THE UNNAMED LAKE

—Nathaniel Hawthorne.

It sleeps among the thousand hillsWhere no man ever trod,And only Nature’s music fillsThe silences of God.Great mountains tower above its shore,Green rushes fringe its brim,And o’er its breast forevermoreThe wanton breezes skim.Dark clouds that intercept the sunGo there in spring to weep,And there, when autumn days are done,White mists lie down to sleep.Sunrise and sunset crown with goldThe peaks of ageless stone,Where winds have thundered from of oldAnd storms have set their throne.No echoes of the world afarDisturb it night or day,But sun and shadow, moon and star,Pass and repass for aye.’Twas in the gray of early dawn,When first the lake we spied,And fragments of a cloud were drawnHalf down the mountain side.Along the shore a heron flew,And from a speck on high,That hovered in the deepening blue,We heard the fish-hawk’s cry.Among the cloud-capt solitudes,No sound the silence broke,Save when, in whispers down the woods,The guardian mountains spoke.Through tangled brush and dewy brake,Returning whence we came,We passed in silence, and the lakeWe left without a name.—Frederick George Scott.

It sleeps among the thousand hillsWhere no man ever trod,And only Nature’s music fillsThe silences of God.

Great mountains tower above its shore,Green rushes fringe its brim,And o’er its breast forevermoreThe wanton breezes skim.

Dark clouds that intercept the sunGo there in spring to weep,And there, when autumn days are done,White mists lie down to sleep.

Sunrise and sunset crown with goldThe peaks of ageless stone,Where winds have thundered from of oldAnd storms have set their throne.

No echoes of the world afarDisturb it night or day,But sun and shadow, moon and star,Pass and repass for aye.

’Twas in the gray of early dawn,When first the lake we spied,And fragments of a cloud were drawnHalf down the mountain side.

Along the shore a heron flew,And from a speck on high,That hovered in the deepening blue,We heard the fish-hawk’s cry.

Among the cloud-capt solitudes,No sound the silence broke,Save when, in whispers down the woods,The guardian mountains spoke.

Through tangled brush and dewy brake,Returning whence we came,We passed in silence, and the lakeWe left without a name.—Frederick George Scott.

Ay, this is freedom! these pure skiesWere never stained with village smoke:The fragrant wind, that through them flies,Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke.Here, with my rifle and my steed,And her who left the world for me,I plant me, where the red deer feedIn the green desert—and am free.For here the fair savannas knowNo barriers in the bloomy grass;Wherever breeze of heaven may blow,Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass.In pastures, measureless as air,The bison is my noble game;The bounding elk, whose antlers tearThe branches, falls before my aim.Mine are the river-fowl that screamFrom the long strip of waving sedge;The bear that marks my weapon’s gleam.Hides vainly in the forest’s edge;In vain the she-wolf stands at bay;The brinded catamount, that liesHigh in the boughs to watch his prey,Even in the act of springing, dies.With what free growth the elm and planeFling their huge arms across my way,Gray, old, and cumbered with a trainOf vines, as huge, and old, and gray!Free stray the lucid streams, and findNo taint in these fresh lawns and shades;Free spring the flowers that scent the windWhere never scythe has swept the glades.Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sereThe heavy herbage of the ground,Gathers his annual harvest here,With roaring like the battle’s sound,And hurrying flames that sweep the plain,And smoke-streams gushing up the sky:I meet the flames with flames again,And at my door they cower and die.Here, from dim woods, the aged pastSpeaks solemnly; and I beholdThe boundless future in the vastAnd lonely river, seawards rolled.Who feeds its founts with rain and dew?Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass,And trains the bordering vines, whose blueBright clusters tempt me as I pass?Broad are these streams—my steed obeys,Plunges, and bears me through the tide.Wide are these woods—I thread the mazeOf giant stems, nor ask a guide.I hunt till day’s last glimmer diesO’er woody vale and grassy height;And kind the voice and glad the eyesThat welcome my return at night.—William Cullen Bryant.

For here the fair savannas knowNo barriers in the bloomy grass;Wherever breeze of heaven may blow,Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass.In pastures, measureless as air,The bison is my noble game;The bounding elk, whose antlers tearThe branches, falls before my aim.

Mine are the river-fowl that screamFrom the long strip of waving sedge;The bear that marks my weapon’s gleam.Hides vainly in the forest’s edge;In vain the she-wolf stands at bay;The brinded catamount, that liesHigh in the boughs to watch his prey,Even in the act of springing, dies.

With what free growth the elm and planeFling their huge arms across my way,Gray, old, and cumbered with a trainOf vines, as huge, and old, and gray!Free stray the lucid streams, and findNo taint in these fresh lawns and shades;Free spring the flowers that scent the windWhere never scythe has swept the glades.

Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sereThe heavy herbage of the ground,Gathers his annual harvest here,With roaring like the battle’s sound,And hurrying flames that sweep the plain,And smoke-streams gushing up the sky:I meet the flames with flames again,And at my door they cower and die.

Here, from dim woods, the aged pastSpeaks solemnly; and I beholdThe boundless future in the vastAnd lonely river, seawards rolled.Who feeds its founts with rain and dew?Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass,And trains the bordering vines, whose blueBright clusters tempt me as I pass?

Broad are these streams—my steed obeys,Plunges, and bears me through the tide.Wide are these woods—I thread the mazeOf giant stems, nor ask a guide.I hunt till day’s last glimmer diesO’er woody vale and grassy height;And kind the voice and glad the eyesThat welcome my return at night.—William Cullen Bryant.

As we were now to hold up our heads a little higher in the world, my wife suggested that it would be proper to sell the colt, which was grown old, at a neighboring fair, and buy us a horse that would carry single or double upon an occasion, and make a pretty appearance at church or upon a visit. This at first I opposed stoutly; but it was as stoutly defended. However, as I weakened, my antagonist gained strength, till at last we agreed to part with him.

Oliver Goldsmith

As the fair happened on the following day, I had intentions of going myself; but my wife persuaded me that I had got a cold, and nothing could prevail upon her to permit me from home. “No, my dear,” said she, “our son Moses is a discreet boy, and can buyand sell to very good advantage. You know all our great bargains are of his purchasing. He always stands out and higgles, and actually tires them till he gets a bargain.”

As I had some opinion of my son’s prudence, I was willing enough to intrust him with this commission; and the next morning I perceived his sisters very busy in fitting out Moses for the fair,—trimming his hair, brushing his buckles, and cocking his hat with pins. The business of the toilet being over, we had at last the satisfaction of seeing him mounted upon the colt, with a deal box before him to bring home groceries in.

He had on a coat made of that cloth they call thunder and lightning, which, though grown too short, was much too good to be thrown away. His waistcoat was of gosling-green, and his sisters had tied his hair with a broad black ribbon. We all followed him several paces from the door, bawling after him, “Good luck! good luck!” till we could see him no longer.

When it was almost nightfall, I began to wonder what could keep our son so long at the fair. “Never mind our son,” cried my wife; “depend upon it, he knows what he is about. I’ll warrant we’ll never see him sell his hen on a rainy day. I have seen him buy such bargains as would amaze one. I’ll tell you a good story about that, that will make you split your sides with laughing— But, as I live, yonder comes Moses without a horse, and the box at his back.”

As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, and sweatingunder the deal box, which he had strapped round his shoulders like a pedler.

“Welcome, welcome, Moses! Well, my boy, what have you brought us from the fair?”

“I have brought you myself,” said Moses, with a sly look, and resting the box on the dresser.

“Ay, Moses,” cried my wife, “that we know; but where is the horse?”

“I have sold him,” replied Moses, “for three pounds five shillings and twopence.”

“Well done, my good boy,” returned she; “I knew you would touch them off. Between ourselves, three pounds five shillings and twopence is no bad day’s work. Come, let us have it then.”

“I have brought back no money,” cried Moses, again; “I have laid it all out in a bargain,—and here it is,” pulling out a bundle from his breast; “here they are,—a gross of green spectacles, with silver rims and shagreen cases.”

“A gross of green spectacles!” repeated my wife, in a faint voice. “And you have parted with the colt, and brought us back nothing but a gross of green paltry spectacles!”

“Dear mother,” cried the boy, “why won’t you listen to reason? I had them a dead bargain, or I should not have bought them. The silver rims alone will sell for double the money.”

“A fig for the silver rims!” cried my wife, in a passion;“I dare swear they won’t sell for above half the money at the rate of broken silver, five shillings an ounce.”

“You need be under no uneasiness,” said I, “about selling the rims, for they are not worth sixpence; for I perceive they are only copper varnished over.”

“What!” cried my wife; “not silver! the rims not silver!”

“No,” cried I; “no more silver than your saucepan.”

“And so,” returned she, “we have parted with the colt, and have got only a gross of green spectacles, with copper rims and shagreen cases? A murrain take such trumpery! The blockhead has been imposed upon, and should have known his company better.”

“There, my dear,” cried I, “you are wrong; he should not have known them at all.”

“To bring me such stuff!” returned she; “if I had them, I would throw them into the fire.”

“There again you are wrong, my dear,” said I; “for though they are copper, we shall keep them by us, as copper spectacles, you know, are better than nothing.”

By this time the unfortunate Moses was undeceived. He now saw that he had been imposed upon by a prowling sharper, who, observing his figure, had marked him for an easy prey. I therefore asked the circumstances of his deception. He sold the horse, it seems, and walked the fair in search of another. A reverend-looking man brought him to a tent, under pretence of having one to sell.

“Here,” continued Moses, “we met another man, very well dressed, who desired to borrow twenty pounds upon these, saying that he wanted money, and would dispose of them for a third of the value. The first gentleman whispered me to buy them, and cautioned me not to let so good an offer pass. I sent to Mr. Flamborough, and they talked him up as finely as they did me; and so at last we were persuaded to buy the two gross between us.”

Our family had now made several vain attempts to be fine. “You see, my children,” said I, “how little is to be got by attempts to impose upon the world. Those that are poor and will associate with none but the rich are hated by those they avoid, and despised by those they follow.”—Oliver Goldsmith.

Behind him lay the gray Azores,Behind, the Gates of Hercules,Before him not the ghost of shores,Before him only shoreless seas.The good mate said, “Now must we pray,For lo! the very stars are gone;Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I say?”“Why, say, ‘Sail on! sail on! and on!’ ”“My men grow mutinous day by day,My men grow ghastly wan, and weak.”The stout mate thought of home; a sprayOf salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.“What shall I say, brave Admiral, say,If we sight naught but seas at dawn?”“Why, you may say, at break of day,‘Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!’ ”They sailed and sailed as winds might blow,Until at last the blanched mate said:“Why, now not even God would knowShould I and all my men fall dead.These very winds forget their way,For God from these dread seas is gone.Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say—”He said, “Sail on! sail on! and on!”

“My men grow mutinous day by day,My men grow ghastly wan, and weak.”The stout mate thought of home; a sprayOf salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.“What shall I say, brave Admiral, say,If we sight naught but seas at dawn?”“Why, you may say, at break of day,‘Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!’ ”

They sailed and sailed as winds might blow,Until at last the blanched mate said:“Why, now not even God would knowShould I and all my men fall dead.These very winds forget their way,For God from these dread seas is gone.Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say—”He said, “Sail on! sail on! and on!”

Christopher Columbus

They sailed. They sailed. Then spoke the mate:“This mad sea shows his teeth to-night;He curls his lips, he lies in waitWith lifted teeth as if to bite;Brave Admiral, say but one good word,What shall we do when hope is gone?”The words leaped like a leaping sword,“Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!”Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck,And peered through darkness. Ah, that nightOf all dark nights! and then a speck,“A light! A light! A light! A light!”It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!It grew to be Time’s burst of dawn.He gained a world; he gave that worldIts grandest lesson: “On! sail on!”—Joaquin Miller.

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck,And peered through darkness. Ah, that nightOf all dark nights! and then a speck,“A light! A light! A light! A light!”It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!It grew to be Time’s burst of dawn.He gained a world; he gave that worldIts grandest lesson: “On! sail on!”—Joaquin Miller.

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:—There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;And underneath the cloud, or in it, ragedA furious battle, and men yelled, and swordsShocked upon swords and shields. A prince’s bannerWavered, then staggered backwards, hemmed by foes.A craven hung along the battle’s edge,And thought, “Had I a sword of keener steel—That blue blade that the king’s son bears,—but thisBlunt thing—!” he snapt and flung it from his hand,And lowering crept away and left the field.Then came the king’s son, wounded, sore bestead,And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shoutLifted afresh, he hewed his enemy down,And saved a great cause that heroic day.—Edward Rowland Sill.

Thomas Carlyle

So here hath been dawningAnother blue day;Think wilt thou let itSlip useless away?Out of eternityThis new day is born,Into eternity,At night, will return.Behold it aforetimeNo eye ever did;So soon it foreverFrom all eyes is hid!Here hath been dawningAnother blue day;Think, wilt thou let itSlip useless away?—Thomas Carlyle.

So here hath been dawningAnother blue day;Think wilt thou let itSlip useless away?

Out of eternityThis new day is born,Into eternity,At night, will return.

Behold it aforetimeNo eye ever did;So soon it foreverFrom all eyes is hid!

Here hath been dawningAnother blue day;Think, wilt thou let itSlip useless away?—Thomas Carlyle.

Many years ago there stood a town in Italy, at the foot of Mount Vesuvius, which was to Rome what Brighton or Hastings is to London—a very fashionable watering-place, at which Roman gentlemen and members of the senate built villas, to which they were in the habit of retiring from the fatigues of business or the broils of politics. The outsides of all the houses were adorned with frescoes, and every shop glittered with all the colors of the rainbow. At the end of each street there was a charming fountain, and any one who sat down beside it to cool himself had a delightful view of the Mediterranean, then as beautiful, as blue, and as sunny as it is now. On a fine day, crowds might be seen lounging here; some sauntering up and down in gala dresses of purple, while slaves passed to and fro, bearing on their heads splendid vases; others sat on marble benches, shaded from the sun by awnings, and having before them tables covered with wine, and fruit, and flowers. Every house in that town was a little palace, and every palace was like a temple, or one of our great public buildings.

On entering one of these mansions, the visitor passedthrough a vestibule decorated with rows of pillars, and then found himself in the room in which the household gods kept guard over the owner’s treasure, which was placed in a safe, or strong box, secured with brass or iron bands. Issuing thence, the visitor found himself in an apartment paved with mosaic, and decorated with paintings, in which were kept the family papers and archives. It contained a dining room and a supper room, and a number of sleeping rooms; a cabinet, filled with rare jewels and antiquities, and sometimes a fine collection of paintings; and, last of all, a pillared peristyle, opening out upon the garden, in which the finest fruit hung temptingly in the rich light of a golden sky, and fountains, which flung their waters aloft in every imaginable form and device, cooled the air and discoursed sweet music to the ear. On the gate there was always the image of a dog, and underneath it the inscription, “Beware the dog.”

The pillars in the peristyle were encircled with garlands of flowers, which were renewed every morning. The tables of citron-wood were inlaid with silver; the couches were of bronze, gilt and jewelled, and were furnished with thick cushions and tapestry, embroidered with marvellous skill. When the master gave a dinner party, the guests reclined upon these cushions, washed their hands in silver basins, and dried them with napkins fringed with purple. They ate oysters brought from the shores of Britain, kids which were carved to the sound of music, and fruits served up on ice in the hottest days of summer; and while the cup-bearers filled their golden cups with the rarest and most delicatewines, other attendants crowned them with flowers wet with dew, and dancers executed for their pleasure the most graceful movements.

One day, when such festivities as these were in full activity, Vesuvius sent up a tall and very black column of smoke, something like a pine-tree; and suddenly, in broad noonday, darkness black as pitch came over the scene! There was a frightful din of cries and groans, mingled confusedly together. The brother lost his sister, the husband his wife, the mother her child; for the darkness became so dense that nothing could be seen but the flashes which every now and then darted forth from the summit of the neighboring mountain. The earth trembled, the houses shook and began to fall, and the sea rolled back from the land as if terrified; the air became thick with dust; and then, amidst tremendous and awful noise, a shower of ashes and stones fell upon the town and blotted it out forever!

The inhabitants died just as the catastrophe found them—guests in their banqueting halls, soldiers at their posts, prisoners in their dungeons, thieves in their theft, maidens at the mirror, slaves at the fountain, traders in their shops, students at their books. Some attempted flight, guided by blind people, who had walked so long in darkness that no thicker shadows could ever come upon them; but of these many were struck down on the way. When, a few days afterwards, people came from the surrounding country to the place, they found naught but a black, level, smoking plain, sloping to the sea, and covered thickly with ashes!Down, down beneath, thousands and thousands were sleeping “the sleep that knows no waking,” with all their little pomps, and vanities, and pleasures, and luxuries buried with them.

This took place on the 23d of August,A.D.79; and the name of the town, thus suddenly overwhelmed with ruin, was Pompeii. Sixteen hundred and seventeen years afterwards, curious persons began to dig and excavate on the spot, and lo! they found the city pretty much as it was when overwhelmed. The houses were standing, the paintings were fresh, and the skeletons stood in the very positions and the very places in which death had overtaken their owners so long ago! The researches are still going on, new wonders are every day coming to light, and we soon shall have almost as perfect an idea of a Roman town, in the first century of the Christian era, as if we had walked the streets and gossiped with the idle loungers at the fountains. Pompeii is the ghost of an extinct civilization rising up before us.

—Anonymous.

Up soared the lark into the air,A shaft of song, a wingèd prayer,As if a soul, released from pain,Were flying back to heaven again.St. Francis heard; it was to himAn emblem of the Seraphim;The upward motion of the fire,The light, the heat, the heart’s desire.Around Assisi’s convent gateThe birds, God’s poor who cannot wait,From moor and mere and darksome woodCame flocking for their dole of food.“O brother birds,” St. Francis said,“Ye come to me and ask for bread,But not with bread alone to-dayShall ye be fed and sent away.“Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds,With manna of celestial words;Not mine, though mine they seem to be,Not mine, though they be spoken through me.“O, doubly are ye bound to praiseThe great Creator in your lays;He giveth you your plumes of down,Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown.“He giveth you your wings to flyAnd breathe a purer air on high,And careth for you everywhere,Who for yourselves so little care!”With flutter of swift wings and songsTogether rose the feathered throngs,And singing scattered far apart;Deep peace was in St. Francis’ heart.He knew not if the brotherhoodHis homily had understood:He only knew that to one earThe meaning of his words was clear.—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Up soared the lark into the air,A shaft of song, a wingèd prayer,As if a soul, released from pain,Were flying back to heaven again.

St. Francis heard; it was to himAn emblem of the Seraphim;The upward motion of the fire,The light, the heat, the heart’s desire.

Around Assisi’s convent gateThe birds, God’s poor who cannot wait,From moor and mere and darksome woodCame flocking for their dole of food.

“O brother birds,” St. Francis said,“Ye come to me and ask for bread,But not with bread alone to-dayShall ye be fed and sent away.

“Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds,With manna of celestial words;Not mine, though mine they seem to be,Not mine, though they be spoken through me.

“O, doubly are ye bound to praiseThe great Creator in your lays;He giveth you your plumes of down,Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown.

“He giveth you your wings to flyAnd breathe a purer air on high,And careth for you everywhere,Who for yourselves so little care!”

With flutter of swift wings and songsTogether rose the feathered throngs,And singing scattered far apart;Deep peace was in St. Francis’ heart.

He knew not if the brotherhoodHis homily had understood:He only knew that to one earThe meaning of his words was clear.—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Under the greenwood treeWho loves to lie with me,And turn his merry noteUnto the sweet bird’s throat,Come hither, come hither, come hither;Here shall he seeNo enemy,But winter and rough weather.Who doth ambition shun,And loves to lie in the sun,Seeking the food he eats,And pleased with what he gets,Come hither, come hither, come hither;Here shall he seeNo enemy,But winter and rough weather.—William Shakespeare.

Under the greenwood treeWho loves to lie with me,And turn his merry noteUnto the sweet bird’s throat,Come hither, come hither, come hither;Here shall he seeNo enemy,But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun,And loves to lie in the sun,Seeking the food he eats,And pleased with what he gets,Come hither, come hither, come hither;Here shall he seeNo enemy,But winter and rough weather.—William Shakespeare.

Robert Browning

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:A mile or so away,On a little mound, NapoleonStood on our storming-day;With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,Legs wide, arms locked behind,As if to balance the prone browOppressive with its mind.Just as perhaps he mused, “My plansThat soar, to earth may fall,Let once my army-leader LannesWaver at yonder wall,”Out ’twixt the battery-smokes there flewA rider, bound on boundFull-galloping; nor bridle drewUntil he reached the mound.Then off there flung in smiling joy,And held himself erectBy just his horse’s mane, a boy;You hardly could suspect—(So tight he kept his lips compressed,Scarce any blood came through)—You looked twice ere you saw his breastWas all but shot in two.“Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God’s graceWe’ve got you Ratisbon!The Marshal’s in the market-place,And you’ll be there anonTo see your flag-bird flap his vansWhere I, to heart’s desire,Perched him!” The chief’s eye flashed; his plansSoared up again like fire.The chief’s eye flashed; but presentlySoftened itself, as sheathesA film the mother-eagle’s eyeWhen her bruised eaglet breathes;“You’re wounded!” “Nay,” the soldier’s prideTouched to the quick, he said:“I’m killed, Sire!” And his chief beside,Smiling, the boy fell dead.—Robert Browning.

Just as perhaps he mused, “My plansThat soar, to earth may fall,Let once my army-leader LannesWaver at yonder wall,”Out ’twixt the battery-smokes there flewA rider, bound on boundFull-galloping; nor bridle drewUntil he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy,And held himself erectBy just his horse’s mane, a boy;You hardly could suspect—(So tight he kept his lips compressed,Scarce any blood came through)—You looked twice ere you saw his breastWas all but shot in two.

“Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God’s graceWe’ve got you Ratisbon!The Marshal’s in the market-place,And you’ll be there anonTo see your flag-bird flap his vansWhere I, to heart’s desire,Perched him!” The chief’s eye flashed; his plansSoared up again like fire.

The chief’s eye flashed; but presentlySoftened itself, as sheathesA film the mother-eagle’s eyeWhen her bruised eaglet breathes;“You’re wounded!” “Nay,” the soldier’s prideTouched to the quick, he said:“I’m killed, Sire!” And his chief beside,Smiling, the boy fell dead.—Robert Browning.

When I waked, it was broad day. The weather was clear, and the storm had abated, so that the sea did not rage and swell as before; but what surprised me most was, that by the swelling of the tide the ship was lifted off in the night from the sand where she lay, and was driven up almost as far as the rock where I had been so bruised by the waves dashing me against it. I saw that I could easilyswim to the vessel, and accordingly I pulled off my clothes and took to the water. But when I reached the ship, my difficulty was still greater to know how to get on board; for, as she lay aground, and high out of the water, there was nothing within my reach by which to climb on board. I swam round her twice, and the second time I spied a small piece of rope, by the help of which I got into the forecastle of the ship.

Daniel Defoe

When I had climbed on board, I found that the ship was bulged, and that she had a great deal of water in her hold, but that she lay on the side of a bank of hard earth, in such a way that her stern was lifted up on the bank, while her bow was low, almost to the water. By this means all her quarter was free, and all that was in that part was dry; for you may be sure my first work was to find out what was spoiled and what was not. And, first, I found that all the ship’s provisions were dry and untouched by the water; and, being very well disposed to eat, I went to the bread-room, and filling my pockets with biscuits, ate them.

I now needed nothing but a boat, to furnish myself with many things which I foresaw would be very necessary to me. It was in vain, however, to sit still and wish for what was not to be had, and this extremity roused my application.We had several spare yards, and two or three large spars of wood, and a spare topmast or two in the ship. I resolved to fall to work with these, and so flung as many of them overboard as I could manage, tying each one with a rope, that they might not float away. When I had done this, I went down the ship’s side, and, pulling them to me, tied four of them together at both ends, as well as I could, in the form of a raft. By laying two or three short pieces of plank upon them, crossways, I found I could walk upon them very well, but that they were not able to bear any great weight, the pieces being too light. So I went to work, and with a carpenter’s saw cut a spare topmast into three lengths, and added these to my raft, with a great deal of labor and pains. But the hope of furnishing myself with necessaries encouraged me to go beyond what I should have been able to do upon another occasion.

My raft was now strong enough to bear any reasonable weight. My next care was what to load it with, and how to preserve what I laid upon it from the surf of the sea. However, I was not long considering this. I first laid all the plank, or boards, upon it that I could get, and, having considered well what I most needed, I first got three of the seamen’s chests, which I had broken open and emptied, and lowered them down upon my raft. The first of these I filled with provisions; namely, bread, rice, three cheeses, five pieces of dried goat’s flesh and a little remainder of grain which had been laid by for some fowls which we brought to sea with us, but which had been killed. Therehad been some barley and wheat together; but, to my great disappointment, I found afterwards that the rats had eaten or spoiled it all.

While I was doing this, I found that the tide had begun to flow, though it was very calm, and I had the mortification to see my coat, shirt, and waistcoat, which I had left on the shore, upon the sands, swim away. As for my trousers, which were only linen, and open-kneed, I had swam on board in them and my stockings. However, this set me on rummaging for clothes, of which I found enough, but took no more than I needed for present use, for I had other things which my eye was more upon; as, first, tools to work with on shore. And it was after long searching that I found out the carpenter’s chest, which was, indeed, a very useful prize to me, and much more valuable than a ship-load of gold would have been at that time. I got it down to my raft, whole as it was, without losing time to look into it, for I knew in general what it contained.

My next care was for some ammunition and arms. There were two very good fowling-pieces in the great cabin, and two pistols. These I secured first, with some powder-horns and a small bag of shot, and two old rusty swords. I knew there were three barrels of powder in the ship, but knew not where our gunner had stowed them; but with much search I found them. Two of them were dry and good, the third had taken water. These two I got to my raft, with the arms. And now, I thought myself pretty

Crusoe on the Raft

well freighted, and began to think how I should get to shore with them, having neither sail, oar, nor rudder; and the least capful of wind would have overset all my navigation.

I had three encouragements: first, a smooth, calm sea; secondly, the fact that the tide was rising and setting in to the shore; thirdly, what little wind there was blew me towards the land. And thus, having found two or three broken oars belonging to the boat, and, besides the tools which were in the chest, two saws, an axe, and a hammer, with this cargo I put to sea. For a mile or thereabouts my raft went very well, only that I found it drive a little distant from the place where I had landed before. By this I perceived that there was some indraft of the water, and consequently hoped to find some creek or river there, which I might use as a port to get to land with my cargo.

At length I spied a little cove on the right shore of the creek, to which, with great pain and difficulty, I guided my raft, and at last got so near, that, reaching ground with my oar, I could thrust her directly in. But here I almost dropped all my cargo into the sea again; for the shore lay pretty steep and sloping, and, wherever I might land, one end of my float, if it ran on shore, would lie so high, and the other be sunk so low, that it would endanger my cargo again. All that I could do was to wait till the tide was at the highest, keeping the raft with my oar like an anchor, to hold the side of it fast to the shore, near a flat piece of ground, which I expected the water wouldflow over. And so it did. As soon as I found water enough, for my raft drew about a foot of water, I thrust her up on that flat piece of ground, and there moored her by sticking my two broken oars into the ground—one on one side, near one end, and one on the other side, near the other end. Thus I lay till the water ebbed away, and left my raft and all my cargo safe on shore.

I now began to consider that I might yet get a great many things out of the ship, which would be useful to me, and particularly some of the rigging and sails, and such other things as might come to land; and I resolved to make another voyage on board the vessel, if possible. I got on board the ship as before and prepared a second raft; and, having had experience of the first, I neither made this so unwieldy, nor loaded it so hard. Still, I brought away many things very useful to me; as, first, in the carpenter’s stores, I found two or three bags full of nails and spikes, a great screw-jack, a dozen or two of hatchets, and, above all, that most useful thing, a grindstone. All these I secured, together with several things belonging to the gunner, particularly two or three iron crowbars, and two barrels of musket bullets, seven muskets, and another fowling-piece, with a small quantity of powder, a large bagful of small shot, and a great roll of sheet-lead; but this last was so heavy I could not hoist it up to get it over the ship’s side. Besides these things, I took all the men’s clothes that I could find, and a spare foretop-sail, a hammock, and some bedding; and with these I loaded mysecond raft, and brought them all safe on shore, to my very great comfort.

On the thirteenth day I was preparing for my twelfth trip, when I found the sky overcast. The wind began to rise, and in a quarter of an hour it blew a gale from the shore. It blew very hard all that night, and in the morning, when I looked out, behold, no ship was to be seen! I was a little surprised, but recovered myself with this satisfactory reflection, that I had lost no time, nor omitted any diligence, to get everything out of her that could be useful to me; and, indeed, there was little left in her that I was able to bring away, even if I had had more time.—Daniel Defoe.

O. W. Holmes

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shayThat was built in such a logical way?It ran a hundred years to a day,And then of a sudden it—ah, but stay,I’ll tell you what happened without delay,Scaring the parson into fits,Frightening people out of their wits—Have you ever heard of that, I say?Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.Georgius Secundus was then alive—Snuffy old drone from the German hive.That was the year when Lisbon townSaw the earth open and gulp her down,And Braddock’s army was done so brown,Left without a scalp to its crown.It was on the terrible Earthquake-dayThat the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.Now, in building of chaises, I’ll tell you what,There is always somewhere a weakest spot—In hub, tire, felloe, in spring, or thill,In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace—lurking still,Find it somewhere you must and will—Above or below, or within or without—And that’s the reason, beyond a doubt,A chaise breaks down but doesn’t wear out.So the Deacon inquired of the village folkWhere he could find the strongest oak,That couldn’t be split nor bent nor broke:That was for spokes and floor and sills;He sent for lancewood to make the thills;The crossbars were ash from the straightest trees;The panels of white-wood that cuts like cheeseBut lasts like iron for things like these;The hubs of logs from the “Settler’s ellum,”Last of its timber—they couldn’t sell ’em;Never an axe had seen their chips,And the wedges flew from between their lips,Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin, too,Steel of the finest, bright and blue;Thoroughbrace bison-skin thick and wide;Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hideFound in the pit when the tanner died.That was the way he “put her through.”—“There!” said the Deacon, “naow she’ll dew.”Do! I tell you, I rather guessShe was a wonder, and nothing less!Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,Deacon and Deaconess dropped away,Children and grandchildren—where were they?But there stood the stout old one-hoss shayAs fresh as on Lisbon Earthquake-day!Eighteen hundred: it came and foundThe Deacon’s masterpiece strong and sound.Eighteen hundred increased by ten—“Hahnsum kerridge” they called it then.Eighteen hundred and twenty came—Running as usual; much the same.Thirty and forty at last arrive,And then come fifty and fifty-five.Little of all we value hereWakes on the morn of its hundredth yearWithout both feeling and looking queer.In fact, there’s nothing that keeps its youth,So far as I know, but a tree and truth.(This is a moral that runs at large;Take it.—You’re welcome.—No extra charge.)First of November—the Earthquake-day:There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay;A general flavor of mild decay,But nothing local, as one may say.There couldn’t be, for the Deacon’s artHad made it so like in every partThat there wasn’t a chance for one to start.For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,And the floor was just as strong as the sills,And the panels just as strong as the floor,And the whippletree neither less nor more,And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,And spring and axle and hub encore.And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubtIn another hour it will be worn out!First of November, ’Fifty-five!This morning the parson takes a drive.Now, small boys, get out of the way!Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.“Huddup!” said the parson.—Off went they.The parson was working his Sunday text—Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexedAt what the—Moses—was coming next.All at once the horse stood stillClose by the meet’n’-house on the hill.—First a shiver, and then a thrill,Then something decidedly like a spill,And the parson was sitting upon a rockAt half-past nine by the meet’n’-house clock—Just the hour of the Earthquake-shock!—What do you think the parson found,When he got up and stared around?The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,As if it had been to the mill and ground!You see, of course, if you’re not a dunce,How it went to pieces all at once—All at once, and nothing first—Just as bubbles do when they burst.End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.Logic is logic. That’s all I say.—Oliver Wendell Holmes.

So the Deacon inquired of the village folkWhere he could find the strongest oak,That couldn’t be split nor bent nor broke:That was for spokes and floor and sills;He sent for lancewood to make the thills;The crossbars were ash from the straightest trees;The panels of white-wood that cuts like cheeseBut lasts like iron for things like these;The hubs of logs from the “Settler’s ellum,”Last of its timber—they couldn’t sell ’em;Never an axe had seen their chips,And the wedges flew from between their lips,Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin, too,Steel of the finest, bright and blue;Thoroughbrace bison-skin thick and wide;Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hideFound in the pit when the tanner died.That was the way he “put her through.”—“There!” said the Deacon, “naow she’ll dew.”Do! I tell you, I rather guessShe was a wonder, and nothing less!Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,Deacon and Deaconess dropped away,Children and grandchildren—where were they?But there stood the stout old one-hoss shayAs fresh as on Lisbon Earthquake-day!

Eighteen hundred: it came and foundThe Deacon’s masterpiece strong and sound.Eighteen hundred increased by ten—“Hahnsum kerridge” they called it then.Eighteen hundred and twenty came—Running as usual; much the same.Thirty and forty at last arrive,And then come fifty and fifty-five.Little of all we value hereWakes on the morn of its hundredth yearWithout both feeling and looking queer.In fact, there’s nothing that keeps its youth,So far as I know, but a tree and truth.(This is a moral that runs at large;Take it.—You’re welcome.—No extra charge.)

First of November—the Earthquake-day:There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay;A general flavor of mild decay,But nothing local, as one may say.There couldn’t be, for the Deacon’s artHad made it so like in every partThat there wasn’t a chance for one to start.For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,And the floor was just as strong as the sills,And the panels just as strong as the floor,And the whippletree neither less nor more,And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,And spring and axle and hub encore.And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubtIn another hour it will be worn out!

First of November, ’Fifty-five!This morning the parson takes a drive.Now, small boys, get out of the way!Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.“Huddup!” said the parson.—Off went they.The parson was working his Sunday text—Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexedAt what the—Moses—was coming next.All at once the horse stood stillClose by the meet’n’-house on the hill.—First a shiver, and then a thrill,Then something decidedly like a spill,And the parson was sitting upon a rockAt half-past nine by the meet’n’-house clock—Just the hour of the Earthquake-shock!—What do you think the parson found,When he got up and stared around?The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,As if it had been to the mill and ground!You see, of course, if you’re not a dunce,How it went to pieces all at once—All at once, and nothing first—Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.Logic is logic. That’s all I say.—Oliver Wendell Holmes.

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