, repelled the rays of the sun with wonderful
intensity, which accounted for the vibration which penetrated every atom of liquid.
Shall I be believed when I say that, at a depth of thirty feet, I could see as well as if
I was in broad daylight?
For a quarter of an hour I trod on this sand; the hull of the Nautilus,
resembling a long shoal, disappeared by degrees; but its lantern would help to
guide us back when darkness should overtake us in the waters. Soon forms of
objects outlined in the distance became discernible. I recognized magnificent rocks,
hung with a tapestry of vzoophytes of the most beautiful kind.
It was then about ten o’clock in the morning, and the rays of the sun struck the
surface of the waves at rather an oblique angle; at the touch of the light,
decomposed by vrefraction as through a prism, flowers, rocks, plants, and shells
were shaded at the edges by the seven solar colors. It was a marvelous feast for the
eyes, this complication of colored tints, a perfect vkaleidoscope of green, yellow,
orange, violet, indigo, and blue!
All these wonders I saw in the space of a quarter of a mile, scarcely stopping
and following Captain Nemo, who beckoned me on by signs. Soon the nature of the
soil changed; to the sandy plain succeeded an extent of slimy mud; we then
traveled over a plain of seaweed of wild and luxuriant vegetation. This sward was
of close texture and soft to the feet, rivaling the softest carpet woven by the hand of
man. While verdure was spread at our feet, it did not abandon our heads. A light
network of marine plants grew on the surface of the water.
We had been gone from the Nautilus an hour and a half. It was near noon; I
knew this by the vperpendicularity of the sun’s rays, which were no longer
refracted. The magical colors disappeared by degrees and the shades of emerald
and sapphire were effaced. We walked with a regular step, which rang upon the
ground with astonishing intensity; indeed the slightest noise was transmitted with a
quickness and vividness to which the ear is unaccustomed on earth, water being a
better conductor of sound than air in the vratio of four to one. At this period the
earth sloped downward; the light took a uniform tint. We were at a depth of a
hundred and five yards.
At this depth I could still see the rays of the sun, though feebly; to their intense
brilliancy had succeeded a reddish twilight, but we could find our way well enough.
It was not necessary to resort to the Ruhmkorff apparatus as yet. At this moment
Captain Nemo stopped and waited till I joined him, pointing then to an obscure
mass which loomed in the shadow at a short distance.
“It is the forest of the island of Crespo,” thought I, and I was not mistaken.
This under-sea forest was composed of large tree-plants; and the moment we
penetrated under its vast varcades I was struck by the singular position of their
branches: not an herb which carpeted the ground, not a branch which clothed the
trees was either broken or bent, nor did they extend in a vhorizontal direction; all
stretched up toward the surface of the sea. Not a filament, not a ribbon, however
thin, but kept as straight as a rod of iron. They were motionless, yet when bent to
one side by the hand they directly resumed their former position. Truly it was a
region of perpendicularity.
I soon accustomed myself to this fantastic position, as well as to the
comparative darkness which surrounded us. The sights were very wonderful. Under
numerous shrubs as large as trees on land were massed bushes of living flowers—
animals rather than plants—of various colors and glowing softly in the obscurity of
the ocean depth. Fish flies flew from branch to branch like a swarm of humming-
birds, while swarms of marine creatures rose at our feet like a flight of snipes.
In about an hour Captain Nemo gave the signal to halt. I, for my part, was not
sorry, and we stretched ourselves under an arbor of plants, the long thin blades of
which stood up like arrows. I felt an irresistible desire to sleep, an experience
which happens to all divers. My eyes soon closed behind the thick glasses and I fell
into a heavy slumber. Captain Nemo and his companion, stretched in the clear
crystal, set me the example.
How long I remained buried in this drowsiness I cannot judge; but when I
woke, the sun seemed sinking toward the horizon. Captain Nemo had already risen,
and I was beginning to stretch my limbs when an unexpected sight brought me
briskly to my feet.
A few steps off, a monster sea-spider, about forty inches high, was watching
me with squinting eyes, ready to spring on me. Though my diver’s dress was thick
enough to defend me from the bite of this animal, I could not help shuddering with
horror. Conseil and the sailor of the Nautilus awoke at this moment. Captain Nemo
pointed out the hideous creature, which a blow from the butt end of a gun knocked
over; I saw the claws of the monster writhe in horrible convulsions. This incident
reminded me that other animals more to be feared might haunt these obscure
depths, against whose attacks my diving-clothes would not protect me.
Indeed, I thought that this halt would mark the end of our walk; but I was
mistaken, for instead of returning to the Nautilus, we continued our bold excursion.
The ground was still on the incline; its declivity seemed to be getting greater and to
be leading us to lower depths. It must have been about three o’clock when we
reached a narrow valley between high walls; thanks to the perfection of our
apparatus, we were far below the depth to which divers ever penetrate.
At our great depth the darkness thickened; ten paces away not an object was
visible. I was groping my way when I suddenly saw a brilliant white light flash out
ahead; Captain Nemo had turned on his electric torch. The rest of us soon followed
his example, and the sea, lit by our four lanterns, was illuminated for a circle of
forty yards.
Captain Nemo still plunged onward into the dark reaches of the forest, whose
trees were getting scarcer at every step. At last, after about four hours, this
marvelous excursion came to an end. A wall of superb rocks rose before us, a heap
of gigantic blocks, an enormous granite shore. It was the prop of the island of
Crespo. It was the earth!
 The return now began. Captain Nemo resumed his place at the head of his
little band and directed the course without hesitation. I thought we were not
following the road we had come, on our return to the Nautilus. The new way was
very steep and consequently very painful; we approached the surface of the sea
rapidly, but this ascent was not so sudden as to cause a too rapid relief from the
pressure of the water, which would have been dangerous. Very soon light
reappeared and grew, and as the sun was low on the horizon, the refraction edged
all objects with a vspectral ring. At ten yards deep, we walked amid a shoal of little
fishes, more numerous than the birds of the air; but no vaquatic game worthy of a
shot had as yet met our gaze. Suddenly I saw the captain put his gun to his shoulder
and follow a moving object into the shrubs. He fired; I heard a slight hissing and
the creature fell stunned at some distance from us.
It was a magnificent sea-otter, five feet long and very valuable. Its skin,
chestnut-brown above and silvery underneath, would have made one of those
beautiful furs so sought after in the Russian and Chinese markets. I admired the
curious animal, with its rounded head ornamented with short ears, its round eyes,
and white whiskers like those of a cat, and its webbed feet and nails and tufted tail.
This precious beast, hunted and tracked by fishermen, has now become very rare
and has sought refuge in the northern parts of the Pacific.
Captain Nemo’s companion threw the sea-otter over his shoulder, and we
continued our journey. For an hour a plain of sand lay stretched before us, which
sometimes rose to within two yards of the surface of the water. I then saw our
image clearly reflected, drawn inversely, and above us appeared an identical group
reflecting our movements: in a word, the image was like us in every point, except
that the figures walked with their heads downward and their feet in the air.
For two hours we followed these sandy plains, then fields of valgae very
disagreeable to cross. Candidly, I felt that I could do no more when I saw a
glimmer of light, which for a half-mile broke the darkness of the waters. It was the
lantern of the Nautilus. Before twenty minutes were over we should be on board,
and I should be able to breathe with ease, for it seemed that my reservoir supplied
air very deficient in oxygen. But I did not reckon on an accidental meeting which
delayed our arrival for some time.
I had remained some steps behind, when presently I saw Captain Nemo come
hurriedly toward me. With his strong hand he bent me to the ground, while his
companion did the same to Conseil. At first I knew not what to think of this sudden
attack, but I was soon reassured by seeing the captain lie down beside me and
remain immovable.
I was stretched on the ground, just under shelter of a bush of algae, when,
raising my head, I saw some enormous mass, casting phosphorescent gleams, pass
blusteringly by. My blood froze in my veins as I recognized two formidable sharks.
They were man-eaters, terrible creatures with enormous tails and a dull glassy stare
—monstrous brutes which could crush a whole man in their iron jaws! I noticed
their silver undersides and their huge mouths bristling with teeth, from a very
unscientific point of view and more as a possible victim than as a naturalist.
Happily the vvoracious creatures do not see well. They passed without
noticing us, brushing us with their brownish fins, and we escaped by a miracle from
a danger certainly greater than that of meeting a tiger full-face in a forest. Half an
hour later, guided by the electric light, we reached the Nautilus. The outside door
had been left open, and Captain Nemo closed it as soon as we entered the first cell.
He then pressed a knob. I heard the pumps working in the midst of the vessel. I felt
the water sinking from around me, and in a few minutes the cell was entirely
empty. The inside door then opened, and we entered the vestry.
Our diving-dress was taken off, not without some trouble; and fairly worn out
from want of food and sleep, I returned to my room in great wonder at this
surprising excursion at the bottom of the sea.
JULESVERNE.

HELPS TO STUDY
 What was the hunt to which the adventurers were invited? Describe the preparations for it.
What kind of gun did the hunters carry? Describe the descent to the bottom of the sea and the walk.
What impressed you most? Would you care to take a nap at the bottom of the sea? What were the
main incidents in the return trip? Find out all you can about divers and about life on the floor of the
ocean.

SUPPLEMENTARY READING
The Mysterious Island—Jules Verne.
Thirty Strange Stories—H. G. Wells.
The Great Stone of Sardis—Frank R. Stockton.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean—roll!

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin—his control
Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man’s ravage.
LORDBYRON.
 UNDER SEAS
This story is a realistic description of a submarine cruise in the recent war. The Kate was a
Russian underwater boat operating against the German fleet in the Baltic Sea. Her experiences in
this terrible mode of fighting were the same as those of hundreds of submarines belonging to the
various warring powers. It may be observed from the description how marvelous has been the
advance of science in the last generation. What Jules Verne imagined in his book, Twenty Thousand
Leagues Under the Sea, the Kate accomplished. This story of actual war is not less wonderful than
the vision of the romancer.

Men were placed at the water-pumps, the oxygen containers, air-purifiers and
vdistilling machinery, and the vhatchways were thoroughly examined; the gunners
took their posts at the torpedo tubes. The order had been given to move about as
little as possible, to keep in the berths when not on duty, and not to talk and laugh.
Then the watchman left the vconning tower, and the main hatchway was
vhermetically closed.

Captain Andrey gave the order to submerge and went over to the navigating
compartment. Water rushed into the vballast tanks, the boat grew heavy, and its
rolling and pitching ceased: the Kate sank and ran ahead under water, steering by
means of the vperiscope. Andrey pushed a button and a cone of pale blue rays
poured from the tube. The vscreen of the periscope grew alive with tiny waves,
passing clouds, and a tail of smoke on the skyline. With his chin resting on his arm,
Andrey scanned the image of the sea which lay before him. Presently the smoke
vanished, and on the right hand appeared the hazy outline of land.
At nightfall, the boat, taking advantage of the darkness, rose to the surface of
the sea and sailed without lights. Andrey stood on the bridge throughout the night.
The water was placid, the stars were screened by a light mist, and far away to the
south the pale blue gleam of an enemy searchlight moved through the clouds.
The boat was now approaching a mine field. At dawn, when the greenish-
orange light began slowly to pervade the fleecy clouds, the Kate sank to a great
depth at a definitely fixed point in the sea. Steering solely by compass and map, she
commenced to pick her way under the mines. Yakovlev was in charge of the
steering apparatus, while Prince Bylopolsky calculated the vside drift and reported
to the chief engineer in charge of the motors. Andrey, leaning over the map, gave
orders to the man at the wheel.
There was no sensation of movement, and it seemed as if the Kate stood still
amidst the eery darkness. The men for the most part were stretched on their backs,
seeking to consume as little oxygen as possible. In spite of this precaution,
however, the air was thick, and the sailors felt a tingling sensation in the ears.
Suddenly the boat’s keel struck against something hard, and a grating sound
broke the stillness.
 “Stop! Stop!” called out Andrey, dashing forth from the navigating cabin.
The pinions cracked and the motors ceased to pulsate. Immediately the air
became hot, as in a Turkish bath. Andrey entered the water-tight conning tower,
which was flooded with diluted, greenish light from the ports provided for the
purpose of giving a view of the surrounding waters. He peered through the glass
pane. Vague, blurred forms and shadows gradually became visible in the twilight of
the deep. One of the shadows wavered and glided along the window, and the round,
tragic eyes of a fish glanced at Andrey. The fish disappeared in the depths below
the boat. Evidently the Kate had not run aground, nor were there any submerged
reefs in that quarter. Andrey gave an order to raise the boat several feet. Then
numerous shadows leaped aside and scattered, and the captain plainly saw a
jumbled heap of ropes and ladders. It was obvious that the Kate had blundered into
the remains of a sunken ship.
The halt was unfortunate—indeed, might prove fatal. The uniform motion of
the boat had been disturbed, the vorientation lost; the inevitable small error made at
the point of submerging must have increased in the course beneath the waves. The
Kate had lost her way, and something must be done. Andrey drummed nervously on
the window-pane as he thought. It was impossible to stay under water any longer,
and yet to rise to the surface meant to be seen and attacked by enemy warships.
Only in this way, however, was it possible to determine the boat’s position.
Andrey, giving an order for the boat to rise slowly, returned to his observation
point. The water gradually grew clearer. Suddenly a dark ball moved down to meet
the craft. “A mine!” flashed across Andrey’s mind, and, overcoming the torpor
which had begun to oppress his brain, he ordered the submarine to be swerved from
her course. The ball moved away, but another appeared on the right. There was
another change of direction. And now everywhere in the midst of the greenish
twilight cast-iron shells lay in wait. The Kate was in the toils of a mine net!
Sea water, when viewed from a great height, is so transparent that large fishes
can even be seen in it. Owing to this fact, the Kate was discovered by two enemy
vhydroplanes as she rose among the mines toward the surface of the bay. The
aircraft were seen, however, and the boat dived again to a great depth.
The Kate now blindly groped her way forward. The motors worked at their top
speed, and the body of the boat trembled. Hundreds of demons called horsepowers
fiercely turned the various wheels, pinions, and shafts. The air was hot and stuffy;
the men at the engine, stripped to the waist, worked feverishly. Speed was
necessary, for only oxygen enough to sustain the crew for one hour remained in the
lead cylinders.
Yakovlev still sat at the compass, his elbows on his knees and his hands
pressing his head. The men lounged in the cabins and corridors, their faces livid
with suffocation. Prince Bylopolsky remained leaning over his vlogarithmic tables,
which had now become useless. From time to time he wiped his face, as if
removing a net of invisible cobwebs. Finally he rose to his feet, took a few steps,
and fainted dead away.
Giving the order to proceed at full speed, Andrey hoped to pass the mine zone,
even though some of his men succumbed for lack of air. Pale and excited, his hair
in disorder, and his coat unbuttoned, he was everywhere at once, and his voice
sustained the failing strength of the half-suffocated crew. Seeing the prince
stretched unconscious on a berth, Andrey poured a few drops of brandy in his
mouth and kissed his wet, childlike forehead. In making too rapid a movement,
lurid flames danced before his eyes, and he bent back, striking his head against a
sharp angle of an engine. He felt no pain from the blow.
“Bad!” thought Andrey, and crawled over to the emergency oxygen container.
He opened the faucet and inhaled the fragrant stream of gas. His head began to
swim and a sweet fire ran through his veins. With an effort he rose to his feet. The
outlines of the objects around him were strangely distinct, and the faces of the men
imploringly turned to him—some of them bearded and high-cheekboned, others
tender and childlike—seemed to him touchingly human....
In the corridor Andrey came upon a man standing against the wall and gulping
the air like a fish. Seeing the commander, he made an effort to cheer up and
mumbled, “Beg pardon, sir; I’m a bit unwell.” The captain leaned over and looked
into his eyes, which a film of death was already beginning to veil. Andrey, turning
to the telephone tube, gave a command to rise. The Kate shook all over and dived
upward. The ascent lasted four minutes and a half, at the end of which time the boat
stood still and light fell on the screen of the periscope. The sailors crawled up to the
main hatchway and unscrewed it. Cold salt air rushed into the boat, swelling the
chests of the sufferers and turning their heads; the sensation of free breathing was
delicious after the suffocation they had so long endured.
Andrey, leaping on the bridge, found the evening sun suspended above vast
masses of warm clouds and the sea quiet and peaceful. He began to take
observations with the vsextant, which shook in his trembling hand. Presently a loud
buzzing was heard in the sky, followed by the measured crackling of a machine
gun; from the hull of the boat came a sharp rat-a-tat, as if some one was throwing
dry peas on it. A hydroplane was circling above the Kate.
Andrey bit his lip and kept on working; a squad of his men loaded their rifles.
The hydroplane swooped down almost to the surface of the sea, then soared with a
shrill “F-r-r-r” and flew right over the boat. A clean-shaven pilot sat motionless, his
hands on the wheel; below him an observer gazed downward, waiting. Suddenly
the latter lifted a bomb and threw it into a tube. The missile flashed in the air and
plunged into the sea at the very side of the boat. One of the crew fired his rifle, and
the observer threw up his leather-covered arms with outspread fingers. Slowly
circling under the fire of the submarine crew, the aircraft rose toward the clouds
and sailed off.
Over the sky-ridge another aeroplane appeared, looking like a long thin line.
Meantime the Kate picked her way with graceful ease across the orange-colored
waters as if cutting through molten glass. Andrey, buttoning his coat, said with a
grimace, “Well, Yakovlev, the mines are behind us, but what are we going to do
now?”
“This region is full of reefs and sandbanks,” replied Yakovlev.
“That’s just the trouble. I wouldn’t risk sailing under the water. Wait a
moment.” He raised his hand.
A violent whizzing sound came from the west; Andrey ordered greater speed.
A vgrenade hissed on the right, and a jet of water spurted up from the quiet surface.
The Kate tacked sharply toward the purpling horizon in the west, and behind, in her
shadowy wake, another bomb burst and blossomed out into a small cloud. The boat
then turned east again, but now in front of her, on both sides, everywhere, shells
burst and sputtered fire. The scouting hydroplane dashed over the submarine like a
bat; two pale faces looked down and disappeared. Then right above the stern of the
Kate a grenade exploded and one of the sailors dropped his rifle, clutched his face,
toppled over the railing, and disappeared beneath the water.
“All hands below!” cried Andrey; and, watching where the shells fell thickest,
he began to give his orders. The Kate circled like a run-down hare, while all along
the darkening skyline the smoking stacks of mine-layers and destroyers were
visible as the enemy’s ruthless ring rapidly tightened about the submarine.
Having had her wireless mast shot off by a shell, the Kate now dashed toward
the rocky shore, running awash. Six sparks shot up in the dark and six steel-clad
demons hissed above the boat. The long shadow of a ship glided along the shore.
The Kate shook, and a sharp-nosed torpedo detached itself from her hull and glided
away under the water to meet the vsilhouette of the vessel. A moment passed, and a
fluffy, mountainous mass of fire and water rose from the spot where the stacks of a
mine-layer had projected shortly before. The mountain sank and the silhouette
disappeared. The Kate entered a baylet among the rocks, submerged, and lay on the
sandy sea-bed.
Two weeks the submarine remained in the inlet, completely cut off from the
rest of the world. By day she hid in the deep, and only under the cover of night did
she rise to the surface to get a supply of air. The greatest precautions were
necessary, for there was little likelihood that the enemy believed the submarine to
be destroyed.
At the end of that time some action was inevitable, as the boat’s supplies had
given out; for three days the crew had fed on fish which one of the men had caught
at great risk. Audrey decided to leave the bay and make a supreme effort to run the
enemy’s cordon.
About daybreak, as the Kate was nearing the surface of the sea, the crew
became aware of a tremendous muffled cannonade; and when the boat emerged
into a white fog, the whole coast shook and echoed with the roar and crash of a sea
battle. Broadsides and terrific explosions alternated with the crackling of guns. It
was as though a multitude of sea-devils coughed and blew and roared at each other.
“Quick, sir,” shouted Yakovlev, holding on to the railing; “we can break
through now!” His teeth rattled.
The preparations for the dash had been completed. A strong gale swept away
the fog and drove its torn masses over the sea, laying bare the rocky shore. The
Kate dashed out of the bay into the open. The firing was now heard behind and on
the right; the road to the port was open at last. The submarine rushed along, ripping
in twain the frothing waves.
In this moment of exaltation, to return safely to base, simply to do one’s duty,
seemed too little to these fearless men. The feeling that possessed them was not
enthusiasm but a greediness, a yearning for destruction.
 “We cannot go away like this,” Yakovlev shouted in Audrey’s ear; “turn back
or I will shoot myself!” The man was completely beside himself; his pale face
twisted convulsively.
Just then the sun arose, turning the rolling sea into a dull orange. Near at hand
invisible ships thundered against each other. Suddenly a gray mountain-like shape
emerged from the fog, enveloped in flame and smoke. Above its turrets, stacks, and
masts fluttered a flag bearing a black eagle.
Mad with the thought that the opportunity had come at last, Andrey rushed
down the hatchway, knocking over Yakovlev on the way, and loaded the torpedo
tube. The Kate submerged a little, and sailing awash, headed straight for the enemy
vessel.
The shadow of the hostile ship glided along the periscope screen, every now
and then wrapping itself into a cloud pierced with fiery needles of shots. The Kate
fired a torpedo but missed her aim. Leaning over the screen and biting his lips to
bleeding, Andrey examined the tiny image of the vessel, one of the mightiest of
battleships. The distance between the Kate and the enemy vessel continued to
decrease; the image of the ship already occupied half of the periscope screen.
“Another torpedo!” shouted Andrey.
At that very instant a blow was struck the boat and the periscope screen grew
dark. Andrey ran out from the navigating compartment and shouted:
“The periscope is shot away! Full speed forward!”
The engineer seized the handle of a lever and asked, “Which way?”
“Forward! forward!”
Andrey went into the conning tower; straight in front of him foamy eddies
whirled furiously. The dark hull of a ship appeared, obscuring the light.
“Stop!” shouted Andrey. “Fire another one! Full speed backward!” He closed
his eyes.
For a moment it seemed to him that the end had come. He was hurled by the
explosion of the torpedo into the corridor and dashed against the wall. The outcries
of the men were drowned by the muffled thud of the inrushing water. The light
went out; the Kate began to rotate and sink.
The boat did not stay long in the deep; freed from the weight of two torpedoes,
she slowly began to rise, stopped before reaching the surface, and commenced to
sink again as the water continued to leak into her hull.
A sailor found Andrey in a narrow passage unconscious, though breathing
regularly. The man dressed the captain’s wounds, but could not bring him to his
senses. Another sailor tried to revive Yakovlev, but soon saw that that officer was
dead. All the available hands toiled at the pumps, while the engineer and his two
assistants worked frantically at the engine.
The Kate was near the surface, but as the periscope and the indicator had been
destroyed, it was impossible to tell precisely where she was. On the other hand, to
unscrew the hatch and look out would subject the boat to the risk of being flooded.
Finally, the engineer reported that it was necessary to replace the cylinder, but that
this was difficult to do because the supply of candles was giving out. Kuritzyn, a
sailor who had assumed command, ordered the men at the pumps to pump until
they dropped dead, if necessary, but to raise the boat at least one yard. The men
obeyed in grim silence. Presently the last candle went out. “It’s all over, boys,” said
some one, and the pumps stopped. The only sound that now broke the silence was
the monotonous splash of water leaking down on the periscope screen.
“Follow me,” said Kuritzyn hoarsely to two of the men. “Let us unscrew the
hatches. What’s the use of fooling any longer?”
Feeling their way in the darkness, several men followed the leader into the
corridor and up the spiral staircase in the main hatchway. When they reached the
top, they grasped the bolts of the lid.
“Here’s our finish,” said one of the men.
Just then the sound of footsteps on the outside of the boat reached their ears.
Some one was walking on the Kate’s hull!
“Down to the ballast tanks!” Kuritzyn ordered. “When I fire, blow them out.
We are ordered not to surrender the boat.”
With his revolver between his teeth, he pressed the bolt. The lid yielded; light
and air rushed into the opening.
“Hey, who is there?” Kuritzyn shouted.
“Russians, Russians,” replied a voice.
“Thank God!” said Kuritzyn in a tone of intense gratitude.
COUNTALEXISTOLSTOI.

HELPS TO STUDY
Tell of the preparations made for the submerging of the Kate. Describe the scene within the
vessel. What accident halted the boat? Describe the events that followed. Where did the Kate find
anchorage? Describe her exit from the bay. What flag was it that bore a black eagle? What was the
fate of the ship bearing that flag?

SUPPLEMENTARY READING
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea—Jules Verne.
The Pilot—J. Fenimore Cooper.
 A VOYAGE TO THE MOON
The moon, being the nearest to the earth of all the heavenly bodies, has always occupied the
imagination of men. Many fanciful accounts have been written of voyages to the moon, of which the
following story by Edgar Allan Poe is among the best. So wonderful has been the advance of
science that it is conceivable that at some distant time in the future the inhabitants of this world may
possibly be able to visit the beautiful body which lights the night for us.

I
After a long and arduous devotion to the study of physics and astronomy, I,
Hans Pfaal of Rotterdam, at length determined to construct a balloon of my own
along original lines and to try a flight in it. Accordingly I had made an enormous
bag out of cambric muslin, varnished with caoutchouc for protection against the
weather. I procured all the instruments needed for a prolonged ascent and finally
prepared for the inflation of the balloon. Herein lay my secret, my invention, the
thing in which my balloon differed from all the balloons that had gone before. Out
of a peculiar vmetallic substance and a very common acid I was able to
manufacture a gas of a density about 37.4 less than that of hydrogen, and thus by
far the lightest substance ever known. It would serve to carry the balloon to heights
greater than had been attained before, for hydrogen is the gas usually used.
The hour for my experiment in ballooning finally arrived. I had chosen the
night as the best time for the ascension, because I should thereby avoid annoyances
caused by the curiosity of the ignorant and the idle.
It was the first of April. The night was dark; there was not a star to be seen;
and a drizzling rain, falling at intervals, made me very uncomfortable. But my chief
anxiety was concerning the balloon, which, in spite of the varnish with which it
was defended, began to grow rather heavy with the moisture. I therefore set my
assistants to working, and in about four hours and a half I found the balloon
sufficiently inflated. I attached the car and put all my implements in it—a
telescope, a barometer, a thermometer, an velectrometer, a compass, a magnetic
needle, a seconds watch, a bell, and other things. I had further procured a globe of
glass, exhausted of air and carefully closed with a stopper, not forgetting a special
apparatus for condensing air, a copious supply of water, and a large quantity of
provisions, such as vpemmican, in which much vnutriment is contained in
comparatively little bulk. I also secured a cat in the car.
It was now nearly daybreak, and I thought it high time to take my departure. I
immediately cut the single cord which held me to the earth, and was pleased to find
that I shot upward with vinconceivable rapidity, carrying with all ease one hundred
and seventy-five pounds of leaden ballast and able to have carried as much more.
 Scarcely, however, had I attained the height of fifty yards, when roaring and
rumbling up after me in the most vtumultuous and terrible manner, came so dense a
hurricane of fire and gravel and burning wood and blazing metal that my very heart
sunk within me and I fell down in the car, trembling with terror. Some of my
chemical materials had exploded immediately beneath me almost at the moment of
my leaving earth. The balloon at first collapsed, then furiously expanded, then
whirled round and round with sickening vvelocity, and finally, reeling and
staggering like a drunken man, hurled me over the rim of the car; and in the
moment of my fall I lost consciousness.
I had no knowledge of what had saved me. When I partially recovered the
sense of existence, I found the day breaking, the balloon at a vprodigious height
over a wilderness of ocean, and not a trace of land to be discovered far and wide
within the limits of the vast horizon. My sensations, however, upon thus
recovering, were by no means so vreplete with agony as might have been
anticipated. Indeed, there was much of madness in the calm survey which I began
to take of my situation. I drew up to my eyes each of my hands, one after the other,
and wondered what occurrence could have given rise to the swelling of the veins
and the horrible blackness of the finger nails. I afterward carefully examined my
head, shaking it repeatedly and feeling it with minute attention, until I succeeded in
satisfying myself that it was not, as I had more than half suspected, larger than the
balloon. It now occurred to me that I suffered great uneasiness in the joint of my
left ankle, and a dim consciousness of my situation began to glimmer through my
mind. I began to understand that my foot had caught in a rope and that I was
hanging downward outside the car. But strange to say! I was neither astonished nor
horror-stricken. If I felt any emotion at all, it was a sort of chuckling satisfaction at
the cleverness I was about to display in getting myself out of this vdilemma.
With great caution and deliberation, I put my hands behind my back and
unfastened the large iron buckle which belonged to the waistband of my
pantaloons. This buckle had three teeth, which, being somewhat rusty, turned with
great difficulty on their axis. I brought them, however, after some trouble, at right
angles to the body of the buckle and was glad to find them remain firm in that
position. Holding with my teeth the instrument thus obtained, I proceeded to untie
the knot of my cravat; it was at length accomplished. To one end of the cravat I
then made fast the buckle, and the other end I tied, for greater security, tightly
around my wrist. Drawing now my body upward, with a prodigious exertion of
muscular force, I succeeded, at the very first trial, in throwing the buckle over the
car, and entangling it, as I had anticipated, in the circular rim of the wicker-work.
My body was now inclined toward the side of the car at an angle of about
forty-five degrees; but it must not be understood that I was therefore only forty-five
degrees below the vperpendicular. So far from it, I still lay nearly level with the
plane of the horizon, for the change of position which I had acquired had forced the
bottom of the car considerably outward from my position, which was accordingly
one of the most extreme peril. It should be remembered, however, that when I fell
from the car, if I had fallen with my face turned toward the balloon, instead of
turned outwardly from it as it actually was—or if, in the second place, the cord by
which I was suspended had chanced to hang over the upper edge instead of through
a crevice near the bottom of the car—in either of these cases, I should have been
unable to accomplish even as much as I had now accomplished. I had therefore
every reason to be grateful, although, in point of fact, I was still too stupid to be
anything at all, and hung for perhaps a quarter of an hour in that extraordinary
manner, without making the slightest farther exertion, and in a singularly tranquil
state of idiotic enjoyment.
This feeling, however, did not fail to die rapidly away, and thereunto
succeeded horror and dismay, and a sense of utter helplessness and ruin. In fact, the
blood so long accumulating in the vessels of my head and throat, and which had
hitherto buoyed up my spirits with delirium, had now begun to retire within its
proper channels, and the distinctness which was thus added to my perception of the
danger merely served to deprive me of the self-possession and courage to encounter
it. But this weakness was, luckily for me, of no very great duration. In good time
came to my rescue the spirit of despair, and with frantic cries and struggles, I jerked
my body upward, till, at length, clutching with a vice-like grip the long-desired rim,
I writhed my person over it and fell headlong and shuddering within the car.
When I had recovered from the weakness caused by being so long in that
position and the horror from which I had suffered, I found that all my implements
were in place and that neither ballast nor provisions had been lost.
It is now high time that I should explain the object of my voyage. I had been
harassed for long by poverty and creditors. In this state of mind, wishing to live and
yet wearied with life, my deep studies in astronomy opened a resource to my
imagination. I determined to depart, yet live—to leave the world, yet continue to
exist—in short, to be plain, I resolved, let come what would, to force a passage, if
possible, to the moon.
This was not so mad as it seems. The moon’s actual distance from the earth
was the first thing to be attended to. The mean or average interval between the
centers of the two planets is only about 237,000 miles. But at certain times the
moon and earth are much nearer than at others, and if I could contrive to meet the
moon at the moment when it was nearest earth, the above-mentioned distance
would be materially lessened. But even taking the average distance and deducting
the vradius of the earth and the moon, the actual interval to be traversed under
average circumstances would be 231,920 miles. Now this, I reflected, was no very
extraordinary distance. Traveling on the land has been repeatedly accomplished at
the rate of sixty miles an hour; and indeed a much greater speed may be
anticipated. But even at this velocity it would take me no more than 161 days to
reach the surface of the moon. There were, however, many particulars inducing me
to believe that my average rate of traveling might possibly very much exceed that
of sixty miles an hour.
The next point to be regarded was one of far greater importance. We know that
at 18,000 feet above the surface of the earth we have passed one-half the material,
or, at all events, one-half the vponderable body of air upon the globe. It is also
calculated that at a height of eighty miles the vrarefaction of air is so great that
animal life can be sustained in no manner. But I did not fail to perceive that these
calculations are founded on our experimental knowledge of the air in the immediate
vicinity of the earth, and that it is taken for granted that animal life is incapable of
vmodification. I thought that no matter how high we may ascend we cannot arrive
at a limit beyond which no atmosphere is to be found. It must exist, I argued,
although it may exist in a state of vinfinite rarefaction.
 Having adopted this view of the subject, I had little farther hesitation.
Granting that on my passage I should meet with atmosphere essentially the same as
at the surface of the earth, I thought that, by means of my very ingenious apparatus
for that purpose, I should readily be able to condense it in sufficient quantity for
breathing. This would remove the chief obstacle in a journey to the moon.
I now turned to view the prospect beneath me. At twenty minutes past six
o’clock, the barometer showed an elevation of 26,000 feet, or five miles to a
fraction. The outlook seemed unbounded. I beheld as much as a sixteen-hundredth
part of the whole surface of the globe. The sea appeared as unruffled as a mirror,
although, by means of the telescope, I could perceive it to be in a state of violent
agitation. I now began to experience, at intervals, severe pain in the head,
especially about the ears, due to the rarefaction of the air. The cat seemed to suffer
no inconvenience whatever.
I was rising rapidly, and by seven o’clock the barometer indicated an altitude
of no less than nine miles and a half. I began to find great difficulty in drawing my
breath. My head, too, was excessively painful; and, having felt for some time a
moisture about my cheeks, I at length discovered it to be blood, which was oozing
quite fast from the drums of my ears. These symptoms were more than I had
expected and occasioned me some alarm. At this juncture, very imprudently and
without consideration, I threw out from the car three five-pound pieces of ballast.
The increased rate of ascent thus obtained carried me too rapidly into a highly
rarefied layer of atmosphere, and the result nearly proved fatal to my expedition
and myself. I was suddenly seized with a spasm, which lasted for more than five
minutes, and even when this in a measure ceased, I could catch my breath only at
long intervals, and in a gasping manner—bleeding all the while copiously at the
nose and ears and even slightly at the eyes.
The cat mewed piteously, and, with her tongue hanging out of her mouth,
staggered to and fro in the car as if under the influence of poison. I now too late
discovered the great rashness of which I had been guilty in discharging my ballast,
and my agitation was excessive. I expected nothing less than death, and death in a
few minutes. I lay down in the bottom of the car and endeavored to collect my
faculties. In this I so far succeeded as to determine upon the experiment of losing
blood. Having no lancet, I was obliged to open a vein in my arm with the blade of a
penknife. The blood had hardly commenced flowing when I experienced a sensible
relief, and by the time I had lost about half a basin-full most of the worst symptoms
were gone. The difficulty of breathing, however, was diminished in a very slight
degree, and I found that it would be soon positively necessary to make use of my
condenser.
By eight o’clock I had actually attained an elevation of seventeen miles above
the surface of the earth. Thus it seemed to me evident that my rate of ascent was not
only on the increase, but that the progress would have been apparent to a slight
extent even had I not discharged the ballast which I did. The pains in my head and
ears returned at intervals and with violence, and I still continued to bleed
occasionally at the nose; but upon the whole I suffered much less than might have
been expected. I now unpacked the condensing apparatus and got it ready for
immediate use.
 The view of the earth at this period of my ascension was beautiful indeed. To
the westward, the northward, and the southward, as far as I could see, lay a
boundless sheet of apparently unruffled ocean, which every moment gained a
deeper and deeper tint of blue. At a vast distance to the eastward, although perfectly
discernible, extended the islands of Great Britain, the entire Atlantic coasts of
France and Spain, with a small portion of the northern part of the continent of
Africa. Of individual edifices not a trace could be found, and the proudest cities of
mankind had utterly faded away from the surface of the earth.
At a quarter-past eight, being able no longer to draw breath without the most
intolerable pain, I proceeded forthwith to adjust around the car the apparatus
belonging to the condenser. I had prepared a very strong, perfectly air-tight gum-
elastic bag. In this bag, which was of sufficient size, the entire car was in a manner
placed. That is to say, the bag was drawn over the whole bottom of the car, up its
sides and so on, up to the upper rim where the net-work is attached. Having pulled
up the bag and made a complete inclosure on all sides, I was shut in an air-tight
chamber.
In the sides of this covering had been inserted three circular panes of thick but
clear glass, through which I could see without difficulty around me in every
horizontal direction. In that portion of the cloth forming the bottom was a fourth
window corresponding with a small aperture in the floor of the car itself. This
enabled me to see straight down, but I had been unable to fix a similar window
above me and so I could expect to see no objects directly overhead.
The condensing apparatus was connected with the outer air by a tube to admit
air at one end and by a valve at the bottom of the car to eject foul air. By the time I
had completed these arrangements and filled the chamber with condensed air by
means of the apparatus, it wanted only ten minutes of nine o’clock. During the
whole period of my being thus employed, I endured the most terrible distress from
difficulty of respiration, and bitterly did I repent the foolhardiness of which I had
been guilty in putting off to the last moment a matter of so much importance. But
having at length accomplished it, I soon began to reap the benefit of my invention.
Once again I breathed with perfect freedom and ease—and indeed why should I
not? I was also agreeably surprised to find myself, in a great measure, relieved
from the violent pains which had hitherto tormented me. A slight headache,
accompanied by a sensation of fulness about the wrists, the ankles, and the throat,
was nearly all of which I had now to complain.
At twenty minutes before nine o’clock, the mercury attained its limit, or ran
down, in the barometer. The instrument then indicated an altitude of twenty-five
miles, and I consequently surveyed at that time an extent of the earth’s area
amounting to no less than one three-hundred-and-twentieth part of the entire
surface.
At half-past nine, I tried the experiment of throwing out a handful of feathers
through the valve. They did not float as I had expected, but dropped down like a
bullet and with the greatest velocity, being out of sight in a very few seconds. It
occurred to me that the atmosphere was now far too rare to sustain even feathers;
that they actually fell, as they appeared to do, with great speed, and that I had been
surprised by the united velocities of their descent and my own rise.
 At six o’clock P. M., I perceived a great portion of the earth’s visible area to
the eastward involved in thick shadow, which continued to advance with great
rapidity, until at five minutes before seven the whole surface in sight was
enveloped in the darkness of night. It was not, however, until long after this time
that the rays of the setting sun ceased to illumine the balloon, and this fact,
although, of course, expected, did not fail to give me great pleasure. In the morning
I should behold the rising vluminary many hours before the citizens of Rotterdam,
in spite of their situation so much farther to the eastward, and thus, day after day, in
proportion to the height ascended, I should enjoy the light of the sun for a longer
and longer period. I now resolved to keep a journal of my passage, reckoning the
days by twenty-four hours instead of by day and night.
At ten o’clock, feeling sleepy, I determined to lie down for the rest of the
night; but here a difficulty presented itself, which, obvious as it may appear, had
escaped my attention up to the very moment of which I am now speaking. If I went
to sleep, as I proposed, how could the air in the chamber be renewed in the
meanwhile? To breath it more than an hour at the farthest would be impossible; or,
even if this term could be extended to an hour and a quarter, the most ruinous
consequences might ensue. This dilemma gave me no little anxiety; and it will
hardly be believed that, after the dangers I had undergone, I should look upon this
business in so serious a light as to give up all hope of accomplishing my ultimate
design, and finally make up my mind to the necessity of a descent.
But this hesitation was only momentary. I reflected that man is the slave of
custom and that many things are deemed essential which are only the results of
habit. It was certain that I could not do without sleep; but I might easily bring
myself to feel no inconvenience from being awakened at intervals of an hour during
the whole period of my repose. It would require but five minutes to renew the air,
and the only difficulty was to contrive a method of arousing myself at the proper
moment for so doing.
This question caused me no little trouble to solve. I at length hit upon the
following plan. My supply of water had been put on board in kegs of five gallons
each and ranged securely around the interior of the car. I unfastened one of these
and, taking two ropes, tied them tightly across the rim of the wicker-work from one
side to the other, placing them about a foot apart and parallel, so as to form a kind
of shelf, upon which I placed the keg and steadied it. About eight inches below
these ropes I fastened another shelf made of thin plank, on which shelf, and beneath
one of the rims of the keg, a small pitcher was placed. I bored a hole in the end of
the keg over the pitcher and fitted in a plug of soft wood, which I pushed in or
pulled out, until, after a few experiments, it arrived at that exact degree of tightness
at which the water, oozing from the hole and falling into the pitcher below, would
fill the latter to the brim in the period of sixty minutes. Having arranged all this, the
rest of the plan was simple. My bed was so contrived upon the floor of the car as to
bring my head, in lying down, immediately below the mouth of the pitcher. It was
evident that, at the expiration of an hour, the pitcher, getting full, would be forced
to run over and to run over at the mouth, which was somewhat lower than the rim.
It was also evident that the water, falling from a height, could not do otherwise than
fall on my face and awaken me even from the soundest slumber in the world.
It was fully eleven by the time I had completed these arrangements, and I at
once betook myself to bed with full confidence in my invention. Nor in this matter
was I disappointed. Punctually every sixty minutes I was aroused by my trusty
clock, when, having emptied the pitcher into the bung-hole of the keg and filled the
chamber with condensed air, I retired again to bed. These regular interruptions to
my slumber caused me less discomfort than I had anticipated; and when I finally
arose for the day, it was seven o’clock and the sun was high above the horizon.
I found the balloon at an immense height indeed, and the earth’s roundness
had now become strikingly manifest. Below me in the ocean lay a cluster of black
specks, which undoubtedly were islands. Overhead, the sky was of a jetty black,
and the stars were brilliantly visible; indeed they had been so constantly since the
first day of ascent. Far away to the northward I saw a thin, white and exceedingly
brilliant line, or streak, on the edge of the horizon, and I had no hesitation in
supposing it to be the southern disc of the ices of the Polar sea. My curiosity was
greatly excited, for I had hopes of passing on much farther to the north, and might
possibly, at some period, find myself directly above the Pole itself. I now lamented
that my great elevation would, in this case, prevent me from taking as accurate a
survey as I could wish.
My condensing apparatus continued in good order, and the balloon still
ascended without any perceptible change. The cold was intense, and obliged me to
wrap up closely in an overcoat. When darkness came over the earth, I went to bed,
although it was for many hours afterward broad daylight all around me. The water-
clock was punctual in its duty, and I slept until next morning soundly, with the
exception of the periodical interruptions.
APRIL 4TH. I arose in good health and spirits, and was astonished at the singular
change which had taken place in the appearance of the sea. It had lost, in a great
measure, the deep tint of blue it had hitherto worn, being now of a grayish-white
and of a luster dazzling to the eye. The curve of the ocean had become so evident
that the entire mass of water seemed to be tumbling headlong over the abyss of the
horizon, and I found myself listening on tiptoe for the echoes of the mighty
cataract. The islands were no longer visible; whether they had passed down the
horizon to the southeast, or whether my increasing elevation had left them out of
sight, it is impossible to say. I was inclined, however, to the latter opinion. The rim
of ice to the northward was growing more and more apparent. The cold was by no
means so intense.
A PRIL 5 TH. I beheld the singular sight of the sun rising while nearly the whole
visible surface of the earth continued to be involved in darkness. In time, however,
the light spread itself over all, and I again saw the line of ice to the northward. It
was now very distinct and appeared of a much darker hue than the waters of the
ocean. I was evidently approaching it, and with great rapidity. I fancied I could
again distinguish a strip of land to the eastward, and one also to the westward, but
could not be certain.
APRIL 6TH. I was surprised at finding the rim of ice at a very moderate distance,
and an immense field of the same material stretching away off to the horizon in the
north. It was evident that if the balloon held its present course, it would soon arrive
above the Frozen Ocean, and I had now little doubt of ultimately seeing the Pole.
During the whole of the day I continued to near the ice. Toward night the limits of
my horizon very suddenly and materially increased, owing undoubtedly to the
earth’s form, which is round but flattened near the poles. When darkness at length
overtook me, I went to bed in great anxiety, fearing to pass over the object of so
much curiosity when I should have no opportunity of observing it.
APRIL 7TH. I arose early, and, to my great joy, at length beheld what there could
be no hesitation in supposing the northern Pole itself. It was there, beyond a doubt,
and immediately beneath my feet; but alas! I had now ascended to so vast a
distance that nothing could with accuracy be made out. Indeed, I estimated that at
four o’clock in the morning of April the seventh the balloon had reached a height of
not less than 7,254 miles above the surface of the sea. At all events I undoubtedly
beheld the whole of the earth’s diameter; the entire northern hemisphere lay
beneath me like a chart, and the great circle of the equator itself formed the
boundary line of my horizon.
A PRIL 8 TH. I found a sensible diminution in the earth’s size, besides a material
alteration in its general color and appearance. The whole area partook in different
degrees of a tint of pale yellow, and in some portions had acquired a brilliancy even
painful to the eye. My view was somewhat impeded by clouds near the earth, but
nevertheless I could easily perceive that the balloon now hovered above the great
lakes in North America and was holding a course due south which would soon
bring me to the tropics. This circumstance did not fail to give me the most heartfelt
satisfaction, and I hailed it as a happy omen of ultimate success. Indeed, the
direction I had hitherto taken had filled me with uneasiness, for it was evident that
had I continued it much longer, there would have been no possibility of my arriving
at the moon at all, which revolves around the earth in the plane of the equator.
APRIL 9TH. To-day the earth’s diameter was greatly diminished, and the color of
the surface assumed hourly a deeper tint of yellow. The balloon kept steadily on her
course to the southward, and arrived at nine P. M. over the Mexican Gulf.
A PRIL 12 TH. A singular alteration took place in regard to the direction of the
balloon, and, although fully anticipated, afforded me the very greatest delight.
Having reached, in its former course, about the twentieth parallel of southern
latitude, it turned off suddenly at an acute angle to the eastward, and thus proceeded
throughout the day, keeping nearly, if not altogether, in the exact plane of the
moon’s path around the earth.
APRIL 13TH. Great decrease in the earth’s apparent size. The moon could not be
seen at all, being nearly above me. I still continued in the plane of the moon’s path,
but made little progress eastward.
APRIL 14TH. Extremely rapid decrease in the size of the earth. To-day I became
strongly impressed with the idea that the balloon was holding the direct course
which would bring it immediately to the moon where it comes nearest the earth.
The moon was directly overhead, and consequently hidden from my view. Great
and long continued labor was necessary for the condensation of the atmosphere.
APRIL 16TH. To-day, looking upward as well as I could, through each of the side
windows alternately, I beheld, to my great delight, a very small portion of the
moon’s disk protruding, as it were, on all sides beyond the huge bulk of the
balloon. My agitation was extreme, for I had now little doubt of soon reaching the
end of my perilous voyage. Indeed, the labor required by the condenser had
increased to such a degree that I had scarcely any respite from exertion. Sleep was
a matter nearly out of question. I became quite ill, and my frame trembled with
exhaustion. It was impossible that human nature could endure this state of intense
suffering much longer.
 A PRIL 17 TH. This morning proved an epoch in my voyage. It will be
remembered that on the thirteenth the earth had diminished; on the fourteenth, it
had still further dwindled; on the fifteenth, a still more rapid decrease was
observable; and on retiring for the night of the sixteenth, the earth had shrunk to
small size. What, therefore, must have been my amazement, on awakening from a
brief and disturbed slumber on the morning of this day, the seventeenth, at finding
the surface beneath me so suddenly and wonderfully increased in volume as to
seem but a comparatively short distance beneath me! I was thunderstruck! No
words can give any adequate idea of the extreme, the absolute horror and
astonishment, with which I was seized, possessed and altogether overwhelmed. My
knees tottered beneath me—my teeth chattered—my hair started up on end. The
balloon then had actually burst! These were the first ideas which hurried through
my mind. The balloon had burst! I was falling—falling with the most impetuous,
the most wonderful velocity! To judge from the immense distance already so
quickly passed over, it could not be more than ten minutes at the farthest before I
should meet the surface of the earth and be hurled into annihilation!
But at length reflection came to my relief. I paused, I considered, and I began
to doubt. The matter was impossible. I could not, in any reason, have so rapidly
come down. Besides, although I was evidently approaching the surface below me,
it was with a speed by no means commensurate with the velocity I had at first
conceived. This consideration served to calm my mind, and I finally succeeded in
looking at the matter in its proper point of view. In fact, amazement must have
fairly deprived me of my senses when I could not see the vast difference in
appearance between the surface below me and the surface of my mother earth. The
latter was indeed over my head and completely hidden by the balloon, while the
moon—the moon itself in all its glory—lay beneath me and at my feet!
I had indeed arrived at the point where the attraction of the moon had proved
stronger than the attraction of the earth, and so the moon now appeared to be below
me and I was descending upon it. It lay beneath me like a chart, and I studied it
with the deepest attention. The entire absence of ocean or sea, and indeed of any
lake or river, or body of water whatsoever, struck me at the first glance as the most
extraordinary feature in its appearance.
APRIL 18TH. To-day I found an enormous increase in the moon’s apparent bulk
—and the evidently increased velocity of my descent began to fill me with alarm. I
had relied on finding some atmosphere at the moon and on the resistance of this
atmosphere to vgravitation as affording me a chance to land in safety. Should I
prove to have been mistaken about the atmosphere, I had nothing better to expect
than to be dashed into atoms against the rugged surface of the earth’s vsatellite.
And indeed I had now every reason to be terrified. My distance from the moon was
comparatively trivial, while the labor required by the condenser was diminished not
at all, and I could discover no indication whatever of a decreasing rarity of the air.
A PRIL 19 TH. This morning, to my great joy, about nine o’clock, the surface of
the moon being frightfully near and my fears excited to the utmost, the pump of my
condenser at length gave evident tokens of an alteration in the atmosphere. By ten,
I had reason to believe its density considerably increased. By eleven, very little
labor was necessary at the apparatus; and at twelve o’clock, with some hesitation, I
ventured to open the car a little and suffered no inconvenience. I finally threw aside
the gum-elastic chamber and unrigged it from around the car. As might have been
expected, spasms and violent headache were the immediate consequences of an
experiment so rash. But this was forgotten in consideration of other things. My
approach was still rapid in the extreme; and it soon became certain that although I
had probably not been deceived in the expectation of finding a fairly dense
atmosphere, still I had been wrong in supposing that atmosphere dense enough to
support the great weight contained in the car of the balloon. I was now close upon
the planet and coming down with the most terrible rapidity. I lost not a moment,
accordingly, in throwing overboard first my ballast, then my water-kegs, then my
condensing apparatus and gum-elastic chamber, and finally every article within the
car.
But it was all to no purpose. I still fell with horrible speed, and was now not
more than half a mile from the surface. As a last resource, therefore, having got rid
of my coat, hat, and boots, I cut loose from the balloon the car itself, which was of
no inconsiderable weight, and thus clinging with both hands to the net-work, I had
barely time to observe that the whole country, as far as the eye could reach, was
thickly sown with small habitations, ere I tumbled headlong into the very heart of a
fantastic city and into the middle of a vast crowd of ugly little people. I turned from
them, and gazing upward at the earth so lately left, and left perhaps forever, beheld
it like a huge, dull copper shield, fixed immovably in the heavens overhead and
tipped on one of its edges with a crescent border of the most brilliant gold.
EDGARALLANPOE.

HELPS TO STUDY
 Describe the balloon Hans constructed. How did he extricate himself from each difficulty he
encountered? What characteristic did this show? Note the changes in the appearance of the earth as
he made his journey. On what day did he see the North Pole? In what region was he when he saw
the moon? What did he find when he reached that body?

SUPPLEMENTARY READING
From the Earth to the Moon—Jules Verne.
The War of the Worlds—H. G. Wells.
 THE GREAT STONE OF SARDIS 391-*
This fanciful tale is taken from Frank R. Stockton’s The Great Stone of Sardis. In this book the
hero, Roland Clewe, is pictured as a scientist who had made many startling discoveries and
inventions at his works in Sardis about the year 1946. One of his inventions was an automatic shell.
This was an enormous projectile, the peculiarity of which was that its motive power was contained
within itself, very much as a rocket contains the explosives which send it upward. The extraordinary
piece of mechanism was of vcylindrical form, eighteen feet in length and fourteen feet in diameter.
The forward end was vconical and not solid, being formed of a number of flat steel rings, decreasing
in size as they approached the point of the cone. When not in operation these rings did not touch one
another, but they could be forced together by pressure on the point of the cone. One day this shell
fell from the supports on which it lay, the conical end down, and ploughed its way with terrific force
into the earth—how far no one could tell. Clewe determined to descend the hole in search of the
shell by means of an electric elevator. Margaret Raleigh, to whom he was engaged, had gone to the
seashore, and during her absence, Clewe planned to make his daring venture.

On the day that Margaret left Sardis, Roland began his preparations for
descending the shaft. He had so thoroughly considered the machinery and
appliances necessary for the undertaking and had worked out all his plans in such
detail, in his mind and upon paper, that he knew exactly what he wanted to do. His
orders for the great length of chain needed exhausted the stock of several factories,
and the engines he obtained were even more powerful than he had intended them to
be; but these he could procure immediately, and for smaller ones he would have
been obliged to wait.
The circular car which was intended to move up and down the shaft, and the
peculiar machinery connected with it, together with the hoisting apparatus, were all
made in his works. His skilled artisans labored steadily day and night.
It was ten days before he was ready to make his descent. Margaret was still at
the seashore. They had written to each other frequently, but neither had made
mention of the great shaft. Even when he was ready to go down, Clewe said
nothing to any one of an immediate intention of descending. There was a massive
door which covered the mouth of the pit; this he ordered locked and went away.
The next morning he walked into the building a little earlier than was his
custom, called for the engineers, and for Bryce, who was to take charge of
everything connected with the descent, and announced that he was going down that
day.
Bryce and the men who were to assist him looked very serious at this. Indeed,
if their employer had been any other man than Roland Clewe, it is possible they
might have remonstrated with him; but they knew him, and they said and did
nothing more than what was their duty.
The door of the shaft was removed, the car which had hung high above it was
lowered to the mouth of the opening, and Roland stepped within it and seated
himself. Above him and around him were placed vgeological tools and instruments
of many kinds, a lantern, food, and drink—everything, in fact, which he could
possibly be presumed to need upon this extraordinary journey. A telephone was at
his side by which he could communicate at any time with the surface of the earth.
There were electric bells; there was everything to make his expedition safe and
profitable. Finally he gave the word to start the engines; there were no ceremonies,
and nothing was said out of the common.
When the conical top of the car had descended below the surface, a steel
grating, with holes for the passage of the chains, was let down over the mouth of
the shaft, and the downward journey began. In the floor of the car were grated
openings, through which Clewe could look downward; but, although the shaft
below him was brilliantly illuminated by electric lights placed beneath the car, it
failed to frighten him or make him dizzy to look down, for the vaperture did not
appear to be very far below him. The upper part of the car was partially open, and
bright lights shone upon the sides of the shaft.
As he slowly descended, Clewe could see the various vstrata appearing and
disappearing in the order in which he knew them. Not far below the surface he
passed cavities which he believed had held water; but there was no water in them
now. He had expected these pockets, and had feared that upon their edges might be
loosened patches of rock or soil, but everything seemed tightly packed and hard. If
anything had been loosened, it had gone down already.
Down, down he went until he came to the eternal rocks, where the inside of
the shaft was polished as if it had been made of glass. The air became warmer and
warmer, but Clewe knew that the heat would soon decrease. The character of the
rocks changed, and he studied them as he went down, continually making notes.
After a time the polished rocky sides of the shaft grew to be of a solemn
sameness. Clewe ceased to take notes; he lighted a cigar and smoked. He tried to
imagine what he would come to when he reached the bottom; it would be some sort
of a cave, he thought, in which his shell had made an opening. He began to imagine
what sort of a cave it would be, and how high the roof was from the floor. Clewe
then suddenly wondered whether his gardener had remembered what he had told
him about the flower-beds in front of the house; he wished certain changes made
which Margaret had suggested. He tried to keep his mind on the flower-beds, but it
drifted away to the cave below. He thought of the danger of coming into some
underground body of water, where he would be drowned; but he knew that was a
silly idea. If the shell had gone through vsubterranean reservoirs, the water of these
would have run out, and before it reached the bottom of the shaft would have
dissipated into mist.
Down, down he went. He looked at his watch; he had been in that car only an
hour and a half. Was that possible? He had supposed he was almost at the bottom.
Suddenly his mind reverted to the people above and the telephone. Why had not
some of them spoken to him? It was shameful! He instantly called Bryce, and his
heart leaped with joy when he heard the familiar voice in his ear. Now he talked
steadily on for more than an hour. He had his gardener summoned, and told the
man all that he wanted done in the flower-beds. He gave many directions in regard
to the various operations at the works. There were two or three inventions in which
he took particular interest, and of these he talked at great length with Bryce.
Suddenly, in the midst of some talk about hollow steel rods, he told Bryce to let the
engines run faster; there was no reason why the car should go so slowly.
 The windlasses moved with a little more rapidity, and Clewe now turned and
looked at an indicator which was placed on the side of the car, a little over his head.
This instrument showed the depth to which he had descended, but he had not
looked at it before, for if anything would make him nervous, it would be the
continual consideration of the depth to which he had descended.
The indicator showed that he had gone down fourteen and one-eighth miles.
Clewe turned and sat stiffly in his seat. He glanced down and saw beneath him only
an illuminated hole, fading away at the bottom. Then he turned to speak to Bryce,
but to his surprise, he could think of nothing to say. After that he lighted another
cigar and sat quietly.
Some minutes passed—he did not know how many—and he looked down
through the gratings in the floor of the car. The electric light streamed downward
through a deep vcrevice, which did not now fade away into nothingness, but ended
in something dark and glittering. Then, as he came nearer and nearer to this
glittering thing, Clewe saw that it was his automatic shell, lying on its side; only a
part of it was visible through the opening of the shaft which he was descending. In
an instant, as it seemed to him, the car emerged from the shaft, and he seemed to be
hanging in the air—at least there was nothing he could see except that great shell,
lying some forty feet below him. But it was impossible that the shell should be
lying on the air! He rang to stop the car.
“Anything the matter?” cried Bryce.
“Nothing at all,” Clewe replied. “It’s all right; I am near the bottom.“
In a state of the highest nervous excitement, Clewe gazed about him. He was
no longer in a shaft; but where was he? Look around on what side he would, he saw
nothing but the light going out from his lamps, light which seemed to extend
indefinitely all about him. There appeared to be no limit to his vision in any
direction. Then he leaned over the side of his car and looked downward. There lay
the great shell directly under him, although under it and around it, extending as far
beneath it as it extended in every other direction, shone the light from his own
lamp. Nevertheless, that great shell, weighing many tons, lay as if it rested upon the
solid ground!
After a few moments, Clewe shut his eyes; they pained him. Something
seemed to be coming into them like a fine frost in a winter wind. Then he called to
Bryce to let the car descend very slowly. It went down, down, gradually
approaching the great shell. When the bottom of the car was within two feet of it,
Clewe rang to stop. He looked down at the complicated machine he had worked
upon so long, with something like a feeling of affection. This he knew; it was his
own. Gazing upon its familiar form, he felt that he had a companion in this region
of unreality.
Pushing back the sliding door of the car, Clewe sat upon the bottom and
cautiously put out his feet and legs, lowering them until they touched the shell. It
was firm and solid. Although he knew it must be so, the immovability of the great
mass of iron gave him a sudden shock of mysterious fear. How could it be
immovable when there was nothing under it—when it rested on air?
 But he must get out of that car, he must explore, he must find out. There
certainly could be no danger so long as he clung to the shell.
He cautiously got out of the car and let himself down upon the shell. It was not
a pleasant surface to stand on, being uneven, with great spiral ribs, and Clewe sat
down upon it, clinging to it with his hands. Presently he leaned over to one side and
looked beneath him. The shadows of that shell went down, down, down into space,
until it made him sick to look at them. He drew back quickly, clutched the shell
with his arms, and shut his eyes. He felt as if he were about to drop with it into a
measureless depth of atmosphere.

He Put Out One Foot

He Put Out One Foot

But he soon raised himself. He had not come down there to be frightened, to
let his nerves run away with him. He had come to find out things. What was it that
this shell rested upon? Seizing two of the ribs with a strong clutch, he let himself
hang over the sides of the shell until his feet were level with its lower side. They
touched something hard. He pressed them downward; it was very hard. He raised
himself and stood upon the substance which supported the shell. It was as solid as
any rock. He looked down and saw his shadow stretching far beneath him. It
seemed as if he were standing upon vpetrified air. He put out one foot and moved a
little, still holding on to the shell. He walked, as if upon solid air, to the foremost
end of the long vprojectile. It relieved him to turn his thoughts from what was
around him to this familiar object. He found its conical end shattered.
After a little he slowly made his way back to the other end of the shell, and
now his eyes became somewhat accustomed to the great radiance about him. He
thought he could perceive here and there faint signs of long, nearly horizontal lines
—lines of different shades of light. Above him, as if it hung in the air, was the
round, dark hole through which he had descended.
He rose, took his hands from the shell, and made a few steps. He trod upon a
horizontal surface, but in putting one foot forward, he felt a slight incline. It seemed
to him, that he was about to slip downward! Instantly he retreated to the shell and
clutched it in a sudden frenzy of fear.
Standing thus, with his eyes still wandering, he heard the bell of the telephone
ring. Without hesitation he mounted the shell and got into the car. Bryce was
calling him.
“Come up,” he said. “You have been down there long enough. No matter what
you have found, it is time for you to come up.”
“All right,” said Roland. “You can haul me up, but go very slowly at first.”
The car rose. When it reached the orifice in the top of the cave of light, Clewe
heard the conical steel top grate slightly as it touched the edge, for the car was still
swinging a little from the motion given to it by his entrance; but it soon hung
perfectly vertical and went silently up the shaft.
 Seated in the car, which was steadily ascending the great shaft, Roland Clewe
took no notice of anything about him. He did not look at the brilliantly lighted
interior of the shaft; he paid no attention to his instruments; he did not consult his
watch, or glance at the dial which indicated the distance he had traveled. Several
times the telephone bell rang, and Bryce inquired how he was getting along; but
these questions he answered as briefly as possible, and sat looking down at his
knees and seeing nothing.
When he was half-way up, he suddenly became conscious that he was very
hungry. He hurriedly ate some sandwiches and drank some water, and again gave
himself up entirely to mental labor. When, at last, the noise of machinery above
him and the sound of voices aroused him from his abstraction, and the car emerged
upon the surface of the earth, Clewe hastily slid back the door and stepped out. At
that instant he felt himself encircled by a pair of arms. Bryce was near by, and there
were other men by the engines, but the owner of those arms thought nothing of this.
“Margaret!” cried Clewe, “how came you here?”
“I have been here all the time,” she exclaimed; “or, at least, nearly all the
time.” And as she spoke she drew back and looked at him, her eyes full of happy
tears. “Mr. Bryce telegraphed to me the instant he knew you were going down, and
I was here before you had descended half-way.”
“What!” he cried. “And all those messages came from you?”
“Nearly all,” she answered. “But tell me, Roland—tell me; have you been
successful?”
“I am successful,” he answered. “I have discovered everything!”
Bryce came forward.
“I will speak to you all very soon,” said Clewe. “I can’t tell you anything now.
Margaret, let us go. I wish to talk to you, but not until I have been to my office. I
will meet you at your house in a very few minutes.” And with that he left the
building and fairly ran to his office.
A quarter of an hour later Roland entered Margaret’s library, where she sat
awaiting him. He carefully closed the doors and windows. They sat side by side
upon the sofa.
“Now, Roland,” she said, “I cannot wait one second longer. What is it that you
have discovered?”
“When I arrived at the bottom of the shaft,” he began, “I found myself in a
cleft, I know not how large, made in a vast mass of transparent substance, hard as
the hardest rock and as transparent as air in the light of my electric lamps. My shell
rested securely upon this substance. I walked upon it. It seemed as if I could see
miles below me. In my opinion, Margaret, that substance was once the head of a
comet.”
“What is the substance?” she asked, hastily.
“It is a mass of solid diamond!”
 Margaret screamed. She could not say one word.
“Yes,” said he, “I believe the whole central portion of the earth is one great
diamond. When it was moving about in its orbit as a comet, the light of the sun
streamed through this diamond and spread an enormous tail out into space; after a
time this vnucleus began to burn.”
“Burn!” exclaimed Margaret.
“Yes, the diamond is almost pure vcarbon; why should it not burn? It burned
and burned and burned. Ashes formed upon it and encircled it; it still burned, and
when it was entirely covered with ashes it ceased to be transparent and ceased to be
a comet; it became a planet, and revolved in a different orbit. It still burned within
its covering of ashes, and these gradually changed to rock, to metal, to everything
that forms the crust of the earth.”
She gazed upon him, entranced.
“Some parts of this great central mass of carbon burn more fiercely than other
parts. Some parts do not burn at all. In volcanic regions the fires rage; where my
great shell went down it no longer burns. Now you have my theory. It is crude and
rough, for I have tried to give it to you in as few words as possible.”
“Oh, Roland,” she cried, “it is absurd! Diamond! Why, people will think you
are crazy. You must not say such a thing as that to anybody. It is simply impossible
that the greater part of this earth should be an enormous diamond.”
“Margaret,” he answered, “nothing is impossible. The central portion of this
earth is composed of something; it might just as well be diamond as anything else.
In fact, if you consider the matter, it is more likely to be, because diamond is a very
original substance. As I have said, it is almost pure carbon. I do not intend to repeat
a word of what I have told you to any one—at least until the matter has been well
considered—but I am not afraid of being thought crazy. Margaret, will you look at
these?”
He took from his pocket some shining substances resembling glass. Some of
them were flat, some round; the largest was as big as a lemon; others were smaller
fragments of various sizes.
“These are pieces of the great diamond which were broken when the shell
struck the bottom of the cave in which I found it. I picked them up as I felt my way
around this shell, when walking upon what seemed to me solid air. I thrust them
into my pocket, and I would not come to you, Margaret, with this story, until I had
visited my office to find out what these fragments are. I tested them; their substance
is diamond!”
Half-dazed, she took the largest piece in her hand.
“Roland,” she whispered, “if this is really a diamond, there is nothing like it
known to man!”
“Nothing, indeed,” said he.
She sat staring at the great piece of glowing mineral which lay in her hand. Its
surface was irregular; it had many faces; the subdued light from the window gave it
the appearance of animated water. He felt it necessary to speak.
“Even these little pieces,” he said, “are most valuable jewels.”
“Roland,” she suddenly cried, excitedly, “these are riches beyond imagination!
What is common wealth to what you have discovered? Every living being on earth
could—”
“Ah, Margaret,” he interrupted, “do not let your thoughts run that way. If my
discovery should be put to the use of which you are thinking, it would bring
poverty to the world, not wealth, and every diamond on earth would be worthless.”
She trembled. “And these—are they to be valued as common pebbles?”
“Oh no,” said he; “these broken fragments I have found are to us riches far
beyond our wildest imagination.”
“Roland,” she cried, “are you going down into that shaft for more of them?”
“Never, never, never again,” he answered. “What we have here is enough for
us, and if I were offered all the good that there is in this world, which money
cannot buy, I would never go down into that cleft again. There was one moment, as
I stood in that cave, when an awful terror shot into my soul that I shall never be
able to forget. In the light of my electric lamps, sent through a vast transparent
mass, I could see nothing, but I could feel. I put out my foot, and I found it was
upon a sloping surface. In another instant I might have slid—where? I cannot bear
to think of it!”
FRANKE. STOCKTON
.

HELPS TO STUDY
What happened to Clewe’s automatic shell? What did he decide to do? Tell of the preparations
he made for his descent. What occurred when he reached the end of the shaft? Of what was Clewe
thinking so intently while making his ascent? Why did he go at once to his office? What conclusion
did he reach as to the central part of the earth? What did he have to prove the correctness of his
theory? Why was he unwilling ever to make the descent again? This story was written about the end
of the nineteenth century: what great scientific discoveries have been made since then?

SUPPLEMENTARY READING
A Journey to the Center of the Earth—Jules Verne.
The Adventures of Captain Horn—Frank R. Stockton.

391-* Copyright by Harper & Brothers.

 A STOP AT SUZANNE’S
The author of this sketch, a young American aviator, a resident of Richmond, Virginia, was
killed in battle in August, 1918.

Suzanne is a very pretty girl, I was told, but the charm of “Suzanne’s” wasn’t
with her alone, for, always, one spoke of the deliciously-tasting meal, how nice the
old madame is, and how fine a chap is her mari, the father of Suzanne. Then of the
garden in the back—and before you had finished listening you didn’t know which
was the most important thing about “Suzanne’s.” All you knew was that it was the
place to go when on an aeroplane voyage.
At the pilotage office I found five others ahead of me; all of us were bound in
the same direction. We were given vbarographs, altimeters and maps and full
directions as to forced landings and what to do when lost. We hung around the
voyage hangar until about eight in the morning, but there was a low mist and
cloudy sky, so we could not start out until afternoon; and I didn’t have luncheon at
“Suzanne’s.”
After noon several of the others started out, but I wanted to plan my supper
stop for the second point, so I waited until about four o’clock before starting.
Almost before I knew it a village, which on the map was twelve kilometers
away, was slipping by beneath me and then off to one side was a forest, green and
cool-looking and very regular around the edges. Pretty soon I came to a deep blue
streak bordered by trees, and was so interested in it—it wound around under a
railroad track, came up and brushed by lots of back gates and, finally, fell in a wide
splash of silver over a little fall by a mill—that I forgot all about flying and
suddenly woke up to the fact that one wing was about as low as it could get and
that the nose of the machine was doing its best to follow the wing.
Long before I came to the stopping point, I could see the little white hangar.
The field is not large, but it is strange, so you come down rather anxiously, for if
you can’t make that field the first time, you never will be able to fly, they tell you
before leaving. I glided down easily enough, for, after all, it is just that—either you
can or you can’t—and made a good-enough landing. The sergeant signed my paper,
and a few minutes later away I went for “Suzanne’s.” The next stop is near a little
village—Suzanne’s village—so when I came to the field and landed I was sure to
be too tired to go up again immediately. Instead, off I went to town after making
things right with the man in charge. That wasn’t a bit difficult, either, for all I did
was to wink as hard as I could, and he understood perfectly.
I knew where “Suzanne’s” was, so I made directly for it. It was a little early,
but you should never miss the vapertif. With that first, success is assured; without
it, it is like getting out of bed on the wrong foot.
 Up I marched to the unimposing door and walked in to the main room—a big
room, with long, wooden tables and benches and a zinc bar at one end, where all
kinds of bottles rested. It isn’t called “Suzanne’s,” of course; it only has that name
among us.
As I closed the door behind me and looked about, a bonne was serving several
men at a corner table, and behind the bar a big, red-faced, stout man was pouring
stuff into bottles. He looked at me a moment and then with a tremendous “Tiens!“
he came out from behind the tables and advanced toward me.
“Bon jour,” he said; “do you come from far?”
“Oh, no,” I answered, “only from ——.”
“Tiens!“ he repeated; then, “Ah, you are from the school.” L’ecole, he called
it.
From l’ecole, I admitted, and, taking me by the arm, he led me to a door at the
rear. Through this he propelled me, and then in his huge voice he called “Suzanne,
un vpilote!“ and I was introduced.
As he shut the door, I could just see the corner table with the three old men
staring open-mouthed, the wine before them forgotten, the bread and cheese in their
hands untasted; then, down the stairs came light steps and a rustle of skirts, and
Suzanne was before me with smiling face and outstretched hand.
Her instant welcome, the genuine smile! Almost immediately, I understood the
fame of this little station, so far from everything but the air route.
Her charm is indescribable. She is pretty, she is well dressed, but it isn’t that.
It is a sincerity of manner, complete hospitality; at once you are accepted as a
bosom friend of the family—that is the charm of Suzanne’s.
After a few questions as to where I came from, how long I had been there, and
where I was going, Suzanne led me upstairs to be presented to v“Ma belle mere,” a
white-haired old lady sitting in a big, straight-backed chair. Then, after more
courtesies had been extended to me, Suzanne preceded me down to the garden and
left me alone while she went in to see that the supper was exceptionally good.
A soft footstep on the gravel walk sounded behind me, and I turned to see one
of the most beautiful women I ever beheld. She was tall and slender, and as she
came gracefully across the lawn she swung a little work bag from one arm. All in
black she was, with a lace shawl over her bare head. Like every one in that most
charming and hospitable house, there was no formality or show about her. She
came, smiling, and sat on the bench beside me, drawing open her work bag. I could
not help noticing, particularly, her beautiful eyes, for they told the story, a story too
common here, except that her eyes had changed now to an expression of resigned
peace. Then she told me about Suzanne.
Long before, ages and ages ago it seemed, but really only four years, a huge,
ungainly bird fell crashing to earth and from the wreck a man was taken,
unconscious. He was carried to “Suzanne’s,” and she nursed him and cared for him
until he was well again. “Suzanne was very happy then,” madame told me. And no
wonder, for the daring aviator and Suzanne were in love. She nursed him back to
health, but when he went away he left his heart forever with her.
They were engaged, and every little while he would fly over from his station
to see Suzanne. Those were in the early days and aviation—well, even at that, it
hasn’t changed so much.
One day a letter came for Suzanne, and with a catch at her throbbing heart she
read that her fiancé had been killed. v“Mort pour la patrie,” it said, and Suzanne
was never the same afterward.
For many months the poor girl grieved, but, finally, she began to realize that
what had happened to her had happened to thousands of other girls, too, and,
gradually, she took up the attitude that you find throughout this glorious country.
Only her eyes now tell the sad story.
One evening two men walked into the café and from their talk Suzanne knew
they were from l’ecole. She sat down and listened to them. They talked about the
war, about aviation, about deeds of heroism, and Suzanne drank in every word, for
they were talking the language of her dead lover. The two aviators stayed to dinner,
but the big room was not good enough. They must come back to the family dinner
—to the intimacy of the back room.
They stayed all night and left early next morning, but before they left they
wrote their names in a big book. To-day, Suzanne has the book, filled full of names,
many now famous, many names that are only a memory—that is how it started.
When the two pilots went back to l’ecole, they spoke in glowing terms of
“Suzanne’s,” of the soft beds, of the delicious dinner, and, I think, mostly of
Suzanne.
Visitors came after that to eat at “Suzanne’s,” and to see her famous book.
They came regularly and, finally, “Suzanne’s” became an institution.
Always, a pilote was taken into the back room; he ate with the family, he told
them all the news from l’ecole, and, in exchange, he heard stories about the early
days, stories that will never be printed, but which embody examples of the heroism
and intelligence that have done their part to develop aviation.
Soon, we went in to dinner, and such a dinner! Truly, nothing is too good for
an aviator at “Suzanne’s,” and they give of their best to these wandering strangers.
They do not ask your name, they call every one Monsieur, but before you leave you
sign the book and they all crowd around to look, without saying anything. Your
name means nothing yet, but a year from now, perhaps, who can tell? In the first
pages are names that have been bywords for years and some that are famous the
world over.
After dinner, Suzanne slipped away, presently to reappear with a special bottle
and glasses. I felt sure this was part of the entertainment afforded all their winged
visitors, for they went about it in a practised manner; each was familiar with his or
her part, but to me it was all delightfully new.
Our glasses were filled, and Suzanne raised hers up first. Without a word, she
looked around the circle. Her eyes met them all, then rested with madame. She had
not said a word; it was “papa” who proposed my health, and as the bottoms went
up, Suzanne and madame both had a struggle to repress a tear. They were drinking
my health, but their thoughts were far away, and in my heart I was wishing that
happiness might again come to them. Suzanne certainly deserves it.
When I returned to school, they asked, “Did you stop at ‘Suzanne’s’?” And
now to the others, just ready to make the voyage, I always say, “Be sure to stop at
‘Suzanne’s’.”
GREAYERCLOVER.
 THE MAKING OF A MAN

I
Marmaduke, otherwise Doggie, Trevor owned a pleasant home set on fifteen
acres of ground. He had an income of three thousand pounds a year. Old Peddle,
the butler, and his wife, the housekeeper, saved him from domestic cares. He led a
well-regulated life. His meals, his toilet, his music, his wall-papers, his drawing and
embroidery, his sweet peas, his chrysanthemums, his postage stamps, and his social
engagements filled the hours not claimed by slumber.
In the town of Durdlebury, Doggie Trevor began to feel appreciated. He could
play the piano, the harp, the viola, the flute, and the clarionette, and sing a mild
tenor. Besides music, Doggie had other accomplishments. He could choose the
exact shade of silk for a drawing-room sofa cushion, and he had an excellent gift
for the selection of wedding-presents. All in all, Marmaduke Trevor was a young
gentleman of exquisite taste.
After breakfast on a certain July morning, Doggie, attired in a green shot-silk
dressing-gown, entered his own particular room and sat down to think. In its way it
was a very beautiful room—high, spacious, well-proportioned, facing southeast.
The wall-paper, which Doggie had designed himself, was ivory white, with
trimmings of peacock blue. vVellum-bound books filled the cases; delicate water-
colors adorned the walls. On his writing-table lay an ivory set: inkstand, pen-tray,
blotter, and calendar. Bits of old embroidery, harmonizing with the peacock shades,
were spread here and there. A spinet inlaid with ivory formed the center for the
arrangement of other musical instruments—a viol, mandolins, and flutes. One tall,
closed cabinet was devoted to Doggie’s collection of wall-papers. Another held a
collection of little dogs in china and porcelain—thousands of them; he got them
from dealers from all over the world.
An unwonted frown creased Doggie’s brow, for several problems disturbed
him. The morning sun disclosed, beyond doubt, discolorations, stains, and streaks
on the wall-paper. It would have to be renewed.
Then, his thoughts ran on to his cousin, Oliver Manningtree, who had just
returned from the South Sea. It was Oliver, the strong and masculine, who had
given him the name of Doggie years before, to his infinite disgust. And now every
one in Durdlebury seemed to have gone crazy over the fellow. Doggie’s uncle and
aunt had hung on his lips while Oliver had boasted unblushingly of his adventures.
Even the fair cousin Peggy, with whom Doggie was mildly in love, had listened
open-eyed and open-mouthed to Oliver’s tales of shipwreck in distant seas.
Doggie had reached this point in his reflections when, to his horror, he heard a
familiar voice outside the door.
 “All right,” it said. “Don’t worry, Peddle. I’ll show myself in.”
The door burst open, and Oliver, pipe in mouth and hat on one side, came into
the room.
“Hello, Doggie!” he cried boisterously. “Thought I’d look you up. Hope I’m
not disturbing you.”
“Not at all,” said Doggie. “Do sit down.”
But Oliver walked about and looked at things.
“I like your water colors,” he said. “Did you collect them yourself!”
“Yes.”
“I congratulate you on your taste. This is a beauty.”
The appreciation brought Doggie at once to his side. He took Oliver
delightedly around the pictures, expounding their merits and their little histories.
Doggie was just beginning to like the big fellow, when, stopping before the
collection of china dogs, the latter spoiled everything.
“My dear Doggie,” he said, “is that your family?”
“It’s the finest collection of the kind in the world,” replied Doggie stiffly, “and
is worth several thousand pounds.”
Oliver heaved himself into a chair—that was Doggie’s impression of his
method of sitting down.
“Forgive me, Doggie,” he said, “but you’re so funny. Pictures and music I can
understand. But what on earth is the point of these little dogs?”
Doggie was hurt. “It would be useless to try to explain,” he said, with dignity.
“And my name is Marmaduke.”
Oliver took off his hat and sent it skimming to the couch.
“Look here, old chap,” he said, “I seem to have put my foot in it. I didn’t mean
to, really. I’ll call you Marmaduke, if you like, instead of Doggie—though it’s a
beast of a name. I’m a rough sort of chap. I’ve had ten years’ pretty tough training.
I’ve slept on boards; I’ve slept in the open without a cent to hire a board. I’ve gone
cold and I’ve gone hungry, and men have knocked me about, and I’ve lost most of
my politeness. In the wilds if a man once gets the name, say, of Duck-Eyed Joe, it
sticks to him, and he accepts it, and answers to it, and signs it.”
“But I’m not in the wilds,” objected Marmaduke, “and haven’t the slightest
intention of ever leading the unnatural and frightful life you describe. So what you
say doesn’t apply to me.”
Oliver, laughing, clapped him on the shoulder.
“You don’t give a fellow a chance,” he said. “Look here, tell me, as man to
man, what are you going to do with your life? Here you are, young, strong,
educated, intelligent—”
 “I’m not strong,” said Doggie.
“A month’s exercise would make you as strong as a mule,” returned Oliver.
“Here you are—what are you going to do with yourself?”
“I don’t admit that you have any right to question me,” said Doggie.
“Peggy and I had a talk,” declared Oliver. “I said I’d take you out with me to
the Islands and give you a taste for fresh air and salt water and exercise. I’ll teach
you how to sail a schooner and how to go about barefoot and swab decks.”
Doggie smiled pityingly, but said politely, “Your offer is kind, Oliver, but I
don’t think that sort of life would suit me.”
Being a man of intelligence, he realized that Oliver’s offer arose from a
genuine desire to do him service. But if a friendly bull out of the fulness of its
affection invited you to accompany it to the meadow and eat grass, what could you
do but courteously decline the invitation?
“I’m really most obliged to you, Oliver,” said Doggie, finally. “But our ideas
are entirely different. You’re primitive, you know. You seem to find your happiness
in defying the elements, whereas I find mine in adopting the resources of
civilization to defeat them.”
“Which means,” said Oliver, rudely, “that you’re afraid to roughen your hands
and spoil your complexion.”
“If you like to put it that way.”
“You’re an veffeminate little creature!” cried Oliver, losing his temper. “And
I’m through with you. Go sit up and beg for biscuits.”
“Stop!” shouted Doggie, white with sudden anger, which shook him from
head to foot. He marched to the door, his green silk dressing-gown flapping about
him, and threw it wide open.
“This is my house,” he said. “I’m sorry to have to ask you to get out of it.”
And when the door was shut on Oliver, he threw himself, shaken, on the
couch, hating Oliver and all his works more than ever. Go about barefoot and swab
decks! It was madness. Besides being dangerous to health, it would be excruciating
discomfort. And to be insulted for not grasping at such martyrdom! It was
intolerable; and Doggie remained justly indignant the whole day long.

II
Then the war came. Doggie Trevor was both patriotic and polite. Having a
fragment of the British army in his house, he did his best to make it comfortable.
By January he had no doubt that the empire was in peril, that it was every man’s
duty to do his bit. He welcomed the newcomers with open arms, having
unconsciously abandoned his attitude of superiority over mere brawn. It was every
patriotic Englishman’s duty to encourage brawn. He threw himself heart and soul
into the entertainment of officers and men. They thought Doggie a capital fellow.
 “My dear chap,” one would protest, “you’re spoiling us. I don’t say we don’t
like it and aren’t grateful. We are. But we’re supposed to rough it—to lead the
simple life. You’re treating us too well.”
“Impossible!” Doggie would reply. “Don’t I know what we owe you fellows?
In what other way can a helpless, delicate being like myself show his gratitude and
in some sort of way serve his country?”
When the sympathetic guest would ask what was the nature of his malady,
Doggie would tap his chest vaguely and reply:
“Constitutional. I’ve never been able to do things like other fellows. The least
thing bowls me out.”
“Hard lines—especially just now!” the soldier would murmur.
“Yes, isn’t it?” Doggie would answer.
Doggie never questioned his physical incapacity. His mother had brought him
up to look on himself as a singularly frail creature, and the idea was as real to him
as the war. He went about pitying himself and seeking pity.
The months passed. The soldiers moved away from Durdlebury, and Doggie
was left alone in his house. He felt solitary and restless. News came from Oliver
that he had accepted an infantry commission and was in France. “A month of this
sort of thing,” he wrote, “would make our dear old Doggie sit up.” Doggie sighed.
If only he had been blessed with Oliver’s constitution!
One morning Briggins, his chauffeur, announced that he could stick it out no
longer and was going to enlist. Then Doggie remembered a talk he had had with
one of the young officers, who had expressed astonishment at his not being able to
drive a car.
“I shouldn’t have the nerve,” he had replied. “My nerves are all wrong—and I
shouldn’t have the strength to change tires and things.”
But now Doggie was confronted by the necessity of driving his own car, for
chauffeurs were no longer to be had. To his amazement, he found that he did not
die of nervous collapse when a dog crossed the road in front of the automobile, and
that the fitting of detachable wheels did not require the strength of a Hercules. The
first time he took Peggy out driving, he swelled with pride.
“I’m so glad you can do something!” she said, after a silence.
Although the girl was as kind as ever, Doggie had noticed of late a curious
reserve in her manner. Conversation did not flow easily. She had fits of abstraction,
from which, when rallied, she roused herself with an effort. Finally, one day, Peggy
asked him blankly why he did not enlist.
Doggie was horrified. “I’m not fit,” he said, “I’ve no constitution. I’m an
impossibility.”
“You thought you had nerves until you learned to drive the car,” she answered.
“Then you discovered that you hadn’t. You fancy you’ve a weak heart. Perhaps if
you walked thirty miles a day, you would discover that you hadn’t that, either. And
so with the rest of it.”
He swung round toward her. “Do you think I’m shamming so as to get out of
serving in the army?” he demanded.
“Not consciously. Unconsciously, I think you are. What does your doctor
say?”
Doggie was taken aback. He had no doctor, having no need for one. He made
confession of the surprising fact. Peggy smiled.
“That proves it,” she said. “I don’t believe you have anything wrong with you.
This is plain talking. It’s horrid, I know, but it’s best to get through with it once and
for all.”
Some men would have taken deep offense, but Doggie, conscientious if
ineffective, was gnawed for the first time by a suspicion that Peggy might possibly
be right. He desired to act honorably.
“I’ll do,” he said, “whatever you think proper.”
“Good!” said Peggy. “Get Doctor Murdoch to overhaul you thoroughly with a
view to the army. If he passes you, take a commission.”
She put out her hand. Doggie took it firmly.
“Very well,” he said. “I agree.”
“You’re flabby,” announced Doctor Murdoch, the next morning, to an anxious
Doggie, after some minutes of thumping and listening, “but that’s merely a matter
of unused muscles. Physical training will set it right in no time. Otherwise, my dear
Trevor, you’re in splendid health. There’s not a flaw in your whole constitution.”
Doggie crept out of bed, put on a violet dressing-gown, and wandered to his
breakfast like a man in a nightmare. But he could not eat. He swallowed a cup of
coffee and took refuge in his own room. He was frightened—horribly frightened,
caught in a net from which there was no escape. He had given his word to join the
army if he should be passed by Murdoch. He had been more than passed! Now he
would have to join; he would have to fight. He would have to live in a muddy
trench, sleep in mud, eat in mud, plow through mud. Doggie was shaken to his
soul, but he had given his word and he had no thought of going back on it.
The fateful little letter bestowing a commission on Doggie arrived two weeks
later; he was a second lieutenant in a battalion of the new army. A few days
afterward he set off for the training-camp.
He wrote to Peggy regularly. The work was very hard, he said, and the hours
were long. Sometimes he confessed himself too tired to write more than a few
lines. It was a very strange life—one he never dreamed could have existed. There
was the riding-school. Why hadn’t he learned to ride as a boy? Peggy was filled
with admiration for his courage. She realized that he was suffering acutely in his
new and rough environment, but he made no complaint.
Then there came a time when Doggie’s letters grew rarer and shorter. At last
they ceased altogether. One evening an unstamped envelope addressed to Peggy
was put in the letter-box. The envelope contained a copy of the Gazette, and a
sentence was underlined and adorned with exclamation marks:
“Royal Fusileers. Second Lieutenant J. M. Trevor resigned his commission.”

It had been a terrible blow to Doggie. The colonel had dealt as gently as he
could in the final interview with him. He put his hand in a fatherly way on Doggie’s
shoulder and bade him not take the thing too much to heart. He—Doggie—had
done his best, but the simple fact was that he was not cut out for an officer. These
were merciless times, and in matters of life and death there could be no weak links
in the chain. In Doggie’s case there was no personal discredit. He had always
conducted himself like a gentleman, but he lacked the qualities necessary for the
command of men. He must send in his resignation.
Doggie, after leaving the camp, took a room in a hotel and sat there most of
the day, the mere pulp of a man. His one desire now was to escape from the eyes of
his fellow-men. He felt that he bore the marks of his disgrace, obvious at a glance.
He had been turned out of the army as a hopeless incompetent; he was worse than a
slacker, for the slacker might have latent qualities he was without.
Presently the sight of his late brother-officers added the gnaw of envy to his
heart-ache. On the third day of his exile he moved into lodgings in Woburn Place.
Here at least he could be quiet, untroubled by heart-rending sights and sounds. He
spent most of his time in dull reading and dispirited walking.
His failure preyed on his mind. He walked for miles every day, though without
enjoyment. He wandered one evening in the dusk to Waterloo Bridge and gazed out
over the parapet. The river stretched below, dark and peaceful. As he looked down
on the rippling water, he presently became aware of a presence by his side. Turning
his head, he found a soldier, an ordinary private, also leaning over the parapet.
“I thought I wasn’t mistaken in Mr. Marmaduke Trevor,” said the soldier.
Doggie started away, on the point of flight, dreading the possible insolence of
one of the men of his late regiment. But the voice of the speaker rang in his ears
with a strange familiarity, and the great fleshy nose, the high cheekbones, and the
little gray eyes in the weather-beaten face suggested vaguely some one of the long
ago. His dawning recognition amused the soldier.
“Yes, laddie, it’s your old Phineas. Phineas McPhail, M. A.—now private P.
McPhail.”
It was no other than Doggie’s tutor of his childhood days.
“Very glad to see you,” Doggie murmured.
Phineas, gaunt and bony, took his arm. Doggie’s instinctive craving for
companionship made Phineas suddenly welcome.
“Let us have a talk,” he said. “Come to my rooms. There will be some dinner.”
“Will I come? Will I have dinner? Laddie, I will.”
In the Strand they hailed a taxi-cab and drove to Doggie’s place.
 “You mention your rooms,” said Phineas. “Are you residing permanently in
London?”
“Yes,” said Doggie, sadly. “I never expect to leave it.”
A few minutes later they reached Woburn Place. Doggie showed Phineas into
the sitting-room. The table was set for Doggie’s dinner. Phineas looked around him
in surprise. The tasteless furniture, the dreadful pictures on the walls, the coarse
glass and the well-used plate on the table, the crumpled napkin in a ring—all came
as a shock to Phineas, who had expected to find Marmaduke’s rooms a
reproduction of the fastidious prettiness of the peacock and ivory room in
Durdlebury.
“Laddie,” he said, gravely, “you must excuse me if I take a liberty, but I
cannot fit you into this environment. It cannot be that you have come down in the
world?”
“To bed-rock,” replied Doggie.
“Man, I’m sorry,” said Phineas. “I know what coming down feels like. If I had
money—”
Doggie broke in with a laugh. “Pray don’t distress yourself, Phineas. It’s not a
question of money at all. The last thing in the world I’ve had to think of has been
money.”
“What is the trouble?” Phineas demanded.
“That’s a long story,” answered Doggie. “In the meantime I had better give
some orders about dinner.”
The dinner came in presently, not particularly well served. They sat down to it.
“By the way,” remarked Doggie, “you haven’t told me why you became a
soldier.”
“Chance,” replied Phineas. “I have been going down in the world for some
time, and no one seemed to want me except my country. She clamored for me at
every corner. A recruiting sergeant in Trafalgar Square at last persuaded me to take
the leap. That’s how I became Private Phineas McPhail of the Tenth Wessex
Rangers, at the compensation of one shilling and two pence per day.”
“Do you like it?” asked Doggie.
Phineas rubbed the side of his nose thoughtfully.
“In itself it is a vile life,” he made answer. “The hours are absurd, the work is
distasteful, and the mode of living repulsive. But it contents me. The secret of
happiness lies in adapting one’s self to conditions. I adapt myself wherever I
happen to be. And now, may I, without impertinent curiosity, again ask what you
meant when you said you had come down to bed-rock?”
All of Doggie’s rage and shame flared up at the question.
“I’ve been thrown out of the army!” he cried. “I’m here in hiding—hiding
from my family and the decent folk I’m ashamed to meet!”
 “Tell me all about it, laddie,” urged Phineas, gently.
Then Doggie broke down, and with a gush of unminded tears found
expression for his stony despair. His story took a long time in the telling, and
Phineas interjected a sympathetic “Ay, ay,” from time to time.
“And now,” cried Doggie, his young face distorted and reddened, his sleek
hair ruffled, and his hands appealingly outstretched, “what am I going to do?”
“You’ve got to go back home,” said Phineas. “You’ve got to whip up all the
moral courage in you and go back to Durdlebury.”
“I won’t,” said Doggie, “I can’t. I’d sooner die than go back there disgraced.
I’d sooner enlist as a private soldier.”
“Enlist?” repeated Phineas, and he drew himself up straight and gaunt. “Well,
why not?”
“Enlist?” echoed Doggie, in a dull tone. “As a Tommy?”
“As a Tommy,” replied Phineas.
“Enlist!” murmured Doggie. He thought of the alternatives—flight, which was
craven; home, which he could not bear. Doggie rose from his chair with a new light
in his eyes. He had come to the supreme moment of his life; he had made his great
resolution. Yes, he would enlist as a private soldier in the British army.

III
A year later Doggie Trevor returned to Durdlebury. He had been laid up in
hospital with a wounded leg, the result of fighting the German snipers in front of
the first line trenches, and he was now on his way back to France. Durdlebury had
not changed in the interval; it was Marmaduke Trevor that had changed. He
measured about ten inches more around the chest than the year before, and his
hands were red and calloused from hard work. He was as straight as an Indian now,
and in his rough khaki uniform of a British private he looked every bit a man—yes,
and more than that, a veteran soldier. For Doggie had passed through battle after
battle, gas attacks, mine explosions, and months of dreary duty in water-filled
trenches, where only brave and tough men could endure. He had been tried in the
furnace and he had come out pure gold.
Doggie entered the familiar Deanery, and was met by Peggy with a glad smile
of welcome. His uncle, the Dean, appeared in the hall, florid, whitehaired,
benevolent, and extended both hands to the homecoming warrior.
“My dear boy,” he said, “how glad I am to see you! Welcome back! And how’s
the wound?”
Opening the drawing-room door, he pushed Doggie inside. A tall, lean figure
in uniform, which had remained in the background by the fireplace, advanced with
outstretched hand.
“Hello, old chap!”
 Doggie took the hand in an honest grip.
“Hello, Oliver!”
“How goes it?” asked Oliver.
“Splendid,” said Doggie. “Are you all right?”
“Tip-top,” answered Oliver. He clapped his cousin on the shoulder. “My hat!
you do look fit.”
He turned to the Dean. “Uncle Edward, isn’t he a hundred times the man he
was?”
In a little while tea came. It appeared to Doggie, handing round the three-
tiered cake-stand, that he had returned to some forgotten existence. The delicate
china cup in his hand seemed too frail for the material usages of life, and he feared
lest he break it, for Doggie was accustomed to the rough dishes of the private.
The talk lay chiefly between Oliver and himself and ran on the war. Both men
had been at Ypres and at Arras, where the British and German trenches lay only five
yards apart.
“I ought to be over there now,” said Oliver, “but I just escaped shell-shock and
I was sent home for two weeks.”
“My crowd is at the Somme,” said Doggie.
“You’re well out of it, old chap,” laughed Oliver.
For the first time in his life Doggie began really to like Oliver. Oliver stood in
his eyes in a new light, that of the typical officer, trusted and beloved by his men,
and Doggie’s heart went out to him.
After some further talk, the men separated to dress for dinner.
“You’ve got the green room, Marmaduke,” said Peggy. “The one with the
Chippendale furniture you used to covet so much.”
“I haven’t got much to change into,” laughed Doggie, looking down at his
uniform.
“You’ll find Peddle up there waiting for you.”
When Doggie entered the green room, he found Peddle, who welcomed him
with tears of joy and a display of all the luxuries of the toilet and adornment which
Doggie had left behind at home. There were pots of vpomade and face cream, and
nail polish; bottles of hair-wash and tooth-wash; half a dozen gleaming razors; the
array of brushes and combs and vmanicure set in vtortoise-shell with his crest in
silver; bottles of scent; the purple silk dressing-gown; a soft-fronted shirt fitted with
ruby and diamond sleeve-links; the dinner jacket and suit laid out on the glass-
topped table, with tie and handkerchief; the silk socks, the glossy pumps.
“My, Peddle!” cried Doggie, scratching his closely-cropped head. “What’s all
this?”
 Peddle, gray, bent, uncomprehending, regarded him blankly.
“All what, sir?”
“I only want to wash my hands,” said Doggie.
“But aren’t you going to dress for dinner, sir?”
“A private soldier’s not allowed to wear vmufti,” returned Doggie.
“Who’s to find out?”
“There’s Mr. Oliver; he’s a major.”
“Ah, Mr. Marmaduke, he wouldn’t mind. Miss Peggy gave me my orders, sir,
and I think you can leave things to her.”
“All right, Peddle,” laughed Doggie. “If it’s Miss Peggy’s decree, I’ll change
my clothes. I have all I want.”
“Are you sure you can manage, sir?” Peddle asked anxiously, for the time was
when Doggie could not stick his legs into his trousers unless Peddle helped him.
“Quite,” said Doggie.
“It seems rather roughing it, here at the Deanery, Mr. Marmaduke, after what
you’ve been accustomed to at the Hall,” said Peddle.
“That’s so,” replied Doggie. “And it’s martyrdom compared to what it is in the
trenches. There we always have a major-general to lace our boots and a field-
marshall to hand us coffee.”
Peddle looked blank, being utterly unable to comprehend the nature of a joke.
A little later, when Doggie went downstairs to dinner, he found Peggy alone in
the drawing-room.
“Now you look more like a Christian gentleman,” she said. “Confess: it’s
much more comfortable than your wretched private’s uniform.”
“I’m not quite so sure,” he replied, somewhat ruefully, indicating his dinner
jacket, which was tightly constricted beneath the arms. “Already I’ve had to slit my
waistcoat down the back. Poor old Peddle will have a fit when he sees it. I’ve
grown a bit since these elegant rags were made for me.”
Oliver came in—in khaki. Doggie jumped up and pointed to him.
“Look here, Peggy,” he said; “I’ll be sent to the guard-room.”
Oliver laughed. “I did change my uniform,” he said. “I don’t know where my
dinner clothes are.”
“That’s the best thing about being a major,” spoke up Doggie. “They have
heaps of suits. Poor Tommy has but one suit to his name.”
Then the Dean and his wife entered, and they went in to dinner. It was for
Doggie the most pleasant of meals. He had the superbly healthy man’s whole-
hearted appreciation for unaccustomed good food. There were other and finer
pleasures—the table with its exquisite vnapery and china and glass and silver and
flowers. There was the delightful atmosphere of peace and gentle living. And there
was Oliver—a new Oliver.
Most of all, Doggie appreciated Oliver’s comrade-like attitude. It was a
recognition of him as a soldier. He had “made good” in the eyes of one of the finest
soldiers in the British army, and what else mattered? To Doggie the supreme joy of
that pleasurable evening was the knowledge that he had done well in the eyes of
Oliver. The latter wore on his tunic the white, mauve, and white ribbon of the
Military Cross. Honor where honor was due. But he—Doggie—had been wounded,
and Oliver frankly put them both on the same plane of achievement, thus wiping
away with generous hand all the hated memories of the past.
When the ladies left the room the Dean went with them, and the cousins were
left alone.
“And now,” said Oliver, “don’t you think you’re a bit of a fool, Doggie?”
“I know it,” Doggie returned cheerfully. “The army has drummed that into me
at any rate.”
“I mean in staying in the ranks,” Oliver went on. “Why don’t you apply for the
Cadet Corps and get a commission again?”
Doggie’s brow grew dark. “I will tell you,” he replied. “The only real
happiness I’ve had in my life has been as a Tommy. I’m not talking foolishness.
The only real friends I’ve ever made in my life are Tommies. I’ve a real life as a
Tommy, and I’m satisfied. When I came to my senses after being thrown out for
incompetence and I enlisted, I made a vow that I would stick it out as a Tommy
without anybody’s sympathy, least of all that of the people here. And as a Tommy I
am a real soldier and do my part.”
Oliver smiled. “I’m glad you told me, old man. I appreciate it very much. I’ve
been through the ranks myself and know what it is—the bad and the good. Many a
man has found his soul that way—”
“Heavens!” cried Doggie, starting to his feet. “Do you say that, too?”
The cousins clasped hands. That was Oliver’s final recognition of Doggie as a
soldier and a man. Doggie had found his soul.
W. J. LOCKE.
 IN FLANDERS FIELD
In Flanders fields, the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our places. In the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe!

To you, from failing hands, we throw
The torch. Be yours to lift it high!
If ye break faith with us who die,
We shall not sleep, though poppies blow
In Flanders fields.
JOHN MCCRAE.
 IN FLANDERS FIELD
(AN ANSWER)

In Flanders fields, the cannon boom

And fitful flashes light the gloom,
While up above, like eagles, fly
The fierce destroyers of the sky;
With stains the earth wherein you lie
Is redder than the poppy bloom,
In Flanders fields.

Sleep on, ye brave. The shrieking shell,

The quaking trench, the startled yell,
The fury of the battle hell
Shall wake you not, for all is well.
Sleep peacefully, for all is well.
Your flaming torch aloft we bear,
With burning heart an oath we swear
To keep the faith, to fight it through,
To crush the foe or sleep with you
In Flanders fields.
C. B. GALBRAITH .
 A BALLAD OF HEROES
Because you passed, and now are not,—
Because in some remoter day
Your sacred dust from doubtful spot
Was blown of ancient airs away,—
Because you perished,—must men say
Your deeds were naught, and so profane
Your lives with that cold burden? Nay,
The deeds you wrought are not in vain!

Though, it may be above the plot

That hid your once imperial clay,
No greener than o’er men forgot
The unregarded grasses sway,—
Though there no sweeter is the lay
From careless bird,—though you remain
Without distinction of decay,—
The deeds you wrought are not in vain!

No. For while yet in tower or cot

Your story stirs the pulse’s play;
And men forget the sordid lot—
The sordid care, of cities gray;—
While yet, beset in homelier fray,
They learn from you the lesson plain
That life may go, so Honor stay,—
The deeds you wrought are not in vain!

ENVOY

Heroes of old! I humbly lay

The laurel on your graves again;
Whatever men have done, men may,—
The deeds you wrought are not in vain!
AUSTINDOBSON.
 DICTIONARY
back a byss´: a deep gulf.
back ac´ me: height.
back ac ro bat´ ics: gymnastics; athletic exercises.
back ad´ age: saying; proverb.
back a eri al: airy.
back a lac´ ri ty: eagerness; spryness.
back al´ der man: here, a Saxon nobleman.
back al´ gæ: seaweeds.
back al ter´ na tive: a second choice.
back A´ ma ti ki´ ta: an Esquimau.
back am´ i ca bly ad just´ ed: arranged peacefully.
back am´ phi the a ter: a circular building with tiers of seats arranged around
an open space.
back an´ chor ite: a hermit.
back an´ nals: records.
back aped: imitated.
back ap er tif´ (teef): an appetizer.
back back ap´ er ture: opening.
back Ap´ pa lach´ ian: a chain of mountains in the eastern United States.
back ap pre hen´ sions: fears.
back a quat´ ic: of the water.
back ar cade´: an arched gallery.
back ar tic´ u late: in regular words.
back at´ mos phere: air pressure at sea level used as a unit.
back back au ro´ ra: the Northern Lights, the red glow in the sky in the Far
North.
back aus ter´ i ty: soberness; sternness.
back av a ri´ cious (rish us): greedy of gain.

back Bal lin droch´ a ter: a Scotch village.

back ban dit´ ti: outlaws; bandits.
back bar´ bi can: a tower over a gate or bridge.
back bar´ o graph: an instrument for recording changes in the atmosphere.
back ba rom´ e ter: an instrument that determines the weight of the air, and
thereby foretells changes in the weather.
back ba rouche´: a low, open carriage.
back bau´ ble: a wand carried by jesters.
back Beau seant (bo sa on´): “Well-seeming,” an ancient French war cry.
back be nig´ nant: kind; helpful.
back big´ gin: a child’s cap.
back Bois-Guil bert (bwa guel bare´): a knight of the Order of the Temple.
back bo´ nus: an extra payment not included in wages.
back brake: a thicket.
back bre´ vi a ry: a book containing a church service.
back brown-bill: a weapon consisting of a long staff with a hook-shaped
blade at the top.
back buf foon´ er y: jesting; clownishness.
back bun´ sen pile: an electric cell containing zinc covered with sulphuric
acid at one end, and carbon surrounded by nitric acid at the other.
back buoyed (booed): kept up; supported.
back bur lesque´ (lesk): humorous; not serious.
back byz´ ant: a large gold coin.

back ca lum´ ni a tor: a slanderer.

back car´ bon: one of the chemical elements; charcoal is its best known form.
back car´ di nal: a priest of high rank who wears a small red cap.
back car´ ri on: decaying flesh.
back car´ tel: a defiance; a challenge.
back casque (cask): helmet.
back cas´ sock: a close-fitting garment resembling a modern coat.
back catherine wheel: a firework that turns around when lighted, throwing
off a circle of sparks.
back ce ler´ i ty: quickness; promptness.
back cel´ lar: here, a wine-cellar.
back che val-glass (she´ val): a large mirror swinging in a frame.
back Chil how´ ee: a high mountain in east Tennessee.
back chiv´ al rous: knightly; warlike.
back churls: low, rude persons.
back circuit-rider: a preacher who ministers to a number of churches.
back cloth-yard: a yard in length.
back col´ lo quy: a discussion.
back com punc´ tion: remorse; repentance.
back cone: a body tapering to a point.
back con´ ning tower: a raised part of a vessel giving an outlook on the sea.
back con strained´: restricted; unfree.
back con´ va les´ cence: period of recovery.
back con ver´ gent: coming nearly together.
back cope: a long robe.
back co´ pi ous ly: plentifully.
back cord´ age: the ropes on a ship.
back Cor´ do van: made in Cordova, a Spanish city.
back cor me´ um e rue ta´ vit: “the heart of me burst forth.”
back cor rob´ o ra ted: confirmed; agreed with.
back cor ro´ sive sub´ li mate: a substance containing mercury and useful for
cleaning wounds.
back coun´ ter-poise: a weight used to pull up the drawbridge.
back cowl: a monk’s hood.
back cox´ comb: a piece of red cloth worn by jesters on their caps.
back crest fall´ en: humiliated; humbled.
back crev´ ice: hole; opening.
back cri´ sis: critical period.
back croup: the space behind the saddle.
back cur tail´ ing: cutting down.
back cut´ lery: knives and forks.
back cyl´ in der: a part of machinery, like a piston, longer than broad and
with a round surface.
back cy lin´ dri cal: shaped like a cylinder, that is, long but with a round
surface, as a lead pencil.

back decency: here, a good appearance.

back de cep´ tive: misleading.
back dep re da´ tion: theft; despoiling.
back De pro fun´ dis cla ma´ vi: “I cried from the depths,” a Latin psalm.
back dif´ fi dence: shyness.
back dil´ a to´ ri ness: slowness; delay.
back dil´ a to ry: slow.
back di lem´ ma: difficulty.
back dis cerned´: saw; understood.
back dis con´ so late ly: unhappily.
back dis til´ ling: for condensing sweet water from sea water.
back dlink: drink, in broken English.
back doit: a coin of small value.
back do mes´ tic: of the home.
back Dom´ i nie: a name sometimes given clergymen or schoolmasters.
back doub´ let: a garment covering the body from neck to waist.
back dough ty (dou´ ty): valiant; useful.
back drag: the scent of a fox.
back dross: money spoken of contemptuously, as something of no account.
back Dry´ ad: a wood nymph.
back du en´ na: chaperon.
back dun: brownish.
back Dun dee´: a Scotch seaport.

back e clipse´: darkening; obscuring.

back ef fem´ i nate: womanish.
back e lec trom´ e ter: an instrument which indicates the presence of
electricity.
back em a na´ tion: a flowing forth.
back em bel´ lish: ornament; touch up.
back em´ u late: rival.
back e´ quine: pertaining to a horse.
back Esh´ col: a scene in the Bible.
back ex ha la´ tion: fumes; vapor.
back ex hil´ a ra ted: lifted up; greatly pleased.
back ex´ i gence: emergency.
back ex or´ bi tant: unreasonable; excessive.
back ex pos´ tu la ted: protested.

back fath´ om: a measure six feet in length.

back fer´ rule: the piece at the end of a parasol or umbrella.
back feu´ dal: relating to a lord of the Middle Ages.
back fi del´ i ty: faithfulness.
back fil´ ial (yal): due from a child to a parent.
back first mag´ ni tude: largest size; most importance.
back floe: the ocean frozen into an ice-field.
back fort´ a lice: a small fortress.
back frank´ lin: a Saxon gentleman.
back Front-de-Boeuf (front de beuf´): a Norman baron.

back gab´ bro: a kind of limestone rock.

back gal´ liard (yard): a gallant, valiant man.
back gear: affair; concern.
back ge´ ni i (e): spirits.
back gen re (zhan´ r): dealing with everyday life.
back gen teel´ ly: like gentlefolk; properly.
back ge´ o log´ i cal: relating to the substance of the earth.
back glaive: a weapon resembling an ax.
back gra mer´ cy: thanks.
back gra tu´ i tous: useless; unnecessary.
back grav´ i ta´ tion: the attraction of great bodies, such as the earth, for
other bodies.
back gren ade´: a small bomb.
back back gro tesque´ (tesk): absurd; unsightly.
back gyves (jives): fetters; irons.

back hatch´ way: an opening in a deck.

back Hen´ ri cus: a settlement on the James river some distance above
Jamestown.
back her met´ i cal ly: tightly; impenetrably.
back hi la´ ri ously: uproariously.
back hor´ i zon´ tal: on a level with the ground.
back hum´ mock: a knoll, or hillock.
back hy´ dro plane: an aeroplane which also moves on the water.

back il lus´ tri ous: distinguished; noted.

back im port´ ed: brought in from without.
back im per´ vi ous: impenetrable; not to be pierced.
back in´ con ceiv´ a ble: beyond the understanding.
back in ef´ fa ble: very great; beyond measure.
back in´ ef fec´ tu al: unavailing; without effect.
back in ex´ pli ca bly: not to be explained.
back in fal´ li bly: unerringly.
back in´ fin ite (it): immeasurable.
back in i ti a tive (in ish´ i a tive): an act which begins something.
back In´ nu it: an American Esquimau.
back in ter mit´ tent: unsteady; not regular.
back in vin´ ci ble: not to be conquered.
back in vi´ o late: unbroken; undefiled.

back jave´ lin (jav): a short spear used for throwing.

back joc´ u lar´ i ty: mirth.
back joc´ und: merry; sportive.
back Jove: the king of the gods; here, the chief person of the household.
back jun´ to: a group of men; a council.
back backka lei´ do scope: an instrument in which small pieces of colored
glass slide about and form pleasing shapes.
back Ki was´ sa: a name for the Great Spirit, or God.
back Knights Templar: an order of knights serving in Palestine and taking
their name from a palace in Jerusalem called Solomon’s Temple.

back la goons: lakes connecting with the sea.

back La Mort (mor): “Death,” sounded on a horn when the game is killed.
back back la´ tent: hidden; not revealed; also, in preparation.
back leg-bail: escape by flight.
back Ley´ den jar: a glass bottle used to accumulate electricity.
back log´ a rith´ mic tables: mathematical tables used to calculate a ship’s
position.
back Long House: a name for the Iroquois Indians, derived from their long
communal houses.
back lon´ gi tude: distance on the earth’s surface from east to west.
back lu´ mi na ry: a body that gives light.

back Ma belle mere (mare): “My pretty mother.”

back Ma´ gi ans: wise men of ancient Persia.
back mal´ a dy: disease.
back Mal voi sin (mal vwa zan´): a Norman baron.
back man´ i cure set: instruments used on the finger nails.
back man´ tel et: a movable shelter of wood.
back ma rau´ ders: robbers.
back mar´ i: husband.
back masque (mask): a kind of theatrical performance.
back mas´ que rad´ ing: going in disguise.
back ma ter´ nal: motherly.
back mat´ ins: a morning service of the ancient church.
back mer´ ce na ry: a hired soldier; a hireling.
back mer´ cu ry: quicksilver, used in the thermometer.
back me tal´ lic: composed of metal.
back Michael mas eve (mick´ el mas): September 28.
back Mi´ das: a king in Greek myth whose touch turned everything to gold.
back mod´ i fi ca´ tion: change.
back Mon´ a cans: an Indian tribe originally living west of Richmond,
Virginia.
back mon´ o syl´ la ble: a single syllable.
back Mort pour la patrie: “Dead for country.”
back Mount joy St. Dennis (den ny´): the war cry of ancient France.
back muf´ ti (ty): ordinary clothes.

back na bob: a millionaire: a wealthy man from India.

back na´ per y: table linen.
back Naz´ a rene: a name sometimes applied to Christians, from Jesus of
Nazareth.
back ne go´ ti a ting: bargaining.
back niche (nitch): an opening in a wall.
back no´ men il´ lis le´ gi o: “the name of them is legion.”
back nor´ mal: accustomed; usual.
back nu´ cle us: a central mass.
back nu´ tri ment: nourishment.

back ob´ du rate: not to be moved.

back o bei sance (o ba´ sans): a bending of the body; a bow.
back ob lique´ (leek): a slanting direction.
back old fields: fields no longer cultivated.
back o´ pa line: the color of opals; grayish-white.
back O´ pe chan´ ca nough (no): the leading Indian chief in Virginia in the
early period.
back op´ tion: choice.
back op´ u lence: wealth.
back order: a society of monks, with an organization and convents.
back o´ ri en ta tion: adjustment.
back os ten´ si ble: apparent; professed.

back pad´ u a soy´: a rich, heavy silk.

back Pa mun´ keys: an Indian tribe originally living along the Pamunkey and
York rivers in Virginia.
back pan´ de mo´ ni um: the place of devils; also, and usually, a riotous
scene.
back pan´ nier (yer): a wicker basket.
back par´ ley: talk; discussion.
back Pas´ pa heghs (hays): an Indian tribe of Virginia.
back patched: adorned with small patches of black cloth.
back pa´ thos: sadness.
back pa visse´: a large shield.
back Pax´ vo bis´ cum: “Peace be with you!”
back pem´ mi can: powdered meat pressed into cakes.
back per´ i scope: an instrument projecting above a submarine which gives a
view of the sea surface.
back per´ pen dic´ u lar: straight up and down.
back per´ pen dic´ u lar´ i ty: straightness up and down.
back pet´ ri fied: turned to stone.
back phil´ o soph´ i cal: wise; learned.
back pil´ lion (yun): a cushion used by women in riding horseback.
back pi lote (pe loat´): an aeroplane pilot.
back pin´ na cle: summit.
back pipe: a musical instrument resembling a flute.
back plain´ tive ly: complainingly.
back plan´ i sphere: the representation of the earth on a plane; a map of the
world.
back Ple ia des (ple´ ya dees): a group of six stars in the constellation Taurus.
back pol lute´: to stain; to befoul.
back po made´: a perfumed ointment.
back po ma´ tum: a perfumed ointment.
back pon´ der a ble: weighable; having heaviness.
back pon´ der ous: heavy; unwieldy.
back pon´ iard (yard): a dagger.
back por´ tents: signs; omens.
back Pow´ ha tan: the James river; also the name of Opechancanough’s
predecessor.
back pre ca´ ri ous: uncertain; dangerous.
back pre´ con cep´ tion: a foreshadowing; an idea of something to come.
back pri me´ val: original.
back prim´ i tive: original; coming down from afar.
back Pro´ cy on (si): a first-magnitude star.
back pro di gious (pro dij´ us): immense.
back pro ject´ ile: something projected with force, or fired.
back pur veyed´: brought.

back quarter-staff: a short pole, used as a walking-staff and a weapon.

back ra´ di us: the distance from the center of a body to its surface.
back rail´ ler y: jesting.
back ran´ som: a sum paid for the release of a prisoner.
back rar´ e fac´ tion: the making thin; less dense.
back ra´ ti o: rate; measure.
back re cip´ ro ca ted: returned.
back re cum´ bent: lying down.
back re fec´ to ry: a dining-room in a convent.
back re frac´ tion: the bending from a straight line which occurs when a ray
of light passes out of the air into water.
back reg´ u la tor: a contrivance for controlling motion.
back re mu´ ner a ted: rewarded; presented with.
back re nowned´: famous.
back re plete´: filled.
back rep´ ro ba´ tion: condemnation; disapproval.
back res´ pi ra´ tor: a device covering the mouth and nose and preventing the
breathing of outside air.
back ret´ i nue: a train of attendants.
back re ver´ ber a ted: reflected; echoed.
back rime: hoarfrost.
back Rolfe, John: the first Englishman to plant tobacco in Virginia; the
husband of Pocahontas.
back rood: cross.
back ro´ sa ry: a string of beads used in counting prayers.
back ru´ bi cund: ruddy; red.
back rucksack: a napsack worn by Arctic travelers.
back rue´ ful: sad; distressed.
back ruffle: a contest.

back sar cas´ ti cal ly: ironically; humorously.

back back sat´ el lite: an attendant; also, a body revolving around another, as
the moon.
back scar: a cliff.
back sci´ en tist: one learned in the natural sciences, as chemistry, physics,
etc.
back screen: a surface on which the reflection from the periscope is thrown.
back sem´ blance: likeness.
back serf: a kind of slave; an unfree laborer.
back sex´ tant: an instrument used to determine a ship’s position by
observing the sun and other objects.
back Shah: ruler; king.
back shrift: confession made to a priest.
back Shrovetide: the days just before the beginning of Lent.
back sib´ yl: prophetess.
back side drift: the drift of a vessel to one side or the other of a course.
back sil hou ette (sil oo et´): the black shadow of an object.
back sin´ gu lar´ i ty: strangeness.
back smock race: a race in which the contestants are hampered by garments.
back sliv´ er: a long splinter.
back sol´ ace: comfort.
back so phis´ ti ca ted: experienced; worldly-wise.
back spec´ tral: of graded colors.
back spin´ et: a musical instrument like a piano.
back spoor: trail; foot-marks.
back sprint´ er: a runner; a foot-racer.
back spume: froth; foam.
back stac ca´ to: disconnected; jerky.
back states´ man: one concerned in the governing of a country.
back sten to´ ri an: loud; thundering.
back stodg´ i ly: with distended eyes.
back sto´ ic al ly: patiently; without complaint.
back stoke-hold: the room containing a ship’s boilers.
back stra´ ta: the layers of rock composing the crust of the earth.
back strat´ e gy: the use of artifice; clever planning.
back Stuy´ ves ant: a Dutch colonial governor of New York.
back sub lim´ i ty: grandeur; magnificence.
back sub´ ter ra´ ne an: beneath the earth; in a cavity.
back sump´ ter mule: a beast of burden.
back sump´ tu a ry: relating to expense.
back back sump´ tu ous: plentiful; extravagant.
back su´ per flu´ i ty: more than is needed.
back back su per´ flu ous: not needed.
back sur´ plice: a white outer garment worn by priests.
back Sus´ que han´ nocks: an Indian tribe originally inhabiting Maryland
and Pennsylvania.
back sword of Damascus: a sword made from steel wrought in Damascus,
Syria.
back syl´ van: of the woods.
back sym´ pho ny: harmony; music.

back ta´ bor: a small drum.

back tac´ i turn (tas): silent.
back tam´ bour frame: frame for embroidery.
back tap´ es try: a curtain for a wall ornamented with worked pictures.
back tar´ get: a small shield.
back ter´ ma gant: quarrelsome; scolding.
back ter´ ra fir´ ma: the firm earth.
back thane: a Saxon land-owner.
back thatch: straw or reeds.
back Ti´ tan: a giant of Greek myth.
back tithe: a tenth.
back tor´ toise-shell: the shell of a turtle.
back traction engine: a locomotive that draws vehicles along roads.
back treasurer: George Sandys.
back tri bu´ nal: a court of justice.
back trump: the card that takes other cards in a game.
back truss: tie.
back tu mul´ tu ous: riotous; very noisy.

back ul´ tra ma rine´: deep blue.

back uncle: a familiar form of address used by jesters.
back u nique´ (neek): singular; unusual.
back u´ su ry: unlawful, or excessive interest.

back vas´ sals: subjects; dependents.

back ve´ he ment: passionate; forceful.
back ve loc´ i ty: speed.
back vel´ lum: leather.
back ven´ er a´ tion: respect; reverence.
back ver´ dure: vegetation; green growth.
back ver´ i ta ble: true; unmistakable.
back vic´ ar: a clergyman in charge of a parish.
back vis´ count (vi): a nobleman.
back viz´ ard: a mask.
back viz´ or: here, a mask.
back vo ra´ cious (shus): greedy; very hungry.

back Wat´ ling Street: a Roman road running from Dover to Chester.
back wer´ o wance: a chief of the Virginia Indians.
back West, Francis: afterward governor of Virginia.
back whist: still.

back yeo´ man (yo): a free laborer; often a small land-owner.

back ze´ nith: highest point; summit.

back zo´ o phytes: small sea animals growing together, as coral.
 Transcriber’s Note
The following typographical errors have been corrected.
56 Mountain” changed to Mountain.”
97 all unwarned! changed to all unwarned!”
119 changed he shall” to he shall,”
125 good-bye changed to good-by
130 ruffllings changed to rufflings
151 reëentering changed to reëntering
163 processsion changed to procession
177 calculatued changed to calculated
223 langauge changed to language
230 but to seaward changed to but two seaward
236 Majorie changed to Marjorie
263 attemped changed to attempted
267 altogther changed to altogether
272 miller,” changed to miller?”
277 accomodated changed to accommodated
278 rescue?’ changed to rescue?”
286 Norman, and let changed to Norman, “and let
305 father, said changed to father,” said
310 “Fiends!’ changed “Fiends!”
317 “‘Nothing changed to “Nothing
326 of proof.” changed to of proof.
328 stop them.” changed to stop them.
383 April. 5th. changed to April 5th.
386 hugh changed to huge
396 the bottom. changed to the bottom.”
402 everything! changed to everything!”
409 said; do you changed to said; “do you
444 unwieldly changed to unwieldy
446 spoor; changed to spoor:
Other errors
116 infantile not included in vocabulary section
117 peer not included in the vocabulary section
118 mien not included in the vocabulary section
282 contingent is not defined in the vocabulary section
354 ballast is not defined in the vocabulary section
440 corroborated not marked in the text
443 mari not marked in the text
444 pinnacle not marked in the text
The following words had inconsistent hyphenation:
foot-marks / footmarks
north-east / northeast
seal-skin / sealskin
snow-flakes / snowflakes
water-proof / waterproof
white-haired / whitehaired
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITERARY WORLD
SEVENTH READER ***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means
that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and
you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without
paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic
works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an
eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying
royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything
for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You
may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works,
reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified
and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United
States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to
the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE
 THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of
electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated
in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the
terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
[Link]/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic
works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you
indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this
license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not
agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return
or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If
you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic
work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may
obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in
paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or
associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by
the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most
Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms
of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do
with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic
works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or
PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public
domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law
in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a
right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating
derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™
mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project
Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with
the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its
attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with
others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you
can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of
change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in
addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying,
performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations
concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United
States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to,
the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy
of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg”
appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed,
displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
[Link]. If you are not located in the United States, you
will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts

not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and
distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If
you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with
the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use
of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8
or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the
permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with
both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the
copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™
License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at
the beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License
terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work
associated with Project Gutenberg™.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work,
or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set
forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of
the Project Gutenberg™ License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed,
marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or
hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project
Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format
used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website
([Link]), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user,
provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any
alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in
paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying
or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph
1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or
distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that:

• • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of
Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to
calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this
paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty
payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4,
“Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation.”
• • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in
writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the
terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user
to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project
Gutenberg™ works.
• • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic
work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.
• • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of
Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic

work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you
must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to
identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by
U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these
efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may
be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete,
inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer
virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the
“Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™
trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work
under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses,
including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR
NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH
OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU
AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY
DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU
FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a
refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the
person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical
medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or
entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement
copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the
work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you
may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph
1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES
OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the
exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation
set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement,
the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation
permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing
copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement,
and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of
Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and
expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the
following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project
Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™
Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works
in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old,
middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of
volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need
are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project
Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In
2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a
secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To
learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your
efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation
information page at [Link].
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3)
educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and
granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN
or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.
The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City,
UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information
can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at
[Link]/contact
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation
Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public
support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public
domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form
accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many
small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and
charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements
are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees
to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in
locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit [Link]/donate.
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not
met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting
unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to
donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements
concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S.
laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and
addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks,
online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit:
[Link]/donate.
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of
a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty
years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose
network of volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of
which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright
notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with
any particular paper edition.
Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility:
[Link].
This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to
make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help
produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear
about new eBooks.