Chapter D: Bethune Duffield (3)

The Turk cried out, "Oh, no, no! for pity's sake don't let him! don't let him!" But the judge said, "Why should I not grant him this last request? He shall do so." The fact was, he _could not_ say no, because the dwarf's third gift enabled Fritz to make everyone grant whatever he asked. Then the Turk said, "Bind me fast, bind me fast, bind me fast, for pity's sake!" But the condemned man seized his fiddle and struck up a merry tune; and at the first note, judge, clerks, and jailor were set agoing; at the second note, all began capering and the hangman let his prisoner go, and prepared to dance; at the third note all were dancing and springing together, and the judge and the Turk took the lead and sprang the highest.

In a little while all the market people who were looking on, old and young, stout and lean, were dancing together; even the very dogs that had come along with them were up on their hind legs, and were leaping along with the rest. And the longer the fiddler played, the higher the dancers capered, so that they knocked their heads together and began to cry out piteously.

At last the judge exclaimed, quite out of breath, "I grant you your life; do but give over playing." Then Fritz suffered himself to be persuaded, stopped playing, and, hanging his fiddle round his neck, came down the ladder. Then, stepping up to the Turk, who was lying breathless on the ground, he said, "You scoundrel! now confess where you got that money from, or I will take my fiddle down and make you dance to another tune." "I stole it, I stole it!" cried he; "but it is you who have won it fairly." The judge then had the Turk taken to the gallows and hung as a thief.

* * * * *

The sober second thought is always essential, and seldom wrong.

MARTIN VAN BUREN.

LITTLE LOTTIE'S GRIEVANCE.

PAUL H. HAYNE.

Mamma's in Heaven! and so, you see,
My sister Bet's mamma to me.

Oh! yes, I love her!...that's to say,
I love her well the whole bright _day_;
For Sis is kind as kind can be,
Until, indeed, we've finished tea--
Then (why _did_ God make ugly night?)
She never, _never_ treats me right.
But always says, "Now Sleepy-Head,
'Tis getting late! come up to bed!"

Just when the others, Fred and Fay,
Dolly and Dick, are keen for play,--
Card-houses, puzzles, painted blocks,
Cat-corner, and pert Jack-in-the-box--

I must (it's that bad gas, I think,
That makes me, somehow, _seem_ to wink!)
_Must_ leave them all, to seek the gloom
Of sister Bet's close-curtained room,
Put on that long, stiff gown I hate,
And go to bed--oh, dear! at eight!

"GHOSTS."]

Now, is it fair that I who stand
Taller than Dolly by a hand,
(I'll not believe, howe'er 'tis told,
That Cousin Doll is ten years old!)
And just because I'm only seven,
Should be so teazed, yes, almost _driven_,
Soon as I've supped my milk and bread,
To that old drowsy, frowsy bed?

I've lain between the dusky posts,
And shivered when I thought of ghosts;
Or else have grown so mad, you know,
To hear those laughing romps below,
While there I yawned and stretched (poor me!)
With one dim lamp for company.
I've longed for courage, just to dare
Dress softly--then trip down the stair,
And in the parlor pop my head
With "_No, I will not stay a-bed!_"

I'll do it yet, all quick and bold,
No matter how our Bet may scold,
For oh! I'm sure it can't be right
To keep me here each dismal night,
Half scared by shadows grimly tall
That dance along the cheerless wall
Or by the wind, with fingers chill,
Shaking the worn-out window sill--
One might as well be sick, or dead,
As sent, by eight o'clock, to bed!

THERE IS NO DEATH.

LORD LYTTON.

There is no death! The stars go down
To rise upon some fairer shore;
And bright in Heaven's jeweled crown
They shine forevermore.

There is no death! The dust we tread
Shall change beneath the summer showers
To golden grain or mellowed fruit,
Or rainbow-tinted flowers.

The granite rocks disorganize,
And feed the hungry moss they bear;
The forest leaves drink daily life,
From out the viewless air.

There is no death! The leaves may fall,
And flowers may fade and pass away;
They only wait through wintry hours,
The coming of the May.

There is no death! An angel form
Walks o'er the earth with silent tread;
He bears our best loved things away;
And then we call them "dead."

He leaves our hearts all desolate,
He plucks our fairest, sweetest, flowers;
Transplanted into bliss, they now
Adorn immortal bowers.

The bird-like voice, whose joyous tones,
Made glad these scenes of sin and strife,
Sing now an everlasting song,
Around the tree of life.

Where'er he sees a smile too bright,
Or heart too pure for taint and vice,
He bears it to that world of light,
To dwell in Paradise.

Born unto that undying life,
They leave us but to come again;
With joy we welcome them the same--
_Except_ their sin and pain.

And ever near us, though unseen,
The dear immortal spirits tread;
For all the boundless universe
Is life--_there are no dead_.

THE SIEGE OF TROY.

OR THE STORY OF THE WOODEN HORSE.

Troy was one of the most noted cities of ancient times, and was situated in the northwestern part of Asia Minor.

Much of its history is obscured by uncertainty and mystery, yet Homer in his Iliad has told the most interesting part of the history of this great city.

At the time of which Homer wrote, Priam was king of Troy, and Paris, his son, was, like many young men, always getting his father into trouble; the one of which we now write resulting in the complete destruction of Troy.

Paris went to visit the Grecian princes and kings, all of whom treated him in the most hospitable manner.

Helen, the most beautiful woman of the age, was the wife of Men-a-la-us, king of Sparta, and one day when her husband was away, she eloped with the handsome Paris, who took her to Troy.

When Men-a-la-us discovered what Paris had done, he called upon all the Greek princes and heroes to make war upon Troy and assist him in recovering the faithless Helen.

The command of the expedition was given to Ag-a-mem-non, brother of Men-a-la-us. The whole army set sail in twelve hundred ships and soon arrived at the port of Troy. The war lasted for ten years, and it was not till the last year that the Greeks succeeded in taking the city, and then only by strategy.

Paris was killed long before the war was over, but the Trojans would not then give up Helen, for two of his brothers had fallen in love with her, and so the war went on.

There was in Troy an _image_ called the Pal-la-di-um, and the gods, some of whom helped the Greeks and some the Trojans, had decreed that so long as this image remained within the walls, Troy should never be taken.

When the Greeks found this out, they set to work to obtain the image. One night, Ulysses, the great hero, scaled the wall and stole the wonderful Pal-la-di-um. Still the city held out and it seemed impossible to take it.

At last the Greeks pretended to abandon the siege; their ships sailed away and it really seemed as though the long and bloody war was at an end.

The Trojans were filled with joy, and rushed out of the city and down to the shore. Judge of their surprise at finding an immense _wooden horse_, built of strong timbers and so large that it would require several thousand men to move it. Of course they did not understand it, but an old man named Sinon, who had been left on purpose by the Greeks, falsely said that the wooden horse was a sacred image and that if it were taken into Troy it would be the same to them as the image Ulysses stole at night.

Though warned of this man Sinon, they set to work and by means of rollers and pulleys the great horse was taken inside the walls.

Then followed one of the most dreadful massacres. The horse was full of Greeks armed with torches and lances. As soon as night fell, they opened a secret door in the horse and were quickly upon the sleeping Trojans. The Greek ships, which really were hiding along the coast, returned, and the soldiers poured in at the gates, which had been opened by their allies from the great horse. With torch and lance the city was soon in flames, and its defenders struggling against fearful odds.

The morning found Troy in ashes, her wealth in the hands of the Greeks, and her inhabitants dead or in slavery.

Priam was slain at his own family altar, and the beautiful but perfidious Helen, the cause of so much bloodshed and misery, the cause of the overthrow of one of the greatest cities of ancient times, was taken captive by her former people.

* * * * *

Think for thyself--one good idea,
But known to be thine own,
Is better than a thousand gleaned
From fields by others sown.

WILSON.

GEORGE NIDIVER.

BRET HARTE.

Men have done brave deeds,
And bards have sung them well:
I, of good George Nidiver,
Now the tale will tell.

In California mountains,
A hunter bold was he.
Keen his eye and sure his aim
As any you should see.

A little Indian boy
Followed him everywhere,
Eager to share the hunter's joy,
The hunter's meal to share.

And when the bird or deer,
Fell by the hunter's skill,
The boy was always near
To help with right good will,

One day, as through the cleft,
Between two mountains steep,
Shut in both right and left,
Their weary way they keep;

They see two grizzly bears,
With hunger fierce and fell,
Rush at them unawares,
Right down the narrow dell.

The boy turned round, with screams,
And ran with terror wild;
One of the pair of savage beasts
Pursued the shrieking child.

The hunter raised his gun;
He knew one charge was all;
And through the boy's pursuing foe
He sent his only ball.

The other on George Nidiver,
Came on with dreadful pace;
The hunter stood unarmed
And met him face to face.

I say unarmed he stood:
Against those frightful paws
The rifle-butt or club of wood
Could stand no more than straws.

George Nidiver stood still,
And looked him in the face;
The wild beast stopped amazed,
Then came on with slackening pace.

Still firm the hunter stood
Although his heart beat high;
Again the creature stopped,
And gazed with wondering eye.

The hunter met his gaze,
Nor yet an inch gave way:
The bear turned slowly round,
And slowly moved away.

What thoughts were in his mind,
It would be hard to spell;
What thoughts were in George Nidiver's,
I rather guess than tell.

But sure that rifle's aim,
Swift choice of generous part,
Showed in its passing gleam
The depth of a brave heart.

MARCH AND THE BOYS.

MARY D. BRINE.

March, you're a jolly old fellow, I know;
They may call you a _blustering_ old chap, but you blow
For us boys and our kites and we don't care a fig,
For the hats and the dust that go dancing a jig.

Puff out, you old fellow, blow hard or blow high,
At our _kites_ you may bluster, and "_blow_ them sky-high!"
Nobody will find any fault, but the girls--
And _they_ make a fuss 'cause you "_blow_ out their curls!"

You're just _our_ own season--we've waited for you;
And our kites are all ready, so strong and so new,
You jolly old fellow, if _you_ were a boy,
_You'd know_ why the March-month gives us such joy.

It is fun to stand high on the top of a hill,
And pay out your string--let it run with a will;
It is fun to "hold hard" while your kite pulls away,
And the wind blows a gale! ah! kite-flying is gay.

The ladies complain that you "_blow off their veils_,"
But never you mind, give no heed to their tales,
Devote yourself wholly to boys and their kites,
And trust to the _boys_ to fight hard for your rights.

For, March, you're the jolliest old fellow we know,
And we like you the better, the harder you blow!
When you marched in upon us, we gave you a shout,
And we'll miss you at last, when 'tis time to _march out_.

THE CRUSADES.

OR THE WARS OF THE CROSS.

Adapted from Joseph F. Michaud's History of the Crusades.

It was for a long time the custom among the devout Christians of France, Germany, Italy and England, to make pilgrimages to Jerusalem and pray at the many spots made sacred by the events in the life of Jesus, especially at the Holy Sepulchre.

The people who lived there did not object to these pilgrimages, especially as those who came, spent money and increased their trade.

But about the year A. D. 1020 the Saracen king Hakem, over-ran all of Palestine, destroyed the Christian churches and persecuted the Christians. Pilgrims returning to Europe, spread the news abroad and the whole Christian world became alarmed. But matters grew better for awhile and Christians were not molested, until in 1076 the Turks came into possession of Jerusalem, when they were again subject to all kinds of dangers, and made to pay for the privilege of visiting the Holy Land.

In 1094, Peter the Hermit, a monk, returned from a pilgrimage and began to preach a Holy War--a Crusade, throughout Europe. He went from town to town, calling upon everyone, with fiery eloquence, to join the army.

The effect was magical. People of all classes took the vow to protect the Holy Sepulchre of Jesus;--Kings, knights, nobles, lords, laborers, and even women and children.

Each one bound to his shoulders a _red cross_, as a pledge. By-and-bye they were all ready to march. Over 900,000 were in the vast army. But in their religious zeal, they forgot that they must eat on the way. No food was provided; still they marched on, seeming to expect to be fed in some miraculous manner.

Their route lay through a region very well supplied with provisions, and as they went along, they managed to beg and take by force, enough to supply their necessities.

At last, after many battles and defeats, they reached Jerusalem. Of the 900,000 who started from Europe only 40,000 remained;--the rest had fallen in battle, or died of disease and starvation.

The city was finally taken, "and," says one historian, "Seventy thousand Turks were put to the sword. The Christian knights rode in blood to their horses' knees."

Having recovered the Holy Sepulchre, and established a Christian kingdom at Jerusalem, the greater number went back to Europe and the First Crusade was ended.

The Christian kingdom set up did not last long. There were one thousand Turks to every Christian in Palestine.

A SECOND CRUSADE was organized in 1146, but it resulted in defeat, and so might it be said of six other Crusades, the last of which ended in the complete overthrow of Christians in 1291.

Hundreds of thousands of noble lives had been sacrificed, in a blind fury, to accomplish what might have been done by one army well supplied and equipped.

Without believing that these holy wars did either all the good or all the harm that is attributed to them, it must be admitted that they were a source of bitter sorrow to the generations that saw them or took part in them; but like the ills and tempests of human life, which render man better, and often assist the progress of his reason, they have forwarded the progress of nations.

PRIDE OF NATIVE LAND.

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
"This is my own, my native land!"
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch concenter'd all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung.

WALTER SCOTT: "LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL."

THE CHILDREN'S CRUSADE.

A STRANGE PIECE OF HISTORY.

So great was the religious zeal during this period that even the children were also enlisted in the cause.

At the close of the Fifth Crusade, these little ones were taught that the warriors had failed because of their sins and that it now remained for the weak and innocent to make an effort.

In 1212 not less than 50000 children in France and Germany, braving the anger of parents, gathered together in cities and countries, singing these words; "Lord Jesus, restore to us your holy cross."

They were led by two boys, Stephen of Colyes, and Nicholas of Hungary, though it is probable that older leaders were also present.

When they were asked where they were going, or what they intended to do, they replied, "We are going to Jerusalem to deliver the Sepulchre of our Saviour."

A great portion of them tried to cross the Alps near Mt. Cenis and nearly all perished. Others took another route, and crossing, at an easier pass, arrived in Italy, while most who came from France went to Marseilles.

They had been made to believe that the year 1213 would be very dry and that the heat of the sun would be so great as to dry up the waters of the sea; thus an easy road for pilgrims would be opened across the bed of the Mediterranean sea to Jerusalem.

Finding no dry sea, seven vessels were provided and those who embarked were either ship-wrecked or taken prisoners by the Saracens. Many were lost in the forests then so abundant and large, others perished with heat, hunger, thirst, and fatigue,--and of the fifty thousand who started, few, if any, ever reached home or trod the sands of Palestine.

The narrative of the children's crusade seems too strange to be true, but the facts are stated by the most truthful authors and are worthy of being believed.

THE SOLDIER'S REPRIEVE.

ROSE HARTWICK THORPE.

"My Fred! I can't understand it,"
And his voice, it quivered with pain,
While the tears kept slowly dropping
On his trembling hands like rain:
"For my Fred was so brave and loyal,
So true; but my eyes are dim,
And I cannot read the letter--
The last that I shall get from him.
Please read it, sir, while I listen--
In fancy I see him--dead:
My boy, shot down like a traitor,
My noble, my brave boy, Fred!"

"Dear Father," so ran the letter,
"To-morrow when twilight creeps
Along the hill to the old church-yard,
O'er the grave where mother sleeps,
When the dusky shadows gather,
They'll lay your boy in his grave,
For nearly betraying the country
He would give his life to save.
And, dear Father, I tell you truly,
With almost my latest breath,
That your boy is not a traitor,
Though he dies a traitor's death.

"You remember Bennie Wilson?
He's suffered a deal of pain,
He was only that day ordered
Back into the ranks again;
I carried all of his luggage
With mine, on the march that day;
And I gave my arm to lean on,
Else he had dropped by the way.
'Twas Bennie's turn to be sentry;
But I took his place, and I--
Father, I dropped asleep, and now
I must die as traitors die!

The Colonel is kind and thoughtful,
He has done the best that he can,
And they will not bind or blind me--
I shall meet death like a man.
Kiss little Blossom; but dear Father,
Need you tell her how I fall?"
A sob from the shadowed corner--
Yes, Blossom had heard it all,
And as she kissed the precious letter,
She said with faltering breath:
"Our Fred was never a traitor,
Though he dies a traitors death!"

And a little sun-browned maiden,
In a shabby, time-worn dress,
Took her seat a half-hour later
In the crowded night express.
The conductor heard her story
As he held her dimpled hand,
And sighed for the sad hearts breaking
All over the troubled land.
He tenderly wiped the tear-drops
From the blue eyes brimming o'er,
And guarded her footsteps safely
Till she reached the White House door.

The President sat at his writing;
But the eyes were kind and mild,
That turned with a look of wonder
On the sky-faced child,
And he read Fred's farewell letter
With a look of sad regret.
"'Tis a brave young life," he murmured,
"And his country needs him yet,
From an honored place in battle
He shall bid the world good-bye,
If that brave young life is needed,
He shall die as heroes die!"

THE MAID OF ORLEANS.

A sketch of the life of Joan of Arc.--Adapted from Guizot's History of France.

There are few nations whose history presents so many examples of bravery and love of country, as France. The romantic story of Joan of Arc, commonly called the Maid of Orleans, has not a parallel in either ancient or modern times.

This heroic maid was a farmers daughter, of good life and character. She was occupied in sewing or spinning with her mother, or driving her father's sheep afield, and tending them, a little shepherdess in fact.

In 1428, the English army had laid siege to Orleans, a city of France, and in spite of all their efforts, the French troops found themselves unable to hold the city.

Hearing of the great danger of the army of her country, Joan, though but 16 years of age, demanded to be taken before the French king, saying that the King of Heaven had sent her to help him.

The king was not sure that Joan was truthful, but after talking with her and finding her sincere, he at last decided to send her to join his army. The king gave her a fine black charger, a sword, a complete suit of armor, and a large white banner covered with lilies. In order that she might better fight, she was allowed to supply herself with men's clothing.

When she and her attendants reached the army, great was the surprise of the soldiers; some were ready to mock at the idea of a young maid coming to be the leader of an army, but like good soldiers, they were loyal to their king.

Placing herself at the head of the army, she marched out to meet the English, and after a bloody struggle compelled them to raise the siege and beat a hasty retreat.

Joan, in leading a charge against the enemy, the first day, was struck by an arrow, which passed completely through her shoulder, but she seized the arrow and drew it from the wound with her own hand and had the surgeon dress the wound. Early the next day she was well enough to lead forth the troops and complete the victory begun the day before.

During this year she was able to defeat the English in several other battles. After these victories, the French generals and leaders became jealous of her success, and persuaded the king to give up efforts till the next spring.

This delay was fatal. Profiting by it, the English increased their army and early in May, when Joan led forth her troops, it was to be defeated and made a prisoner.

The English tried her as a witch, or heretic, and she was finally sentenced and burned at the stake on May 30, 1431, three years after she first appeared among the troops.

Years after, as if to undo the terrible crime of burning a sweet, virtuous and heroic girl, another trial was had, the evidence against Joan was all reviewed, and be it said to the everlasting honor of her judges, they decided that she had not been guilty and that her execution was a grave and terrible mistake.

Whether she really was assisted by God or not, no one knows, but history does not record the name of a woman whose efforts seemed more inspired, and whose life was so entirely pure and patriotic.

* * * * *

Howe'er it be, it seems to me,
'Tis only noble to be good.
Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.

TENNYSON: "LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE."

A BIRD'S STORY.