HUNTING SONG

—James Fenimore Cooper.

The purest treasure mortal times affordIs spotless reputation; that away,Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay.

Waken, lords and ladies gay!On the mountain dawns the day;All the jolly chase is hereWith hawk and horse and hunting-spear!Hounds are in their couples yelling,Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling.Merrily, merrily mingle they;Waken, lords and ladies gay!Waken, lords and ladies gay!The mist has left the mountain gray;Springlets in the dawn are steaming,Diamonds on the brake are gleaming,And foresters have busy beenTo track the buck in thicket green:Now we come to chant our lay;Waken, lords and ladies gay!Waken, lords and ladies gay!To the greensward haste away!We can show you where he lies,Fleet of foot and tall of size;We can show the marks he madeWhen ’gainst the oak his antlers frayed;You shall see him brought to bay;Waken, lords and ladies gay!Louder, louder chant the lay,“Waken, lords and ladies gay!”Tell them youth and mirth and gleeRun a course as well as we.Time, stern huntsman! who can balk,Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk?Think of this, and rise with day,Gentle lords and ladies gay!—Sir Walter Scott.

Waken, lords and ladies gay!The mist has left the mountain gray;Springlets in the dawn are steaming,Diamonds on the brake are gleaming,And foresters have busy beenTo track the buck in thicket green:Now we come to chant our lay;Waken, lords and ladies gay!

Waken, lords and ladies gay!To the greensward haste away!We can show you where he lies,Fleet of foot and tall of size;We can show the marks he madeWhen ’gainst the oak his antlers frayed;You shall see him brought to bay;Waken, lords and ladies gay!

Louder, louder chant the lay,“Waken, lords and ladies gay!”Tell them youth and mirth and gleeRun a course as well as we.Time, stern huntsman! who can balk,Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk?Think of this, and rise with day,Gentle lords and ladies gay!—Sir Walter Scott.

The breaking waves dashed highOn a stern and rock-bound coast,And the woods against a stormy skyTheir giant branches tossed:And the heavy night hung darkThe hills and waters o’er,When a band of exiles moored their barkOn the wild New England shore.Not as the conqueror comes,They, the true-hearted, came;Not with the roll of stirring drums,And the trumpet that sings of fame;Not as the flying come,In silence and in fear;They shook the depths of the desert’s gloomWith their hymns of lofty cheer.

The breaking waves dashed highOn a stern and rock-bound coast,And the woods against a stormy skyTheir giant branches tossed:

And the heavy night hung darkThe hills and waters o’er,When a band of exiles moored their barkOn the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,They, the true-hearted, came;Not with the roll of stirring drums,And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come,In silence and in fear;They shook the depths of the desert’s gloomWith their hymns of lofty cheer.

The Landing of the Pilgrims

Amidst the storm they sang,And the stars heard, and the sea!And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rangTo the anthem of the free.The ocean eagle soaredFrom his nest by the white wave’s foam,And the rocking pines of the forest roared—This was their welcome home!There were men with hoary hairAmidst that pilgrim band;—Why had they come to wither there,Away from their childhood’s land?There was woman’s fearless eye,Lit by her deep love’s truth;There was manhood’s brow serenely high,And the fiery heart of youth.What sought they thus afar?Bright jewels of the mine?The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?—They sought a faith’s pure shrine!Ay, call it holy ground,The soil where first they trod;They have left unstained what there they found,—Freedom to worship God!—Felicia Dorothea Hemans.

Amidst the storm they sang,And the stars heard, and the sea!And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rangTo the anthem of the free.

The ocean eagle soaredFrom his nest by the white wave’s foam,And the rocking pines of the forest roared—This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hairAmidst that pilgrim band;—Why had they come to wither there,Away from their childhood’s land?

There was woman’s fearless eye,Lit by her deep love’s truth;There was manhood’s brow serenely high,And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?Bright jewels of the mine?The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?—They sought a faith’s pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground,The soil where first they trod;They have left unstained what there they found,—Freedom to worship God!—Felicia Dorothea Hemans.

On the slope, fifty yards from the beach, in the midst of rocks and boulders, stood the settlement—two stone huts, twenty yards apart! These huts were in shape much like an old-fashioned country clay oven, square in front, and sloping back into the hill, now covered with snow, and, until after entering, I could not discover of what material they were made. To get inside, I was obliged to crawl on my hands and knees through a covered passage about twelve feet long. The chief, upon hearing my footsteps, came out to welcome me, which he did by patting me on the back and grinning in my face. Preceding me with a smoking torch, which was a piece of burning moss saturated with fat, he advanced through these low, narrow passages, tramping over several snarling dogs and half-grown puppies.

After making two or three turns, I observed at last a bright light streaming down through a hole, into which my guide elevated his body; and then, moving to one side, he made room for his guest. I found myself in a den in which I could not stand upright, but which was crowded with human beings of all ages and sizes. I was received with a hilarious shout which assured me of welcome. Like a flock of sheep crowding into a pen, they packed themselves in the corners to make room for me on the only seat which I could discover. I had come to gratify my own curiosity, but theirs was even more rapacious than mine, and mustbe first satisfied. Everything I had on and about me underwent the closest examination.

My long beard greatly excited their interest and admiration. Being themselves without beards, or at most having only a few stiff hairs upon the upper lip and the point of the chin, I could readily appreciate their curiosity. They touched it and stroked it, patting me all the while on the back, and hanging on my arms, legs, and shoulders. They were greatly puzzled over my woollen clothing, and could not comprehend of what kind of skins it was made. The nearest that I could approach to a description was that it grew on an animal looking like a hare. That it was not skin, I could not make them understand.

During these incidents I found leisure to examine the hut. The whole interior was about ten feet in diameter and five and a half feet high. The walls were made of stones, moss, and the bones of whale, narwhal, and other animals. They were not arched, but drawn in gradually from the foundation, and capped by long slabs of slate-stone, stretching from side to side.

The floor was covered with thin, flat stones. Half of this floor, at the back part of the hut, was elevated a foot. This elevation served both as bed and seat, being covered with dry grass, over which were spread bear and dog skins. At the corners in front were similar elevations, under one of which lay a number of pups, with their mother, and under the other was stowed a joint of meat. The front of the hut was square, and through it, above the passageway, openeda window; a square sheet of strips of dried intestine, sewed together, admitted the light.

The hole of entrance in the floor was close to the front wall, and was covered with a piece of sealskin. The walls were lined with seal or fox skins, stretched to dry. In the cracks between the stones were thrust whipstocks, and bone pegs on which hung coils of harpoon lines. On one side of me sat an old woman, and on the other side a young one, each busily engaged in attending to a smoky, greasy lamp. A third woman sat in a corner, similarly occupied.

The lamps were made of soapstone, and in shape much resembled a clam-shell, being about eight inches in diameter. The cavity was filled with oil, and on the straight edge a flame was burning quite brilliantly. The wick which supplied fuel to the flame was of moss. The only business of the women seemed to be to prevent the lamps from smoking, and to keep them supplied with blubber, large pieces of which were placed in them, the heat of the flame trying out the oil. About three inches above this flame, hung, suspended from the ceiling, an oblong square pot of the same material as the lamp, in which something was slowly simmering. Over this was suspended a rack made of bear-rib bones lashed together crosswise, on which were placed to dry, stockings, mittens, and other articles of clothing.

The inmates had no other fire than was supplied by the lamps, nor did they need any. The hut was absolutely hot. So many persons crowded into so small a space would,of themselves, keep the place warm. I counted eighteen, and may, very probably, have missed two or three small ones. Centring each around its own particular lamp and pot were three families, one of which was represented by three generations. These three families numbered, in all, thirteen individuals; but besides these there were some visitors from the other hut.

The air of the place was insufferable, except for a short time. There may have been a vent-hole, but I did not see any. I perspired as if in the tropics. Perceiving this, the company invited me to dispense with part of my clothing. I declined, however, the intended courtesy, telling them that I must go back to my people.

First, however, I must have something to eat. This was an invitation which I feared; and now that it had come, I knew that it would be unwise to decline it. They laughed heartily when I thanked them in their own language in reply to their invitation to eat; and immediately a not very beautiful young damsel poured some of the contents of one of the before-mentioned pots into a skin dish, and after sipping it, to make sure, as I supposed, that it was not too hot, she passed it to me over a group of heads. At first my courage forsook me; but all eyes were fixed upon me, and it would have been highly impolitic to shrink. I therefore shut my eyes, swallowed the dose, and retired. I was afterwards told that it was their great delicacy, which had been proffered to me; but, even then, it was well that I was ignorant of what it was composed.—Isaac Hayes.

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west!Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;And, save his good broad-sword, he weapons had none;He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone;He swam the Esk river where ford there was none;But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,The bride had consented—the gallant came late:For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword,(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word)“O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”“I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;And now am I come with this lost love of mine,To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine;There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far,That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up;He quaffed off the wine and he threw down the cup;She looked down to blush and she looked up to sigh,With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye;He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar—“Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar.So stately his form, and so lovely her face,That never a hall such a galliard did grace;While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume:And the bride-maidens whispered, “ ’Twere better by farTo have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.”One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near;So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,So light to the saddle before her he sprung!“She is won! We are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur!They’ll have fleet steeds that follow!” quoth young Lochinvar.There was mounting ’mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.So daring in love; and so dauntless in war,Have you e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?—Sir Walter Scott.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone;He swam the Esk river where ford there was none;But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,The bride had consented—the gallant came late:For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword,(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word)“O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”

“I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;And now am I come with this lost love of mine,To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine;There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far,That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”

The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up;He quaffed off the wine and he threw down the cup;She looked down to blush and she looked up to sigh,With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye;He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar—“Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,That never a hall such a galliard did grace;While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume:And the bride-maidens whispered, “ ’Twere better by farTo have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.”

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near;So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,So light to the saddle before her he sprung!“She is won! We are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur!They’ll have fleet steeds that follow!” quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting ’mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.So daring in love; and so dauntless in war,Have you e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?—Sir Walter Scott.

West wind, blow from your prairie nest,Blow from the mountains, blow from the west.The sail is idle, the sailor too;Oh! wind of the west, we wait for you.Blow, blow!I have wooed you so,But never a favor you bestow.You rock your cradle the hills between,But scorn to notice my white lateen.I stow the sail and unship the mast:I wooed you long, but my wooing’s past;My paddle will lull you into rest:O drowsy wind of the drowsy west,Sleep, sleep!By your mountains steep,Or down where the prairie grasses sweep,Now fold in slumber your laggard wings,For soft is the song my paddle sings.August is laughing across the sky,Laughing while paddle, canoe and IDrift, drift,Where the hills upliftOn either side of the current swift.The river rolls in its rocky bed,My paddle is plying its way ahead,Dip, dip,When the waters flipIn foam as over their breast we slip.And oh, the river runs swifter now;The eddies circle about my bow:Swirl, swirl!How the ripples curlIn many a dangerous pool awhirl!And far to forwards the rapids roar,Fretting their margin for evermore;Dash, dash,With a mighty crash,They seethe and boil and bound and splash.Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!The reckless waves you must plunge into.Reel, reel,On your trembling keel,But never a fear my craft will feel.We’ve raced the rapids; we’re far ahead:The river slips through its silent bed.Sway, sway,As the bubbles sprayAnd fall in tinkling tunes away.And up on the hills against the sky,A fir-tree rocking its lullabySwings, swings,Its emerald wings,Swelling the song that my paddle sings.—E. Pauline Johnson.

I stow the sail and unship the mast:I wooed you long, but my wooing’s past;My paddle will lull you into rest:O drowsy wind of the drowsy west,Sleep, sleep!By your mountains steep,Or down where the prairie grasses sweep,Now fold in slumber your laggard wings,For soft is the song my paddle sings.

August is laughing across the sky,Laughing while paddle, canoe and IDrift, drift,Where the hills upliftOn either side of the current swift.The river rolls in its rocky bed,My paddle is plying its way ahead,Dip, dip,When the waters flipIn foam as over their breast we slip.

And oh, the river runs swifter now;The eddies circle about my bow:Swirl, swirl!How the ripples curlIn many a dangerous pool awhirl!And far to forwards the rapids roar,Fretting their margin for evermore;Dash, dash,With a mighty crash,They seethe and boil and bound and splash.

Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!The reckless waves you must plunge into.Reel, reel,On your trembling keel,But never a fear my craft will feel.

We’ve raced the rapids; we’re far ahead:The river slips through its silent bed.Sway, sway,As the bubbles sprayAnd fall in tinkling tunes away.

And up on the hills against the sky,A fir-tree rocking its lullabySwings, swings,Its emerald wings,Swelling the song that my paddle sings.—E. Pauline Johnson.

In the year 1812, several Scottish families emigrated to Hudson Bay, with a view to colonizing the tract of country known as the Red River district. This tract had been purchased from the Hudson’s Bay Company by the Earl of Selkirk, under whose direction and patronage the settlers left their native land to seek a home in the unknown wilderness of the west.

Alexander Ross

The emigrants arrived in safety, after a journey across sea and land which gave them a slight foretaste of the perilous life on which they had embarked. But a few hours had passed over their heads in the land of their adoption, when an array of armed men, painted, disfigured, and dressed in the savage costume of the country, warned them that they were unwelcome visitors.These crested warriors, for the most part, were employees of the North-West Company, the great rivals of the Hudson’s Bay Company, who were afraid that the new settlers would ruin the fur-trade. As this order to depart was soon followed by the fear of perishing through want of food, the settlers resolved to seek refuge at Pembina, seventy miles distant. Hither, a straggling party promised to conduct them.

The settlement of this contract between parties ignorant of each other’s language furnished a scene as curious as it was interesting: the language employed on the one side being Gaelic and broken English; on the other, an Indian jargon and mongrel French, with a mixture of signs and gestures, wry faces, and grim countenances. The bargain proved to be a hard one for the emigrants. The Indians agreed to carry the children and others not able to walk, but all the rest, both men and women, had to trudge on foot; while all their treasured goods were given by way of payment to their guides. One man, for example, had to give his gun, an old family piece, that had been carried by his father at the battle of Culloden. One of the women also parted with her marriage ring, the sight of which on her finger was a temptation to the Indians, who are remarkably fond of trinkets.

No sooner had the gypsy train got under way, than the savages scampered on ahead, and were soon out of sight with the children, leaving the terrified mothers running and crying after them for their babes. This heartless trickwas often played them; but without any other harm than a fright. In other ways the emigrants suffered greatly, especially from cold, wet, and walking in English shoes; their feet blistered and swelled, so that many of them were hardly able to move by the time they reached their journey’s end.

At Pembina the people passed the winter in tents or huts according to Indian fashion, and lived on the products of the chase in common with the natives. This mode of life was not without its charms; it tended to foster kind and generous feelings between the two races, who parted with regret when the Scots in May, 1813, returned to the colony to commence their work as farmers.

They now enjoyed peace, but hunger pressed on them, and they often had a hard time to get food. Fish were very scarce that season, as were roots and berries; so that their only dependence was on a harsh and tasteless wild parsnip, and on a species of nettle. These, sometimes raw, sometimes boiled, they ate without salt.

While such was their summer fare, the hoe was at work, and a little seed wheat, procured at Fort Alexander, an Indian trading-post on the Winnipeg River, turned out very well. One of the settlers, from the planting of four quarts, reaped twelve and a half bushels. But they had a difficult task to save the crop from the fowls of the air. In the spring myriads of blackbirds and wild pigeons passed the colony in their migration to the north and returned again on their way to the south, during the time of harvest. Theywere in such flocks as to threaten the little patches of grain with total destruction. Bird-nets, guns, and scarecrows were all in use, and men, women, and children kept constantly going about their little gardens from morning till night, driving away or slaying the greedy birds.

The fears of the settlers had now vanished. They were cheered by the hope that the North-Westers would not disturb them any more. Under this impression, they began to take courage, and to prepare for the arrival of their friends, for they expected all the other emigrants before the winter. In this hope they were disappointed. It was late in the season before they learned that their friends were delayed, and then, rather than consume the little grain they had secured, they resolved to try Pembina again, and to save what seed they could for another year.

At Pembina disappointment awaited them. Notwithstanding the great kindness shown by the French half-breeds to the Scottish settlers during the last winter, they now kept aloof and treated their visitors coldly. Ignorant and awkward as the settlers were with regard to the chase, they had to think and act for themselves, slaving all winter in deep snows to preserve life. A plot, too, was discovered to murder two of the party who undertook to hunt, and so this means of life was closed to them. Provisions, which they had to buy, and then to drag home with great labor, were very scarce and very dear.

At last, at the beginning of 1814, the settlers returned tothe colony once more in a state of great poverty. They had even had to barter away their clothing for food. Half-naked, and discouraged, many of them severely frostbitten, they again took up their struggle for life in the Settlement.—Alexander Ross.

Adapted from “The Red River Settlement.”

J. G. Whittier

Out and in the river is windingThe links of its long red chain,Through belts of dusky pine-landAnd gusty leagues of plain.Only at times a smoke-wreathWith the drifting cloud-rack joins,—The smoke of the hunting-lodgesOf the wild Assiniboins!Drearily blows the north windFrom the land of ice and snow;The eyes that look are weary,And heavy the hands that row.And with one foot on the water,And one upon the shore,The Angel of Shadow gives warningThat day shall be no more.Is it the clang of wild-geese?Is it the Indian’s yell,That lends to the voice of the north windThe tones of a far-off bell?The voyageur smiles as he listensTo the sound that grows apace;Well he knows the vesper ringingOf the bells of St. Boniface—The bells of the Roman Mission,That call from their turrets twain,To the boatman on the river,To the hunter on the plain!Even so in our mortal journeyThe bitter north winds blow,And thus upon life’s Red RiverOur hearts, as oarsmen, row.And when the Angel of ShadowRests his feet on wave and shore,And our eyes grow dim with watching,And our hearts faint at the oar,Happy is he who hearethThe signal of his releaseIn the bells of the Holy City,The chimes of eternal peace!—John Greenleaf Whittier.

Out and in the river is windingThe links of its long red chain,Through belts of dusky pine-landAnd gusty leagues of plain.

Only at times a smoke-wreathWith the drifting cloud-rack joins,—The smoke of the hunting-lodgesOf the wild Assiniboins!

Drearily blows the north windFrom the land of ice and snow;The eyes that look are weary,And heavy the hands that row.

And with one foot on the water,And one upon the shore,The Angel of Shadow gives warningThat day shall be no more.

Is it the clang of wild-geese?Is it the Indian’s yell,That lends to the voice of the north windThe tones of a far-off bell?

The voyageur smiles as he listensTo the sound that grows apace;Well he knows the vesper ringingOf the bells of St. Boniface—

The bells of the Roman Mission,That call from their turrets twain,To the boatman on the river,To the hunter on the plain!

Even so in our mortal journeyThe bitter north winds blow,And thus upon life’s Red RiverOur hearts, as oarsmen, row.

And when the Angel of ShadowRests his feet on wave and shore,And our eyes grow dim with watching,And our hearts faint at the oar,

Happy is he who hearethThe signal of his releaseIn the bells of the Holy City,The chimes of eternal peace!—John Greenleaf Whittier.

Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall;When the wind wakes, how they rock in the grasses,And dance with the cuckoo-buds, slender and small;Here’s two bonny boys, and here’s mother’s own lasses,Eager to gather them all.Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,Mother shall thread them a daisy-chain;Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow,That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain;Sing, “Heart thou art wide, though the house be but narrow”—Sing once, and sing it again.Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow;A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters,And haply one missing doth stand at her prow.O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters,Maybe he thinks of you now!Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall;A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure,And fresh hearts, unconscious of sorrow and thrall;Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure—God that is over us all.—Jean Ingelow.

Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,Mother shall thread them a daisy-chain;Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow,That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain;Sing, “Heart thou art wide, though the house be but narrow”—Sing once, and sing it again.

Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow;A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters,And haply one missing doth stand at her prow.O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters,Maybe he thinks of you now!

Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall;A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure,And fresh hearts, unconscious of sorrow and thrall;Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure—God that is over us all.—Jean Ingelow.

The house was thatched and whitewashed, and English was written on it and on every foot of ground round it. A furze bush had been planted by the door. Vertical oak palings were the fence, with a five-barred gate in the middle of them. From the little plantation all the magnificent trees and shrubs of Australia had been excluded, and oak and ash reigned safe from overtowering rivals. They passed to the back of the house, and there George’s countenance fell a little, for on the oval grass-plot and gravel-walk he found from thirty to forty rough fellows, most of them diggers.

Charles Reade

“Ah, well,” said he, on reflection, “we could not expect to have it all to ourselves, and indeed it would be a sin to wish it, you know. Now, Tom, come this way; here it is, here it is—there!” Tom looked up, and in a gigantic cage was a light brown bird.

He was utterly confounded. “What, is itthiswe came twelve miles to see?”

“Ay! and twice twelve wouldn’t have been much to me.”

“Well, but what is the lark you talked of?”

“This is it!”

“This? This is a bird.”

“Well, and isn’t a lark a bird?”

“Oh, ay, I see! ha! ha! ha! ha!”

Robinson’s merriment was interrupted by a harsh remonstrance from several of the diggers, who were all from the other end of the camp.

“Hold your cackle,” cried one, “he is going to sing;” and the whole party had their eyes turned with expectation towards the bird.

Like most singers, he kept them waiting a bit. But at last, just at noon, when the mistress of the house had warranted him to sing, the little feathered exile began, as it were, to tune his pipes. The savage men gathered round the cage that moment, and amidst a dead stillness the bird uttered some very uncertain chirps, but after a while he seemed to revive his memories, to call his ancient cadences back to him one by one, and to string them together.

And then the same sun that had warmed his little heart at home came glowing down on him here, and he gave music back for it more and more, till at last—amidst breathless silence and glistening eyes of the rough diggers hanging on his voice—out burst in that distant land his English song.

It swelled from his little throat and gushed from him with thrilling force and plenty, and every time he checked his song to think of its theme, the green meadows, the quiet stealing streams, the clover he first soared from and the spring he sang so well, a loud sigh from many a roughbosom, many a wild and wicked heart, told how tight the listeners had held their breath to hear him. And, when he swelled with song again, and poured with all his soul the green meadows, the quiet brooks, the honey-clover, and the English spring, the rugged mouths opened and so stayed, and the shaggy lips trembled, and more than one drop trickled from fierce unbridled hearts down bronzed and rugged cheeks.

Home! sweet home!

And these shaggy men, full of oaths and strife and cupidity, had once been white-headed boys, and had strolled about the English fields with little sisters and little brothers, and seen the lark rise, and heard him sing this very song. The little playmates lay in the churchyard, and they were full of oaths, and drink, and riot, and remorses; but no note was changed in this immortal song. And so, for a moment or two, years of vice rolled away like a dark cloud from the memory, and the past shone out in the sunshine; they came back, bright as the immortal notes that had lighted them, those faded pictures and those fleeted days; the cottage, the old mother’s tears, when he left her without one grain of sorrow; the village church and its simple chimes; the clover field hard by in which he lay and gambolled, while the lark praised God overhead; the chubby playmates that never grew to be wicked; the sweet hours of youth and innocence, and home!

“What will you take for him, mistress? I will give you five pounds for him!”

“No! no! I won’t take five pounds for my bird!”

“Of course she won’t,” cried another, “she wouldn’t be such a flat. Here, missus,” cried he, “I’ll give you that for him,” and he extended a brown hand with at least thirty new sovereigns glittering in it.

The woman trembled; she and her husband were just emerging from poverty after a hard fight.

“Oh!” she cried, “it is a shame to tempt a poor woman with so much gold. We had six brought over, and all died on the way but this one!” and she threw her white apron over her head, not to see the glittering bribe.

“Bother you, put the money up and don’t tempt the woman,” was the cry. Another added, “Why, you fool, it wouldn’t live a week if you had it,” and they all abused the man; but the woman turned to him kindly, and said:—

“You come to me every Sunday, and he shall sing to you. You will get more pleasure from him so,” said she sweetly, “than if he was always by you.”

“So I shall, old girl,” replied the rough, in a friendly tone.

George stayed till the lark gave up singing altogether, and then he said: “Now, I’m off. I don’t want to hear bad language after that: let us take the lark’s chirp home to bed with us.” And they made off; and true it was, the pure strains dwelt upon their spirits, and refreshed and purified these sojourners in an evil place.

—Charles Reade.

A good example is the best sermon.

’Tis the laughter of pines that swing and swayWhere the breeze from the land meets the breeze from the bay;’Tis the silvery foam of the silver tideIn ripples that reach to the forest side;’Tis the fisherman’s boat, in a track of sheen,Plying through tangled seaweed greenO’er the Baie des Chaleurs.Who has not heard of the phantom lightThat over the moaning waves, at night,Dances and drifts in endless play,Close to the shore, then far away,Fierce as the flame in sunset skies,Cold as the winter light that liesOn the Baie des Chaleurs?They tell us that many a year ago,From lands where the palm and the olive grow,Where vines with their purple clusters creepOver the hillsides gray and steep,A knight in his doublet, slashed with gold,Famed, in that chivalrous time of old,For valorous deeds and courage rare,Sailed with a princess wondrous fairTo the Baie des Chaleurs.That a pirate crew from some isle of the sea,A murderous band as e’er could be,With a shadowy sail, and a flag of night,That flaunted and flew in heaven’s sight,Sailed in the wake of the lovers there,And sank the ship and its freight so fairIn the Baie des Chaleurs.Strange is the tale that the fishermen tell:They say that a ball of fire fellStraight from the sky, with crash and roar,Lighting the bay from shore to shore;Then the ship, with shudder and with groan,Sank through the waves to the caverns loneOf the Baie des Chaleurs.That was the last of the pirate crew;But many a night a black flag flewFrom the mast of a spectre vessel, sailedBy a spectre band that wept and wailedFor the wreck they had wrought on the sea, on the land,For the innocent blood they had spilt on the sandOf the Baie des Chaleurs.This is the tale of the phantom lightThat fills the mariner’s heart, at night,With dread as it gleams o’er his path on the bay,Now by the shore, then far away,Fierce as the flame in sunset skies,Cold as the winter moon that liesOn the Baie des Chaleurs.—Arthur Wentworth Eaton.

Who has not heard of the phantom lightThat over the moaning waves, at night,Dances and drifts in endless play,Close to the shore, then far away,Fierce as the flame in sunset skies,Cold as the winter light that liesOn the Baie des Chaleurs?

They tell us that many a year ago,From lands where the palm and the olive grow,Where vines with their purple clusters creepOver the hillsides gray and steep,A knight in his doublet, slashed with gold,Famed, in that chivalrous time of old,For valorous deeds and courage rare,Sailed with a princess wondrous fairTo the Baie des Chaleurs.

That a pirate crew from some isle of the sea,A murderous band as e’er could be,With a shadowy sail, and a flag of night,That flaunted and flew in heaven’s sight,Sailed in the wake of the lovers there,And sank the ship and its freight so fairIn the Baie des Chaleurs.

Strange is the tale that the fishermen tell:They say that a ball of fire fellStraight from the sky, with crash and roar,Lighting the bay from shore to shore;Then the ship, with shudder and with groan,Sank through the waves to the caverns loneOf the Baie des Chaleurs.

That was the last of the pirate crew;But many a night a black flag flewFrom the mast of a spectre vessel, sailedBy a spectre band that wept and wailedFor the wreck they had wrought on the sea, on the land,For the innocent blood they had spilt on the sandOf the Baie des Chaleurs.

This is the tale of the phantom lightThat fills the mariner’s heart, at night,With dread as it gleams o’er his path on the bay,Now by the shore, then far away,Fierce as the flame in sunset skies,Cold as the winter moon that liesOn the Baie des Chaleurs.—Arthur Wentworth Eaton.

Blessed are the poor in spirit:For theirs is the kingdom of heaven.Blessed are they that mourn:For they shall be comforted.Blessed are the meek:For they shall inherit the earth.Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness:For they shall be filled.Blessed are the merciful:For they shall obtain mercy.Blessed are the pure in heart:For they shall see God.Blessed are the peacemakers:For they shall be called the children of God.Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake:For theirs is the kingdom of heaven.—From the Sermon on the Mount.

Blessed are the merciful:For they shall obtain mercy.Blessed are the pure in heart:For they shall see God.Blessed are the peacemakers:For they shall be called the children of God.Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake:For theirs is the kingdom of heaven.—From the Sermon on the Mount.

The resolution that gathered in Maggie’s mind was not so simple as that of going home. No! she would run away and go to the gypsies, and Tom should never see her any more. That was by no means a new idea to Maggie. The gypsies, she considered, would gladly receive her, and pay her much respect on account of her superior knowledge. She had once mentioned her views on this point to her brother Tom and had suggested that he should stain his face brown, and they should run away together. But Tom had rejected the scheme with contempt, observing that gypsies were thieves, and that they hardly got anything to eat, and had nothing to drive but a donkey.

George Eliot

To-day, however, Maggie thought her misery had reached a pitch at which gypsydom was her only refuge, and she rose from her seat on the roots of the tree with the sense that this was a great crisis in her life. She would runstraight away till she came to Dunlow Common, where there would certainly be gypsies; and cruel Tom, and the rest of her relations who found fault with her, should never see her any more. She thought of her father, as she ran along, but determined that she would secretly send him a letter by a small gypsy, who would run away without telling where she was, and just let him know that she was well and happy and always loved him very much.

It seemed to Maggie that she had been running a very great distance indeed, and it was really surprising that the Common did not come within sight. At last, however, the green fields came to an end, and she found herself looking through the bars of a gate into a lane with a wide margin of grass on each side of it. She crept through the bars and walked on with a new spirit. It was not, however, without a leaping of the heart that she caught sight of a small pair of bare legs sticking up, feet uppermost, by the side of a hillock. It was a boy asleep, and she trotted along faster and more lightly, lest she should wake him. It did not occur to her that he was one of her friends, the gypsies, who probably would have very kindly manners. But the fact was so, for at the next bend in the lane she really saw the little black tent with the blue smoke rising before it, which was to be her refuge. She even saw a tall female figure by the column of smoke, doubtless the gypsy mother, who provided the tea and other groceries.

It was plain she had attracted attention. For the tallfigure, who proved to be a young woman with a baby on her arm, walked slowly to meet her.

“My little lady, where are you going?” the gypsy said, in a coaxing tone.

It was delightful, and just what she expected. The gypsies saw at once that she was a little lady, and were prepared to treat her accordingly.

“Not any farther,” said Maggie, feeling as if she were saying what she had rehearsed in a dream. “I’m coming to stay withyou, please.”

“That’s pretty; come, then. Why, what a nice little lady you are, to be sure!” said the gypsy, taking her by the hand. Maggie thought her very agreeable, but wished she had not been so dirty.

There was quite a group round the fire when they reached it. An old gypsy woman was seated on the ground nursing her knees, and poking a skewer into the round kettle that sent forth an odorous steam. Two small shock-headed children were lying prone and resting on their elbows; and a placid donkey was bending his head over a tall girl, who, lying on her back, was scratching his nose and indulging him with a bite of excellent stolen hay.

The slanting sunlight fell kindly upon them, and the scene was really very pretty and comfortable, Maggie thought, only she hoped they would soon set out the teacups.

At last the old woman said: “What! my pretty lady, are you come to stay with us? Sit down and tell us where you come from.”

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