Chapter XIX: Part II: Readings and Recitations From the Most Celebrated Authors (5)

O’er the wildly raging water,
Echoing far and near,
Hear[11] the soldiers’ dying volley,
Hear their dying cheer.

A FELON’S CELL.

An intensely dramatic reading, requiring rapid changes of voice and gesture.

I’m going to a felon’s cell,
To stay there till I die;
They say my hands are stained with blood,
But they who say it—lie.
The court declared I murdered one
I would have died to save;
I know who did the awful deed,
I saw, but could not save.

I saw the knife gleam in his hand,
I heard the victim’s shriek;
My feet seem chained, I tried to run,
But terror made me weak.
Reeling, at length I reached the spot
Too late—a quivering sigh—
The pale moon only watched with me
To see a sweet girl die.

The reeking blade lay at my feet,
The murderer had fled;
I stooped to raise the prostrate form,
To lift the sunny head
Of her I loved, from out the pool
Her own sweet blood had made;
That knife was fairly in my way,
I raised the murderous blade.

Unmindful of all else, beside
That lovely, bleeding corse,
Unheeding the approaching steps
Of traveler and horse,
I raised the knife; it caught the gleam
Of the full moon’s bright glare,
One instant, and the next strong arms
Pinioned mine firmly there.

They led me forth, mute with a woe
Too deep for word or sign;
The knife within my hand the court
Identified as mine.
My name was graven on the hilt,—
The letters told a lie;
They doomed me to a felon’s cell
To stay there till I die.

And yet, I did not do the deed;
The moon, if she could speak,
Would lift this anguish from my brow,
This shame from off my cheek.
I was not born with gold or lands
Nor was I born a slave,
My hands are free from blood,—and yet
I’ll fill a felon’s grave.

And I, who last year played at ball
Upon the village green,
A stripling, on whose lips the sign
Of manhood scarce is seen,
Whose greatest crime (if crime it be)
Was loving her too well,
Must leave this beautiful, glad world
For a dark prison cell.

I had just begun to learn to live
Since I laid by my books,
And I had grown so strangely fond
Of forest, spring, and brook,
I read a lesson in each drop
That trickled through the grass,
And found a sermon in the flow
Of wavelets, as they pass.

Dear woodland haunts! I leave your shade;
No more at noon’s high hour
I’ll list the sound of insect life,
Or scent the sweet wild flower.
Dear mossy banks, by murmuring streams,
’Tis hard to say good-bye!
To leave you for a felon’s cell,
Where I must stay and die.

Farewell all joy and happiness!
Farewell all earthly bliss!
All human ties must severed be,—
Aye, even a mother’s kiss
Must fail me now; in this my need
O God! to Thee I cry!
Oh! take me now, ere yet I find
A grave wherein to lie.

Mother, you here! Mother, the boy
You call your poet child
Is innocent! His hands are clean,
His heart is undefiled.
Oh! tell me, mother, am I weak
To shrink at thought of pain?
To shudder at the sound of bolt,
Grow cold at clank of chain?
Oh! tell me, is it weakness now
To weep upon your breast,—
That faithful pillow, where so oft
You’ve soothed me to my rest!

Hark! ’tis an officer’s firm tread,
O God! Mother, good-bye!
They’ve come to bear me to my cell
Where I must stay and die.
They’re coming now, I will be strong,
No, no, it cannot be.
My giddy brain whirls round in pain,
Your face I cannot see.
But I remember when a child
I shrank at thought of pain,
But, oh, it is a fearful thing
To have this aching brain.

Pardon! heard I the sound aright?
Mine comes from yonder sky;
Hold me! don’t let them take me forth
To suffer till I die!
Pardon! pardon! came the sound,
And horsemen galloped fast,
But ’twas too late; the dying man
Was soon to breathe his last.
The crime’s confessed, the guilt made known
Quick, lead the guiltless forth.
“Then I am free! mother, your hand,
Now whisper your good-bye,
I’m going where there are no cells
To suffer in and die!”

THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

This soul-stirring account of the historic battle where thrones and empires were staked, is from the pen of the great French author whose famous descriptions are unsurpassed by those of any other writer. In reciting this piece every nerve must be tense, and soul and body must be animated by the imaginary sight of the contending armies. Your utterance should be somewhat rapid, the tones of your voice round and full, the words of command given as a general would give them on the field of battle, and you must picture to your hearers the thrilling scene in such a way that it may appear to be almost a reality. Otherwise, this very graphic description will fall flat, and the verdict of your audience will be that you were not equal to the occasion.

The sky had been overcast all day. All at once, at this very
moment—it was eight o’clock at night—the clouds in the horizon
broke, and through the elms of the Nivelles road streamed the
sinister red light of the setting sun.

Arrangements were speedily made for the final effort. Each
battalion was commanded by a general. When the tall caps of
the Grenadiers of the Guard with their large eagle plates
appeared, symmetrical, drawn up in line, calm in the smoke of
that conflict, the enemy felt respect for France. They thought
they saw twenty victories entering upon the field of battle with
wings extended, and those who were conquerors thinking themselves
conquered recoiled; but Wellington cried: “Up, Guards, and at
them!”

The red regiment of English Guards, lying behind the hedges, rose
up; a shower of grape riddled the tricolored flag. All hurled
themselves forward, and the final carnage began. The Imperial
Guard felt the army slipping away around them in the gloom and
the vast overthrow of the rout. There were no weak souls or
cowards there. The privates of that band were as heroic as their
general. Not a man flinched from the suicide.

The army fell back rapidly from all sides at once. A disbanding
army is a thaw. The whole bends, cracks, snaps, floats, rolls,
falls, crashes, hurries, plunges. Ney borrows a horse, leaps upon
him, and, without hat, cravat, or sword, plants himself in the
Brussels road, arresting at once the English and the French. He
endeavors to hold the army; he calls them back, he reproaches
them, he grapples with the rout. He is swept away. The soldiers
flee from him, crying, “Long live Ney!” Durutte’s two regiments
come and go, frightened and tossed between the sabres of the
Uhlans and the fire of the brigades of Kempt. Rout is the worst
of all conflicts; friends slay each other in their flight;
squadrons and battalions are crushed and dispersed against each
other, enormous foam of the battle.

Napoleon gallops among the fugitives, harangues them, urges,
threatens, entreats. The mouths which in the morning were crying
“Long live the Emperor,” are now agape. He is hardly recognized.
The Prussian cavalry, just come up, spring forward, fling
themselves upon the enemy, sabre, cut, hack, kill, exterminate.
Teams rush off; the guns are left to the care of themselves; the
soldiers of the train unhitch the caissons and take the horses to
escape; wagons upset, with their four wheels in the air, block up
the road, and are accessories of massacre.

They crush and they crowd; they trample upon the living and the
dead. Arms are broken. A multitude fills roads, paths bridges,
plains, hills, valleys, woods, choked up by this flight of forty
thousand men. Cries despair; knapsacks and muskets cast into the
rye; passages forced at the point of the sword; no more comrades,
no more officers, no more generals; an inexpressible dismay.
Lions become kids. Such was this flight.

A few squares of the Guard, immovable in the flow of the rout as
rocks in running water, held out until night. Night approaching
and death also, they awaited this double shadow, and yielded
unfaltering to its embrace. At every discharge the square grew
less, but returned the fire. It replied to grape by bullets,
narrowing in its four walls continually. Afar off, the fugitives,
stopping for a moment out of breath, heard in the darkness this
dismal thunder decreasing.

When this legion was reduced to a handful, when their flag was
reduced to a shred, when their muskets, exhausted of ammunition,
were reduced to nothing but clubs, when the pile of corpses was
larger than the group of the living, there spread among the
conquerors a sort of sacred terror about these sublime martyrs,
and the English artillery, stopping to take breath, was silent.
It was a kind of respite. These combatants had about them a swarm
of spectres, the outlines of men on horseback, the black profile
of the cannons, the white sky seen through the wheels and
gun-carriages. The colossal death’s head, which heroes always see
in the smoke of the battle, was advancing upon them and glaring
at them.

They could hear in the gloom of the twilight the loading of the
pieces. The lighted matches, like tigers’ eyes in the night, made
a circle about their heads. All the linstocks of the English
batteries approached the guns, when, touched by their heroism,
holding the death-moment suspended over these men, an English
general cried to them:

“Brave Frenchmen, surrender!”

The word “Never!” fierce and desperate came rolling back.

To this word the English general replied, “Fire!”

The batteries flamed, the hill trembled; from all those brazen
throats went forth a final vomiting of grape, terrific. A vast
smoke, dusky white in the light of the rising moon, rolled out,
and when the smoke was dissipated, there was nothing left. That
formidable remnant was annihilated—the Guard was dead! The four
walls of the living redoubt had fallen. Hardly could a quivering
be distinguished here and there among the corpses; and thus the
French legions expired.

VICTOR HUGO.

A PIN.

Oh, I know a certain woman who is reckoned with the good,
But she fills me with more terror than a raging lion could.
The little chills run up and down my spine whene’er we meet,
Though she seems a gentle creature, and she’s very trim and neat.

And she has a thousand virtues, and not one acknowledged sin,
But she is the sort of person you could liken to a pin.
And she pricks you, and she sticks you in a way that can’t be said—
When you ask for what has hurt you, why you cannot find the head.

But she fills you with discomfort and exasperating pain—
If anybody asks you why, you really can’t explain.
A pin is such a tiny thing—of that there is no doubt—
Yet when it’s sticking in your flesh, you’re wretched till it’s out.

She is wonderfully observing—when she meets a pretty girl
She is always sure to tell her if her “bang” is out of curl.
And she is so sympathetic to her friend, who’s much admired,
She is often heard remarking: “Dear, you look so worn and tired!”

And she is a careful critic; for on yesterday she eyed
The new dress I was airing with a woman’s natural pride,
And she said: “Oh, how becoming!” and then softly added to it,
“It is really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit.”

Then she said: “If you had heard me yestereve,
I’m sure, my friend,
You would say I am a champion who knows how to defend.”
And she left me with the feeling—most unpleasant, I aver—
That the whole world would despise me if it had not been for her.

Whenever I encounter her, in such a nameless way,
She gives me the impression I am at my worst that day.
And the hat that was imported (and that cost me half a sonnet),
With just one glance from her round eye, becomes a Bowery bonnet.

She is always bright and smiling, sharp and shining for a thrust—
Use does not seem to blunt her point, nor does she gather rust—
Oh! I wish some hapless specimen of mankind would begin
To tidy up the world for me, by picking up this pin.

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

A RELENTING MOB.

Translated from the French of Victor Hugo.

The mob was fierce and furious. They cried:
“Kill him!” the while they pressed from every side
Around a man, haughty, unmoved and brave,
Too pitiless himself to pity crave.

“Down with the wretch!” on all sides rose the cry.
The captive found it natural to die,
The game is lost—he’s on the weaker side,
Life, too, is lost, and so must fate decide.

From out his home they dragged him to the street,
With fiercely clenching hands and hurrying feet,
And shouts of “Death to him!” The crimson stain
Of recent carnage on his garb showed plain.

This man was one of those who blindly slay
At a king’s bidding. He’d shoot men all day,
Killing he knew not whom, scarce knew why,
Now marching forth impassible to die,
Incapable of mercy or of fear,
Letting his powder-blackened hands appear.

A woman clutched his collar with a frown,
“He’s a policeman—he has shot us down!”
“That’s true,” the man said. “Kill him!”
“Shoot him!” “Kill!”
“No, at the Arsenal”—“The Bastile!”—
“Where you will,”
The captive answered. And with fiercest breath,
Loading their guns his captors still cried
“Death!”
“We’ll shoot him like a wolf!” “A wolf am I?
Then you’re the dogs,” he calmly made reply.

“Hark, he insults us!” And from every side
Clenched fists were shaken, angry voices cried,
Ferocious threats were muttered, deep and low.
With gall upon his lips, gloom on his brow,
And in his eyes a gleam of baffled hate,
He went, pursued by howlings, to his fate.
Treading with wearied and supreme disdain
’Midst the forms of dead men he perchance had slain.
Dread is that human storm, an angry crowd:
He braved its wrath with head erect and proud.
He was not taken, but walled in with foes,
He hated them with hate the vanquished knows,
He would have shot them all had he the power.

“Kill him—he’s fired upon us for an hour!”
“Down with the murderer—down with the spy!”
And suddenly a small voice made reply,
“No—no, he is my father!” And a ray
Like a sunbeam seemed to light the day.
A child appeared, a boy with golden hair,
His arms upraised in menace or in prayer.

All shouted, “Shoot the bandit, fell the spy!”
The little fellow clasped him with a cry
Of “Papa, papa, they’ll not hurt you now!”
The light baptismal shone upon his brow.

From out the captive’s home had come the child.
Meanwhile the shrieks of “Kill him—Death!” rose wild.
The cannon to the tocsin’s voice replied,
Sinister men thronged close on every side,
And in the street ferocious shouts increased
Of “Slay each spy—each minister—each priest—
We’ll kill them all!” The little boy replied:
“I tell you this is papa.” One girl cried
“A pretty fellow—see his curly head!”
“How old are you, my boy?” another said.
“Do not kill papa!” only he replies.

A soulful lustre lights his streaming eyes,
Some glances from his gaze are turned away,
And the rude hands less fiercely grasp their prey.
Then one of the most pitiless says, “Go—
Get you back home, boy.” “Where—why?” “Don’t you know?
Go to your mother.” Then the father said,
“He has no mother.” “What—his mother’s dead?
Then you are all he has.” “That matters not,”
The captive answers, losing not a jot
Of his composure as he closely pressed
The little hands to warm them in his breast.
And says, “Our neighbor, Catherine you know,
Go to her.” “You’ll come too?” “Not yet.” “No, no.
Then I’ll not leave you.” “Why?” “These men, I fear,
Will hurt you, papa, when I am not here.”

The father to the chieftain of the band
Says softly, “Loose your grasp and take my hand,
I’ll tell the child to-morrow we shall meet,
Then you can shoot me in the nearest street,
Or farther off, just as you like.” “’Tis well!”
The words from those rough lips reluctant fell.
And, half unclasped, the hands less fierce appear.
The father says, “You see, we’re all friends here,
I’m going with these gentlemen to walk;
Go home. Be good. I have no time to talk.”
The little fellow, reassured and gay,
Kisses his father and then runs away.

“Now he is gone and we are at our ease,
And you can kill me where and how you please,”
The father says, “Where is it I must go?”
Then through the crowd a long thrill seems to flow,
The lips, so late with cruel wrath afoam,
Relentingly and roughly cry, “Go home!”

LUCY H. HOOPER.

THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER.

Slow utterance, rapid utterance, loud tones, subdued tones, quick changes and intense dramatic force are all required in this reading. Lose yourself in your recitation. Never be self-conscious.

It was the 7th of October, 1777. Horatio Gates stood before his
tent gazing steadfastly upon the two armies now arrayed in order
of battle. It was a clear, bracing day, mellow with the richness
of Autumn. The sky was cloudless; the foliage of the wood scarce
tinged with purple and gold; the buckwheat in yonder fields
frostened into snowy ripeness. But the tread of legions shook the
ground; from every bush shot the glimmer of the rifle barrel; on
every hillside blazed the sharpened bayonet. Gates was sad and
thoughtful, as he watched the evolutions of the two armies.

But all at once, a smoke arose, a thunder shook the ground, and
a chorus of shouts and groans yelled along the darkened air. The
play of death had begun. The two flags, this of the stars, that
of the red cross, tossed amid the smoke of battle, while the sky
was clouded with leaden folds, and the earth throbbed with the
pulsations of a mighty heart. Suddenly, Gates and his officers
were startled. Along the height on which they stood, came a
rider, upon a black horse, rushing toward the distant battle.

There was something in the appearance of this horse and his
rider, that struck them with surprise. Look! he draws his sword,
the sharp blade quivers through the air—he points to the distant
battle, and lo! he is gone; gone through those clouds, while his
shout echoes over the plains. Wherever the fight is the thickest,
there through intervals of cannon smoke, you may see riding
madly forward that strange soldier, mounted on his steed black
as death. Look at him, as with face red with British blood he
waves his sword and shouts to his legions. Now you may see him
fighting in that cannon’s glare, and the next moment he is away
off yonder, leading the forlorn hope up that steep cliff.

Is it not a magnificent sight, to see that strange soldier and
that noble black horse dashing like a meteor, down the long
columns of battle? Let us look for a moment into those dense
war-clouds. Over this thick hedge bursts a band of American
militia-men, their rude farmer coats stained with blood, while
scattering their arms by the way, they flee before that company
of redcoat hirelings, who come rushing forward, their solid front
of bayonets gleaming in the battle light.

In this moment of their flight, a horse comes crashing over the
plains. The unknown rider reins his steed back on his haunches,
right in the path of a broad-shouldered militia-man. “Now,
cowards! advance another step and I’ll strike you to the heart!”
shouts the unknown, extending a pistol in either hand. “What! are
you Americans, men, and fly before British soldiers? Back again,
and face them once more, or I myself will ride you down.”

This appeal was not without its effect. The militia-man turns;
his comrades, as if by one impulse, follow his example. In one
line, but thirty men in all, they confront thirty sharp bayonets.
The British advance.

“Now upon the rebels, charge!” shouts the red-coat officer. They
spring forward at the same bound. Look! their bayonets almost
touch the muzzles of their rifles. At this moment the voice
of the unknown rider was heard: “Now let them have it! Fire!”
A sound is heard, a smoke is seen, twenty Britons are down,
some writhing in death, some crawling along the soil, and some
speechless as stone. The remaining ten start back. “Club your
rifles and charge them home!” shouts the unknown.

That black horse springs forward, followed by the militia-men.
Then a confused conflict—a cry for quarter, and a vision of
twenty farmers grouped around the rider of the black horse,
greeting him with cheers. Thus it was all the day long. Wherever
that black horse and his rider went, there followed victory. At
last, toward the setting of the sun, the crisis of the conflict
came. That fortress yonder, on Bemiss’ Heights, must be won, or
the American cause is lost! That cliff is too steep—that death is
too certain. The officers cannot persuade the men to advance. The
Americans have lost the field. Even Morgan, that iron man among
iron men, leans on his rifle and despairs of the field.

But look yonder! In this moment when all is dismay and horror,
here crashing on, comes the black horse and his rider. That
rider bends upon his steed, his frenzied face covered with sweat
and dust and blood; he lays his hand upon that brave rifleman’s
shoulder, and as though living fire had been poured into his
veins, he seized his rifle and started toward the rock. And now
look! now hold your breath, as that black steed crashes up that
steep cliff. That steed quivers! he totters! he falls! No! No!
Still on, still up the cliff, still on toward the fortress.

The rider turns his face and shouts, “Come on, men of Quebec!
come on!” That call is needless. Already the bold riflemen are on
the rock. Now British cannon pour your fires, and lay your dead
in tens and twenties on the rock. Now, red-coat hirelings, shout
your battle-cry if you can! For look! there, in the gate of the
fortress, as the smoke clears away, stands the Black Horse and
his rider. That steed falls dead, pierced by an hundred balls;
but his rider, as the British cry for quarter, lifts up his voice
and shouts afar to Horatio Gates waiting yonder in his tent,
“Saratoga is won!”

As that cry goes up to heaven, he falls with his leg shattered by
a cannon ball. Who was the rider of the black horse? Do you not
guess his name? Then bend down and gaze on that shattered limb,
and you will see that it bears the marks of a former wound. That
wound was received in the storming of Quebec. That rider of the
Black Horse was Benedict Arnold.

CHARLES SHEPPARD.

THE UNFINISHED LETTER.

“NEAR DEADWOOD.

“DEAR JENNY—

“We reached here this morning,
Tom Baker, Ned Leonard and I,
So you see that, in spite of your warning,
The end of our journey is nigh.

“The redskins—’tis scarce worth a mention,
Don’t worry about me, I pray—
Have shown us no little attention—
Confound them?—along on our way.

“Poor Ned’s got a ball in the shoulder—
Another one just grazed my side—
But pshaw! ere we’re half a day older
We’ll be at the end of our ride.

“We’ve camped here for breakfast. Tom’s splitting
Some kindling wood, off of the pines,
And astride a dead cedar I’m sitting
To hastily pen you these lines.

“A courier from Deadwood—we met him
Just now with a mail for the States,
(Ah, Jenny! I’ll never forget him)—
For this most obligingly waits.

“He says, too, the miners are earning
Ten dollars a day, every man.
Halloa! here comes Tom—he’s returning,
And running as fast as he can.

“It’s nothing, I guess; he is only
At one of his practical—” Bang!
And sharp through that solitude lonely
The crack of Sioux rifle shots rang.

And as the dire volley came blended
With echo from canyon and pass,
The letter to Jenny was ended—
Its writer lay dead on the grass.

LEGEND OF THE ORGAN-BUILDER.

Day by day the Organ-builder in his lonely chamber wrought;
Day by day the soft air trembled to the music of his thought;

Till at last the work was ended; and no organ-voice so grand
Ever yet had soared responsive to the master’s magic hand.

Ay, so rarely was it builded that whenever groom and bride,
Who, in God’s sight were well-pleasing, in the church stood side by side,

Without touch or breath the organ of itself began to play,
And the very airs of heaven through the soft gloom seemed to stray.

He was young, the Organ-builder, and o’er all the land his fame
Ran with fleet and eager footsteps, like a swiftly rushing flame.

All the maidens heard the story; all the maidens blushed and smiled,
By his youth and wondrous beauty and his great renown beguiled.

So he sought and won the fairest, and the wedding-day was set:
Happy day—the brightest jewel in the glad year’s coronet!

But when they the portal entered, he forgot his lovely bride—
Forgot his love, forgot his God, and his heart swelled high with pride.

“Ah!” thought he; “how great a master am I! When the organ plays,
How the vast cathedral-arches will re-echo with my praise!”

Up the aisle the gay procession moved. The altar shone afar,
With every candle gleaming through soft shadows like a star.

But he listened, listened, listened, with no thought of love or prayer,
For the swelling notes of triumph from his organ standing there.

All was silent. Nothing heard he save the priest’s low monotone,
And the bride’s robe trailing softly o’er the floor of fretted stone.

Then his lips grew white with anger. Surely God was pleased with him
Who had built the wondrous organ for His temple vast and dim!

Whose the fault, then? Hers—the maiden standing meekly at his side!
Flamed his jealous rage, maintaining she was false to him—his bride.

Vain were all her protestations, vain her innocence and truth;
On that very night he left her to her anguish and her ruth.

For he wandered to a country wherein no man knew his name;
For ten weary years he dwelt there, nursing still his wrath and shame.

Then his haughty heart grew softer, and he thought by night and day
Of the bride he had deserted, till he hardly dared to pray;

Thought of her, a spotless maiden, fair and beautiful and good;
Thought of his relentless anger, that had cursed her womanhood;

Till his yearning grief and penitence at last were all complete,
And he longed, with bitter longing, just to fall down at her feet.

Ah! how throbbed his heart when, after many a weary day and night,
Rose his native towers before him, with the sunset glow alight!

Through the gates into the city on he pressed with eager tread;
There he met a long procession—mourners following the dead.

“Now why weep ye so, good people? and whom bury ye to-day?
Why do yonder sorrowing maidens scatter flowers along the way?

“Has some saint gone up to heaven?” “Yes,” they answered, weeping sore;
“For the Organ-builder’s saintly wife our eyes shall see no more;

“And because her days were given to the service of God’s poor,
From His church we mean to bury her. See! yonder is the door.”

No one knew him; no one wondered when he cried out, white with pain;
No one questioned when, with pallid lips, he poured his tears like rain.

“’Tis some one whom she has comforted, who mourns with us,” they said,
As he made his way unchallenged, and bore the coffin’s head;

Bore it through the open portal, bore it up the echoing aisle,
Let it down before the altar, where the lights burned clear the while;

When, oh, hark! the wondrous organ of itself began to play
Strains of rare, unearthly sweetness never heard until that day!

All the vaulted arches rang with the music sweet and clear!
All the air was filled with glory, as of angels hovering near;

And ere yet the strain was ended, he who bore the coffin’s head,
With the smile of one forgiven, gently sank beside it—dead.

They who raised the body knew him, and they laid him by his bride;
Down the aisle and o’er the threshold they were carried, side by side;

While the organ played a dirge that no man ever heard before,
And then softly sank to silence—silence kept for evermore.

JULIA C. R. DORR.

CAUGHT IN THE QUICKSAND.

It sometimes happens that a man, traveler or fisherman,
walking on the beach at low tide, far from the bank, suddenly
notices that for several minutes he has been walking with some
difficulty. The strand beneath his feet is like pitch; his soles
stick in it; it is sand no longer; it is glue.

The beach is perfectly dry, but at every step he takes, as soon
as he lift his foot, the print which it leaves fills with water.
The eye, however, has noticed no change; the immense strand
is smooth and tranquil; all the sand has the same appearance;
nothing distinguishes the surface which is solid from that which
is no longer so; the joyous little crowd of sandflies continue to
leap tumultuously over the wayfarer’s feet. The man pursues his
way, goes forward, inclines to the land, endeavors to get nearer
the upland.

He is not anxious. Anxious about what? Only he feels, somehow,
as if the weight of his feet increases with every step he takes.
Suddenly he sinks in.

He sinks in two or three inches. Decidedly he is not on the right
road; he stops to take his bearings; now he looks at his feet.
They have disappeared. The sand covers them. He draws them out
of the sand; he will retrace his steps. He turns back, he sinks
in deeper. The sand comes up to his ankles; he pulls himself out
and throws himself to the left; the sand half leg deep. He throws
himself to the right; the sand comes up to his shins.

Then he recognizes with unspeakable terror that he is caught in
the quicksand, and that he has beneath him the terrible medium in
which man can no more walk than the fish can swim. He throws off
his load, if he has one, lightens himself as a ship in distress;
it is already too late; the sand is above his knees. He calls, he
waves his hat or his handkerchief; the sand gains on him more and
more. If the beach is deserted, if the land is too far off, if
there is no help in sight, it is all over.

He is condemned to that appalling burial, long, infallible,
implacable and impossible to slacken or to hasten, which endures
for hours, which seizes you erect, free and in full health, and
which draws you by the feet; which, at every effort that you
attempt, at every shout you utter, drags you a little deeper,
sinking you slowly into the earth while you look upon the
horizon, the sails of the ships upon the sea, the birds flying
and singing, the sunshine and the sky. The victim attempts to
sit down, to lie down, to creep; every movement he makes inters
him; he straightens up, he sinks in; he feels that he is being
swallowed. He howls, implores, cries to the clouds, despairs.

Behold him waist deep in the sand. The sand reaches his breast;
he is now only a bust. He raises his arms, utters furious groans,
clutches the beach with his nails, would hold by that straw,
leans upon his elbows, to pull himself out of this soft sheath;
sobs frenziedly; the sand rises; the sand reaches his shoulders;
the sand reaches his neck; the face alone is visible now.

The mouth cries, the sand fills it—silence. The eyes still
gaze—the sand shuts them; night. Now the forehead decreases,
a little hair flutters above the sand; a hand come to the
surface of the beach, moves, and shakes, disappears. It is the
earth-drowning man. The earth filled with the ocean becomes a
trap. It presents itself like a plain, and opens like a wave.

VICTOR HUGO.

THE LITTLE QUAKER SINNER.

A little Quaker maiden, with dimpled cheek and chin,
Before an ancient mirror stood, and viewed her from within
She wore a gown of sober gray, a cap demure and prim,
With only simple fold and hem, yet dainty, neat and trim.
Her bonnet, too, was gray and stiff; its only line of grace
Was in the lace, so soft and white, shirred round her rosy face.

Quoth she: “Oh, how I hate this hat! I hate this gown and cape!
I do wish all my clothes were not of such outlandish shape!
The children passing by to school have ribbons on their hair;
The little girl next door wears blue; oh, dear, if I could dare,
I know what I should like to do!”—(The words were whispered low,
Lest such tremendous heresy should reach her aunts below.)

Calmly reading in the parlor sat the good aunts Faith and Peace,
Little dreaming how rebellious throbbed the heart of their young niece.
All their prudent, humble teaching willfully she cast aside,
And, her mind now fully conquered by vanity and pride,
She, with trembling heart and fingers, on a hassock sat her down,
And this little Quaker sinner sewed a tuck into her gown!

“Little Patience, art thou ready? Fifth day meeting time has come,
Mercy Jones and Goodman Elder with his wife have left their home.”
’Twas Aunt Faith’s sweet voice that called her, and the naughty little
maid—
Gliding down the dark old stairway—hoped their notice to evade,
Keeping shyly in their shadow as they went out at the door,
Ah! never little Quakeress a guiltier conscience bore!

Dear Aunt Faith walked looking upward; all her thoughts were pure and
holy;
And Aunt Peace walked gazing downward, with a humble mind and lowly.
But “tuck—tuck!” chirped the sparrows, at the little maiden’s side;
And, in passing Farmer Watson’s, where the barn-door opened wide,
Every sound that issued from it, every grunt and every cluck,
Was to her affrighted fancy like “a tuck!” “a tuck!” “a tuck!”

In meeting, Goodman Elder spoke of pride and vanity,
While all the Friends seemed looking round that dreadful tuck to see.
How it swelled in its proportions, till it seemed to fill the air,
And the heart of little Patience grew heavier with her care.
O, the glad relief to her, when, prayers and exhortations ended,
Behind her two good aunties her homeward way she wended!

The pomps and vanities of life she’d seized with eager arms,
And deeply she had tasted of the world’s alluring charms—
Yea, to the dregs had drained them, and only this to find:
All was vanity of spirit and vexation of the mind.
So, repentant, saddened, humbled on her hassock she sat down,
And this little Quaker sinner ripped the tuck out of her gown!

LUCY L. MONTGOMERY.

THE TELL-TALE HEART.

The emotions of horror and dismay are vividly brought out in this selection, which is characteristic of some of the writings of Edgar A. Poe. He had a morbid fancy for the weird, the gruesome and startling, all of which appear in this ghastly description from his pen. The piece is an excellent one of its kind. It requires the ability of a tragedian to properly deliver it.

With a loud yell I threw open the lantern and leaped into the
room. He shrieked once—once only. In an instant I dragged him to
the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gayly
to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the heart beat
on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would
not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man
was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. I placed my
hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no
pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If you still think me mad, you will think so no longer when I
describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the
body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence.
First of all I dismembered the corpse.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber and
deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards
so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye—not even his—could
have detected anything wrong.

When I had made an end of these labors it was four o’clock—still
dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a
knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light
heart—for what had I now to fear? Then entered three men who
introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the
police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night;
suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been
lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been
deputed to search the premises.

I smiled—for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome.
The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I
mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over
the house. I bade them search—search well. I led them at length
to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed.
In the enthusiasm of my confidence I brought chairs into the
room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I
myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own
seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the
victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was
singularly at ease. But ere long I felt myself getting pale and
wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my
ears; but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became
more distinct; it continued and gained definitiveness—until at
length I found that the noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I now grew very pale; but I talked more fluently and
with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased—and what could I
do. It was a low, dull, quick sound—much such a sound as a watch
makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath—and yet the
officers heard it not. I talked more quickly—more vehemently; but
the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles,
in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise
steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the
floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by
the observations of the men—but the noise steadily increased. O
God! what could I do? I foamed—I raved—I swore! I swung the chair
upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards,
but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew
louder—louder—louder. And still the men chatted pleasantly and
smiled. Was it possible they heard not?

They heard!—they suspected!—they knew!—they were making a mockery
of my horror! this I thought, and this I think. But anything was
better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this
derision! I can bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt
that I must scream or die!—and now—again!—hark! louder! louder!
louder! louder!

“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed—tear
up the planks! here! here! it is the beating of his hideous
heart!”

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL.

A CHRISTMAS STORY.

It was terribly cold; it snowed and was already almost dark and
evening coming on—the last evening of the year. In the cold and
gloom a little girl, bareheaded and barefooted, was walking
through the streets. When she left her own house she certainly
had slippers on, slippers, but of what use were they? They were
very big slippers, and her mother had used them until then. So
big were they the little maid lost them as she slipped across the
road, where two carriages were rattling by terribly fast. One
slipper was not to be found again, and a boy had seized the other
and ran away with it. So now the little girl went with naked
feet, which were quite red and blue with the cold. In an old
apron she carried a number of matches and a bundle of them in
her hand. No one had bought anything of her all day, and no one
had given her a farthing.

Shivering with cold and hunger she crept along, a picture of
misery, poor little girl! The snowflakes covered her long, fair
hair, which fell in pretty curls over her neck, but she did not
think of that now. In all the windows lights were shining and
there was a glorious smell of roast goose, for it was Christmas
Eve. Yes, she thought of that!

In a corner formed by two houses, one of which projected beyond
the other, she sat down, cowering. She had drawn up her little
feet, but she was still colder, and she did not dare go home, for
she had sold no matches, and did not therefore have a farthing
of money. From her father she would certainly receive a beating,
and, besides, it was cold at home, for they had nothing over them
but a roof, through which the wind whistled, though the largest
rents had been stopped with straw and rags.

Her hands were almost benumbed with the cold. Ah! a match might
do her good if she could only draw one from the bundle and rub
it against the wall and warm her hands at it. She draws one out.
R-r-atch! How it sputtered and burned! It was a warm, bright
flame, like a candle, when she held her hands over it; it was a
wonderful little light! It really seemed to the child as if she
sat before a great polished stove with bright brass feet and a
brass cover. How the fire burned! How comfortable it was! but the
little flame went out, the stove vanished, and she had only the
remains of the burnt match in her hand.

A second one was rubbed against the wall. It burned up, and when
the light fell upon the wall it became transparent, like a thin
veil, and she could see through it into the room. On the table
a snow-white cloth was spread; upon it stood a shining dinner
service; the roast goose smoked gloriously, stuffed with apples
and dried plums. And what was still more splendid to behold, the
goose hopped down from the dish and waddled along the floor, with
a knife and fork in its breast, to the little girl.

Then the match went out, and only the thick, damp, cold wall was
before her. She lighted another match. Then she was sitting under
a beautiful Christmas tree; it was greater and more ornamented
than the one she had seen through the glass door at the rich
merchant’s. Thousands of candles burned upon its green branches
and lighted up the pictures in the room. The girl stretched forth
her hand toward them; then the match went out. The Christmas
lights mounted higher. She saw them now as stars in the sky; one
of them fell down, forming a long line of fire.

“Now some one is dying,” thought the little girl, for her old
grandmother, the only person who had loved her and who was now
dead, had told her that when a star fell down a soul mounted up
to God.

She rubbed another match against the wall; it became bright
again, and in the brightness the old grandmother stood clear and
shining, mild and lovely.

“Grandmother!” cried the child, “oh! take me with you! I know you
will go when the match is burned out. You will vanish like the
warm fire, the warm food, and the great, glorious Christmas tree!”

And she hastily rubbed the whole bundle of matches, for she
wished to hold her grandmother fast. And the matches burned with
such a glow that it became brighter than in the middle of the
day; grandmother had never been so large or so beautiful. She
took the child in her arms and both flew in brightness and joy
above the earth, very, very high; and up there was neither cold
nor hunger nor care—they were with God.

But in the corner, leaning against the wall, sat the poor girl
with red cheeks and smiling mouth, frozen to death. “She wanted
to warm herself,” the people said. No one imagined what a
beautiful thing she had seen and in what glory she had gone in
with her grandmother on that Christmas night.

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

THE MONK’S VISION.

I read a legend of a monk who painted,
In an old convent cell in days bygone,
Pictures of martyrs and of virgins sainted,
And the sweet Christ-face with the crown of thorn.

Poor daubs not fit to be a chapel’s treasure—
Full many a taunting word upon them fell;
But the good abbot let him, for his pleasure,
Adorn with them his solitary cell.

One night the poor monk mused: “Could I but render
Honor to Christ as other painters do—
Were but my skill as great as is the tender
Love that inspires me when His cross I view!

“But no; ’tis vain I toil and strive in sorrow;
What man so scorns, still less can He admire;
My life’s work is all valueless; to-morrow
I’ll cast my ill-wrought pictures in the fire.”

He raised his eyes within his cell—O wonder!
There stood a visitor; thorn-crowned was He,
And a sweet voice the silence rent asunder:
“I scorn no work that’s done for love of me.”

And round the walls the paintings shone resplendent
With lights and colors to this world unknown,
A perfect beauty, and a hue transcendent,
That never yet on mortal canvas shone.

There is a meaning in this strange old story;
Let none dare judge his brother’s worth or need;
The pure intent gives to the act its glory,
The noblest purpose makes the grandest deed.

THE BOAT RACE

The Algonquins rowed up and down a few times before the
spectators. They appeared in perfect training, mettlesome
as colts, steady as draught horses, deep breathed as oxen,
disciplined to work together as symmetrically as a single sculler
pulls his pair of oars.

Five minutes passed, and all eyes were strained to the south,
looking for the Atalanta. A clumb of trees hid the edge of the
lake along which the Corinna’s boat was stealing toward the
starting point. Presently the long shell swept into view, with
its blooming rowers. How steadily the Atalanta came on! No
rocking, no splashing, no apparent strain; the bow oar turning
to look ahead every now and then, and watching her course, which
seemed to be straight as an arrow, the beat of the strokes as
true and regular as the pulse of the healthiest rower among them
all.

If the sight of the other boat and its crew of young men was
beautiful, how lovely was the look of this: eight young girls—all
in the flush of youth, all in vigorous health; every muscle
taught its duty; each rower alert not to be a tenth of a second
out of time, or let her oar dally with the water so as to lose an
ounce of its propelling virtue; every eye kindling with the hope
of victory. Each of the boats was cheered as it came in sight,
but the cheers for the Atalanta were naturally the loudest, as
the gallantry of one sex and the clear, high voices of the other
gave it his and vigor.

“Take your places!” shouted the umpire, five minutes before the
half-hour. The two boats felt their way slowly and cautiously to
their positions. After a little backing and filling they got into
line, and sat motionless, the bodies of the rowers bent forward,
their arms outstretched, their oars in the water, waiting for the
word. “Go!” shouted the umpire. Away sprang the Atalanta, and
far behind her leaped the Algonquin, her oars bending like long
Indian bows as their blades flashed through the water.

“A stern chase is a long chase,” especially when one craft is
a great distance behind the other. It looked as if it would be
impossible for the rear boat to overcome the odds against it. Of
course, the Algonquin kept gaining, but could it possibly gain
enough? As the boats got farther and farther away, it became
difficult to determine what change there was in the interval
between them.

But when they came to rounding the stake it was easier to guess
at the amount of space which had been gained. Something like half
the distance—four lengths as nearly as could be estimated—had
been made up in rowing the first three-quarters of a mile. Could
the Algonquins do a little better than this in the second half of
the race-course they would be sure of winning.

The boats had turned the stake and were coming in rapidly. Every
minute the University boat was getting nearer the other.

“Go it, ’Quins!” shouted the students.

“Pull away, ’Lantas!” screamed the girls, who were crowding down
to the edge of the water.

Nearer, nearer—the rear boat is pressing the other more and
more closely—a few more strokes and they will be even. It looks
desperate for the Atalantas. The bow oar of the Algonquin
turns his head. He sees the little coxswain leaning forward
at every stroke, as if her trivial weight were of such mighty
consequence—but a few ounces might turn the scale of victory. As
he turned he got a glimpse of the stroke oar of the Atalanta;
what a flash of loveliness it was! Her face was like the reddest
of June roses, with the heat and the strain and passion of
expected triumph.

The upper button of her close-fitting flannel suit had strangled
her as her bosom heaved with exertion, and it had given way
before the fierce clutch she made at it. The bow oar was a
staunch and steady rower, but he was human. The blade of his oar
lingered in the water; a little more and he would have caught a
crab, and perhaps lost the race by his momentary bewilderment.

The boat, which seemed as if it had all the life and nervousness
of a three-year-old colt, felt the slight check, and all her
men bent more vigorously to their oars. The Atalanta saw the
movement, and made a spurt to keep their lead and gain upon it if
they could. It was no use. The strong arms of the young men were
too much for the young maidens; only a few lengths remained to
be rowed, and they would certainly pass the Atalanta before she
could reach the line.

The little coxswain saw that it was all up with the girls’ crew
if she could not save them by some strategic device. As she
stooped she lifted the handkerchief at her feet and took from it
a flaming bouquet. “Look!” she cried, and flung it just forward
of the track of the Algonquin.

The captain of the University boat turned his head, and there was
the lovely vision which had, a moment before, bewitched him. The
owner of all that loveliness must, he thought, have flung the
bouquet. It was a challenge; how could he be such a coward as to
decline accepting it? He was sure he could win the race now,
and he would sweep past the line in triumph with the great bunch
of flowers at the stern of his boat, proud as Van Tromp in the
British Channel with the broom at his masthead.

He turned the boat’s head a little by backing water, and came up
with the floating flowers, near enough to reach them. He stooped
and snatched them up, with the loss perhaps of a second, no more.
He felt sure of his victory.

The bow of the Algonquin passes the stern of the Atalanta!
The bow of the Algonquin is on a level with the middle of the
Atalanta—three more lengths and the college crew will pass the
girls!

“Hurrah for the ’Quins!” The Algonquin ranges up alongside of the
Atalanta!

“Through with her!” shouts the captain of the Algonquin.

“Now, girls!” shrieks the captain of the Atalanta.

They near the line, every rower straining desperately, almost
madly. Crack goes the oar of the Atalanta’s captain, and up flash
its splintered fragments as the stem of her boat springs past the
line, eighteen inches at least ahead of the Algonquin.

“Hooraw for the ’Lantas! Hooraw for the girls! Hooraw for the
Institoot!” shout a hundred voices.