Chapter V (1)

The next morning was bright and warm after the hard frost of the night before. Old Rover was asleep on the doorstep in the sun, and his master stood in the yard, and saw neighbor Price come along the road in her best array, with a gay holiday air.

"Well, now," she said eagerly, "you wa'n't out very late last night, was you? I got up myself to let Tiger in. He come home, all beat out, about a quarter past nine. I expect you hadn't no kind o' trouble gittin' the coon. The boys was tellin' me he weighed 'most thirty pounds."

"Oh, no kind o' trouble," said Isaac, keeping the great secret gallantly. "You got the things I sent over this mornin'?"

"Bless your heart, yes! I'd a sight rather have all that good pork an' potatoes than any o' your wild meat," said Mrs. Price, smiling with prosperity. "You see, now, 'Liza Jane she's given in. She didn't re'lly know but 'twas all talk of 'Bijah 'bout that dog's bein' wuth fifty dollars. She says she can't cope with a huntin' dog same's he could, an' she's given me the money you an' John York sent over this mornin'; an' I didn't know but what you'd lend me another half a dollar, so I could both go to Dipford Centre an' return, an' see if I couldn't make a sale o' Tiger right over there where they all know about him. It's right in the coon season; now's my time, ain't it?"

"Well, gettin' a little late," said Isaac, shaking with laughter as he took the desired sum of money out of his pocket. "He seems to be a clever dog round the house."

"I don't know's I want to harbor him all winter," answered the excursionist frankly, striking into a good traveling gait as she started off toward the railroad station.

NOTES

=Dipford=:--The New England town in which the scenes of some of Miss Jewett's stories are laid.

=master hot=:--In the New England dialect, _master_ is used in the sense of _very_ or _extremely_.

=bosom-pin=:--Mourning pins of jet or black enamel were much worn in times past.

='suage=:--Assuage, meaning to soften or decrease.

=selectman=:--One of a board chosen in New England towns to transact the business of the community.

=scattereth nor yet increaseth=:--See Proverbs, 11:24.

=right o' dower=:--The right to claim a part of a deceased husband's property.

SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY

The action takes place in a country district in New England. Judging by the remarks about the fans, what kind of person do you suppose Old Lady Price to be? Is there any particular meaning in the word _to-day_? How is 'Liza Jane related to Mrs. Price? What was the character of Mr. 'Bijah Topliff? Does the old lady feel grieved at his death? What does Isaac mean by _such_, in the last line, page 190? How does the old lady live? What is shown of her character when she is called "a chirpin' old cricket"? Does she feel ashamed of having gone to the circus? How does she explain her going? What can you tell of 'Bijah from what is said of 'Liza's "memories"? Would the circus people have cared to buy the dog? Notice how the author makes you feel the pleasantness of the walk in the woods. Do you know where coons have their dens? How does Isaac show his affection for old Rover? Is it true that "worthless do-nothings" usually have "smart" dogs? Why does the author stop to tell all about 'Liza Jane's arrival? What light is thrown on the old lady's character by Isaac's words beginning, "Disappointments don't appear to trouble her"? Are the men very anxious to "give the boys a treat"? Why does the old lady call Mr. York "dear"? What is meant by the last five lines of Part III? What sort of dog is Tiger? What is meant by "soon as the coon trees"? How does the author tell you of old Rover's defects? What person would you like to have shoot the coon at last? Why could Isaac Brown not "trust himself to speak"? Do you think old Rover "overheard them talking," as John Henry suggests? How does the author let you into the secret of Tiger's behavior? Why does Isaac not tell the old lady which dog treed the coon? What does he mean by saying that Tiger is "a clever dog round the house"? Do you think that Mrs. Price succeeded in getting fifty dollars for the dog? Why does the author not tell whether she does or not? Try to put into your own words a summing up of the old lady's character. Tell what you think of the two old men. Do you like the use of dialect in this story? Would it have been better if the people had all spoken good English? Why, or why not?

THEME SUBJECTS

Hunting for Squirrels An Intelligent Dog A Night in the Woods An Old Man Tracking Rabbits Borrowers The Circus Old Lady Price A Group of Odd Characters Raccoons Opossums The Tree-dwellers Around the Fire How to Make a Camp Fire The Picnic Lunch An Interesting Old Lady

SUGGESTIONS FOR WRITING

Try to write a theme in which uneducated people talk as they do in real life; as far as possible, fit every person's speech to his character. Below are given some suggestions for this work:

Mrs. Wicks borrows Mrs. Hall's flat-irons. Two or three country children quarrel over a hen's nest. The family get ready to go to the Sunday School picnic. Sammie tells his parents that he has been whipped at school. Two old men talk about the crops. One of the pigs gets out of the pen. Two boys go hunting. The farmer has just come back from town. Mrs. Robbins describes the moving-picture show.

=An Intelligent Dog=:--Tell who owns the dog, and how much you have had opportunity to observe him. Describe him as vividly as possible. Give some incidents that show his intelligence.

Perhaps you can make a story out of this, giving the largest amount of space to an event in which the dog accomplished some notable thing, as protecting property, bringing help in time of danger, or saving his master's life. In this case, try to tell some of the story by means of conversation, as Miss Jewett does.

=An Interesting Old Lady=:--Tell where you saw the old lady; or, if you know her well, explain the nature of your acquaintance with her. Describe her rather fully, telling how she looks and what she wears. How does she walk and talk? What is her chief occupation? If possible, quote some of her remarks in her own words. Tell some incidents in which she figures. Try to bring out her most interesting qualities, so that the reader can see them for himself.

COLLATERAL READINGS

Dogs and Men H.C. Merwin Stickeen: The Story of John Muir Another Dog (in _A Gentleman Vagabond_) F.H. Smith The Sporting Dog Joseph A. Graham Dogtown Mabel Osgood Wright Bob, Son of Battle Alfred Ollivant A Boy I Knew and Four Dogs Laurence Hutton A Boy I Knew and Some More Dogs " " A Dog of Flanders Louise de la Ramée The Call of the Wild Jack London White Fang " " My Dogs in the Northland E.R. Young Dogs of all Nations C.J. Miller Leo (poem) R.W. Gilder Greyfriar's Bobby Eleanor Atkinson The Biography of a Silver Fox E.S. Thompson Our Friend the Dog (trans.) Maurice Maeterlinck Following the Deer W.J. Long The Trail of the Sand-hill Stag Ernest Thompson Seton Lives of the Hunted " " " The Wilderness Hunter Theodore Roosevelt A Watcher in the Woods Dallas Lore Sharp Wild Life near Home " " " The Watchers of the Trails C.G.D. Roberts Kindred of the Wild " " Little People of the Sycamore " " The Haunters of the Silences " " Squirrels and other Fur-bearers John Burroughs My Woodland Intimates E. Bignell

Stories of old people:--

Aged Folk (in _Letters from my Mill_) Alphonse Daudet Green Island (chapter 8 of _The Country of the Pointed Firs_) Sarah Orne Jewett Aunt Cynthy Dallett " " " The Failure of David Berry " " " A Church Mouse Mary E. Wilkins-Freeman A White Heron and Other Stories Sarah Orne Jewett Tales of New England " " " The Country of the Pointed Firs " " " A Country Doctor " " " Deephaven " " " The Queen's Twin and Other Stories " " " The King of Folly Island and Other People " " " A Marsh Island " " " The Tory Lover " " " A Native of Winby and Other Tales " " " Betty Leicester's Christmas " " " Betty Leicester " " " Country By-ways " " " Letters of Sarah Orne Jewett Mrs. James T. Fields (Ed.)

For Biographies and criticisms of Miss Jewett, see: Atlantic Monthly, 94:485; Critic, 39:292, October, 1901 (Portrait); New England Magazine, 22:737, August, 1900; Outlook, 69:423; Bookman, 34:221 (Portrait).

ON THE LIFE-MASK OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN

RICHARD WATSON GILDER

This bronze doth keep the very form and mold
Of our great martyr's face. Yes, this is he:
That brow all wisdom, all benignity;
That human, humorous mouth; those cheeks that hold
Like some harsh landscape all the summer's gold;
That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea
For storms to beat on; the lone agony
Those silent, patient lips too well foretold.
Yes, this is he who ruled a world of men
As might some prophet of the elder day--
Brooding above the tempest and the fray
With deep-eyed thought and more than mortal ken.
A power was his beyond the touch of art
Or armèd strength--his pure and mighty heart.

NOTES

=the life-mask=:--The life-mask of Abraham Lincoln was made by Leonard W. Volk, in Chicago, in April, 1860. A good picture of it is given as the frontispiece to Volume 4 of Nicolay and Hay's _Abraham Lincoln, A History_.

=this bronze=:--A life-mask is made of plaster first; then usually it is cast in bronze.

SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY

This is not difficult to understand. Read it over slowly, trying first to get the meaning of each sentence as if it were prose. You may have to read it several times before you see the exact meaning of each part. When you have mastered it, read it through consecutively, thinking of what it tells about Lincoln.

This poem is, as you may know, a sonnet. Notice the number of lines, the meter, and the rhyme-scheme, referring to page 139 for a review of the sonnet form. Notice how the thought changes at the ninth line. Find a sonnet in one of the good current magazines. How can you recognize it? Read it carefully. If it is appropriate, bring it to class, and read and explain it to your classmates. Why has the sonnet form been used so much by poets?

If you can find it, read the sonnet on _The Sonnet_, by Richard Watson Gilder.

COLLATERAL READINGS

For references on Lincoln, see pages 50 and 51.

For portraits of Richard Watson Gilder, and biographical material, consult: Current Literature, 41:319 (Portrait); Review of Reviews, 34: 491 (Portrait); Nation, 89:519; Dial, 47:441; Harper's Weekly, 53:6; World's Work, 17:11293 (Portrait); Craftsman, 16:130, May, 1909 (Portrait); Outlook, 93:689 (Portrait).

For references to material on the sonnet, see page 140.

A FIRE AMONG THE GIANTS

JOHN MUIR

(From _Our National Parks_)

In the forest between the Middle and East forks of the Kaweah, I met a great fire, and as fire is the master scourge and controller of the distribution of trees, I stopped to watch it and learn what I could of its works and ways with the giants. It came racing up the steep chaparral-covered slopes of the East Fork cañon with passionate enthusiasm in a broad cataract of flames, now bending down low to feed on the green bushes, devouring acres of them at a breath, now towering high in the air as if looking abroad to choose a way, then stooping to feed again,--the lurid flapping surges and the smoke and terrible rushing and roaring hiding all that is gentle and orderly in the work. But as soon as the deep forest was reached, the ungovernable flood became calm like a torrent entering a lake, creeping and spreading beneath the trees where the ground was level or sloped gently, slowly nibbling the cake of compressed needles and scales with flames an inch high, rising here and there to a foot or two on dry twigs and clumps of small bushes and brome grass. Only at considerable intervals were fierce bonfires lighted, where heavy branches broken off by snow had accumulated, or around some venerable giant whose head had been stricken off by lightning.

I tethered Brownie on the edge of a little meadow beside a stream a good safe way off, and then cautiously chose a camp for myself in a big stout hollow trunk not likely to be crushed by the fall of burning trees, and made a bed of ferns and boughs in it. The night, however, and the strange wild fireworks were too beautiful and exciting to allow much sleep. There was no danger of being chased and hemmed in; for in the main forest belt of the Sierra, even when swift winds are blowing, fires seldom or never sweep over the trees in broad all-embracing sheets as they do in the dense Rocky Mountain woods and in those of the Cascade Mountains of Oregon and Washington. Here they creep from tree to tree with tranquil deliberation, allowing close observation, though caution is required in venturing around the burning giants to avoid falling limbs and knots and fragments from dead shattered tops. Though the day was best for study, I sauntered about night after night, learning what I could, and admiring the wonderful show vividly displayed in the lonely darkness, the ground-fire advancing in long crooked lines gently grazing and smoking on the close-pressed leaves, springing up in thousands of little jets of pure flame on dry tassels and twigs, and tall spires and flat sheets with jagged flapping edges dancing here and there on grass tufts and bushes, big bonfires blazing in perfect storms of energy where heavy branches mixed with small ones lay smashed together in hundred cord piles, big red arches between spreading root-swells and trees growing close together, huge fire-mantled trunks on the hill slopes glowing like bars of hot iron, violet-colored fire running up the tall trees, tracing the furrows of the bark in quick quivering rills, and lighting magnificent torches on dry shattered tops, and ever and anon, with a tremendous roar and burst of light, young trees clad in low-descending feathery branches vanishing in one flame two or three hundred feet high.

One of the most impressive and beautiful sights was made by the great fallen trunks lying on the hillsides all red and glowing like colossal iron bars fresh from a furnace, two hundred feet long some of them, and ten to twenty feet thick. After repeated burnings have consumed the bark and sapwood, the sound charred surface, being full of cracks and sprinkled with leaves, is quickly overspread with a pure, rich, furred, ruby glow almost flameless and smokeless, producing a marvelous effect in the night. Another grand and interesting sight are the fires on the tops of the largest living trees flaming above the green branches at a height of perhaps two hundred feet, entirely cut off from the ground-fires, and looking like signal beacons on watch towers. From one standpoint I sometimes saw a dozen or more, those in the distance looking like great stars above the forest roof. At first I could not imagine how these Sequoia lamps were lighted, but the very first night, strolling about waiting and watching, I saw the thing done again and again. The thick fibrous bark of old trees is divided by deep, nearly continuous furrows, the sides of which are bearded with the bristling ends of fibres broken by the growth swelling of the trunk, and when the fire comes creeping around the feet of the trees, it runs up these bristly furrows in lovely pale blue quivering, bickering rills of flame with a low, earnest whispering sound to the lightning-shattered top of the trunk, which, in the dry Indian summer, with perhaps leaves and twigs and squirrel-gnawed cone-scales and seed-wings lodged in it, is readily ignited. These lamp-lighting rills, the most beautiful fire-streams I ever saw, last only a minute or two, but the big lamps burn with varying brightness for days and weeks, throwing off sparks like the spray of a fountain, while ever and anon a shower of red coals comes sifting down through the branches, followed at times with startling effect by a big burned-off chunk weighing perhaps half a ton.

The immense bonfires where fifty or a hundred cords of peeled, split, smashed wood has been piled around some old giant by a single stroke of lightning is another grand sight in the night. The light is so great I found I could read common print three hundred yards from them, and the illumination of the circle of onlooking trees is indescribably impressive. Other big fires, roaring and booming like waterfalls, were blazing on the upper sides of trees on hillslopes, against which limbs broken off by heavy snow had rolled, while branches high overhead, tossed and shaken by the ascending air current, seemed to be writhing in pain. Perhaps the most startling phenomenon of all was the quick death of childlike Sequoias only a century or two of age. In the midst of the other comparatively slow and steady fire work one of these tall, beautiful saplings, leafy and branchy, would be seen blazing up suddenly, all in one heaving, booming, passionate flame reaching from the ground to the top of the tree, and fifty to a hundred feet or more above it, with a smoke column bending forward and streaming away on the upper, free-flowing wind. To burn these green trees a strong fire of dry wood beneath them is required, to send up a current of air hot enough to distill inflammable gases from the leaves and sprays; then instead of the lower limbs gradually catching fire and igniting the next and the next in succession, the whole tree seems to explode almost simultaneously, and with awful roaring and throbbing a round, tapering flame shoots up two or three hundred feet, and in a second or two is quenched, leaving the green spire a black, dead mast, bristled and roughened with down-curling boughs. Nearly all the trees that have been burned down are lying with their heads up hill, because they are burned far more deeply on the upper side, on account of broken limbs rolling down against them to make hot fires, while only leaves and twigs accumulate on the lower side and are quickly consumed without injury to the tree. But green, resinless Sequoia wood burns very slowly, and many successive fires are required to burn down a large tree. Fires can run only at intervals of several years, and when the ordinary amount of fire-wood that has rolled against the gigantic trunk is consumed, only a shallow scar is made, which is slowly deepened by recurring fires until far beyond the centre of gravity, and when at last the tree falls, it of course falls up hill. The healing folds of wood layers on some of the deeply burned trees show that centuries have elapsed since the last wounds were made.

When a great Sequoia falls, its head is smashed into fragments about as small as those made by lightning, which are mostly devoured by the first running, hunting fire that finds them, while the trunk is slowly wasted away by centuries of fire and weather. One of the most interesting fire-actions on the trunk is the boring of those great tunnel-like hollows through which horsemen may gallop. All of these famous hollows are burned out of the solid wood, for no Sequoia is ever hollowed by decay. When the tree falls, the brash trunk is often broken straight across into sections as if sawed; into these joints the fire creeps, and, on account of the great size of the broken ends, burns for weeks or even months without being much influenced by the weather. After the great glowing ends fronting each other have burned so far apart that their rims cease to burn, the fire continues to work on in the centres, and the ends become deeply concave. Then heat being radiated from side to side, the burning goes on in each section of the trunk independent of the other, until the diameter of the bore is so great that the heat radiated across from side to side is not sufficient to keep them burning. It appears, therefore, that only very large trees can receive the fire-auger and have any shell-rim left.

Fire attacks the large trees only at the ground, consuming the fallen leaves and humus at their feet, doing them but little harm unless considerable quantities of fallen limbs happen to be piled about them, their thick mail of spongy, unpitchy, almost unburnable bark affording strong protection. Therefore the oldest and most perfect unscarred trees are found on ground that is nearly level, while those growing on hillsides, against which fallen branches roll, are always deeply scarred on the upper side, and as we have seen are sometimes burned down. The saddest thing of all was to see the hopeful seedlings, many of them crinkled and bent with the pressure of winter snow, yet bravely aspiring at the top, helplessly perishing, and young trees, perfect spires of verdure and naturally immortal, suddenly changed to dead masts. Yet the sun looked cheerily down the openings in the forest roof, turning the black smoke to a beautiful brown as if all was for the best.

NOTES

=Kaweah=:--A river in California, which runs through the Sequoia National Park.

=Brownie=:--A small donkey which Mr. Muir had brought along to carry his pack of blankets and provisions. (See pp. 285, 286 of _Our National Parks_.)

=humus=:--Vegetable mold.

SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY

In 1875, Mr. Muir spent some weeks in the Sequoia forests, learning what he could of the life and death of the giant trees. This selection is from his account of his experiences. How does the author make you feel the fierceness of the fire? Why does it become calmer when it enters the forest? Would most people care to linger in a burning forest? What is shown by Mr. Muir's willingness to stay? Note the vividness of the passage beginning "Though the day was best": How does the author manage to make it so clear? Might this passage be differently punctuated, with advantage? What is the value of the figure "like colossal iron bars"? Note the vivid words in the passage beginning "The thick" and ending with "half a ton." What do you think of the expressions _onlooking trees_, and _childlike Sequoias_? Explain why the burned trees fall up hill. Go through the selection and pick out the words that show action; color; sound. Try to state clearly the reasons why this selection is clear and picturesque.

THEME SUBJECTS

The Forest Fire A Group of Large Trees Felling a Tree A Fire in the Country A Fire in the City Alone in the Woods The Woodsman In the Woods Camping Out for the Night By-products of the Forest A Tree Struck by Lightning A Famous Student of Nature Planting Trees The Duties of a Forest Ranger The Lumber Camp A Fire at Night Learning to Observe The Conservation of the Forests The Pine Ravages of the Paper Mill

SUGGESTIONS FOR WRITING

=A Fire at Night=:--If possible, found this theme on actual observation and experience. Tell of your first knowledge of the fire--the smoke and the flame, or the ringing of bells and the shouting. From what point of view did you see the fire? Tell how it looked when you first saw it. Use words of color and action, as Mr. Muir does. Perhaps you can make your description vivid by means of sound-words. Tell what people did and what they said. Did you hear anything said by the owners of the property that was burning? Go on and trace the progress of the fire, describing its change in volume and color. Try at all times to make your reader see the beauty and fierceness and destructiveness of the fire. You might close your theme with the putting out of the fire, or perhaps you will prefer to speak of the appearance of the ruins by daylight. When you have finished your theme, read it over, and see where you can touch it up to make it clearer and more impressive. Read again some of the most brilliant passages in Mr. Muir's description, and see how you can profit by the devices he uses.

=In the Woods=:--Give an account of a long or a short trip in the woods, and tell what you observed. It might be well to plan this theme a number of days before writing it, and in the interim to take a walk in the woods to get mental notes. In writing the theme, give your chief attention to the trees--their situation, appearance, height, manner of growth from the seedling up, peculiarities. Make clear the differences between the kinds of trees, especially between varieties of the same species. You can make good use of color-words in your descriptions of leaves, flowers, seed-receptacles (cones, keys, wings, etc.), and berries. Keep your work simple, almost as if you were talking to some one who wishes information about the forest trees.

COLLATERAL READINGS

Our National Parks John Muir My First Summer in the Sierra " " The Mountains of California " " The Story of my Boyhood and Youth " " Stickeen: The Story of a Dog " " The Yosemite John Muir The Giant Forest (chapter 18 of _The Mountains_) Stewart Edward White The Pines (chapter 8 of _The Mountains_) " " " The Blazed Trail " " " The Forest " " " The Heart of the Ancient Wood C.G.D. Roberts The Story of a Thousand-year Pine (in _Wild Life on the Rockies_) Enos A. Mills The Lodge-pole Pine (in _Wild Life on the Rockies_) " " Rocky Mountain Forests (in _Wild Life on the Rockies_) " " The Spell of the Rockies " " Under the Sky in California C.F. Saunders Field Days in California Bradford Torrey The Snowing of the Pines (poem) T.W. Higginson A Young Fir Wood (poem) D.G. Rossetti The Spirit of the Pine (poem) Bayard Taylor To a Pine Tree J.R. Lowell Silverado Squatters Robert Louis Stevenson Travels with a Donkey " " " A Forest Fire (in _The Old Pacific Capital_) " " " The Two Matches (in _Fables_) " " " In the Maine Woods Henry D. Thoreau Yosemite Trails J.S. Chase The Conservation of Natural Resources Charles R. Van Hise Getting Acquainted with the Trees J.H. McFarland The Trees (poem) Josephine Preston Peabody

For biographical material relating to John Muir, consult: With John o' Birds and John o' Mountains, Century, 80:521 (Portraits); At Home with Muir, Overland Monthly (New Series), 52:125, August, 1908; Craftsman, 7:665 (page 637 for portrait), March, 1905; Craftsman, 23:324 (Portrait); Outlook, 80:303, January 3, 1905; Bookman, 26:593, February, 1908; World's Work, 17:11355, March, 1909; 19:12529, February, 1910.

WAITING

JOHN BURROUGHS

Serene, I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea;
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,
For lo! my own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays,
For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid the eternal ways,
And what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day,
The friends I seek are seeking me;
No wind can drive my bark astray
Nor change the tide of destiny.

What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years;
My heart shall reap where it has sown,
And garner up its fruit of tears.

The law of love binds every heart
And knits it to its utmost kin,
Nor can our lives flow long apart
From souls our secret souls would win.

The stars come nightly to the sky,
The tidal wave comes to the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high
Can keep my own away from me.

SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY

This poem is so easy that it needs little explanation. It shows the calmness and confidence of one who feels that the universe is right, and that everything comes out well sooner or later. Read the poem through slowly. _Its utmost kin_ means its most distant relations or connections. _The tidal wave_ means the regular and usual flow of the tide. _Nor time nor space_:--Perhaps Mr. Burroughs was thinking of the Bible, Romans 8:38, 39.

Does the poem mean to encourage mere waiting, without action? Does it discourage effort? Just how much is it intended to convey? Is the theory expressed here a good one? Do you believe it to be true? Read the verses again, slowly and carefully, thinking what they mean. If you like them, take time to learn them.

COLLATERAL READINGS

For a list of Mr. Burrough's books, see page 177.

Song: The year's at the spring Robert Browning The Building of the Chimney Richard Watson Gilder

With John o'Birds and John o'Mountains (Century Magazine, 80:521)

A Day at Slabsides (Outlook, 66:351) Washington Gladden

Century, 86:884, October, 1915 (Portrait); Outlook, 78:878, December 3, 1904.

EXERCISES

Try writing a stanza or two in the meter and with the rhyme that Mr. Burroughs uses. Below are given lines that may prove suggestive:--

1. One night when all the sky was clear 2. The plum tree near the garden wall 3. I watched the children at their play 4. The wind swept down across the plain 5. The yellow leaves are drifting down 6. Along the dusty way we sped (In an Automobile) 7. I looked about my garden plot (In my Garden) 8. The sky was red with sudden flame 9. I walked among the forest trees 10. He runs to meet me every day (My Dog)

THE PONT DU GARD

HENRY JAMES

(Chapter XXVI of _A Little Tour in France_)

It was a pleasure to feel one's self in Provence again,--the land where the silver-gray earth is impregnated with the light of the sky. To celebrate the event, as soon as I arrived at Nîmes I engaged a calèche to convey me to the Pont du Gard. The day was yet young, and it was perfectly fair; it appeared well, for a longish drive, to take advantage, without delay, of such security. After I had left the town I became more intimate with that Provençal charm which I had already enjoyed from the window of the train, and which glowed in the sweet sunshine and the white rocks, and lurked in the smoke-puffs of the little olives. The olive-trees in Provence are half the landscape. They are neither so tall, so stout, nor so richly contorted as I have seen them beyond the Alps; but this mild colorless bloom seems the very texture of the country. The road from Nîmes, for a distance of fifteen miles, is superb; broad enough for an army, and as white and firm as a dinner-table. It stretches away over undulations which suggest a kind of harmony; and in the curves it makes through the wide, free country, where there is never a hedge or a wall, and the detail is always exquisite, there is something majestic, almost processional. Some twenty minutes before I reached the little inn that marks the termination of the drive, my vehicle met with an accident which just missed being serious, and which engaged the attention of a gentleman, who, followed by his groom and mounted on a strikingly handsome horse, happened to ride up at the moment. This young man, who, with his good looks and charming manner, might have stepped out of a novel of Octave Feuillet, gave me some very intelligent advice in reference to one of my horses that had been injured, and was so good as to accompany me to the inn, with the resources of which he was acquainted, to see that his recommendations were carried out. The result of our interview was that he invited me to come and look at a small but ancient château in the neighborhood, which he had the happiness--not the greatest in the world, he intimated--to inhabit, and at which I engaged to present myself after I should have spent an hour at the Pont du Gard. For the moment, when we separated, I gave all my attention to that great structure. You are very near it before you see it; the ravine it spans suddenly opens and exhibits the picture. The scene at this point grows extremely beautiful. The ravine is the valley of the Gardon, which the road from Nîmes has followed some time without taking account of it, but which, exactly at the right distance from the aqueduct, deepens and expands, and puts on those characteristics which are best suited to give it effect. The gorge becomes romantic, still, and solitary, and, with its white rocks and wild shrubbery, hangs over the clear, colored river, in whose slow course there is here and there a deeper pool. Over the valley, from side to side, and ever so high in the air, stretch the three tiers of the tremendous bridge. They are unspeakably imposing, and nothing could well be more Roman. The hugeness, the solidity, the unexpectedness, the monumental rectitude of the whole thing leave you nothing to say--at the time--and make you stand gazing. You simply feel that it is noble and perfect, that it has the quality of greatness. A road, branching from the highway, descends to the level of the river and passes under one of the arches. This road has a wide margin of grass and loose stones, which slopes upward into the bank of the ravine. You may sit here as long as you please, staring up at the light, strong piers; the spot is extremely natural, though two or three stone benches have been erected on it. I remained there an hour and got a complete impression; the place was perfectly soundless, and for the time, at least, lonely; the splendid afternoon had begun to fade, and there was a fascination in the object I had come to see. It came to pass that at the same time I discovered in it a certain stupidity, a vague brutality. That element is rarely absent from great Roman work, which is wanting in the nice adaptation of the means to the end. The means are always exaggerated; the end is so much more than attained. The Roman rigidity was apt to overshoot the mark, and I suppose a race which could do nothing small is as defective as a race that can do nothing great. Of this Roman rigidity the Pont du Gard is an admirable example. It would be a great injustice, however, not to insist upon its beauty,--a kind of manly beauty, that of an object constructed not to please but to serve, and impressive simply from the scale on which it carries out this intention. The number of arches in each tier is different; they are smaller and more numerous as they ascend. The preservation of the thing is extraordinary; nothing has crumbled or collapsed; every feature remains; and the huge blocks of stone, of a brownish-yellow (as if they had been baked by the Provençal sun for eighteen centuries), pile themselves, without mortar or cement, as evenly as the day they were laid together. All this to carry the water of a couple of springs to a little provincial city! The conduit on the top has retained its shape and traces of the cement with which it was lined. When the vague twilight began to gather, the lonely valley seemed to fill itself with the shadow of the Roman name, as if the mighty empire were still as erect as the supports of the aqueduct; and it was open to a solitary tourist, sitting there sentimental, to believe that no people has ever been, or will ever be, as great as that, measured, as we measure the greatness of an individual, by the push they gave to what they undertook. The Pont du Gard is one of the three or four deepest impressions they have left; it speaks of them in a manner with which they might have been satisfied.

I feel as if it were scarcely discreet to indicate the whereabouts of the château of the obliging young man I had met on the way from Nîmes; I must content myself with saying that it nestled in an enchanting valley,--_dans le fond_, as they say in France,--and that I took my course thither on foot, after leaving the Pont du Gard. I find it noted in my journal as "an adorable little corner." The principal feature of the place is a couple of very ancient towers, brownish-yellow in hue, and mantled in scarlet Virginia-creeper. One of these towers, reputed to be of Saracenic origin, is isolated, and is only the more effective; the other is incorporated in the house, which is delightfully fragmentary and irregular. It had got to be late by this time, and the lonely _castel_ looked crepuscular and mysterious. An old housekeeper was sent for, who showed me the rambling interior; and then the young man took me into a dim old drawing-room, which had no less than four chimney-pieces, all unlighted, and gave me a refection of fruit and sweet wine. When I praised the wine and asked him what it was, he said simply, "C'est du vin de ma mère!" Throughout my little journey I had never yet felt myself so far from Paris; and this was a sensation I enjoyed more than my host, who was an involuntary exile, consoling himself with laying out a _manège_, which he showed me as I walked away. His civility was great, and I was greatly touched by it. On my way back to the little inn where I had left my vehicle, I passed the Pont du Gard, and took another look at it. Its great arches made windows for the evening sky, and the rocky ravine, with its dusky cedars and shining river, was lonelier than before. At the inn I swallowed, or tried to swallow, a glass of horrible wine with my coachman; after which, with my reconstructed team, I drove back to Nîmes in the moonlight. It only added a more solitary whiteness to the constant sheen of the Provençal landscape.

NOTES

=The Pont du Gard=:--A famous aqueduct built by the Romans many years ago.

=Provence=:--One of the old provinces in southeast France.

=Nîmes=:--(N[=e][=e]m) A town in southeast France, noted for its Roman ruins.

=calèche=:--(ka l[=a]sh') The French term for a light covered carriage with seats for four besides the driver.

=Octave Feuillet=:--A French writer, the author of _The Romance of a Poor Young Man_; Feuillet's heroes are young, dark, good-looking, and poetic.

=château=:--The country residence of a wealthy or titled person.

=Gardon=:--A river in France flowing into the Rhone.

=nice=:--Look up the meaning of this word.

=dans le fond=:--In the bottom.

=Saracenic=:--The Saracen invaders of France were vanquished at Tours in 732 A.D.

=castel=:--A castle.

=C'est=, etc.:--It is some of my mother's wine.

=manège=:--A place where horses are kept and trained.

QUESTIONS FOR STUDY

Can you find out anything about Provence and its history? By means of what details does Mr. James give you an idea of the country? What is meant by _processional_? Why is the episode of the young man particularly pleasing at the point at which it is related? How does the author show the character of the aqueduct? What does _monumental rectitude_ mean? Why is it a good term? What is meant here by "a certain stupidity, a vague brutality"? Can you think of any great Roman works of which Mr. James's statement is true? What did the Romans most commonly build? Can you find out something of their style of building? Are there any reasons why the arches at the top should be smaller and lighter than those below? What does this great aqueduct show of the Roman people and the Roman government? Notice what Mr. James says of the way in which we measure greatness: Is this a good way? Why would the Romans like the way in which the Pont du Gard speaks of them? Why is it not "discreet" to tell where the young man's château is? Why does the traveler feel so far from Paris? Why does the young man treat the traveler with such unnecessary friendliness? See how the author closes his chapter by bringing the description round to the Pont du Gard again and ending with the note struck in the first lines. Is this a good method?

THEME SUBJECTS

A Bridge Country Roads An Accident on the Road A Remote Dwelling The Stranger At a Country Hotel Roman Roads A Moonlight Scene A Picturesque Ravine What I should Like to See in Europe Traveling in Europe Reading a Guide Book The Baedeker A Ruin The Character of the Romans The Romans in France Level Country A Sunny Day The Parlor

SUGGESTIONS FOR WRITING

=At a Country Hotel=:--Tell how you happened to go to the hotel (this part may be true or merely imagined). Describe your approach, on foot or in some conveyance. Give your first general impression of the building and its surroundings. What persons were visible when you reached the entrance? What did they say and do? How did you feel? Describe the room that you entered, noting any striking or amusing things. Tell of any particularly interesting person, and what he (or she) said. Did you have something to eat? If so, describe the dining-room, and tell about the food. Perhaps you will have something to say about the waiter. How long did you stay at the hotel? What incident was connected with your departure? Were you glad or sorry to leave?

=The Bridge=:--Choose a large bridge that you have seen. Where is it, and what stream or ravine does it span? When was it built? Clearly indicate the point of view of your description. If you change the point of view, let the reader know of your doing so. Give a general idea of the size of the bridge: You need not give measurements; try rather to make the reader feel the size from the comparisons that you use. Describe the banks at each end of the bridge, and the effect of the water or the abyss between. How is the bridge supported? Try to make the reader feel its solidity and safety. Is it clumsy or graceful? Why? Give any interesting details in its appearance. What conveyances or persons are passing over it? How does the bridge make you feel?

COLLATERAL READINGS

A Little Tour in France Henry James A Small Boy and Others " " Portraits of Places " " Travels with a Donkey R.L. Stevenson An Inland Voyage " " Along French Byways Clifton Johnson Seeing France with Uncle John Anne Warner The Story of France Mary Macgregor The Reds of the Midi Felix Gras A Wanderer in Paris E.V. Lucas An American in Europe (poem) Henry Van Dyke Home Thoughts from Abroad Robert Browning In and Out of Three Normandy Inns Anna Bowman Dodd Cathedral Days " " " From Ponkapog to Pesth T.B. Aldrich Our Hundred Days in Europe O.W. Holmes One Year Abroad Blanche Willis Howard Well-worn Roads F.H. Smith Gondola Days " " Saunterings C.D. Warner By Oak and Thorn Alice Brown Fresh Fields John Burroughs Our Old Home Nathaniel Hawthorne Penelope's Progress Kate Douglas Wiggin Penelope's Experiences " " " A Cathedral Courtship " " " Ten Days in Spain Kate Fields Russian Rambles Isabel F. Hapgood

For biography and criticism of Mr. James, see: American Writers of To-day, pp. 68-86, H.C. Vedder; American Prose Masters, pp. 337-400, W.C. Brownell; and (for the teacher), Century, 84:108 (Portrait) and 87:150 (Portrait); Scribners, 48:670 (Portrait); Chautauquan, 64:146 (Portrait).

THE YOUNGEST SON OF HIS FATHER'S HOUSE

ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH

The eldest son of his father's house,
His was the right to have and hold;
He took the chair before the hearth,
And he was master of all the gold.

The second son of his father's house,
He took the wheatfields broad and fair,
He took the meadows beside the brook,
And the white flocks that pastured there.

"_Pipe high--pipe low! Along the way
From dawn till eve I needs must sing!
Who has a song throughout the day,
He has no need of anything!_"

The youngest son of his father's house
Had neither gold nor flocks for meed.
He went to the brook at break of day,
And made a pipe out of a reed.

"_Pipe high--pipe low! Each wind that blows
Is comrade to my wandering.
Who has a song wherever he goes,
He has no need of anything!_"

His brother's wife threw open the door.
"Piper, come in for a while," she said.
"Thou shalt sit at my hearth since thou art so poor
And thou shalt give me a song instead!"

Pipe high--pipe low--all over the wold!
"Lad, wilt thou not come in?" asked she.
"Who has a song, he feels no cold!
My brother's hearth is mine own," quoth he.

"_Pipe high--pipe low! For what care I
Though there be no hearth on the wide gray plain?
I have set my face to the open sky,
And have cloaked myself in the thick gray rain._"

Over the hills where the white clouds are,
He piped to the sheep till they needs must come.
They fed in pastures strange and far,
But at fall of night he brought them home.

They followed him, bleating, wherever he led:
He called his brother out to see.
"I have brought thee my flocks for a gift," he said,
"For thou seest that they are mine," quoth he.

"_Pipe high--pipe low! wherever I go
The wide grain presses to hear me sing.
Who has a song, though his state be low,
He has no need of anything._"

"Ye have taken my house," he said, "and my sheep,
But ye had no heart to take me in.
I will give ye my right for your own to keep,
But ye be not my kin.

"To the kind fields my steps are led.
My people rush across the plain.
My bare feet shall not fear to tread
With the cold white feet of the rain.

"My father's house is wherever I pass;
My brothers are each stock and stone;
My mother's bosom in the grass
Yields a sweet slumber to her son.

"Ye are rich in house and flocks," said he,
"Though ye have no heart to take me in.
There was only a reed that was left for me,
And ye be not my kin."

"_Pipe high--pipe low! Though skies be gray,
Who has a song, he needs must roam!
Even though ye call all day, all day,
'Brother, wilt thou come home?_'"

Over the meadows and over the wold,
Up to the hills where the skies begin,
The youngest son of his father's house
Went forth to find his kin.

SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY

The stanzas in italic are a kind of refrain; they represent the music of the youngest son.

Why does the piper not go into the house when his brother's wife invites him? What does he mean when he says, "My brother's hearth is mine own"? Why does he say that the sheep are his? What does he mean when he says, "I will give ye my right," etc.? Why are his brothers not his kin? Who are the people that "rush across the plain"? Explain the fourteenth stanza. Why did the piper go forth to find his kin? Whom would he claim as his kindred? Why? Does the poem have a deeper meaning than that which first appears? What kind of person is represented by the youngest son? What are meant by his pipe and the music? Who are those who cast him out? Re-read the whole poem with the deeper meaning in mind.

COLLATERAL READINGS

The Prophet Josephine Preston Peabody The Piper: Act I " " " The Shepherd of King Admetus James Russell Lowell The Shoes that Danced Anna Hempstead Branch The Heart of the Road and Other Poems " " " Rose of the Wind and Other Poems " " "

TENNESSEE'S PARTNER

BRET HARTE

I do not think that we ever knew his real name. Our ignorance of it certainly never gave us any social inconvenience, for at Sandy Bar in 1854 most men were christened anew. Sometimes these appellatives were derived from some distinctiveness of dress, as in the case of "Dungaree Jack"; or from some peculiarity of habit, as shown in "Saleratus Bill," so called from an undue proportion of that chemical in his daily bread; or from some unlucky slip, as exhibited in "The Iron Pirate," a mild, inoffensive man, who earned that baleful title by his unfortunate mispronunciation of the term "iron pyrites." Perhaps this may have been the beginning of a rude heraldry; but I am constrained to think that it was because a man's real name in that day rested solely upon his own unsupported statement. "Call yourself Clifford, do you?" said Boston, addressing a timid newcomer with infinite scorn; "hell is full of such Cliffords!" He then introduced the unfortunate man, whose name happened to be really Clifford, as "Jaybird Charley,"--an unhallowed inspiration of the moment that clung to him ever after.

But to return to Tennessee's Partner, whom we never knew by any other than this relative title. That he had ever existed as a separate and distinct individuality we only learned later. It seems that in 1853 he left Poker Flat to go to San Francisco, ostensibly to procure a wife. He never got any farther than Stockton. At that place he was attracted by a young person who waited upon the table at the hotel where he took his meals. One morning he said something to her which caused her to smile not unkindly, to somewhat coquettishly break a plate of toast over his upturned, serious, simple face, and to retreat to the kitchen. He followed her, and emerged a few moments later, covered with more toast and victory. That day week they were married by a justice of the peace, and returned to Poker Flat. I am aware that something more might be made of this episode, but I prefer to tell it as it was current at Sandy Bar,--in the gulches and bar-rooms,--where all sentiment was modified by a strong sense of humor.

Of their married felicity but little is known, perhaps for the reason that Tennessee, then living with his partner, one day took occasion to say something to the bride on his own account, at which, it is said, she smiled not unkindly and chastely retreated,--this time as far as Marysville, where Tennessee followed her, and where they went to housekeeping without the aid of a justice of the peace. Tennessee's Partner took the loss of his wife simply and seriously, as was his fashion. But to everybody's surprise, when Tennessee one day returned from Marysville, without his partner's wife,--she having smiled and retreated with somebody else,--Tennessee's Partner was the first man to shake his hand and greet him with affection. The boys who had gathered in the cañon to see the shooting were naturally indignant. Their indignation might have found vent in sarcasm but for a certain look in Tennessee's Partner's eye that indicated a lack of humorous appreciation. In fact, he was a grave man, with a steady application to practical detail which was unpleasant in a difficulty.

Meanwhile a popular feeling against Tennessee had grown up on the Bar. He was known to be a gambler; he was suspected to be a thief. In these suspicions Tennessee's Partner was equally compromised; his continued intimacy with Tennessee after the affair above quoted could only be accounted for on the hypothesis of a copartnership of crime. At last Tennessee's guilt became flagrant. One day he overtook a stranger on his way to Red Dog. The stranger afterward related that Tennessee beguiled the time with interesting anecdote and reminiscence, but illogically concluded the interview in the following words: "And now, young man, I'll trouble you for your knife, your pistols, and your money. You see your weppings might get you into trouble at Red Dog, and your money's a temptation to the evilly disposed. I think you said your address was San Francisco. I shall endeavor to call." It may be stated here that Tennessee had a fine flow of humor, which no business preoccupation could wholly subdue.