Chapter V: Part 5

They now enjoyed peace, but hunger pressed on them, and they often had a hard time to get food. Fish were very scarce that season, as were roots and berries; so that their only dependence was on a harsh and tasteless wild parsnip, and on a species of nettle. These, sometimes raw, sometimes boiled, they ate without salt.

While such was their summer fare, the hoe was at work, and a little seed wheat, procured at Fort Alexander, an Indian trading-post on the Winnipeg River, turned out very well. One of the settlers, from the planting of four quarts, reaped twelve and a half bushels. But they had a difficult task to save the crop from the fowls of the air. In the spring myriads of blackbirds and wild pigeons passed the colony in their migration to the north and returned again on their way to the south, during the time of harvest. They were in such flocks as to threaten the little patches of grain with total destruction. Bird-nets, guns, and scarecrows were all in use, and men, women, and children kept constantly going about their little gardens from morning till night, driving away or slaying the greedy birds.

The fears of the settlers had now vanished. They were cheered by the hope that the North-Westers would not disturb them any more. Under this impression, they began to take courage, and to prepare for the arrival of their friends, for they expected all the other emigrants before the winter. In this hope they were disappointed. It was late in the season before they learned that their friends were delayed, and then, rather than consume the little grain they had secured, they resolved to try Pembina again, and to save what seed they could for another year.

At Pembina disappointment awaited them. Notwithstanding the great kindness shown by the French half-breeds to the Scottish settlers during the last winter, they now kept aloof and treated their visitors coldly. Ignorant and awkward as the settlers were with regard to the chase, they had to think and act for themselves, slaving all winter in deep snows to preserve life. A plot, too, was discovered to murder two of the party who undertook to hunt, and so this means of life was closed to them. Provisions, which they had to buy, and then to drag home with great labor, were very scarce and very dear.

At last, at the beginning of 1814, the settlers returned to the colony once more in a state of great poverty. They had even had to barter away their clothing for food. Half-naked, and discouraged, many of them severely frostbitten, they again took up their struggle for life in the Settlement.--ALEXANDER ROSS.

_Adapted from “The Red River Settlement.”_

THE RED RIVER VOYAGEUR

Out and in the river is winding
The links of its long red chain,
Through belts of dusky pine-land
And gusty leagues of plain.

Only at times a smoke-wreath
With the drifting cloud-rack joins,--
The smoke of the hunting-lodges
Of the wild Assiniboins!

Drearily blows the north wind
From the land of ice and snow;
The eyes that look are weary,
And heavy the hands that row.

And with one foot on the water,
And one upon the shore,
The Angel of Shadow gives warning
That day shall be no more.

Is it the clang of wild-geese?
Is it the Indian’s yell,
That lends to the voice of the north wind
The tones of a far-off bell?

The voyageur smiles as he listens
To the sound that grows apace;
Well he knows the vesper ringing
Of the bells of St. Boniface--

The bells of the Roman Mission,
That call from their turrets twain,
To the boatman on the river,
To the hunter on the plain!

Even so in our mortal journey
The bitter north winds blow,
And thus upon life’s Red River
Our hearts, as oarsmen, row.

And when the Angel of Shadow
Rests his feet on wave and shore,
And our eyes grow dim with watching,
And our hearts faint at the oar,

Happy is he who heareth
The signal of his release
In the bells of the Holy City,
The chimes of eternal peace!
--JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

SEVEN TIMES FOUR

Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,
Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall;
When the wind wakes, how they rock in the grasses,
And dance with the cuckoo-buds, slender and small;
Here’s two bonny boys, and here’s mother’s own lasses,
Eager to gather them all.

Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,
Mother shall thread them a daisy-chain;
Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow,
That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain;
Sing, “Heart thou art wide, though the house be but narrow”--
Sing once, and sing it again.

Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,
Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow;
A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters,
And haply one missing doth stand at her prow.
O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters,
Maybe he thinks of you now!

Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,
Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall;
A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure,
And fresh hearts, unconscious of sorrow and thrall;
Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure--
God that is over us all.
--JEAN INGELOW.

THE LARK AT THE DIGGINGS

The house was thatched and whitewashed, and English was written on it and on every foot of ground round it. A furze bush had been planted by the door. Vertical oak palings were the fence, with a five-barred gate in the middle of them. From the little plantation all the magnificent trees and shrubs of Australia had been excluded, and oak and ash reigned safe from overtowering rivals. They passed to the back of the house, and there George’s countenance fell a little, for on the oval grass-plot and gravel-walk he found from thirty to forty rough fellows, most of them diggers.

“Ah, well,” said he, on reflection, “we could not expect to have it all to ourselves, and indeed it would be a sin to wish it, you know. Now, Tom, come this way; here it is, here it is--there!” Tom looked up, and in a gigantic cage was a light brown bird.

He was utterly confounded. “What, is it _this_ we came twelve miles to see?”

“Ay! and twice twelve wouldn’t have been much to me.”

“Well, but what is the lark you talked of?”

“This is it!”

“This? This is a bird.”

“Well, and isn’t a lark a bird?”

“Oh, ay, I see! ha! ha! ha! ha!”

Robinson’s merriment was interrupted by a harsh remonstrance from several of the diggers, who were all from the other end of the camp.

“Hold your cackle,” cried one, “he is going to sing;” and the whole party had their eyes turned with expectation towards the bird.

Like most singers, he kept them waiting a bit. But at last, just at noon, when the mistress of the house had warranted him to sing, the little feathered exile began, as it were, to tune his pipes. The savage men gathered round the cage that moment, and amidst a dead stillness the bird uttered some very uncertain chirps, but after a while he seemed to revive his memories, to call his ancient cadences back to him one by one, and to string them together.

And then the same sun that had warmed his little heart at home came glowing down on him here, and he gave music back for it more and more, till at last--amidst breathless silence and glistening eyes of the rough diggers hanging on his voice--out burst in that distant land his English song.

It swelled from his little throat and gushed from him with thrilling force and plenty, and every time he checked his song to think of its theme, the green meadows, the quiet stealing streams, the clover he first soared from and the spring he sang so well, a loud sigh from many a rough bosom, many a wild and wicked heart, told how tight the listeners had held their breath to hear him. And, when he swelled with song again, and poured with all his soul the green meadows, the quiet brooks, the honey-clover, and the English spring, the rugged mouths opened and so stayed, and the shaggy lips trembled, and more than one drop trickled from fierce unbridled hearts down bronzed and rugged cheeks.

Home! sweet home!

And these shaggy men, full of oaths and strife and cupidity, had once been white-headed boys, and had strolled about the English fields with little sisters and little brothers, and seen the lark rise, and heard him sing this very song. The little playmates lay in the churchyard, and they were full of oaths, and drink, and riot, and remorses; but no note was changed in this immortal song. And so, for a moment or two, years of vice rolled away like a dark cloud from the memory, and the past shone out in the sunshine; they came back, bright as the immortal notes that had lighted them, those faded pictures and those fleeted days; the cottage, the old mother’s tears, when he left her without one grain of sorrow; the village church and its simple chimes; the clover field hard by in which he lay and gambolled, while the lark praised God overhead; the chubby playmates that never grew to be wicked; the sweet hours of youth and innocence, and home!

“What will you take for him, mistress? I will give you five pounds for him!”

“No! no! I won’t take five pounds for my bird!”

“Of course she won’t,” cried another, “she wouldn’t be such a flat. Here, missus,” cried he, “I’ll give you that for him,” and he extended a brown hand with at least thirty new sovereigns glittering in it.

The woman trembled; she and her husband were just emerging from poverty after a hard fight.

“Oh!” she cried, “it is a shame to tempt a poor woman with so much gold. We had six brought over, and all died on the way but this one!” and she threw her white apron over her head, not to see the glittering bribe.

“Bother you, put the money up and don’t tempt the woman,” was the cry. Another added, “Why, you fool, it wouldn’t live a week if you had it,” and they all abused the man; but the woman turned to him kindly, and said:--

“You come to me every Sunday, and he shall sing to you. You will get more pleasure from him so,” said she sweetly, “than if he was always by you.”

“So I shall, old girl,” replied the rough, in a friendly tone.

George stayed till the lark gave up singing altogether, and then he said: “Now, I’m off. I don’t want to hear bad language after that: let us take the lark’s chirp home to bed with us.” And they made off; and true it was, the pure strains dwelt upon their spirits, and refreshed and purified these sojourners in an evil place.

--CHARLES READE.

* * * * *

A good example is the best sermon.

THE PHANTOM LIGHT OF THE BAIE DES CHALEURS

’Tis the laughter of pines that swing and sway
Where the breeze from the land meets the breeze from the bay;
’Tis the silvery foam of the silver tide
In ripples that reach to the forest side;
’Tis the fisherman’s boat, in a track of sheen,
Plying through tangled seaweed green
O’er the Baie des Chaleurs.

Who has not heard of the phantom light
That over the moaning waves, at night,
Dances and drifts in endless play,
Close to the shore, then far away,
Fierce as the flame in sunset skies,
Cold as the winter light that lies
On the Baie des Chaleurs?

They tell us that many a year ago,
From lands where the palm and the olive grow,
Where vines with their purple clusters creep
Over the hillsides gray and steep,
A knight in his doublet, slashed with gold,
Famed, in that chivalrous time of old,
For valorous deeds and courage rare,
Sailed with a princess wondrous fair
To the Baie des Chaleurs.

That a pirate crew from some isle of the sea,
A murderous band as e’er could be,
With a shadowy sail, and a flag of night,
That flaunted and flew in heaven’s sight,
Sailed in the wake of the lovers there,
And sank the ship and its freight so fair
In the Baie des Chaleurs.

Strange is the tale that the fishermen tell:
They say that a ball of fire fell
Straight from the sky, with crash and roar,
Lighting the bay from shore to shore;
Then the ship, with shudder and with groan,
Sank through the waves to the caverns lone
Of the Baie des Chaleurs.

That was the last of the pirate crew;
But many a night a black flag flew
From the mast of a spectre vessel, sailed
By a spectre band that wept and wailed
For the wreck they had wrought on the sea, on the land,
For the innocent blood they had spilt on the sand
Of the Baie des Chaleurs.

This is the tale of the phantom light
That fills the mariner’s heart, at night,
With dread as it gleams o’er his path on the bay,
Now by the shore, then far away,
Fierce as the flame in sunset skies,
Cold as the winter moon that lies
On the Baie des Chaleurs.
--ARTHUR WENTWORTH EATON.

THE BEATITUDES

Blessed are the poor in spirit:
For theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are they that mourn:
For they shall be comforted.
Blessed are the meek:
For they shall inherit the earth.
Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness:
For they shall be filled.

Blessed are the merciful:
For they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart:
For they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers:
For they shall be called the children of God.
Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake:
For theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
--_From the Sermon on the Mount._

MAGGIE TULLIVER AND THE GYPSIES

The resolution that gathered in Maggie’s mind was not so simple as that of going home. No! she would run away and go to the gypsies, and Tom should never see her any more. That was by no means a new idea to Maggie. The gypsies, she considered, would gladly receive her, and pay her much respect on account of her superior knowledge. She had once mentioned her views on this point to her brother Tom and had suggested that he should stain his face brown, and they should run away together. But Tom had rejected the scheme with contempt, observing that gypsies were thieves, and that they hardly got anything to eat, and had nothing to drive but a donkey.

To-day, however, Maggie thought her misery had reached a pitch at which gypsydom was her only refuge, and she rose from her seat on the roots of the tree with the sense that this was a great crisis in her life. She would run straight away till she came to Dunlow Common, where there would certainly be gypsies; and cruel Tom, and the rest of her relations who found fault with her, should never see her any more. She thought of her father, as she ran along, but determined that she would secretly send him a letter by a small gypsy, who would run away without telling where she was, and just let him know that she was well and happy and always loved him very much.

It seemed to Maggie that she had been running a very great distance indeed, and it was really surprising that the Common did not come within sight. At last, however, the green fields came to an end, and she found herself looking through the bars of a gate into a lane with a wide margin of grass on each side of it. She crept through the bars and walked on with a new spirit. It was not, however, without a leaping of the heart that she caught sight of a small pair of bare legs sticking up, feet uppermost, by the side of a hillock. It was a boy asleep, and she trotted along faster and more lightly, lest she should wake him. It did not occur to her that he was one of her friends, the gypsies, who probably would have very kindly manners. But the fact was so, for at the next bend in the lane she really saw the little black tent with the blue smoke rising before it, which was to be her refuge. She even saw a tall female figure by the column of smoke, doubtless the gypsy mother, who provided the tea and other groceries.

It was plain she had attracted attention. For the tall figure, who proved to be a young woman with a baby on her arm, walked slowly to meet her.

“My little lady, where are you going?” the gypsy said, in a coaxing tone.

It was delightful, and just what she expected. The gypsies saw at once that she was a little lady, and were prepared to treat her accordingly.

“Not any farther,” said Maggie, feeling as if she were saying what she had rehearsed in a dream. “I’m coming to stay with _you_, please.”

“That’s pretty; come, then. Why, what a nice little lady you are, to be sure!” said the gypsy, taking her by the hand. Maggie thought her very agreeable, but wished she had not been so dirty.

There was quite a group round the fire when they reached it. An old gypsy woman was seated on the ground nursing her knees, and poking a skewer into the round kettle that sent forth an odorous steam. Two small shock-headed children were lying prone and resting on their elbows; and a placid donkey was bending his head over a tall girl, who, lying on her back, was scratching his nose and indulging him with a bite of excellent stolen hay.

The slanting sunlight fell kindly upon them, and the scene was really very pretty and comfortable, Maggie thought, only she hoped they would soon set out the teacups.

At last the old woman said: “What! my pretty lady, are you come to stay with us? Sit down and tell us where you come from.”

It was just like a story. Maggie liked to be called pretty lady and treated in this way. She sat down, and said:--

“I’m come from home because I’m unhappy, and I mean to be a gypsy. I’ll live with you if you like, and I can teach you a great many things.”

“Such a clever little lady,” said the woman with the baby, sitting down by Maggie, and allowing the baby to crawl. “And such a pretty bonnet and frock,” she added, taking off Maggie’s bonnet, and looking at it while she made a remark to the old woman, in an unknown language. The tall girl snatched the bonnet and put it on her own head hind-foremost, with a grin. But Maggie was determined not to show any weakness on this subject.

“I don’t want to wear a bonnet,” she said; “I’d rather wear a red handkerchief, like yours.”

“Oh, what a nice little lady!--and rich, I’m sure,” said the old woman. “Didn’t you live in a beautiful house at home?”

“Yes; my home is pretty, and I’m very fond of the river, where we go fishing, but I’m often very unhappy. I should have liked to bring my books with me, but I came away in a hurry, you know. But I can tell you almost everything there is in my books; I’ve read them so many times, and that will amuse you. And I can tell you something about geography, too,--that’s about the world we live in,--very useful and interesting. Did you ever hear about Columbus?”

“Is that where you live, my little lady?” said the old woman, at the mention of Columbus.

“Oh, no!” said Maggie, with some pity. “Columbus was a very wonderful man, who found out half the world, and they put chains on him and treated him very badly, you know. It’s in my geography, but perhaps it’s rather too long to tell before tea--I want my tea so.” The last words burst from Maggie, in spite of herself.

“Why, she’s hungry, poor little lady,” said the younger woman. “Give her some of the cold victuals. You’ve been walking a good way, I’ll be bound, my dear. Where’s your home?”

“It’s Dorlcote Mill, a long way off,” said Maggie. “My father is Mr. Tulliver, but we musn’t let him know where I am, or he will take me home again. Where does the queen of the gypsies live?”

“What! do you want to go to her, my little lady?” said the younger woman. The tall girl, meanwhile, was constantly staring at Maggie and grinning. Her manners were certainly not agreeable.

“No,” said Maggie; “I’m only thinking that if she isn’t a very good queen you might be glad when she died, and you could choose another. If I were a queen, I’d be a very good queen, and kind to everybody.”

“Here’s a bit of nice victuals, then,” said the old woman, handing to Maggie a lump of dry bread, which she had taken from a bag of scraps, and a piece of cold bacon.

“Thank you,” said Maggie, looking at the food without taking it; “but will you give me some bread and butter and tea, instead? I don’t like bacon.”

“We’ve got no tea or butter,” said the old woman, with something like a scowl, as if she were getting tired of coaxing.

“Oh, a little bread and treacle would do,” said Maggie.

“We’ve got no treacle,” said the old woman, crossly.

Then the old woman, seeming to forget Maggie’s hunger, poked the skewer into the pot with new vigor, and the younger crept under the tent and reached out some platters and spoons. Maggie trembled a little, and was afraid the tears would come into her eyes. But the springing tears were checked by new terror, when two men came up. The elder of the two carried a bag, which he flung down, addressing the women in a loud and scolding tone.

Both the men now seemed to be asking about Maggie, for they looked at her. At last the younger woman said in her coaxing tone, “This nice little lady’s come to live with us; aren’t you glad?”

“Ay, very glad,” said the younger man, who was looking at Maggie’s silver thimble and other small matters that had been taken from her pocket. He returned them all, except the thimble, to the younger woman, with some remark, and she put them again in Maggie’s pocket. The men seated themselves, and began to attack the contents of the kettle,--a stew of meat and potatoes,--which had been taken off the fire and turned out into a yellow platter.

Maggie began to think that Tom must be right about the gypsies; they must certainly be thieves, unless the man meant to return her thimble by and by. She would willingly have given it to him, for she was not at all attached to her thimble. But the idea that she was among thieves prevented her from feeling any comfort. The women saw that she was frightened.

“We’ve nothing nice for a lady to eat,” said the old woman. “And she’s so hungry, sweet little lady.”

“Here, my dear, try if you can eat a bit of this,” said the younger woman, handing some of the stew in a brown dish, with an iron spoon, to Maggie, who remembered that the old woman had seemed angry with her for not liking the bread and bacon, and dared not refuse the stew, though fear had chased away her appetite. If her father would only come by in the gig and take her up!

“What! you don’t like the smell of it, my dear,” said the young woman, observing that Maggie did not even take a spoonful of the stew. “Try a bit, come.”

“No, thank you,” said Maggie, trying to smile in a friendly way. “I haven’t time, I think; it seems getting darker. I think I must go home now, and come again another day, and then I can bring you a basket with some jam tarts and things.”

Maggie rose from her seat; but her hope sank when the old gypsy woman said, “Stop a bit, stop a bit, little lady; we’ll take you home, all safe, when we’ve done supper; you shall ride home, like a lady.”

Maggie sat down again, with little faith in this promise, though she presently saw the tall girl putting a bridle on the donkey, and throwing a couple of bags on his back.

“Now, then, little missis,” said the younger man, rising, and leading the donkey forward, “tell us where you live; what’s the name of the place?”

“Dorlcote Mill is my home,” said Maggie, eagerly. “My father is Mr. Tulliver; he lives there.”

“What! a big mill a little way this side of St. Ogg’s?”

“Yes,” said Maggie. “Is it far off? I think I should like to walk there, if you please.”

“No, no, it’ll be getting dark; we must make haste. And the donkey’ll carry you as nice as can be; you’ll see.”

He lifted Maggie as he spoke, and set her on the donkey. She felt relieved that it was not the old man who was going with her, but she had only a trembling hope that she was really going home.

“Here’s your pretty bonnet,” said the younger woman, putting it on Maggie’s head; “and you’ll say we’ve been very good to you, won’t you? and what a nice little lady we said you were.”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” said Maggie; “I’m very much obliged to you. But I wish you’d go with me, too.” She thought that anything was better than going with one of the dreadful men alone.

“Ah, you’re fondest of me, aren’t you?” said the woman. “But I can’t go; you’ll go too fast for me.”

It now appeared that the man also was to be seated on the donkey, holding Maggie before him, and no nightmare had ever seemed to her more horrible. When the woman had patted her on the back, and said “Good-by,” the donkey set off at a rapid walk along the lane towards the point Maggie had come from an hour ago.

At last--oh, sight of joy!--this lane, the longest in the world, was coming to an end, was opening on a broad highroad, where there was actually a coach passing! And there was a finger-post at the corner,--she had surely seen that finger-post before,--“To St. Ogg’s, 2 miles.”

The gypsy really meant to take her home, then; he was probably a good man, after all, and might have been rather hurt at the thought that she didn’t like coming with him alone. This idea became stronger as she felt more and more certain that she knew the road quite well. She was thinking how she might open a conversation with the injured gypsy, when, as they reached a cross-road, Maggie caught sight of some one coming on a white-faced horse.

“Oh, stop, stop!” she cried out. “There’s my father! Oh, father, father!”

The sudden joy was almost painful, and before her father reached her, she was sobbing. Great was Mr. Tulliver’s wonder, for he had made a round from Basset, and had not yet been home.

“Why, what’s the meaning of this?” he said, checking his horse, while Maggie slipped from the donkey and ran to her father’s stirrup.

“The little miss lost herself, I reckon,” said the gypsy. “She’d come to our tent at the far end of Dunlow Lane, and I was bringing her where she said her home was. It’s a good way to come after being on the tramp all day.”

“Oh, yes, father, he’s been very good to bring me home,” said Maggie. “A very kind, good man!”

“Here, then, my man,” said Mr. Tulliver, taking out five shillings. “It’s the best day’s work you ever did. I couldn’t afford to lose the little lass; here, lift her up before me.”

“Why, Maggie, how’s this, how’s this?” he said, as they rode along, while she laid her head against her father and sobbed. “How came you to be rambling about and lose yourself?”

“Oh, father,” sobbed Maggie, “I ran away because I was so unhappy. Tom was so angry with me. I couldn’t bear it.”

“Pooh, pooh,” said Mr. Tulliver, soothingly; “you mustn’t think of running away from father. What would father do without his little lass?”

“Oh, no; I never shall again, father--never.”

Mr. Tulliver spoke his mind very strongly when he reached home that evening; and the effect was seen in the fact that Maggie never heard one reproach from her mother or one taunt from Tom about this foolish business of her running away to the gypsies.--GEORGE ELIOT.

* * * * *

He is idle that might be better employed.

LADY CLARE

It was the time when lilies blow,
And clouds are highest up in air,
Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe
To give his cousin, Lady Clare.

I trow they did not part in scorn:
Lovers long-betroth’d were they:
They two will wed the morrow morn:
God’s blessing on the day!

“He does not love me for my birth,
Nor for my lands so broad and fair;
He loves me for my own true worth,
And that is well,” said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice the nurse,
Said, “Who was this that went from thee?”
“It was my cousin,” said Lady Clare,
“To-morrow he weds with me.”

“O God be thank’d!” said Alice the nurse,
“That all comes round so just and fair:
Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands,
And you are not the Lady Clare.”

“Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?”
Said Lady Clare, “that ye speak so wild?”
“As God’s above,” said Alice the nurse,
“I speak the truth: you are my child.

“The old Earl’s daughter died at my breast;
I speak the truth, as I live by bread!
I buried her like my own sweet child,
And put my child in her stead.”

“Falsely, falsely have ye done,
O mother,” she said, “if this be true,
To keep the best man under the sun
So many years from his due.”

“Nay now, my child,” said Alice the nurse,
“But keep the secret for your life,
And all you have will be Lord Ronald’s,
When you are man and wife.”

“If I’m a beggar born,” she said,
“I will speak out, for I dare not lie.
Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold,
And fling the diamond necklace by.”

“Nay now, my child,” said Alice the nurse,
“But keep the secret all ye can.”
She said, “Not so: but I will know
If there be any faith in man.”

“Nay now, what faith?” said Alice the nurse,
“The man will cleave unto his right.”
“And he shall have it,” the Lady replied,
“Tho’ I should die to-night.”

“Yet give one kiss to your mother dear!
Alas, my child, I sinn’d for thee.”
“O mother, mother, mother,” she said,
“So strange it seems to me.

“Yet here’s a kiss for my mother dear,
My mother dear, if this be so,
And lay your hand upon my head,
And bless me, mother, ere I go.”

She clad herself in a russet gown,
She was no longer Lady Clare:
She went by dale and she went by down
With a single rose in her hair.

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought
Leapt up from where she lay,
Dropt her head in the maiden’s hand,
And follow’d her all the way.

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower:
“O Lady Clare, you shame your worth!
Why come you drest like a village maid,
That are the flower of the earth?”

“If I come drest like a village maid,
I am but as my fortunes are:
I am a beggar born,” she said,
“And not the Lady Clare.”

“Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald,
“For I am yours in word and in deed.
Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald,
“Your riddle is hard to read.”

O and proudly stood she up!
Her heart within her did not fail:
She look’d into Lord Ronald’s eyes,
And told him all her nurse’s tale.

He laugh’d a laugh of merry scorn:
He turn’d and kiss’d her where she stood:
“If you are not the heiress born,
And I,” said he, “the next in blood--

“If you are not the heiress born,
And I,” said he, “the lawful heir,
We two will wed to-morrow morn,
And you shall still be Lady Clare.”
--ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

THE BRITISH EMPIRE

Not by the power of Commerce, Art, or Pen,
Shall our great Empire stand, nor has it stood,
But by the noble deeds of noble men--
Heroic lives and heroes’ outpoured blood.
--FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT.

DON QUIXOTE AND THE LION

Absorbed in his thoughts, Don Quixote, the famous knight, had not proceeded more than half a league on his journey when, raising his head, he perceived a cart covered with royal flags coming along the road they were travelling, and, persuaded that this must be some new adventure, he called aloud to Sancho, his squire, to bring him his helmet. As the squire approached, he called to him: “Give me that helmet, my friend, for either I know little of adventures or what I observe yonder is one that will, and does, call on me to arm myself.”

By the time that Don Quixote had put on his helmet, the cart with the flags had come up, unattended by any one except the carter on a mule, and a man sitting before the door of the cart. The knight planted himself before it, and said: “Where are you going, brothers? What cart is this? What have you got in it? What flags are those?”

To this the carter replied: “The cart is mine; what is in it is a pair of fine caged lions, which the governor of Oran is sending to court as a present to his Majesty, and the flags are our lord the king’s, to show that this is his property.”

“Are the lions large?” asked Don Quixote.

“So large,” replied the man who sat at the door of the cart, “that larger have never crossed from Africa to Spain. I am the keeper, and I have brought over others, but never any like these. They are hungry now, for they have eaten nothing to-day, so let your worship stand aside, for we must make haste to the place where we are to feed them.”

Hereon, smiling slightly, Don Quixote exclaimed: “Get down, my good fellow, and as you are the keeper, open the cages and turn out those beasts, and in the midst of this plain, I shall let them know who Don Quixote of La Mancha is, in spite and in the teeth of the enchanters who sent them to me.”

At this instant Sancho came up, saying to the keeper of the lions: “Sir, do something to keep my master, Don Quixote, from fighting those lions; for if he does, they’ll tear us all to pieces here.”

“Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “you leave this business to me;” and then turning to the keeper, he exclaimed: “By all that’s good, Sir Keeper, if you do not open the cages this very instant, I shall pin you to the cart with this lance.”

The carter, seeing the determination of the knight, said to him: “Please your worship, let me unyoke the mules, and place myself in safety along with them before the lions are turned out, for if they kill the mules, I am ruined for life. All I possess is this cart and mules.”

“O man of little faith,” replied Don Quixote, “get down and unyoke. You shall soon see that you are exerting yourself for nothing, and that you might have spared yourself the trouble.”

The carter got down, and with all speed unyoked the mules, and the keeper called out at the top of his voice: “I call all here to witness that against my will and under compulsion I open the cages and let the lions loose, and that I warn this gentleman that he shall be accountable for all the harm and mischief which these beasts may do, and for my salary and dues as well.” Then, speaking to the carter and Sancho, he said: “You, gentlemen, place yourselves in safety before I open, for I know they will do me no harm.”

Sancho, with tears in his eyes, entreated his master to give up the enterprise. “Look ye, señor,” said he, “there’s no enchantment here, not anything of the sort; for between the bars and chinks of the cage I have seen the paw of a real lion, and judging by that, I reckon that such a paw should belong to a lion much bigger than a mountain.”

“Fear, at any rate,” replied Don Quixote, “will make him look bigger to thee than half the world. Retire, Sancho, and leave me. I say no more.” And renewing his commands to the keeper, and repeating his threats, he gave warning to Sancho to spur his horse, and to the carter to drive away his mules. Both Sancho and the carter did not disobey the commands of the knight, but strove to get away from the cart before the lions broke loose.

During the delay that occurred while the keeper was opening the cage, Don Quixote was considering whether it would not be well to do battle on foot instead of on horseback, and he finally resolved to fight on foot, fearing that his horse might take fright at the sight of the lions. He therefore sprang to the ground, flung his lance aside, braced his buckler on his arm, and drawing his sword, advanced slowly with resolute courage, to plant himself in front of the cart. The keeper, seeing that the knight had taken up his position, and that it was impossible for him to avoid letting out the lions without getting into trouble, flung open the doors of the cage containing the lion, which was now seen to be of enormous size and grim and hideous mien.

The first thing the lion did was to turn round in the cage in which he lay, and protrude his claws and stretch himself thoroughly. He next opened his mouth and yawned very leisurely. When he had done this, he put his head out of the cage and looked all round with eyes like glowing coals. Don Quixote merely observed him steadily, longing for him to leap from the cart and come to close quarters with him, when he hoped to hew him to pieces. But the noble beast turned about and very coolly and tranquilly lay down again in the cage. Seeing this, Don Quixote ordered the keeper to take a stick to him and provoke him, to make him come out.

“That I will not,” said the keeper; “for if I anger him, the first he’ll tear in pieces will be myself. Be satisfied, Sir Knight, with what you have done, which leaves nothing more to be said on the score of courage, and do not seek to tempt fortune a second time. The lion has the door open; he is free to come out or not to come out; but as he has not come out so far, he will not come out to-day. The greatness of your worship’s courage has been fully manifested already; no brave champion, so it strikes me, is bound to do more than challenge his enemy and wait for him on the field. If his adversary does not come, on him lies the disgrace, and he who waits for him carries off the crown of victory.”

“That is true,” said Don Quixote; “close the door, my friend, and let me have by way of certificate in the best form thou canst what thou hast seen me do. Close the door, as I bade thee, while I make signals to the fugitives that have left us, that they may learn this exploit from thy lips.”

The keeper obeyed, and Don Quixote, fixing his handkerchief on the point of his lance, proceeded to recall the others, who still continued to fly, looking back at every step. Sancho, however, happening to observe the signal, exclaimed: “May I die if my master has not overcome the wild beasts, for he is calling to us.”

They stopped, and, perceiving that it was Don Quixote who was making signals, they approached slowly until they were near enough to hear him distinctly calling to them. They returned at length to the cart, and as they came up, Don Quixote said to the carter: “Put your mules to the cart once more, brother, and continue your journey; and do thou, Sancho, give him two gold crowns for himself and the keeper, to compensate them for the delay they have incurred through me.”

Sancho paid the crowns, the keeper kissed Don Quixote’s hands for the bounty bestowed on him, and promised to give an account of the valiant exploit to the king himself, as soon as he saw him at court. The cart went its way, and Don Quixote and Sancho went theirs.

--MIGUEL DE CERVANTES.

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM

It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar’s work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh:
“’Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he,
“Who fell in the great victory.

“I find them in the garden,
For there’s many here about;
And often when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out!
For many thousand men,” said he,
“Were slain in that great victory.”

“Now tell us what ’twas all about,”
Young Peterkin, he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up,
With wonder-waiting eyes;
“Now tell us all about the war,
And what they fought each other for.”

“It was the English,” Kaspar cried,
“Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for,
I could not well make out;
But everybody said,” quoth he,
“That ’twas a famous victory.

“My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.

“With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,
And many a nursing mother then
And new-born baby died;
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

“They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun;
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.

“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won,
And our good Prince Eugene.”
“Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!”
Said little Wilhelmine.
“Nay--nay--my little girl,” quoth he,
“It was a famous victory.

“And everybody praised the Duke,
Who this great fight did win.”
“But what good came of it at last?”
Quoth little Peterkin.
“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he,
“But ’twas a famous victory.”
--ROBERT SOUTHEY.

A HURON MISSION HOUSE

By the ancient Huron custom, when a man or a family wanted a house, the whole village joined in building one. In the present case the neighboring town also took part in the work. Before October the task was finished.

The house was constructed after the Huron model. It was thirty-six feet long and about twenty feet wide, framed with strong sapling poles planted in the earth to form the sides, with the ends bent into an arch for the roof,--the whole lashed firmly together, braced with cross poles, and closely covered with overlapping sheets of bark.

Without, the structure was strictly Indian; but within, the priests, with the aid of their tools, made changes which were the astonishment of all the country. They divided their dwelling by transverse partitions into three apartments, each with its wooden door,--a wondrous novelty in the eyes of their visitors. The first served as a hall, an anteroom, and a place of storage for corn, beans, and dried fish. The second--the largest of the three--was at once kitchen, workshop, dining-room, drawing-room, school-room, and bedchamber. The third was the chapel. Here they made their altar, and here were their images, pictures, and sacred vessels.

Their fire was on the ground, in the middle of the second apartment, the smoke escaping by a hole in the roof. At the sides were placed two wide platforms, after the Huron fashion, four feet from the earthen floor. On these were chests in which they kept their clothing, and beneath them they slept, reclining on sheets of bark, and covered with skins and the garments they wore by day. Rude stools, a hand-mill, an Indian mortar for crushing corn, and a clock completed the furniture of the room.

There was no lack of visitors, for the house contained marvels the fame of which was noised abroad to the uttermost confines of the Huron nation. Chief among them was the clock. The guests would sit in expectant silence by the hour, squatted on the ground, waiting to hear it strike. They thought it was alive, and asked what it ate. As the last stroke sounded, one of the Frenchmen would cry “Stop!”--and to the admiration of the company the obedient clock was silent. The mill was another wonder, and they never tired of turning it. Besides these, there was a prism and a magnet; also a magnifying glass, wherein a flea was transformed to a frightful monster, and a multiplying lens which showed them the same object eleven times repeated.

“What does the Captain say?” was the frequent question; for by this title of honor they designated the clock.

“When he strikes twelve times he says, ‘Hang on the kettle’; and when he strikes four times he says, ‘Get up and go home.’”

Both interpretations were remembered. At noon visitors were never wanting; but at the stroke of four all arose and departed, leaving the missionaries for a time in peace.--FRANCIS PARKMAN.

THE BURIAL OF MOSES

By Nebo’s lonely mountain,
On this side Jordan’s wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab
There lies a lonely grave;
And no man knows that sepulchre,
And no man saw it e’er,
For the angels of God upturn’d the sod,
And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral
That ever pass’d on earth;
But no man heard the trampling,
Or saw the train go forth--
Noiselessly as the daylight
Comes back when night is done,
And the crimson streak on ocean’s cheek
Grows into the great sun;

Noiselessly as the spring-time
Her crown of verdure weaves,
And all the trees on all the hills
Open their thousand leaves;
So without sound of music,
Or voice of them that wept,
Silently down from the mountain’s crown,
The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle
On gray Beth-peor’s height
Out of his lonely eyrie
Look’d on the wondrous sight;
Perchance the lion stalking
Still shuns that hallow’d spot,
For beast and bird have seen and heard
That which man knoweth not.

But when the warrior dieth,
His comrades in the war,
With arms reversed and muffled drum,
Follow his funeral car;
They show the banners taken,
They tell his battles won,
And after him lead his masterless steed,
While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land,
We lay the sage to rest,
And give the bard an honor’d place,
With costly marble dressed,
In the great minster transept,
Where lights like glories fall,
And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings,
Along the emblazon’d wall.

This was the truest warrior
That ever buckled sword;
This the most gifted poet
That ever breathed a word;
And never earth’s philosopher
Traced with his golden pen
On the deathless page truths half so sage
As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor--
The hillside for a pall,
To lie in state while angels wait
With stars for tapers tall,
And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes,
Over his bier to wave,
And God’s own hand in that lonely land
To lay him in the grave,--

In that strange grave without a name,
Whence his uncoffin’d clay
Shall break again, O wondrous thought,
Before the judgment-day,
And stand with glory wrapt around
On the hills he never trod,
And speak of the strife that won our life
With the Incarnate Son of God?

O lonely grave in Moab’s land!
O dark Beth-peor’s hill!
Speak to these curious hearts of ours
And teach them to be still.
God hath His mysteries of grace,
Ways that we cannot tell;
He hides them deep like the hidden sleep
Of him He loved so well.
--CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER.

THE CRUISE OF THE CORACLE

It was broad day when I awoke, and found myself tossing at the south-west end of Treasure Island. I was scarcely a quarter of a mile to seaward, and it was my first thought to paddle in and land. But that notion was soon given over. Among the fallen rocks the breakers spouted and bellowed; loud reverberations, heavy sprays flying and falling, succeeded one another from second to second; and I saw myself, if I ventured nearer, dashed to death upon the rough shore, or spending my strength in vain to scale the beetling crags.

Nor was that all; for crawling together on flat tables of rock, or letting themselves drop into the sea with loud reports, I beheld huge slimy monsters,--soft snails, as it were, of incredible bigness,--two or three score of them together, making the rocks to echo with their barkings. I have understood since that they were sea-lions, and entirely harmless. But the look of them, added to the difficulty of the shore and the high running of the surf, was more than enough to disgust me with that landing-place. I felt willing rather to starve at sea than to confront such perils.

There was a great, smooth swell upon the sea. The wind blowing steady and gentle from the south, there was no contrariety between that and the current, and the billows rose and fell unbroken. Had it been otherwise, I must long ago have perished; but as it was, it is surprising how easily and securely my little and light boat could ride. Often, as I still lay at the bottom, and kept no more than an eye above the gunwale, I would see a big blue summit heaving close above me; yet the coracle would but bounce a little, dance as if on springs, and subside on the other side into the trough as lightly as a bird.

I began after a little to grow very bold, and sat up to try my skill at paddling. But even a small change in the disposition of the weight will produce violent changes in the behavior of a coracle. And I had hardly moved before the boat, giving up at once her gentle dancing movement, ran straight down a slope of water so steep that it made me giddy, and stuck her nose, with a spout of spray, deep into the side of the next wave.

I was drenched and terrified, and fell instantly back into my old position, whereupon the coracle seemed to find her head again, and led me as softly as before among the billows. It was plain she was not to be interfered with, and at that rate, since I could in no way influence her course, what hope had I left of reaching land?

I began to be horribly frightened, but I kept my head, for all that. First, moving with all care, I gradually bailed out the coracle with my sea-cap; then getting my eye once more above the gunwale, I set myself to study how it was she managed to slip so quietly through the rollers. I found each wave, instead of the big, smooth, glossy mountain it looks from the shore, or from a vessel’s deck, was for all the world like any range of hills on the dry land, full of peaks and smooth places and valleys. The coracle, left to herself, turning from side to side, threaded, so to speak, her way through these lower parts, and avoided the steep slopes and higher toppling summits of the wave.

“Well, now,” thought I to myself, “it is plain I must lie where I am, and not disturb the balance; but it is plain, also, that I can put the paddle over the side, and from time to time, in smooth places, give her a shove or two towards land.”