Chapter II: Part 2

The food of the rhinoceros consists of roots, and the young branches and leaves of trees and shrubs. It ploughs up the roots with the aid of its horn, and gathers the branches and leaves with its upper lip, which is long and pointed, and with it rolls its food together before placing it in its mouth. The flesh of the rhinoceros is good to eat; and its strong, thick skin is made by the natives into shields, whips, and other articles.

Though clumsy, and apparently very stupid, the rhinoceros is a very active animal when attacked or otherwise alarmed. It is very fierce and savage,--so much so, that the natives dread it more than they do the lion. In hunting the rhinoceros, it is dangerous for a man to fire at one, unless he is mounted upon a swift horse, and can easily reach some place of safety. When attacking an enemy, the rhinoceros lowers its head and rushes forward like an angry bull. Though it may not see the object of its attack, its sense of smell is so acute that it knows when the enemy is reached. Then begins a furious tossing of the head, and if its powerful horn strikes the foe, a terrible wound is the result. When wounded itself, the rhinoceros loses all sense of fear, and charges again and again, with such desperate fury, that the enemy is almost always overcome.

A famous traveller in South Africa relates the following incident that happened during one of his hunting excursions:

“Having proceeded about two miles, I came upon a black rhinoceros, feeding within fifty yards of me. I fired from my saddle, and sent a bullet in behind his shoulder, upon which he rushed forward, blowing like a grampus, and then stood looking about him. Presently he started off, and I followed. I expected that he would come to bay, but it seems a rhinoceros never does that,--a fact I did not know at that time. Suddenly he fell flat upon the ground; but soon recovering his feet, he resumed his course as if nothing had happened.

“I spurred on my horse, dashed ahead, and rode right in his path. Upon this, the hideous monster charged me in the most resolute manner, blowing loudly through his nostrils. Although I quickly turned about, he followed me at such a furious pace for several hundred yards, with his horrid, horny snout within a few yards of my horse’s tail, that I thought my destruction was certain. The animal, however, suddenly turned and ran in another direction. I had now become so excited with the incident, that I determined to give him one more shot any way. Nerving my horse again, I made another dash after the rhinoceros, and coming up pretty close to him, I again fired, though with little effect, the ball striking some thick portion of the skin and doing no harm. Not caring to run the chance of the huge brute again charging me, and believing that my rifle-ball was not powerful enough to kill him, I determined to give up the pursuit, and accordingly let him run off while I returned to the camp.”

XIII.--THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

ELIZA COOK.

I love it, I love it, and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I’ve treasured it long as a sainted prize,
I’ve bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs;
’Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would you learn the spell?--a mother sat there,
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood’s hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give,
To fit me to die and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat and watched her many a day,
When her eyes grew dim, and her locks were gray;
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on, but the last one sped--
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled;
I learned how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.

’Tis past! ’tis past! but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow:
’Twas there she nursed me, ’twas there she died;
And memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother’s old arm-chair.

XIV.--ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL.

LEIGH HUNT.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel, writing in a book of gold:--
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
“What writest thou?”--The vision raised its head,
And, with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.”
“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the Angel. Abou spake more low,
But cheerily still; and said, “I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.”

The angel wrote and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blest,
And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.

XV.--PRINCE ARTHUR.

DICKENS.

At two-and-thirty years of age, in the year 1199, John became king of England. His pretty little nephew, Arthur, had the best claim to the throne; but John seized the treasure, and made fine promises to the nobility, and got himself crowned at Westminster within a few weeks after his brother Richard’s death. I doubt whether the crown could possibly have been put upon the head of a meaner coward, or a more detestable villain, if the country had been searched from end to end to find him out.

The French king, Philip, refused to acknowledge the right of John to his new dignity, and declared in favor of Arthur. You must not suppose that he had any generosity of feeling for the fatherless boy; it merely suited his ambitious schemes to oppose the king of England. So John and the French king went to war about Arthur.

He was a handsome boy, at that time only twelve years old. He was not born when his father, Geoffrey, had his brains trampled out at the tournament; and, besides the misfortune of never having known a father’s guidance and protection, he had the additional misfortune to have a foolish mother (Constance by name), lately married to her third husband. She took Arthur, upon John’s accession, to the French king, who pretended to be very much his friend, and made him a knight, and promised him his daughter in marriage; but who cared so little about him in reality, that, finding it his interest to make peace with King John for a time, he did so without the least consideration for the poor little prince, and heartlessly sacrificed all his interests.

Young Arthur, for two years afterwards, lived quietly, and in the course of that time his mother died. But the French king, then finding it his interest to quarrel with King John again, made Arthur his pretence, and invited the orphan boy to court. “You know your rights, prince,” said the French king, “and you would like to be a king. Is it not so?” “Truly,” said Prince Arthur, “I should greatly like to be a king!” “Then,” said Philip, “you shall have two hundred gentlemen who are knights of mine, and with them you shall go to win back the provinces belonging to you, of which your uncle, the usurping king of England, has taken possession. I myself, meanwhile, will head a force against him in Normandy.”

Prince Arthur went to attack the town of Mirebeau, because his grandmother, Eleanor, was living there, and because his knights said, “Prince, if you can take her prisoner, you will be able to bring the king your uncle to terms!” But she was not to be easily taken. She was old enough by this time--eighty; but she was as full of stratagem as she was full of years and wickedness. Receiving intelligence of young Arthur’s approach, she shut herself up in a high tower, and encouraged her soldiers to defend it like men. Prince Arthur with his little army besieged the high tower. King John, hearing how matters stood, came up to the rescue with his army. So here was a strange family party! The boy-prince besieging his grandmother, and his uncle besieging him!

This position of affairs did not last long. One summer night, King John, by treachery, got his men into the town, surprised Prince Arthur’s force, took two hundred of his knights, and seized the prince himself in his bed. The knights were put in heavy irons, and driven away in open carts, drawn by bullocks, to various dungeons, where they were most inhumanly treated, and where some of them were starved to death. Prince Arthur was sent to the Castle of Falaise.

One day, while he was in prison at that castle, mournfully thinking it strange that one so young should be in so much trouble, and looking out of the small window in the deep, dark wall, at the summer sky and the birds, the door was softly opened, and he saw his uncle, the king, standing in the shadow of the archway, looking very grim.

“Arthur,” said the king, with his wicked eyes more on the stone floor than on his nephew, “will you not trust to the gentleness, the friendship, and the truthfulness of your loving uncle?” “I will tell my loving uncle that,” replied the boy, “when he does me right. Let him restore to me my kingdom of England, and then come to me and ask the question.” The king looked at him and went out. “Keep that boy a close prisoner,” said he to the warden of the castle. Then the king took secret counsel with the worst of his nobles, how the prince was to be got rid of. Some said, “Put out his eyes and keep him in prison, as Robert of Normandy was kept.” Others said, “Have him stabbed.” Others, “Have him poisoned.”

King John feeling that in any case, whatever was done afterwards, it would be a satisfaction to his mind to have those handsome eyes burnt out, that had looked at him so proudly, while his own royal eyes were blinking at the stone floor, sent certain ruffians to Falaise to blind the boy with red-hot irons. But Arthur so pathetically entreated them, and shed such piteous tears, and so appealed to Hubert de Bourg (or Burgh), the warden of the castle, who had a love for him, and was a merciful, tender man, that Hubert could not bear it. To his eternal honor, he prevented the torture from being performed; and, at his own risk sent the savages away.

The chafed and disappointed king bethought himself of the stabbing suggestion next; and, with his shuffling manner and his cruel face, proposed it to one William de Bray. “I am a gentleman, and not an executioner,” said William de Bray, and left the presence with disdain. But it was not difficult for a king to hire a murderer in those days. King John found one for his money, and sent him down to the castle of Falaise. “On what errand dost thou come?” said Hubert to this fellow. “To despatch young Arthur,” he returned. “Go back to him who sent thee,” answered Hubert, “and say that I will do it!”

King John, very well knowing that Hubert would never do it, but that he evasively sent this reply to save the prince or gain time, despatched messengers to convey the young prisoner to the castle of Rouen. Arthur was soon forced from the kind Hubert--of whom he had never stood in greater need than then--carried away by night, and lodged in his new prison; where, through his grated window, he could hear the deep waters of the river Seine rippling against the stone wall below.

One dark night, as he lay sleeping, dreaming, perhaps, of rescue by those unfortunate gentlemen who were obscurely suffering and dying in his cause, he was roused, and bidden by his jailor to come down the staircase to the foot of the tower. He hurriedly dressed himself, and obeyed. When they came to the bottom of the winding-stairs, the jailor trod upon his torch, and put it out. Then Arthur, in the darkness, was hurriedly drawn into a solitary boat; and in that boat he found his uncle and one other man.

He knelt to them, and prayed them not to murder him. Deaf to his entreaties, they stabbed him, and sank his body in the river with heavy stones. When the spring morning broke, the tower-door was closed, the boat was gone, the river sparkled on its way, and never more was any trace of the poor boy beheld by mortal eyes.

_Word Exercise._

Seine (_sān_)
Fă-lāise´ (_lāz_)
ruffians (_rŭf´yans_)
accession (_ak-sesh´un_)
Geoffrey (_jĕf´re_)
besieged (_be-sējd_)
dungeons (_dŭn´juns_)
tour´na-ment (_toor-_ or _tur-_)
Mirebeau (_meer´bō_)
usurping (_yū-zurp´ing_)
treachery (_trĕch´er-e_)
acknowledge (_ak-nŏl´ej_)
Nor´man-dy
mĕs´sen-gers

_Phrase Exercise._

1. Detestable villain.--2. _Declared in favor_ of Arthur.--3.
Ambitious schemes.--4. Heartlessly sacrificed his
interests.--5. Full of _stratagem_.--6. Inhumanly treated.--7.
Took _secret counsel_.--8. Arthur _pathetically entreated_.--9.
The _chafed_ and _disappointed_ king.--10. _To despatch_
Arthur.--11. _Evasively_ sent this _reply_.--12. He prayed
them.--13. Solitary boat.

XVI.--A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white, and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee!

“O for a soft and gentle wind!”
I heard a fair one cry;
But give to me the snoring breeze
And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free,--
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There’s tempest in yon hornèd moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners,
The wind is piping loud!
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashes free,--
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.

* * * * *

_An idler is a watch that wants both hands,_
_As useless if it goes as if it stands._

--_Cowper._

XVII.--WE ARE SEVEN.

WORDSWORTH.

A simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair:
Her beauty made me glad.

“Sisters and brothers, little maid,
flow many may you be?”
“How many? Seven in all,” she said,
And wondering, looked at me.

“And where are they? I pray you tell.”
She answered, “Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

“Two of us in the churchyard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And in the churchyard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.”

“You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet you are seven!--I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be.”

Then did the little maid reply,
“Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree.”

“You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then you are only five.”

“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
The little maid replied,
“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,
And they are side by side.

“My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit--
I sit and sing to them.

“And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

“The first that died was little Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

“So in the churchyard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

“And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side.”

“How many are you, then,” said I,
“If they two are in heaven?”
The little maiden did reply,
“O master! we are seven.”

“But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!”
’Twas throwing words away; for still
The little maid would have her will,
And said, “Nay, we are seven.”

XVIII.--THE HIPPOPOTAMUS.

Of all the ugly-looking animals the hippopotamus is certainly one of the ugliest. Its name means the river-horse, and was given it because it is generally found either in rivers or their neighborhood, but the hippopotamus is nothing like a horse, either in its form or its habits.

Though it rarely exceeds five feet in height, it is of vast bulk, and, when full grown, will weigh, it is said, as much as four or five oxen. The head is of enormous size, and provided with a mouth of alarming width. The skin, which is of a dark color and thinly covered with short white hairs, is, in places, nearly two inches thick. The feet are large and divided into four parts, each of which is protected by a hoof.

The hippopotamus lives entirely upon vegetable food, of which it eats vast quantities, as much as six bushels of grass having been found in its stomach. But it is not so much the amount of food which it consumes, as what it destroys, that makes the African dread its visits to the standing crops. Its body is so huge and its legs are so short that it tramples down far more than it eats. It is provided with a tremendous array of teeth, some of which weigh from five to eight pounds. With these it cuts down the grass and shrubs on which it lives as if they were mown with a scythe.

The hippopotamus, in spite of its awkward form, is an excellent swimmer and diver, and can remain under water for as much as ten minutes. During the first few months of its life the young hippopotamus is carried upon its mother’s neck. When born it is not much larger than a terrier dog.

The hippopotamus is caught in various ways. Sometimes several pitfalls, having sharp stakes at the bottom, are dug across the path which it pursues. In the darkness of the night it falls into one of these, and is impaled on the stakes. This is a very cruel mode of capture, and it is to be hoped that the natives who employ it, soon put the poor animal out of its misery. It is not easy to shoot it fatally, for, once it is alarmed, it does not readily show itself. It just pushes up its nostrils above the water to take in air, often selecting for this purpose some spot where the reeds conceal its movements, and then sinks again. Sometimes the hippopotamus is harpooned like a whale. As soon as it is struck with the harpoon the hunters fasten the line round a neighboring tree, and so hold their prey tight until it is despatched. Or, if there is no time for them to get to land, they throw the line, with a buoy attached to it, into the water. The hippopotamus is then pursued in canoes, and every time it rises to the surface it is pierced with javelins, until, at length, it dies from loss of blood. This is dangerous sport, for it sometimes turns upon the hunters and crushes in or capsizes their canoes. Once a hippopotamus, whose calf had been speared on the previous day, attacked a boat in which was Dr. Livingstone. She struck it with such violence that the forepart was lifted clean out of the water, one of the negro boatmen was thrown into the river, and the whole crew were forced to jump ashore.

Between the skin and the flesh is a layer of fat, which is considered a great delicacy. The flesh also is very good eating. The hide is made into shields, whips, and walking-sticks. The teeth yield a beautiful white ivory, which is much valued on account of its never losing color.

_Word Exercise._

buoy (_bwoi_)
pit´falls
javelins (_jăv´lĭns_)
e-nor´mous
ter´ri-er
har-pooned´
scythe
pierced
nŏs´trils
neighborhood (_nā´bur-_)
i´vo-ry
mĭs´er-y
hĭp-po-pot´a-mus

_Phrase Exercise._

1. Either in its _form_ or its _habits_.--2. Rarely
exceeds.--3. Vast bulk.--4. Alarming width.--5. Lives entirely
upon vegetable food.--6. Food which it _consumes_.--7.
Tremendous array.--8. Awkward form.--9. _Impaled_ on
the stakes.--10. Cruel mode of capture.--11. Shoot it
_fatally_.--12. The reeds _conceal its movements_.--13. The
hunters fasten the line.--14. Dangerous sport.--15. _Capsizes_
their canoes.--16. Lifted _clean_ out of the water.--17.
Considered a delicacy.

XIX.--A BRIGHT BOY.

PROF. J. S. BLACKIE.

Bill is a bright boy;
Do you know Bill?
Marching cheerily
Up and down hill;
Bill is a bright boy
At books and at play,
A right and a tight boy,
All the boys say.

His face is like roses
In flush of the June;
His eyes like the welkin,
When cloudless the noon;
His step is like fountains
That bicker with glee,
Beneath the green mountains,
Down to the sea.

When Bill plays at cricket,
No ball on the green
Is shot from the wicket
So sharp and so clean;
He stands at his station
As strong as a king
When he lifts up a nation
On Victory’s wing.

When bent upon study,
He girds to his books;
No frown ever ploughs
The smooth pride of his looks;
I came, and I saw,
And I conquered at will:
This be the law
For great Cæsar and Bill.

Like Thor with the hammer
Of power in his hand,
He rides through the grammar
Triumphant and grand;
O’er bastions and brambles
Which pedants up-pile,
He leaps and he ambles
Along with a smile.

As mild as a maiden,
Where mildness belongs,--
He’s hot as Achilles,
When goaded by wrongs;
He flirts with a danger,
He sports with an ill,
To fear, such a stranger
Is brave-hearted Bill!

For Bill is a bright boy--
Who is like Bill?
Oft have I marched with him
Up and down hill.
When I hear his voice calling,
I follow him still,
And, standing or falling,
I conquer with Bill!

* * * * *

_Do good by stealth and blush to find it fame._

--_Pope._

XX.--AFTER BLENHEIM.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Word Exercise._

fa´mous
vĭc´to-ry
Kas´par
quōth (or _kwŭth_)
shock´ing
nat´u-ral (_-yu_)
Eu-gēne´
Wil´hel-mine (_mēn_)
Pe´ter-kin
rĭv´u-let
plough´share
Blĕn´heĭm
ex-pĕct´ant

XXI.--THE BLACK DOUGLAS.

King Edward I. of England, commonly known as “Longshanks,” nearly conquered Scotland. It was from no lack of spirit or energy that he did not quite complete his troublesome task, but he died a little too soon. On his death-bed he called his pretty, spiritless son to him, and made him promise to carry on the war; he then ordered that his bones should be wrapped up in a bull’s hide, and carried at the head of the army in future campaigns against the Scots. Edward II. soon forgot his promise to his father, and spent his time in dissipation among his favorites, and allowed the resolute Scots to recover Scotland.

Good James, Lord Douglas, was a very wise man in his day. He may not have had long shanks, but he had a very long head, as you shall presently see. He was one of the hardest foes with which the two Edwards had to contend, and his long head proved quite too powerful for the second Edward, who, in his single campaign against the Scots, lost at Bannockburn nearly all that his father had gained.

The tall Scottish castle of Roxburgh stood near the border, lifting its grim turrets above the Teviot and the Tweed. When the Black Douglas, as Lord James was called, had recovered castle after castle from the English, he desired to gain this stronghold, and determined to accomplish his wish. But he knew it could be taken only by surprise, and a very wily affair it must be. He had outwitted the English so many times that they were sharply on the look out for him.

How could it be done?

’Tis an old Yule-log story, and you shall be told.

Near the castle was a gloomy old forest, called Jedburgh. Here, just as the first days of spring began to kindle in the sunrise and the sunsets, and warm the frosty hills, Black Douglas concealed sixty picked men.

It was Shrove-tide, and Fasten’s Eve, immediately before the great Church fast of Lent, was to be celebrated with song and harp and a great blaze of light, and free offerings of wine in the great hall of the castle. The garrison was to have leave for merry-making and indulging in drunken wassail.

The sun had gone down in the red sky, and the long, deep shadow began to fall on Jedburgh woods, the river, the hills, and valleys. An officer’s wife had retired from the great hall, where all was preparation for the merry-making, to the high battlements of the castle, in order to quiet her little child and put it to rest. The sentinel, from time to time, paced near her. She began to sing:--

“Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye!
Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye;
The Black Douglas shall not get ye!”

She saw some strange objects moving across the level ground in the distance. They greatly puzzled her. They did not travel quite like animals, but they seemed to have four legs.

“What are those queer-looking things yonder?” she asked of the sentinel as he drew near.

“They are Farmer Asher’s cattle,” said the soldier, straining his eyes to discern the outlines of the long figures in the shadows. “The good man is making merry to-night, and has forgotten to bring in his oxen; lucky ’twill be if they do not fall a prey to the Black Douglas.”

So sure was he that the objects were cattle, that he ceased to watch them longer.

The woman’s eye, however, followed the queer-looking cattle for some time, until they seemed to disappear under the outer works of the castle. Then feeling quite at ease, she thought she would sing again. Spring was in the evening air; and, perhaps, it was the joyousness of spring which made her sing.

Now, the name of the Black Douglas had become so terrible to the English that it was used to frighten the children, who, when they misbehaved, were told that the Black Douglas would get them. The little ditty I have quoted must have been very quieting to good children in those alarming times.

So the good woman sang cheerily:--

“Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye!
Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye:
The Black Douglas shall not get ye!”

“Do not be so sure of that,” said a husky voice close beside her, and a mail-gloved hand fell solidly upon her shoulder. She was dreadfully frightened, for she knew from the appearance of the man he must be the Black Douglas.

The Scots came leaping over the walls. The garrison was merry making below, and, almost before the disarmed revellers had any warning, the Black Douglas was in the midst of them. The old stronghold was taken, and many of the garrison were put to the sword; but the Black Douglas spared the woman and the child, who probably never afterwards felt quite so sure about the little ditty:--

“Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye:
The Black Douglas shall not get ye!”

Douglas had caused his picked men to approach the castle by walking on their hands and knees, with long black cloaks thrown over their bodies, and their ladders and weapons concealed under their cloaks. The men thus presented very nearly the appearance of a herd of cattle in the deep shadows, and completely deceived the sentinel, who was probably thinking more of the music and dancing below, than of the watchful enemy who had been haunting the gloomy woods of Jedburgh.

The Black Douglas, or “Good James, Lord Douglas,” as he was called by the Scots, fought, as you will afterwards read, with King Robert Bruce at Bannockburn. One lovely June day, in the far-gone year of 1329, King Robert lay dying. He called Douglas to his bedside, and told him that it had been one of the dearest wishes of his heart to go to the Holy Land, and recover Jerusalem from the Infidels; but since he could not go, he wished him to embalm his heart after his death, and carry it to the Holy City, and deposit it in the Holy Sepulchre.

Douglas had the heart of Bruce embalmed and enclosed in a silver case, and wore it on a silver chain about his neck. He set out for Jerusalem, but resolved first to visit Spain and engage in the war waged against the Moorish king of Granada. He fell in Andalusia, in battle. Just before his death he threw the silver casket into the thickest of the fight, exclaiming, “Heart of Bruce, I follow thee or die!”

His dead body was found beside the casket, and the heart of Bruce was brought back to Scotland and deposited in the ivy-clad Abbey of Melrose.

Douglas was a real hero, and few things more engaging than his exploits were ever told under the holly and mistletoe, or in the warm Christmas light of the old Scottish Yule-logs.

_Word Exercise._

Te´vi-ot
rĕv´el-lers
weapons (_wĕp´pns_)
Jedburgh (_jĕd´bŭr-rŭh_)
wassail (_wŏs´sil_)
Andalusia (_an-da-lu´she-a_)
haunting (_hänt´ing_)
Roxburgh (_rŏx´bŭr-rŭh_)
Doŭg´las
Sepulchre (sĕpul-ker)
Mel-rōse´
găr´ri-son (_-sn_)
dĭs-si-pa´tion
Gra-nä´dä
Je-rū´sa-lĕm
Ban´nock-burn

XXII.--BRUCE AND THE SPIDER.

ELIZA COOK.

King Bruce of Scotland flung himself down in a lonely mood to think;
’Tis true he was monarch, and wore a crown, but his heart was beginning
to sink,
For he had been trying to do a great deed to make his people glad,
He had tried and tried, but couldn’t succeed, and so he became quite sad.

He flung himself down in low despair, as grieved as man could be;
And after a while as he pondered there, “I’ll give it all up,” said he.
Now just at the moment a spider dropped, with its silken cobweb clew,
And the king in the midst of his thinking stopped to see what the spider
would do.

’Twas a long way up to the ceiling dome, and it hung by a rope so fine,
That how it would get to its cobweb home, King Bruce could not divine.
It soon began to cling and crawl straight up with strong endeavor,
But down it came, with a slipping sprawl, as near to the ground as ever.

Up, up it ran, not a second it stayed, to utter the least complaint,
Till it fell still lower, and there it lay, a little dizzy, and faint.
Its head grew steady--again it went, and travelled a half yard higher,
’Twas a delicate thread it had to tread, and a road where its feet would
tire.

Again it fell and swung below, but again it quickly mounted,
Till up and down, now fast, now slow, nine brave attempts were counted.
“Sure,” cried the king, “that foolish thing will strive no more to climb,
When it toils so hard to reach and cling, and tumbles every time.”

But up the insect went once more, ah me, ’tis an anxious minute,
He’s only a foot from his cobweb door, oh, say will he lose or win it?
Steadily, steadily, inch by inch, higher and higher he got,
And a bold little run at the very last pinch, put him into his native
spot.

“Bravo, bravo!” the king cried out, “all honor to those who try;
The spider up there defied despair, he conquered, and why shouldn’t I?”
And Bruce of Scotland braced his mind, and gossips tell the tale,
That he tried once more as he tried before, and that time he did not
fail.

Pay goodly heed, all you who read, and beware of saying. “I can’t,”
’Tis a cowardly word, and apt to lead to Idleness, Folly, and Want.
Whenever you find your heart despair of doing some goodly thing,
Con over this strain, try bravely again, and remember the Spider and
King.

_Word Exercise._

ceil´ing (_sēl´ing_)
gŏs´sips
idleness (_ī´dl-nĕs_)
travelled (_trăv´eld_)
grieved (_grēvd_)
anx´ious (_angk´shus_)
mon´arch (_mon´ark_)
endeavor (_en-dĕv´or_)
pŏn´dered

_Phrase Exercise._

1. Lonely mood.--2. His heart was beginning to sink.--3. Low
despair.--4. Silken clew.--5. Ceiling dome.--6. Bruce could not
_divine_.--7. Strong endeavor.--8. Slipping sprawl.--9. Bruce
_braced his mind_.--10. Con over this strain.

XXIII.--THE FARMER AND THE FOX.

J. A. FROUDE.

A Farmer, whose poultry-yard had suffered severely from the foxes, succeeded at last in catching one in a trap.

“Ah, you rascal!” said he, as he saw him struggling, “I’ll teach you to steal my fat geese. You shall hang on the tree yonder, and your brothers shall see what comes of thieving.”

The Farmer was twisting a halter to do what he had threatened, when the Fox, whose tongue had helped him in hard pinches before, thought there could be no harm in trying if it might not do him one more good turn.

“You will hang me,” he said, “to frighten my brother foxes. On the word of a fox they won’t care a rabbit-skin for it; they’ll come and look at me, but you may depend upon it, they will dine at your expense before they go home again!”

“Then I shall hang you for yourself, as a rogue and a rascal,” said the Farmer.

“I am only what Nature, or whatever you call the thing, chose to make me,” the Fox answered; “I didn’t make myself.”

“You stole my geese,” said the man.

“Why did Nature make me like geese, then?” said the Fox. “Live and let live; give me my share and I won’t touch yours; but you keep them all to yourself.”

“I don’t understand your fine talk,” answered the Farmer; “but I know that you are a thief, and that you deserve to be hanged.”

His head is too thick to let me catch him so, thought the Fox; I wonder if his heart is any softer. “You are taking away the life of a fellow-creature,” he said; “that’s a responsibility,--it is a curious thing that life, and who knows what comes after it? You say I am a rogue; I say I am not; but at any rate I ought not to be hanged, for if I am not, I don’t deserve it; and if I am, you should give me time to repent.” I have him now, thought the Fox; let him get out if he can.

“Why, what would you have me do with you?” said the man.

“My notion is, that you should let me go, and give me a lamb, or a goose or two, every month, and then I could live without stealing; but perhaps you know better than I, and I am a rogue; my education may have been neglected; you should shut me up, and take care of me, and teach me. Who knows but in the end I may turn into a dog?”

“Very pretty,” said the Farmer; “we have dogs enough, and more, too, than we can take care of, without you. No, no, Master Fox; I have caught you, and you shall swing, whatever is the logic of it. There will be one rogue less in the world, any how.”

“It is mere hate and unchristian vengeance,” said the Fox.

“No, friend,” the Farmer answered, “I don’t hate you, and I don’t want to revenge myself on you; but you and I can’t get on together, and I think I am of more importance than you. If nettles and thistles grow in my cabbage-garden, I don’t try and persuade them to grow into cabbages. I just dig them up. I don’t hate them; but I feel somehow that they mustn’t hinder me with my cabbage, and that I must put them away; and so, my poor friend, I am sorry for you, but I am afraid you must swing.”

XXIV.--A CANADIAN BOAT SONG.

THOMAS MOORE.

[Written on the river Ottawa in the summer of 1804.]

Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time;
Soon as the woods on the shore look dim,
We’ll sing at St. Anne’s our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylight’s past.

Why should we yet our sail unfurl?
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl;
But when the wind blows off the shore,
O sweetly we’ll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylight’s past.

Utaw’a’s tide! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers;
O grant us cool heavens, and favoring airs.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylight’s past.

XXV.--THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS.

LONGFELLOW.

It was the schooner Hesperus,
That sailed the wintry sea;
And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm,
His pipe was in his mouth,
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke now west, now south.

Then up and spake an old sailor,
Had sailed the Spanish Main,
“I pray thee put into yonder port.
For I fear a hurricane.

“Last night the moon had a golden ring,
And to-night no moon we see!”
The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and louder blew the wind,
A gale from the north-east;
The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength;
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
Then leaped her cable’s length.

“Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
And do not tremble so;
For I can weather the roughest gale,
That ever wind did blow.”

He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat,
Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.

“O father! I hear the church bells ring,
O say, what may it be?”
“’Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!”--
And he steered for the open sea.

“O father! I hear the sound of guns,
O say what may it be?”
“Some ship in distress, that cannot live
In such an angry sea!”

“O father! I see a gleaming light,
O say, what may it be?”
But the father answered never a word,--
A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies,
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
That savèd she might be;
And she thought of Him who stilled the wave
On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Towards the reef of Norman’s Woe.

And ever the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf,
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows,--
She drifted a dreary wreck,
And the whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool,
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass she stove and sank--
Ho! Ho! the breakers roared!

At daybreak on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair
Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow;
Oh! save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman’s Woe!

_Word Exercise._

yeast (_yēst_)
aghast (_a-gast´_)
icicles (_ī´sik-kls_)
whistling (_hwis´ling_)
gored
steered
skip´per
fright´ed
wreck
frothed
Span´ish
haw´thorn
a-main´
sheeted
schoon´er
whoop´ing
lăn´tern
Găl´i-lēe
Hĕs´pe-rŭs
hŭr´ri-cāne

_Phrase Exercise._

1. _To bear_ him company.--2. _Fairy_ flax.--3. Veering
flaw.--4. Spanish Main.--5. The moon had a _golden ring_.--6.
_Scornful_ laugh.--7. I can weather the roughest gale.--8.
_Stinging_ blast.--9. Rock-bound coast.--10. In distress.--11.
_Gleaming_ light.--12. Stiff and stark.--13. Norman’s Woe.--14.
Fitful gusts.--15. By the board.--16. Whooping billow.

* * * * *

_The blue skies smile, and flowers bloom on,_
_And rivers still keep flowing,_
_The dear God still his rain and sun_
_On good and ill bestowing._
_His pine trees whisper, “Trust and wait!”_
_His flowers are prophesying_
_That all we dread of change or fate_
_His love is underlying._

--_J. G. Whittier._

XXVI.--HOLLAND.

MARY MAPES DODGE.

Dutch cities seem, at first sight, to be a bewildering jumble of houses, bridges, churches, and ships, sprouting into masts, steeples, and trees. In some cities boats are hitched, like horses, to their owners’ door-posts, and receive their freight from the upper windows.

Mothers scream to their children not to swing on the garden gate for fear they may be drowned. Water roads are more frequent in Holland than common roads and railroads; water fences, in the form of lazy green ditches, enclose pleasure-ground, farm, and garden.

Sometimes fine green hedges are seen; but wooden fences, such as we have, are rarely met with in Holland. As for stone fences, a Hollander would lift his hands with astonishment at the very idea. There is no stone there, excepting those great, masses of rock that have been brought from other lands, to strengthen and protect the coast. All the small stones or pebbles, if there ever were any, seem to be imprisoned in pavements or quite melted away. Boys, with strong, quick arms, may grow from aprons to full beards, without ever finding one to start the water-rings, or set the rabbits flying.

The water-roads are nothing less than canals crossing the country in every direction. These are of all sizes, from the great North Holland Ship Canal, which is the wonder of the world, to those which a boy can leap. Water-omnibuses constantly ply up and down these roads for the conveyance of passengers; and water-drays are used for carrying fuel and merchandise.

Instead of green country lanes, green canals stretch from field to barn, and from barn to garden; and the farms are merely great lakes pumped dry. Some of the busiest streets are water, while many of the country roads are paved with brick. The city boats, with their rounded sterns, gilded bows, and gayly-painted sides, are unlike any others under the sun; a Dutch waggon, with its funny little crooked pole, is a perfect mystery of mysteries.

One thing is clear, you may think that the inhabitants need never be thirsty. But no, Odd-land is true to itself still. With the sea pushing to get in, and the lakes struggling to get out, and the overflowing canals, rivers, and ditches, in many districts there is no water that is fit to swallow. Our poor Hollanders must go dry, or send far inland for that precious fluid, older than Adam, yet young as the morning dew. Sometimes, indeed, the inhabitants can swallow a shower, when they are provided with any means of catching it; but generally they are like the sailors told of in a famous poem, who saw

“Water, water, everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink!”

Great flapping windmills all over the country make it look as if flocks of huge sea-birds were just settling upon it. Everywhere one sees the funniest trees, bobbed into all sorts of odd shapes, with their trunks painted a dazzling white, yellow, or red.

Horses are often yoked three abreast. Men, women and children go clattering about in wooden shoes with loose heels.

Husbands and wives lovingly harness themselves side by side on the bank of the canal and drag their produce to market.

XXVII.--EVENING HYMN.

JOHN KEBLE.

Sun of my soul, Thou Saviour dear,
It is not night if Thou be near;
Oh! may no earth-born cloud arise
To hide Thee from Thy servant’s eyes!

When the soft dews of kindly sleep
My wearied eyelids gently steep,
Be my last thought, how sweet to rest
For ever on my Saviour’s breast!

Abide with me from morn till eve,
For without Thee I cannot live!
Abide with me when night is nigh,
For without Thee I dare not die!

If some poor wandering child of Thine
Have spurned, to-day, the voice divine,--
Now, Lord, the gracious work begin;
Let him no more lie down in sin!

Watch by the sick, enrich the poor
With blessings from Thy boundless store!
Be every mourner’s sleep to-night
Like infant’s slumbers, pure and light!

Come near and bless us when we wake,
Ere through the world our way we take:
Till, in the ocean of Thy love,
We lose ourselves in Heaven above!

XXVIII.--PSALM XXIII.

The Lord is my shepherd;
I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down
In green pastures:
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul:
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness
For his name’s sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley
Of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil: for thou art with me;
Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me
In the presence of mine enemies:
Thou anointest my head with oil;
My cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
All the days of my life:
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord
For ever.

XXIX.--THE HEROIC SERF.

In the dark forests of Russia, where the snow lies on the ground for eight months in the year, wolves roam about in countless troops; and it is a fearful thing for the traveller, especially if night overtakes him, to hear their famished howlings as they approach nearer and nearer to him.

A Russian nobleman, with his wife and a young daughter, was travelling in a sleigh over a bleak plain. About nightfall they reached an inn, and the nobleman called for a relay of horses to go on. The innkeeper begged him not to proceed. “There is danger ahead,” said he: “the wolves are out.” The traveller thought the object of the man was to keep him as a guest for the night, and, saying it was too early in the season for wolves, ordered the horses to be put to. In spite of the repeated warnings of the landlord, the party proceeded on their way.

The driver was a serf who had been born on the nobleman’s estate, and who loved his master as he loved his life. The sleigh sped swiftly over the hard snow, and there seemed no signs of danger. The moon began to shed her light, so that the road seemed like polished silver.

Suddenly the little girl said to her father, “What is that strange, dull sound I heard just now?” Her father replied, “Nothing but the wind sighing through the trees.”

The child shut her eyes, and kept still for a while; but in a few minutes, with a face pale with fear, she turned to her father, and said, “Surely that is not the wind: I hear it again; do you not hear it too? Listen!” The nobleman listened, and far, far away in the distance behind him, but distinct enough in the clear, frosty air, he heard a sound of which he knew the meaning, though those who were with him did not.

Whispering to the serf, he said, “They are after us. Get ready your musket and pistols; I will do the same. We may yet escape. Drive on! drive on!”

The man drove wildly on; but nearer, ever nearer, came the mournful howling which the child had first heard. It was perfectly clear to the nobleman that a pack of wolves had got scent, and was in pursuit of them. Meanwhile he tried to calm the anxious fears of his wife and child.

At last the baying of the wolves was distinctly heard, and he said to his servant, “When they come up with us, single you out the leader, and fire. I will single out the next; and, as soon as one falls, the rest will stop to devour him. _That_ will be some delay, at least.”

By this time they could see the pack fast approaching, with their long, measured tread. A large dog-wolf was the leader. The nobleman and the serf singled out two, and these fell. The pack immediately turned on their fallen comrades, and soon tore them to pieces. The taste of blood only made the others advance with more fury, and they were soon again baying at the sleigh. Again the nobleman and his servant fired. Two other wolves fell, and were instantly devoured. But the next post-house was still far distant.

The nobleman then cried to the post-boy, “Let one of the horses loose, that we may gain a little more time.” This was done, and the horse was left on the road. In a few minutes they heard the loud shrieks of the poor animal as the wolves tore him down. The remaining horses were urged to their utmost speed, but again the pack was in full pursuit. Another horse was cut loose, and he soon shared the fate of his fellow.

At length the servant said to his master, “I have served you since I was a child, and I love you as I love my own life. It is clear to me that we can not all reach the post-house alive. I am quite prepared, and I ask you to let me die for you.”

“No, no!” cried the master, “we will live together or die together. You must not, must not!”