LADY CLARE

Maggie at the Gypsy Encampment

It was just like a story. Maggie liked to be called pretty lady and treated in this way. She sat down, and said:—

“I’m come from home because I’m unhappy, and I mean to be a gypsy. I’ll live with you if you like, and I can teach you a great many things.”

“Such a clever little lady,” said the woman with the baby, sitting down by Maggie, and allowing the baby to crawl. “And such a pretty bonnet and frock,” she added, taking off Maggie’s bonnet, and looking at it while she made a remark to the old woman, in an unknown language. The tall girl snatched the bonnet and put it on her own head hind-foremost, with a grin. But Maggie was determined not to show any weakness on this subject.

“I don’t want to wear a bonnet,” she said; “I’d rather wear a red handkerchief, like yours.”

“Oh, what a nice little lady!—and rich, I’m sure,” said the old woman. “Didn’t you live in a beautiful house at home?”

“Yes; my home is pretty, and I’m very fond of the river, where we go fishing, but I’m often very unhappy. I should have liked to bring my books with me, but I came away in a hurry, you know. But I can tell you almost everything there is in my books; I’ve read them so many times, and that will amuse you. And I can tell you something about geography, too,—that’s about the world we live in,—very useful and interesting. Did you ever hear about Columbus?”

“Is that where you live, my little lady?” said the old woman, at the mention of Columbus.

“Oh, no!” said Maggie, with some pity. “Columbus was a very wonderful man, who found out half the world, and they put chains on him and treated him very badly, you know. It’s in my geography, but perhaps it’s rather too long to tell before tea—I want my tea so.” The last words burst from Maggie, in spite of herself.

“Why, she’s hungry, poor little lady,” said the younger woman. “Give her some of the cold victuals. You’ve been walking a good way, I’ll be bound, my dear. Where’s your home?”

“It’s Dorlcote Mill, a long way off,” said Maggie. “My father is Mr. Tulliver, but we musn’t let him know where I am, or he will take me home again. Where does the queen of the gypsies live?”

“What! do you want to go to her, my little lady?” said the younger woman. The tall girl, meanwhile, was constantly staring at Maggie and grinning. Her manners were certainly not agreeable.

“No,” said Maggie; “I’m only thinking that if she isn’t a very good queen you might be glad when she died, and you could choose another. If I were a queen, I’d be a very good queen, and kind to everybody.”

“Here’s a bit of nice victuals, then,” said the old woman, handing to Maggie a lump of dry bread, which she had taken from a bag of scraps, and a piece of cold bacon.

“Thank you,” said Maggie, looking at the food withouttaking it; “but will you give me some bread and butter and tea, instead? I don’t like bacon.”

“We’ve got no tea or butter,” said the old woman, with something like a scowl, as if she were getting tired of coaxing.

“Oh, a little bread and treacle would do,” said Maggie.

“We’ve got no treacle,” said the old woman, crossly.

Then the old woman, seeming to forget Maggie’s hunger, poked the skewer into the pot with new vigor, and the younger crept under the tent and reached out some platters and spoons. Maggie trembled a little, and was afraid the tears would come into her eyes. But the springing tears were checked by new terror, when two men came up. The elder of the two carried a bag, which he flung down, addressing the women in a loud and scolding tone.

Both the men now seemed to be asking about Maggie, for they looked at her. At last the younger woman said in her coaxing tone, “This nice little lady’s come to live with us; aren’t you glad?”

“Ay, very glad,” said the younger man, who was looking at Maggie’s silver thimble and other small matters that had been taken from her pocket. He returned them all, except the thimble, to the younger woman, with some remark, and she put them again in Maggie’s pocket. The men seated themselves, and began to attack the contents of the kettle,—a stew of meat and potatoes,—which had been taken off the fire and turned out into a yellow platter.

Maggie began to think that Tom must be right about the gypsies; they must certainly be thieves, unless the man meant to return her thimble by and by. She would willingly have given it to him, for she was not at all attached to her thimble. But the idea that she was among thieves prevented her from feeling any comfort. The women saw that she was frightened.

“We’ve nothing nice for a lady to eat,” said the old woman. “And she’s so hungry, sweet little lady.”

“Here, my dear, try if you can eat a bit of this,” said the younger woman, handing some of the stew in a brown dish, with an iron spoon, to Maggie, who remembered that the old woman had seemed angry with her for not liking the bread and bacon, and dared not refuse the stew, though fear had chased away her appetite. If her father would only come by in the gig and take her up!

“What! you don’t like the smell of it, my dear,” said the young woman, observing that Maggie did not even take a spoonful of the stew. “Try a bit, come.”

“No, thank you,” said Maggie, trying to smile in a friendly way. “I haven’t time, I think; it seems getting darker. I think I must go home now, and come again another day, and then I can bring you a basket with some jam tarts and things.”

Maggie rose from her seat; but her hope sank when the old gypsy woman said, “Stop a bit, stop a bit, little lady; we’ll take you home, all safe, when we’ve done supper; you shall ride home, like a lady.”

Maggie sat down again, with little faith in this promise, though she presently saw the tall girl putting a bridle on the donkey, and throwing a couple of bags on his back.

“Now, then, little missis,” said the younger man, rising, and leading the donkey forward, “tell us where you live; what’s the name of the place?”

“Dorlcote Mill is my home,” said Maggie, eagerly. “My father is Mr. Tulliver; he lives there.”

“What! a big mill a little way this side of St. Ogg’s?”

“Yes,” said Maggie. “Is it far off? I think I should like to walk there, if you please.”

“No, no, it’ll be getting dark; we must make haste. And the donkey’ll carry you as nice as can be; you’ll see.”

He lifted Maggie as he spoke, and set her on the donkey. She felt relieved that it was not the old man who was going with her, but she had only a trembling hope that she was really going home.

“Here’s your pretty bonnet,” said the younger woman, putting it on Maggie’s head; “and you’ll say we’ve been very good to you, won’t you? and what a nice little lady we said you were.”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” said Maggie; “I’m very much obliged to you. But I wish you’d go with me, too.” She thought that anything was better than going with one of the dreadful men alone.

“Ah, you’re fondest of me, aren’t you?” said the woman. “But I can’t go; you’ll go too fast for me.”

It now appeared that the man also was to be seated onthe donkey, holding Maggie before him, and no nightmare had ever seemed to her more horrible. When the woman had patted her on the back, and said “Good-by,” the donkey set off at a rapid walk along the lane towards the point Maggie had come from an hour ago.

At last—oh, sight of joy!—this lane, the longest in the world, was coming to an end, was opening on a broad highroad, where there was actually a coach passing! And there was a finger-post at the corner,—she had surely seen that finger-post before,—“To St. Ogg’s, 2 miles.”

The gypsy really meant to take her home, then; he was probably a good man, after all, and might have been rather hurt at the thought that she didn’t like coming with him alone. This idea became stronger as she felt more and more certain that she knew the road quite well. She was thinking how she might open a conversation with the injured gypsy, when, as they reached a cross-road, Maggie caught sight of some one coming on a white-faced horse.

“Oh, stop, stop!” she cried out. “There’s my father! Oh, father, father!”

The sudden joy was almost painful, and before her father reached her, she was sobbing. Great was Mr. Tulliver’s wonder, for he had made a round from Basset, and had not yet been home.

“Why, what’s the meaning of this?” he said, checking his horse, while Maggie slipped from the donkey and ran to her father’s stirrup.

“The little miss lost herself, I reckon,” said the gypsy.“She’d come to our tent at the far end of Dunlow Lane, and I was bringing her where she said her home was. It’s a good way to come after being on the tramp all day.”

“Oh, yes, father, he’s been very good to bring me home,” said Maggie. “A very kind, good man!”

“Here, then, my man,” said Mr. Tulliver, taking out five shillings. “It’s the best day’s work you ever did. I couldn’t afford to lose the little lass; here, lift her up before me.”

“Why, Maggie, how’s this, how’s this?” he said, as they rode along, while she laid her head against her father and sobbed. “How came you to be rambling about and lose yourself?”

“Oh, father,” sobbed Maggie, “I ran away because I was so unhappy. Tom was so angry with me. I couldn’t bear it.”

“Pooh, pooh,” said Mr. Tulliver, soothingly; “you mustn’t think of running away from father. What would father do without his little lass?”

“Oh, no; I never shall again, father—never.”

Mr. Tulliver spoke his mind very strongly when he reached home that evening; and the effect was seen in the fact that Maggie never heard one reproach from her mother or one taunt from Tom about this foolish business of her running away to the gypsies.—George Eliot.

He is idle that might be better employed.

It was the time when lilies blow,And clouds are highest up in air,Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doeTo give his cousin, Lady Clare.I trow they did not part in scorn:Lovers long-betroth’d were they:They two will wed the morrow morn:God’s blessing on the day!“He does not love me for my birth,Nor for my lands so broad and fair;He loves me for my own true worth,And that is well,” said Lady Clare.In there came old Alice the nurse,Said, “Who was this that went from thee?”“It was my cousin,” said Lady Clare,“To-morrow he weds with me.”“O God be thank’d!” said Alice the nurse,“That all comes round so just and fair:Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands,And you are not the Lady Clare.”“Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?”Said Lady Clare, “that ye speak so wild?”“As God’s above,” said Alice the nurse,“I speak the truth: you are my child.“The old Earl’s daughter died at my breast;I speak the truth, as I live by bread!I buried her like my own sweet child,And put my child in her stead.”“Falsely, falsely have ye done,O mother,” she said, “if this be true,To keep the best man under the sunSo many years from his due.”“Nay now, my child,” said Alice the nurse,“But keep the secret for your life,And all you have will be Lord Ronald’s,When you are man and wife.”“If I’m a beggar born,” she said,“I will speak out, for I dare not lie.Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold,And fling the diamond necklace by.”“Nay now, my child,” said Alice the nurse,“But keep the secret all ye can.”She said, “Not so: but I will knowIf there be any faith in man.”“Nay now, what faith?” said Alice the nurse,“The man will cleave unto his right.”“And he shall have it,” the Lady replied,“Tho’ I should die to-night.”“Yet give one kiss to your mother dear!Alas, my child, I sinn’d for thee.”“O mother, mother, mother,” she said,“So strange it seems to me.“Yet here’s a kiss for my mother dear,My mother dear, if this be so,And lay your hand upon my head,And bless me, mother, ere I go.”She clad herself in a russet gown,She was no longer Lady Clare:She went by dale and she went by downWith a single rose in her hair.The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had broughtLeapt up from where she lay,Dropt her head in the maiden’s hand,And follow’d her all the way.Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower:“O Lady Clare, you shame your worth!Why come you drest like a village maid,That are the flower of the earth?”“If I come drest like a village maid,I am but as my fortunes are:I am a beggar born,” she said,“And not the Lady Clare.”“Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald,“For I am yours in word and in deed.Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald,“Your riddle is hard to read.”O and proudly stood she up!Her heart within her did not fail:She look’d into Lord Ronald’s eyes,And told him all her nurse’s tale.He laugh’d a laugh of merry scorn:He turn’d and kiss’d her where she stood:“If you are not the heiress born,And I,” said he, “the next in blood—“If you are not the heiress born,And I,” said he, “the lawful heir,We two will wed to-morrow morn,And you shall still be Lady Clare.”—Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

It was the time when lilies blow,And clouds are highest up in air,Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doeTo give his cousin, Lady Clare.

I trow they did not part in scorn:Lovers long-betroth’d were they:They two will wed the morrow morn:God’s blessing on the day!

“He does not love me for my birth,Nor for my lands so broad and fair;He loves me for my own true worth,And that is well,” said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice the nurse,Said, “Who was this that went from thee?”“It was my cousin,” said Lady Clare,“To-morrow he weds with me.”

“O God be thank’d!” said Alice the nurse,“That all comes round so just and fair:Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands,And you are not the Lady Clare.”

“Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?”Said Lady Clare, “that ye speak so wild?”“As God’s above,” said Alice the nurse,“I speak the truth: you are my child.

“The old Earl’s daughter died at my breast;I speak the truth, as I live by bread!I buried her like my own sweet child,And put my child in her stead.”

“Falsely, falsely have ye done,O mother,” she said, “if this be true,To keep the best man under the sunSo many years from his due.”

“Nay now, my child,” said Alice the nurse,“But keep the secret for your life,And all you have will be Lord Ronald’s,When you are man and wife.”

“If I’m a beggar born,” she said,“I will speak out, for I dare not lie.Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold,And fling the diamond necklace by.”

“Nay now, my child,” said Alice the nurse,“But keep the secret all ye can.”She said, “Not so: but I will knowIf there be any faith in man.”

“Nay now, what faith?” said Alice the nurse,“The man will cleave unto his right.”“And he shall have it,” the Lady replied,“Tho’ I should die to-night.”

“Yet give one kiss to your mother dear!Alas, my child, I sinn’d for thee.”“O mother, mother, mother,” she said,“So strange it seems to me.

“Yet here’s a kiss for my mother dear,My mother dear, if this be so,And lay your hand upon my head,And bless me, mother, ere I go.”

She clad herself in a russet gown,She was no longer Lady Clare:She went by dale and she went by downWith a single rose in her hair.

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had broughtLeapt up from where she lay,Dropt her head in the maiden’s hand,And follow’d her all the way.

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower:“O Lady Clare, you shame your worth!Why come you drest like a village maid,That are the flower of the earth?”

“If I come drest like a village maid,I am but as my fortunes are:I am a beggar born,” she said,“And not the Lady Clare.”

“Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald,“For I am yours in word and in deed.Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald,“Your riddle is hard to read.”

O and proudly stood she up!Her heart within her did not fail:She look’d into Lord Ronald’s eyes,And told him all her nurse’s tale.

He laugh’d a laugh of merry scorn:He turn’d and kiss’d her where she stood:“If you are not the heiress born,And I,” said he, “the next in blood—

“If you are not the heiress born,And I,” said he, “the lawful heir,We two will wed to-morrow morn,And you shall still be Lady Clare.”—Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

Not by the power of Commerce, Art, or Pen,Shall our great Empire stand, nor has it stood,But by the noble deeds of noble men—Heroic lives and heroes’ outpoured blood.—Frederick George Scott.

Absorbed in his thoughts, Don Quixote, the famous knight, had not proceeded more than half a league on his journey when, raising his head, he perceived a cart covered with royal flags coming along the road they were travelling, and, persuaded that this must be some new adventure, he called aloud to Sancho, his squire, to bring him his helmet. As the squire approached, he called to him: “Give me that helmet, my friend, for either I know little of adventures or what I observe yonder is one that will, and does, call on me to arm myself.”

Cervantes

By the time that Don Quixote had put on his helmet, the cart with the flags had come up, unattended by any one except the carter on a mule, and a man sitting before the door of the cart. The knight planted himself before it, and said: “Where are you going, brothers? What cart is this? What have you got in it? What flags are those?”

To this the carter replied: “The cart is mine; what is in it is a pair of fine caged lions, which the governor of Oran is sending to court as a present to his Majesty, and the flags are our lord the king’s, to show that this is his property.”

“Are the lions large?” asked Don Quixote.

“So large,” replied the man who sat at the door of the cart, “that larger have never crossed from Africa to Spain. I am the keeper, and I have brought over others, but never any like these. They are hungry now, for they have eaten nothing to-day, so let your worship stand aside, for we must make haste to the place where we are to feed them.”

Hereon, smiling slightly, Don Quixote exclaimed: “Get down, my good fellow, and as you are the keeper, open the cages and turn out those beasts, and in the midst of this plain, I shall let them know who Don Quixote of La Mancha is, in spite and in the teeth of the enchanters who sent them to me.”

At this instant Sancho came up, saying to the keeper of the lions: “Sir, do something to keep my master, Don Quixote, from fighting those lions; for if he does, they’ll tear us all to pieces here.”

“Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “you leave this business to me;” and then turning to the keeper, he exclaimed: “By all that’s good, Sir Keeper, if you do not open the cages this very instant, I shall pin you to the cart with this lance.”

The carter, seeing the determination of the knight, said to him: “Please your worship, let me unyoke the mules, and place myself in safety along with them before the lions are turned out, for if they kill the mules, I am ruined for life. All I possess is this cart and mules.”

“O man of little faith,” replied Don Quixote, “get down and unyoke. You shall soon see that you are exerting yourself for nothing, and that you might have spared yourself the trouble.”

The carter got down, and with all speed unyoked the mules, and the keeper called out at the top of his voice: “I call all here to witness that against my will and under compulsion I open the cages and let the lions loose, and that I warn this gentleman that he shall be accountable for all the harm and mischief which these beasts may do, and for my salary and dues as well.” Then, speaking to the carter and Sancho, he said: “You, gentlemen, place yourselves in safety before I open, for I know they will do me no harm.”

Sancho, with tears in his eyes, entreated his master to give up the enterprise. “Look ye, señor,” said he, “there’s no enchantment here, not anything of the sort; for between the bars and chinks of the cage I have seen the paw of a real lion, and judging by that, I reckon that such a paw should belong to a lion much bigger than a mountain.”

“Fear, at any rate,” replied Don Quixote, “will make him look bigger to thee than half the world. Retire, Sancho, and leave me. I say no more.” And renewing his commands to the keeper, and repeating his threats, he gave warning to Sancho to spur his horse, and to the carter to drive away his mules. Both Sancho and the carter did not disobey the commands of the knight, but strove to get away from the cart before the lions broke loose.

During the delay that occurred while the keeper was opening the cage, Don Quixote was considering whether it would not be well to do battle on foot instead of on horseback, and he finally resolved to fight on foot, fearing that his horse might take fright at the sight of the lions. He therefore sprang to the ground, flung his lance aside, braced his buckler on his arm, and drawing his sword, advanced slowly with resolute courage, to plant himself in front of the cart. The keeper, seeing that the knight had taken up his position, and that it was impossible for him to avoid letting out the lions without getting into trouble, flung open the doors of the cage containing the lion, which was now seen to be of enormous size and grim and hideous mien.

The first thing the lion did was to turn round in the cage in which he lay, and protrude his claws and stretch himself thoroughly. He next opened his mouth and yawned very leisurely. When he had done this, he put his head out of the cage and looked all round with eyes like glowing coals. Don Quixote merely observed him steadily, longing for him to leap from the cart and come to close quarters with him, when he hoped to hew him to pieces. But the noble beast turned about and very coolly and tranquilly lay down again in the cage. Seeing this, Don Quixote ordered the keeper to take a stick to him and provoke him, to make him come out.

“That I will not,” said the keeper; “for if I anger him, the first he’ll tear in pieces will be myself. Be satisfied,Sir Knight, with what you have done, which leaves nothing more to be said on the score of courage, and do not seek to tempt fortune a second time. The lion has the door open; he is free to come out or not to come out; but as he has not come out so far, he will not come out to-day. The greatness of your worship’s courage has been fully manifested already; no brave champion, so it strikes me, is bound to do more than challenge his enemy and wait for him on the field. If his adversary does not come, on him lies the disgrace, and he who waits for him carries off the crown of victory.”

“That is true,” said Don Quixote; “close the door, my friend, and let me have by way of certificate in the best form thou canst what thou hast seen me do. Close the door, as I bade thee, while I make signals to the fugitives that have left us, that they may learn this exploit from thy lips.”

The keeper obeyed, and Don Quixote, fixing his handkerchief on the point of his lance, proceeded to recall the others, who still continued to fly, looking back at every step. Sancho, however, happening to observe the signal, exclaimed: “May I die if my master has not overcome the wild beasts, for he is calling to us.”

They stopped, and, perceiving that it was Don Quixote who was making signals, they approached slowly until they were near enough to hear him distinctly calling to them. They returned at length to the cart, and as they came up, Don Quixote said to the carter: “Put your mulesto the cart once more, brother, and continue your journey; and do thou, Sancho, give him two gold crowns for himself and the keeper, to compensate them for the delay they have incurred through me.”

Sancho paid the crowns, the keeper kissed Don Quixote’s hands for the bounty bestowed on him, and promised to give an account of the valiant exploit to the king himself, as soon as he saw him at court. The cart went its way, and Don Quixote and Sancho went theirs.

—Miguel de Cervantes.

It was a summer evening,Old Kaspar’s work was done,And he before his cottage doorWas sitting in the sun,And by him sported on the greenHis little grandchild Wilhelmine.She saw her brother PeterkinRoll something large and round,Which he beside the rivuletIn 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 roundWas wasted far and wide,And many a nursing mother thenAnd new-born baby died;But things like that, you know, must beAt every famous victory.“They say it was a shocking sightAfter the field was won;For many thousand bodies hereLay rotting in the sun;But things like that, you know, must beAfter 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.”—Robert Southey.

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

She saw her brother PeterkinRoll something large and round,Which he beside the rivuletIn 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 roundWas wasted far and wide,And many a nursing mother thenAnd new-born baby died;But things like that, you know, must beAt every famous victory.

“They say it was a shocking sightAfter the field was won;For many thousand bodies hereLay rotting in the sun;But things like that, you know, must beAfter 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.”—Robert Southey.

By the ancient Huron custom, when a man or a family wanted a house, the whole village joined in building one. In the present case the neighboring town also took part in the work. Before October the task was finished.

The house was constructed after the Huron model. It was thirty-six feet long and about twenty feet wide, framed with strong sapling poles planted in the earth to form the sides, with the ends bent into an arch for the roof,—the whole lashed firmly together, braced with cross poles, and closely covered with overlapping sheets of bark.

Without, the structure was strictly Indian; but within, the priests, with the aid of their tools, made changes which were the astonishment of all the country. They divided their dwelling by transverse partitions into three apartments, each with its wooden door,—a wondrous novelty in the eyes of their visitors. The first served as a hall, an anteroom, and a place of storage for corn, beans, and dried fish. The second—the largest of the three—was at once kitchen, workshop, dining-room, drawing-room, school-room, and bedchamber. The third was the chapel. Here they made their altar, and here were their images, pictures, and sacred vessels.

Their fire was on the ground, in the middle of the second apartment, the smoke escaping by a hole in the roof. At the sides were placed two wide platforms, after the Huron fashion, four feet from the earthen floor. On these werechests in which they kept their clothing, and beneath them they slept, reclining on sheets of bark, and covered with skins and the garments they wore by day. Rude stools, a hand-mill, an Indian mortar for crushing corn, and a clock completed the furniture of the room.

There was no lack of visitors, for the house contained marvels the fame of which was noised abroad to the uttermost confines of the Huron nation. Chief among them was the clock. The guests would sit in expectant silence by the hour, squatted on the ground, waiting to hear it strike. They thought it was alive, and asked what it ate. As the last stroke sounded, one of the Frenchmen would cry “Stop!”—and to the admiration of the company the obedient clock was silent. The mill was another wonder, and they never tired of turning it. Besides these, there was a prism and a magnet; also a magnifying glass, wherein a flea was transformed to a frightful monster, and a multiplying lens which showed them the same object eleven times repeated.

“What does the Captain say?” was the frequent question; for by this title of honor they designated the clock.

“When he strikes twelve times he says, ‘Hang on the kettle’; and when he strikes four times he says, ‘Get up and go home.’ ”

Both interpretations were remembered. At noon visitors were never wanting; but at the stroke of four all arose and departed, leaving the missionaries for a time in peace.—Francis Parkman.

By Nebo’s lonely mountain,On this side Jordan’s wave,In a vale in the land of MoabThere lies a lonely grave;And no man knows that sepulchre,And no man saw it e’er,For the angels of God upturn’d the sod,And laid the dead man there.That was the grandest funeralThat ever pass’d on earth;But no man heard the trampling,Or saw the train go forth—Noiselessly as the daylightComes back when night is done,And the crimson streak on ocean’s cheekGrows into the great sun;Noiselessly as the spring-timeHer crown of verdure weaves,And all the trees on all the hillsOpen their thousand leaves;So without sound of music,Or voice of them that wept,Silently down from the mountain’s crown,The great procession swept.Perchance the bald old eagleOn gray Beth-peor’s heightOut of his lonely eyrieLook’d on the wondrous sight;Perchance the lion stalkingStill shuns that hallow’d spot,For beast and bird have seen and heardThat which man knoweth not.But when the warrior dieth,His comrades in the war,With arms reversed and muffled drum,Follow his funeral car;They show the banners taken,They tell his battles won,And after him lead his masterless steed,While peals the minute gun.Amid the noblest of the land,We lay the sage to rest,And give the bard an honor’d place,With costly marble dressed,In the great minster transept,Where lights like glories fall,And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings,Along the emblazon’d wall.This was the truest warriorThat ever buckled sword;This the most gifted poetThat ever breathed a word;And never earth’s philosopherTraced with his golden penOn the deathless page truths half so sageAs he wrote down for men.And had he not high honor—The hillside for a pall,To lie in state while angels waitWith stars for tapers tall,And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes,Over his bier to wave,And God’s own hand in that lonely landTo lay him in the grave,—In that strange grave without a name,Whence his uncoffin’d clayShall break again, O wondrous thought,Before the judgment-day,And stand with glory wrapt aroundOn the hills he never trod,And speak of the strife that won our lifeWith the Incarnate Son of God?O lonely grave in Moab’s land!O dark Beth-peor’s hill!Speak to these curious hearts of oursAnd teach them to be still.God hath His mysteries of grace,Ways that we cannot tell;He hides them deep like the hidden sleepOf him He loved so well.—Cecil Frances Alexander.

That was the grandest funeralThat ever pass’d on earth;But no man heard the trampling,Or saw the train go forth—Noiselessly as the daylightComes back when night is done,And the crimson streak on ocean’s cheekGrows into the great sun;

Noiselessly as the spring-timeHer crown of verdure weaves,And all the trees on all the hillsOpen their thousand leaves;So without sound of music,Or voice of them that wept,Silently down from the mountain’s crown,The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagleOn gray Beth-peor’s heightOut of his lonely eyrieLook’d on the wondrous sight;Perchance the lion stalkingStill shuns that hallow’d spot,For beast and bird have seen and heardThat which man knoweth not.

But when the warrior dieth,His comrades in the war,With arms reversed and muffled drum,Follow his funeral car;They show the banners taken,They tell his battles won,And after him lead his masterless steed,While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land,We lay the sage to rest,And give the bard an honor’d place,With costly marble dressed,In the great minster transept,Where lights like glories fall,And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings,Along the emblazon’d wall.

This was the truest warriorThat ever buckled sword;This the most gifted poetThat ever breathed a word;And never earth’s philosopherTraced with his golden penOn the deathless page truths half so sageAs he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor—The hillside for a pall,To lie in state while angels waitWith stars for tapers tall,And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes,Over his bier to wave,And God’s own hand in that lonely landTo lay him in the grave,—

In that strange grave without a name,Whence his uncoffin’d clayShall break again, O wondrous thought,Before the judgment-day,And stand with glory wrapt aroundOn the hills he never trod,And speak of the strife that won our lifeWith the Incarnate Son of God?

O lonely grave in Moab’s land!O dark Beth-peor’s hill!Speak to these curious hearts of oursAnd teach them to be still.God hath His mysteries of grace,Ways that we cannot tell;He hides them deep like the hidden sleepOf him He loved so well.—Cecil Frances Alexander.

It was broad day when I awoke, and found myself tossing at the south-west end of Treasure Island. I was scarcely a quarter of a mile to seaward, and it was my first thought to paddle in and land. But that notion was soon given over. Among the fallen rocks the breakers spouted and bellowed; loud reverberations, heavy sprays flying and falling, succeeded one another from second to second; and I saw myself, if I ventured nearer, dashed to death upon the rough shore, or spending my strength in vain to scale the beetling crags.

R. L. Stevenson

Nor was that all; for crawling together on flat tables of rock, or letting themselves drop into the sea with loud reports, I beheld huge slimy monsters,—soft snails, as it were, of incredible bigness,—two or three score of themtogether, making the rocks to echo with their barkings. I have understood since that they were sea-lions, and entirely harmless. But the look of them, added to the difficulty of the shore and the high running of the surf, was more than enough to disgust me with that landing-place. I felt willing rather to starve at sea than to confront such perils.

There was a great, smooth swell upon the sea. The wind blowing steady and gentle from the south, there was no contrariety between that and the current, and the billows rose and fell unbroken. Had it been otherwise, I must long ago have perished; but as it was, it is surprising how easily and securely my little and light boat could ride. Often, as I still lay at the bottom, and kept no more than an eye above the gunwale, I would see a big blue summit heaving close above me; yet the coracle would but bounce a little, dance as if on springs, and subside on the other side into the trough as lightly as a bird.

I began after a little to grow very bold, and sat up to try my skill at paddling. But even a small change in the disposition of the weight will produce violent changes in the behavior of a coracle. And I had hardly moved before the boat, giving up at once her gentle dancing movement, ran straight down a slope of water so steep that it made me giddy, and stuck her nose, with a spout of spray, deep into the side of the next wave.

I was drenched and terrified, and fell instantly back into my old position, whereupon the coracle seemed to findher head again, and led me as softly as before among the billows. It was plain she was not to be interfered with, and at that rate, since I could in no way influence her course, what hope had I left of reaching land?

I began to be horribly frightened, but I kept my head, for all that. First, moving with all care, I gradually bailed out the coracle with my sea-cap; then getting my eye once more above the gunwale, I set myself to study how it was she managed to slip so quietly through the rollers. I found each wave, instead of the big, smooth, glossy mountain it looks from the shore, or from a vessel’s deck, was for all the world like any range of hills on the dry land, full of peaks and smooth places and valleys. The coracle, left to herself, turning from side to side, threaded, so to speak, her way through these lower parts, and avoided the steep slopes and higher toppling summits of the wave.

“Well, now,” thought I to myself, “it is plain I must lie where I am, and not disturb the balance; but it is plain, also, that I can put the paddle over the side, and from time to time, in smooth places, give her a shove or two towards land.”

No sooner thought upon than done. There I lay on my elbows, in the most trying attitude, and every now and again gave a weak stroke or two to turn her head to shore. It was very tiring, and slow work, yet I did visibly gain ground; and, as we drew near the Cape of the Woods, though I saw I must infallibly miss that point, I had still made some hundred yards of easting. I was, indeed, closein. I could see the cool, green tree-tops swaying together in the breeze, and I felt sure I should make the next promontory without fail.

It was high time, for I now began to be tortured with thirst. The glow of the sun from above, its thousand-fold reflection from the waves, the sea-water that fell and dried upon me, caking my very lips with salt, combined to make my throat burn and my brain ache. The sight of the trees so near at hand had almost made me sick with longing; but the current had soon carried me past the point; and, as the next reach of sea opened out, I beheld a sight that changed the nature of my thoughts.

Right in front of me, not half a mile away, I beheld theHispaniolaunder sail. I made sure, of course, that I should be taken; but I was so distressed for want of water that I scarce knew whether to be glad or sorry at the thought; and, long before I had come to a conclusion, surprise had taken entire possession of my mind, and I could do nothing but stare and wonder.

TheHispaniolawas under her mainsail and two jibs, and the beautiful white canvas shone in the sun like snow or silver. When I first sighted her, all her sails were drawing, she was lying a course about north-west, and I presumed the men on board were going round the island on their way back to the anchorage. Presently she began to fetch more and more to the westward, so that I thought they had sighted me and were going about in chase. At last, however, she fell right into the wind’s eye, was takendead aback, and stood there awhile helpless, with her sails shivering.

Meanwhile, the schooner gradually fell off, and filled again upon another tack, sailed swiftly for a minute or so, and brought up once more dead in the wind’s eye. Again and again was this repeated. To and fro, up and down, north, south, east, and west, theHispaniolasailed by swoops and dashes, and at each repetition ended as she had begun, with rapidly flapping canvas. It became plain to me that nobody was steering. And, if so, where were the men?

Either they were drunk, or had deserted her, I thought, and perhaps, if I could get on board, I might return the vessel to her captain.

The current was bearing coracle and schooner southwards at an equal rate. As for the latter’s sailing, it was so wild and intermittent, and she hung each time so long in irons, that she certainly gained nothing, if she did not even lose. If only I dared to sit up and paddle, I made sure that I could overhaul her. The scheme had an air of adventure that inspired me, and the thought of the water-breaker beside the fore-companion doubled my growing courage.

Up I got, was welcomed almost instantly by another cloud of spray, but this time stuck to my purpose; and set myself, with all my strength and caution, to paddle after the unsteeredHispaniola. Once I shipped a sea so heavy that I had to stop and bail, with my heart fluttering like a bird; but gradually I got into the way of the thing, and guided my coracle among the waves, with only nowand then a blow upon her bows and a dash of foam in my face.

I was now gaining rapidly on the schooner; I could see the brass glisten on the tiller as it banged about; and still no soul appeared upon her decks. I could not choose but suppose she was deserted. If not, the men were lying helpless below, where I might batten them down, perhaps; and do what I chose with the ship.

For some time she had been doing the worst thing possible for me—standing still. She headed nearly due south, yawing, of course, all the time. Each time she fell off her sails partly filled, and these brought her, in a moment, right to the wind again. I have said this was the worst thing possible for me; for, helpless as she looked in this situation, with the canvas crackling like cannon, and the blocks trundling and banging on the deck, she still continued to run away from me, not only with the speed of the current, but by the whole amount of her leeway, which was naturally great.

But now, at last, I had my chance. The breeze fell, for some seconds, very low, and the current gradually turning her, theHispaniolarevolved slowly round her centre, and at last presented me her stern, with the cabin window still gaping open, and the lamp over the table still burning on into the day. The mainsail hung drooped like a banner. She was stock-still, but for the current.

For the last little while I had even lost; but now, redoubling my efforts, I began once more to overhaul thechase. I was not a hundred yards from her when the wind came again in a clap; she filled on the port tack, and was off again, stooping and skimming like a swallow.

My first impulse was one of despair, but my second was towards joy. Round she came, till she was broadside on to me—round still till she had covered a half, and then two-thirds, and then three-quarters of the distance that separated us. I could see the waves boiling white under her forefoot. Immensely tall she looked to me from my low station in the coracle.

And then, of a sudden, I began to comprehend. I had scarce time to think—scarce time to act and save myself. I was on the summit of one swell when the schooner came stooping over the next. The bowsprit was over my head. I sprang to my feet, and leaped, stamping the coracle under water. With one hand I caught the jib-boom, while my foot was lodged between the stay and the brace; and as I still clung there panting, a dull blow told me that the schooner had charged down upon and struck the coracle, and that I was left without retreat on theHispaniola.

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