Chapter III: At the Farmhouse

gallant fidelity weariness mischief
trusty faithful sentinels mentioned

It was now near night, and the place of meeting being a farmhouse, Bruce went boldly into it, where he found the mistress, an old, true-hearted Scotswoman, sitting alone. Upon seeing a stranger enter, she asked him who he was. The king answered that he was a traveler, who was journeying through the country.

“All travelers,” answered the good woman, “are welcome here for the sake of one.”

“And who is that one,” said the king, “for whose sake you make all travelers welcome?”

“It is our rightful king, Robert the Bruce,” answered the mistress, “who is the lawful lord of this country; and although he is now pursued with hounds and horns, I hope to live to see him king over all Scotland.”

“Since you love him so well, dame,” said the king, “know that you see him before you. I am Robert the Bruce.”

“You!” said the good woman, “and wherefore are you thus alone?--where are all your men?”

“I have none with me at this moment,” answered Bruce, “and therefore I must travel alone.”

“But that shall not be,” said the brave old dame; “for I have two sons, gallant and trusty men, who shall be your servants for life and death.”

So she brought her two sons, and though she well knew the dangers to which she exposed them, she made them swear fidelity to the king; and they afterward became high officers in his service.

Now the loyal old woman was getting everything ready for the king’s supper, when suddenly there was a great trampling of horses heard round the house. They thought it must be some of the English, or John of Lorn’s men, and the good wife called upon her sons to fight to the last for King Robert. But shortly after they heard the voice of the good Lord James of Douglas, and of Edward Bruce, the king’s brother, who had come with a hundred and fifty horsemen to this farmhouse.

Robert the Bruce, forgetting hunger and weariness, began to inquire where the enemy who had pursued them so long had taken up their abode for the night; “for,” said he, “as they must suppose us totally scattered and fled, it is likely that they will think themselves quite secure, and keep careless watch.”

“That is very true,” answered James of Douglas, “for I passed a village where there are two hundred of them quartered, who had placed no sentinels; and if you have a mind, we may surprise them, and do them more mischief than they have done us.”

Then there was nothing but mount and ride; and as the Scots came by surprise on the body of English whom Douglas had mentioned, and rushed suddenly into the village where they were quartered, they easily dispersed and cut them to pieces.

--SIR WALTER SCOTT.

“WHEN EVENING SHADES ARE FALLING”

When evening shades are falling
O’er ocean’s sunny sleep,
To pilgrims’ hearts recalling
Their home beyond the deep;
When rest, o’er all descending,
The shores with gladness smile,
And lutes, their echoes blending,
Are heard from isle to isle:
Then, Mary, Star of the Sea,
We pray, we pray, to thee.

The noonday tempest over
Now ocean toils no more,
And wings of halcyons hover,
Where all was strife before;
Oh, thus may life, in closing
Its short tempestuous day,
Beneath heaven’s smile reposing,
Shine all its storms away:
Thus, Mary, Star of the Sea,
We pray, we pray, to thee.

--THOMAS MOORE.

THE REINDEER

Adapted from “The Red Book of Animal Stories.” Copyright, 1899, by Longmans, Green, & Company. Used by permission.

nourishing excellent sinews immense
delicacy especially crevices sociable

There is perhaps no other animal in the world so useful as the reindeer, at least none that can be put to so many uses. The flesh of a sheep is eaten, and its wool is woven into cloth; but then we should never think of harnessing a sheep even to a baby carriage. A camel serves, in the desert, the purpose of a van and of a riding horse in one, and his hair makes warm garments; but he would give us a very ill-tasting dinner, and the same may be said of some other useful creatures. A reindeer, however, is good to eat, and makes an excellent steed; its milk is nourishing; the softer parts of its horns, when properly prepared, are considered a delicacy; the bones are turned to account as tools; the sinews are twisted into thread, and, all the long winter, the skin and hair keep the dwellers in the far North snug and warm. Take away the reindeer, and the inhabitants of every country north of latitude 60° would feel as helpless as we should in England if there were no more sheep or cows!

Reindeer live, by choice, on the slopes of mountains, and require no better food than the moss, or little alpine plants, which they find growing in the crevices of the rock. Sometimes, in very cold places, or when the winter is particularly severe, they take shelter in the forest; but when spring is in the air once more, out they come in great herds, thin and sore from the bites of newly awakened insects, and wander away in search of fresher pasture. In August and September, when the sun has grown too strong for them, they seek the shade of the woods again.

In their wild state reindeer are great travelers, and as they are very strong, and excellent swimmers, they go immense distances, especially the reindeer of North America, who will cross the ice to Greenland in the early part of the year, and stay there till the end of October, when they come back to their old quarters. They are most sociable creatures, and are never happy unless they have three or four hundred companions, while herds of a thousand have sometimes been counted. The females and calves are always placed in front, and the big bucks bring up the rear, to see that nobody falls out of the ranks from weakness.

Like many animals that live in the North, the color of the reindeer is different in winter from what it is in summer. Twice a year he changes his coat, and the immense thick covering which has been so comfortable all through the fierce cold, begins to fall in early spring and a short hair to take its place, so that by the time summer comes, he is nice and cool, and looks quite another creature from what he did in the winter. As the days shorten and grow frosty, the coat becomes longer and closer, and by the time the first snow falls the deer is quite prepared to meet it.

Though reindeer prefer mountain sides when they can get them, their broad and wide-cleft hoofs are well adapted for the lowlands of the North of Europe and of America, which are a morass in summer and a snow-field in winter. Here are to be seen whole herds of them, either walking with a regular rapid step, or else going at a quick trot; but in either case always making a peculiar crackling noise with their feet.

They have an acute sense of smell, and will detect a man at a distance of five or six hundred paces, and as their eyes are as good as their ears, the huntsman has much ado to get up to them. They are dainty in their food, choosing out only the most delicate of the alpine plants, and their skins cannot be as tough as they look, for they are very sensitive to the bites of mosquitoes, gnats, and particularly of midges.

Reindeer are very cautious, as many hunters have found to their cost; but they are ready to be friendly with any cows or horses they may come across, and this must make the task of taming them a great deal easier. They have their regular hours for meals, too, and early in the mornings and late in the evenings may be seen going out for their breakfasts and suppers, which, in summer, consist, in the highlands, of the leaves and flowers of the snow ranunculus, reindeer sorrel, a favorite kind of grass, and, better than all, the young shoots of the dwarf birch. In the afternoons they lie down and rest, and choose for their place of repose a patch of snow, or a glacier if one is at hand.

In Norway and Lapland great herds of reindeer may be seen, during the summer, wandering along the banks of rivers, or making for the mountains, returning with the approach of winter to their old quarters. With the first snow fall they are safe under shelter, for this is the time when wolves are most to be feared. In the spring they are let loose again, and are driven carefully to some spot which is freer from midges than the rest. And so life goes on from year to year.

Reindeer herding is by no means so easy as it looks, and it would be quite impossible, even to a Lapp, if it were not for the help of dogs, who are part of the family. They are small creatures, hardly as big as a Spitz, and very thin, with close compact hair all over their bodies. These dogs are very obedient, and understand every movement of their master’s eyelid. They will not only keep the herd together on land, but follow them into a river, or across an arm of the sea. It is they who rescue the weaklings in danger of drowning, after their winter’s fast, and in the autumn, when the reindeer have grown strong from good living, drive the herd back again through the bay.

A herd of reindeer on the march is a beautiful sight to see. They go quickly along, faster than any other domestic animal, and are kept together by the herdsman and his dogs, who are untiring in their efforts to bring up stragglers.

When a good stretch of pasture is found, the Lapps build a fold, into which the reindeer are driven every evening, so that the work of the milkers may be lightened. These folds are made of the stems of birches placed close together and strengthened with cross-pieces and strong props. They are about seven feet high, and have two wide doors. At milking time, which the dogs know as well as the men, the animals are driven inside by their faithful guardians, and milking begins busily. The young ones are generally left outside under the watchful eyes of the dogs, who see that they do not wander too far away.

Inside the fold the noise is really deafening. The reindeer run to and fro, giving loud cries and throwing their heads about; which, as their horns are very big, is not pleasant for the milkers. Any one walking that way would be struck, first, with the sound of the commotion in the inclosure, and this would most likely be followed by a crackling noise, as if a hundred electric batteries were at work at once.

In the middle of the fold are thick tree trunks to which the reindeer which have to be milked are fastened, for without these they would not stand still one single instant.

The milkers have a thong which is thrown round the neck of the animal, and drawn closer till it is tied by a slip noose over the creature’s mouth, so as to prevent it from biting. Then the ends are made secure to the milking block, and the milking begins--the animal all the while struggling hard to get free. But the Lapps know how to manage them, and only draw the cord tighter over the nose, so that the creatures are bound in self-defense to remain quiet.

The milk flows into a sort of large bowl with handles, but the Lapps are both careless and dirty in their ways, and not only waste a great deal of the milk, but leave so many hairs in it that it is necessary to strain it through a cloth before it can be drunk. However, the milk itself is very good. The milking once over, the doors are opened, and the animals scamper out joyously.

All together, the life of the owner of a herd of reindeer cannot be said to be an idle one. Yet he is in general well satisfied with his lot, and thinks himself the most fortunate man in the world.

--A. LANG.

A STORY OF ANCIENT IRELAND

chariots weapon barriers protector
whelp award district savage

There was a great smith in Ulster of the name of Culain, who made a feast for Conchubar and his people. When Conchubar was setting out to the feast, he passed by the lawn where the boy troop were at their games, and he watched them awhile, and saw how young Setanta, his sister’s son, was winning the goal from them all.

“That little lad will serve Ulster yet,” said Conchubar; “and call him to me now,” he said, “and let him come with me to the smith’s feast.”

“I cannot go with you now,” said Setanta, when they had called to him, “for these boys have not had enough of play yet.”

“It would be too long for me to wait for you,” said the king.

“There is no need for you to wait; I will follow the track of the chariots,” said Setanta.

So Conchubar went on to the smith’s house, and there was a welcome before him, and the feast was brought in, and they began to be merry. And then Culain said to the king, “Will there be any one else of your people coming after you to-night?”

“There will not,” said Conchubar, for he forgot that he had told the little lad to follow him. “But why do you ask me that?” he said.

“I have a fierce hound,” said the smith, “and when I take the chain off him, he lets no one come into the district with himself, and he will obey no one but myself, and he has in him the strength of a hundred.”

“Loose him out,” said Conchubar, “and let him keep a watch on the place.”

So Culain loosed him out, and the dog made a course round the whole district, and then he came back to the place where he was used to watch the house.

Now, as to the boys at Emain, when they were done playing, every one went to his father’s house, or to whoever was in charge of him. But Setanta set out on the track of the chariots, shortening the way for himself with his hurling stick and his ball.

When he came to the lawn before the smith’s house, the hound heard him coming, and began such a fierce yelling that he might have been heard through all Ulster, and he sprang at him as if he had a mind not to stop and tear him up at all, but to swallow him at the one mouthful. The little fellow had no weapon but his stick and his ball, but when he saw the hound coming at him, he struck the ball with such force that it went down his throat, and through his body. Then he seized him by the hind legs and dashed him against a rock until there was no life left in him.

When the men feasting within heard the outcry of the hound, Conchubar started up and said, “It is no good luck brought us on this journey, for that is surely my sister’s son that was coming after me, and that has got his death by the hound.”

On that all the men rushed out, not waiting to go through the door, but over walls and barriers as they could. But Fergus was the first to get to where the boy was, and he took him up and lifted him on his shoulder, and brought him in safe and sound to Conchubar, and there was great joy in them all.

But Culain the smith went out with them, and when he saw his great hound lying dead and broken, there was great grief in his heart, and he came in and said to Setanta, “There is no good welcome for you here.”

“What have you against the little lad?” said Conchubar.

“It was no good luck that brought him here, or that made me prepare this feast for yourself,” said the smith, “for now, my hound being gone, my substance will be wasted, and my way of living will be gone astray. And, little boy,” he said, “that was a good member of my family you took from me, for he was the protector of my flocks and of all that I have.”

“Do not be vexed on account of that,” said the boy, “and I myself will makeup to you for what I have done.”

“How will you do that?” said Conchubar.

“This is how I will do it: if there is a whelp of the same breed to be had in Ireland, I will rear him and train him until he is as good a hound as the one killed; and until that time, Culain,” he said, “I myself will be your watchdog, to guard your goods and your cattle and your house.”

“You have made a fair offer,” said Conchubar.

“I could have given no better award myself,” said Cathbad the Druid. “And from this out,” he said, “your name will be Cuchulain, the Hound of Culain.”

“I am better pleased with my own name of Setanta,” said the boy.

“Do not say that,” said Cathbad, “for all the men in the whole world will some day have the name of Cuchulain in their mouths.”

“If that is so, I am content to keep it,” said the boy. And this is how he came by the name Cuchulain.

--LADY GREGORY.

SAN GABRIEL

uncivil specimens behavior celebrations
dozens wreaths garlands especially

There are a great many interesting stories about the first settlement of San Gabriel, and the habits and customs of the Indians there. They were a very polite people to each other, and used to train their children in some respects very carefully.

If a child were sent to bring water to an older person, and he tasted it on the way, he was made to throw the water out and go and bring fresh water; when two grown-up persons were talking together, if a child ran between them, he was told that he had done an uncivil thing. These are only specimens of their rules for polite behavior. They seem to me as good as ours.

These Indians were very fond of flowers, of which the whole country is full. They used to make long garlands and wreaths, not only to wear on their heads, but to reach way down to their feet. These they wore at festivals and celebrations; and sometimes at these festivals they used to have what they called “song contests.”

Two of the best singers, or poets, would be matched together to see which could sing the better, or make the better verses. That seems to me a more interesting kind of match than the spelling matches we have in our villages.

But there is nothing of this sort to be seen in San Gabriel now, or indeed anywhere in California. The Indians have been driven away by the white people who wanted their lands; year by year more and more white people have come, and the Indians have been robbed of more and more of their lands, and have died off by hundreds, until there are not many left.

Mr. Connor was much interested in collecting all he could of the curious stone bowls and pestles they used to make, and of their baskets and lace work. He spent much of his time riding about the country; and whenever he came to an Indian hut he would stop and ask if they had any stone bowls they would like to sell.

The bowls especially were a great curiosity. Nobody knew how long ago they had been made. When the missionaries first came to the country they found the Indians using them; they had them of all sizes, from those so large that they are almost more than a man can lift down to the tiny ones no bigger than a tea-cup. But big and little, they were all made in the same way out of solid stone, scooped out in the middle, by rubbing another stone round and round on them.

Even yet people who are searching for such curiosities sometimes find big grave mounds in which dozens of them are buried--buried side by side with the people who used to eat out of them. There is nothing left of the people but their skulls and a few bones; but the bowls will last as long as the world stands.

--HELEN HUNT JACKSON.

IMITATION OF MARY

Let the life of the Blessed Mary be ever present to you.…

She was humble of heart, serious in her conversation, fonder of reading than of speaking.

She placed her confidence rather in the prayer of the poor than in the uncertain riches of the world.

She was ever intent on her occupations, and accustomed to make God rather than man the witness of her thoughts.

She injured no one, wished well to all, reverenced age, yielded not to envy, avoided all boasting, followed the dictates of reason, and loved virtue.

--ST. AMBROSE.

A SCENE FROM “WILLIAM TELL”

(Switzerland had been conquered by Austria, and Gesler, a cruel tyrant, was her governor. William Tell had refused to bow before Gesler’s hat, which had been elevated on a pole; he was therefore arrested and taken before the governor. His son Albert was also taken, and both were threatened with death.)

SCENE I

(_WILLIAM TELL, ALBERT, his son, and GESLER with officers. TELL in
chains._)

GESLER. What is thy name?

TELL. My name?
It matters not to keep it from thee now--
My name is Tell.

GES. Tell!--William Tell?

TELL. The same.

GES. What! he so famed ’bove all his countrymen
For guiding o’er the stormy lake the boat?
And such a master of his bow, ’tis said
His arrows never miss! Indeed, I’ll take
Exquisite vengeance! Mark! I’ll spare thy life--
Thy boy’s, too!--both of you are free--on one
Condition.

TELL. Name it.

GES. I would see you make
A trial of your skill with that same bow
You shoot so well with.

TELL. Name the trial you
Would have me make.

GES. You look upon your boy
As though instinctively you guessed it.

TELL. Look upon my boy! What mean you?
Look upon
My boy as though I guessed it! Guessed the trial
You’d have me make! Guessed it
Instinctively! you do not mean--no--no--
You would not have me make a trial of
My skill upon my child! Impossible!
I do not guess your meaning.

GES. I would see
Thee hit an apple at the distance of
A hundred paces.

TELL. Is my boy to hold it?

GES. No.

TELL. No! I’ll send the arrow through the core.

GES. It is to rest upon his head.

TELL. Great Heaven, you hear him!

GES. Thou dost hear the choice I give--
Such trial of the skill thou art master of,
Or death to both of you; not otherwise
To be escaped.

TELL. O monster!

GES. Wilt thou do it?

ALBERT. He will! he will!

TELL. Ferocious monster! Make
A father murder his own child--

GES. Take off
His chains, if he consent.

TELL. With his own hand!

GES. Does he consent?

ALB. He does.

(_GESLER signs to his officers, who proceed to take off TELL’S
chains. TELL all the time unconscious what they do._)

TELL. With his own hand!
Murder his child with his own hand--this hand!
The hand I’ve led him, when an infant, by!
’Tis beyond horror--’tis most horrible.
Amazement! (_His chains fall off._) What’s that you’ve done to me?
Villains! put on my chains again. My hands
Are free from blood, and have no gust for it,
That they should drink my child’s! Here! here! I’ll not
Murder my boy for Gesler.

ALB. Father--father!
You will not hit me, father!

TELL. Hit thee! Send
The arrow through thy brain; or, missing that,
Shoot out an eye; or, if thine eye escape,
Mangle the cheek I’ve seen thy mother’s lips
Cover with kisses. Hit thee--hit a hair
Of thee, and cleave thy mother’s heart.

GES. Dost thou consent?

TELL. Give me my bow and quiver.

GES. For what?

TELL. To shoot my boy!

ALB. No, father--no!
To save me! You’ll be sure to hit the apple--
Will you not save me, father?

TELL. Lead me forth;
I’ll make the trial.

ALB. Thank you!

TELL. Thank me! Do
You know for what? I will not make the trial,
To take him to his mother in my arms
And lay him down a corpse before her!

GES. Then he dies this moment--and you certainly
Do murder him whose life you have a chance
To save, and will not use it.

TELL. Well, I’ll do it. I’ll make the trial.

ALB. Father--

TELL. Speak not to me;
Let me not hear thy voice. Thou must be dumb;
And so should all things be. Earth should be dumb,
And heaven--unless its thunders muttered at
The deed, and sent a bolt to stop it. Give me
My bow and quiver!

GES. When all’s ready.

TELL. Well, lead on!

SCENE II

_Enter, slowly, people in evident distress. Officers, SARNEM,
GESLER, TELL, ALBERT, and soldiers, one bearing TELL’S bow and
quiver, another with a basket of apples._

GES. That is your ground. Now shall they measure thence
A hundred paces. Take the distance.

TELL. Is the line a true one?

GES. True or not, what is’t to thee?

TELL. What is’t to me? A little thing,
A very little thing--a yard or two
Is nothing here or there--were it a wolf
I shot at. Never mind.

GES. Be thankful, slave,
Our grace accords thee life on any terms.

TELL. I will be thankful, Gesler. Villain, stop!
You measure to the sun!

GES. And what of that?
What matter whether to or from the sun?

TELL. I’d have it at my back--the sun should shine
Upon the mark, and not on him that shoots.
I cannot see to shoot against the sun;
I will not shoot against the sun!

GES. Give him his way. Thou hast cause to bless my mercy.

TELL. I shall remember it. I’d like to see
The apple I’m to shoot at.

GES. Stay! show me the basket--there--

TELL. You’ve picked the smallest one.

GES. I know I have.

TELL. Oh! do you? But you see
The color on’t is dark.--I’d have it light,
To see it better.

GES. Take it as it is;
Thy skill will be the greater if thou hit’st it.

TELL. True--true! I did not think of that--I wonder
I did not think of that. Give me some chance
To save my boy! (_Throws away the apple._)
I will not murder him,
If I can help it--for the honor of
The form thou wearest, if all the heart is gone.

GES. Well, choose thyself.

TELL. Have I a friend among the lookers-on?

VERNER. (_Rushing forward._) Here, Tell!

TELL. I thank thee, Verner!
He is a friend runs out into a storm
To shake a hand with us. I must be brief:
When once the bow is bent, we cannot take
The shot too soon. Verner, whatever be
The issue of this hour, the common cause
Must not stand still. Let not to-morrow’s sun
Set on the tyrant’s banner! Verner! Verner!
The boy! the boy! Thinkest thou he hath the courage
To stand it?

VER. Yes.

TELL. How looks he?

VER. Clear and smilingly;
If you doubt it, look yourself.

TELL. No--no--my friend;
To hear it is enough.

VER. He bears himself so much above his years.

TELL. I know! I know!

VER. With constancy so modest--

TELL. I was sure he would.

VER. And looks with such relying love
And reverence upon you.

TELL. Man! man! man!
No more. Already I’m too much the father
To act the man. Verner, no more, my friend.
I would be flint--flint--flint. Don’t make me feel
I’m not. Do not mind me. Take the boy
And set him, Verner, with his back to me.
Set him upon his knees--and place this apple
Upon his head, so that the stem may front me,--
Thus, Verner; charge him to keep steady--tell him
I’ll hit the apple. Verner, do all this
More briefly than I tell it thee.

VER. Come, Albert. (_Leading him out._)

ALB. May I not speak with him before I go?

VER. You must not.

ALB. I must! I cannot go from him without.

VER. It is his will you should.

ALB. His will, is it?
I am content, then--come.

TELL. My boy! (_Holding out his arms to him._)

ALB. My father! (_Rushing into TELL’S arms._)

TELL. If thou canst bear it, should not I? Go, now,
My son--and keep in mind that I can shoot--
Go, boy--be thou but steady, I will hit
The apple. Go! God bless thee--go. My bow!--
(_The bow is handed to him._)
Thou wilt not fail thy master, wilt thou? Thou
Hast never failed him yet, old servant. No,
I’m sure of thee. I know thy honesty.
Thou art stanch--stanch. Let me see my quiver.

GES. Give him a single arrow.

TELL. Do you shoot?

SOL. I do.

TELL. Is it so you pick an arrow, friend?
The point, you see, is bent; the feather jagged.
(_Breaks it._) That’s all the use ’tis fit for.

GES. Let him have another.

TELL. Why, ’tis better than the first,
But yet not good enough for such an aim
As I’m to take--’tis heavy in the shaft;
I’ll not shoot with it! (_Throws it away._) Let me see my quiver.
Bring it! ’Tis not one arrow in a dozen
I’d take to shoot with at a dove, much less
A dove like that.

GES. It matters not.
Show him the quiver.

TELL. See if the boy is ready.
(_TELL here hides an arrow under his vest_.)

VER. He is.

TELL. I’m ready, too! Keep silent for
Heaven’s sake and do not stir--and let me have
Your prayers--your prayers--and be my witnesses
That if his life’s in peril from my hand,
’Tis only for the chance of saving it. (_To the people._)

GES. Go on.

TELL. I will.
O friends, for mercy’s sake, keep motionless
And silent.

(_TELL shoots; a shout of exultation bursts from the crowd. TELL’S
head drops on his bosom; he with difficulty supports himself upon
his bow._)

VER. (_Rushing in with ALBERT._) Thy boy is safe, no
hair of him is touched.

ALB. Father, I’m safe! Your Albert’s safe, dear father,--
Speak to me! Speak to me!

VER. He cannot, boy.

ALB. You grant him life?

GES. I do.

ALB. And we are free?

GES. You are. (Crossing angrily behind.)

VER. Open his vest
And give him air.

(_ALBERT opens his father’s vest, and the arrow drops. TELL starts,
fixes his eye upon ALBERT, and clasps him to his breast._)

TELL. My boy! my boy!

GES. For what
Hid you that arrow in your breast? Speak, slave!

TELL. To kill thee, tyrant, had I slain my boy!

--SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

THE SCHOOLMASTER OF SLEEPY HOLLOW